We had laid mum to rest with a sapphire blue and gold church
stole over her wicker coffin, a symbol of her profound faith and
dedication to the Church. Next to the whimsical sprigs of heather we
wove around the casket, the fabric was almost too bright, a bittersweet
reminder of how her eyes had shone on the day that she became a lay
minister of the Anglican church. It had been such a proud moment,
formalising a devotion to what she called the “CofE” that shaped much of
her adult life.
The church was everything to her – and she had wanted
it to be as important to me. Sadly, it wasn’t. In recent years, my
absence from all but Christmas and Easter services was a strong hint at
my disillusionment, but I spared her the truth, which was that I have
come to deplore the Church of England under its current leadership. With
every public proclamation by the sanctimonious Archbishop of Canterbury
Justin Welby, I feel more disaffected.
Were
it not for my staunchly religious upbringing, it would be easier not to
care. I might even be faintly amused by Welby’s achingly woke worries
about ancient statues that risk offending Black Lives Matter; or
depictions of our Lord that make him look “too white”. I could shrug off
the fact that Welby keeps pushing political positions that are so
hopelessly out of step with the views of many, if not most, churchgoers
(and certainly wider public opinion) that he might as well be preaching
from another planet.
But that would be like pressing delete on my
childhood, which was shaped by the demands and rhythms of the church
calendar, and theological debate that often felt as if it was being
delivered in surround-sound: my parents talked about bits of the Bible
the way other folk discussed what was on TV.
Made to attend Sunday
service every week, I came to know every word of the creeds, collects
and confessions, mastering the art of dutifully reciting them as if they
had my entire focus while my teenage mind wandered elsewhere.
On the
first Sunday of every month, livelier “family” services involving
interactive sermons and happy-clappy singing broke things up a bit, but
were only politely tolerated by the predominantly septuagenarian
congregation, who much preferred the usual dreary proceedings.
Afterwards, we would all troop off to a chilly church hall, where the
grown-ups stood around discussing the sermon while we kids ate cheap
biscuits washed down with luminous orange squash.
The whole thing
took forever, and the older I got, the more I quietly resented it. As
far as my parents were concerned, though, my attendance was
non-negotiable, not least because the congregation was so small that our
presence sometimes doubled it.
Failing to show up would have let the
side down and made the hymn singing even more embarrassing for the
handful of reedy-voiced pensioners huddled in the front pews.
I
understood and respected how much it all meant to them, and went along
with it. Indeed, when I was 12, they briefly talked me into becoming a
“server,” which involved wearing a white robe and processing down the
aisle at the beginning and end of the service carrying a huge cross. I
was mortified, but it made my parents happy.
The arrival of a
charismatic new vicar from South Africa, a blonde firecracker reputed to
be as handy with a rifle as she was with the chalice, was a huge
relief. She had such a gift for making services interesting and
entertaining that it almost became a pleasure.
As soon as I left
home, I exercised my adult freedom to stop spending Sundays this way –
though I was more detached than disillusioned. For the next two decades,
I would dip in and out, sustained by the comforting familiarity of the
order of service I knew by heart, and the sense of community and
togetherness.
It was not until the pandemic that I began to feel
actively hostile towards the church as an institution. With a
gutlessness that took my breath away, at the first sign of wolves, the
shepherds ran for cover, abandoning their flocks to their fate. By order
of the state, doors to God’s house were locked, and the Archbishop of
Canterbury – who I believe should have resigned sooner than let it
happen – said barely a word.
The initial panic in March 2020 when
the virus took hold in Italy, ripping through frail and elderly
congregations in Catholic churches, was understandable: the Church had a
duty of physical as well as spiritual care.
It would have been
irresponsible to have defied that first “very simple instruction” from
Boris Johnson to the nation to stay at home.
As time went by however,
the absence of robust resistance from the highest echelons of the Church
of England to lockdown policies that were causing huge unnecessary
suffering became more and more difficult to understand.
By summer 2020,
the sun was shining, the skies were blue, and people were gathering
safely and sensibly in all sorts of settings, including garden centres
and DIY stores. I felt sure the Church would encourage vicars to lead
services outside – but no.
It was left to a handful of rebel reverends to take a stand,
while a relaxed looking Welby streamed services from his kitchen,
encouraging other men and women of the cloth to do the same. How could
they have accepted ministry by Zoom meeting for so long, and what
possessed them to accept the Government’s ludicrous ban on singing, a
rule borrowed from the Taliban?
To this day, senior Church of
England figures have failed to acknowledge the cruellest excesses of
lockdowns: the hideous isolation of vulnerable care-home residents
subjected to months of solitary confinement “for their own good”; the
misery of crazed social distancing rules at funerals; the sickening
forced separation of loved ones from dying relatives or partners giving
birth.
So far from being appalled by the grotesque abuse of power, Welby
seemed almost impressed by the might of the state at the time. Instead
of injecting some balance into the crazed culture of fear, he penned a feeble article in which he argued that it was up to local communities to determine their response.
We
will be living with the poisonous legacy of this disaster for decades –
yet Welby has said almost nothing about the many millions of people of
all ages in this country paying the price. He seems more interested in
the plight of asylum seekers, illegal immigrants and unidentified
descendants of 18th-century slaves.
The recent decision by
the Church to pay out up to £1 billion in “reparations” for its
association with the slave trade some 300 years ago sums it all up.
While hard-pressed parishioners donate precious pennies to repair
crumbling spires and leaky roofs, Welby and his acolytes are presiding
over what must be the most expensive and misguided display of virtue
signalling in history. What next – compensation for descendants of
victims of the Crusades? Best not give him ideas!
As for his angst over the “immorality” of the Government’s Rwanda scheme,
potential deportees have more than enough hand-wringing advocates.
If
Welby believes his diocese extends to Africa, he should be shouting
about the persecution of Christians in Rwanda, where thousands of
churches have been forcibly closed. Certainly, his cup of compassion
overfloweth, but why is it always for the wrong recipients?
No wonder
many of those who stopped going to church during the pandemic have never
come back.
My mother would have given these complaints short
shrift. I think she’d say I should be more Christian; less political.
I’d reply that if the High Priest of Woke steps down from his pulpit,
perhaps I’ll find my way back.
We had laid mum to rest with a sapphire blue and gold church stole over her wicker coffin, a symbol of her profound faith and dedication to the Church. Next to the whimsical sprigs of heather we wove around the casket, the fabric was almost too bright, a bittersweet reminder of how her eyes had shone on the day that she became a lay minister of the Anglican church. It had been such a proud moment, formalising a devotion to what she called the “CofE” that shaped much of her adult life.
The church was everything to her – and she had wanted it to be as important to me. Sadly, it wasn’t. In recent years, my absence from all but Christmas and Easter services was a strong hint at my disillusionment, but I spared her the truth, which was that I have come to deplore the Church of England under its current leadership. With every public proclamation by the sanctimonious Archbishop of Canterbury Justin Welby, I feel more disaffected.
Were it not for my staunchly religious upbringing, it would be easier not to care. I might even be faintly amused by Welby’s achingly woke worries about ancient statues that risk offending Black Lives Matter; or depictions of our Lord that make him look “too white”. I could shrug off the fact that Welby keeps pushing political positions that are so hopelessly out of step with the views of many, if not most, churchgoers (and certainly wider public opinion) that he might as well be preaching from another planet.
But that would be like pressing delete on my childhood, which was shaped by the demands and rhythms of the church calendar, and theological debate that often felt as if it was being delivered in surround-sound: my parents talked about bits of the Bible the way other folk discussed what was on TV.
Made to attend Sunday service every week, I came to know every word of the creeds, collects and confessions, mastering the art of dutifully reciting them as if they had my entire focus while my teenage mind wandered elsewhere.
On the first Sunday of every month, livelier “family” services involving interactive sermons and happy-clappy singing broke things up a bit, but were only politely tolerated by the predominantly septuagenarian congregation, who much preferred the usual dreary proceedings.
Afterwards, we would all troop off to a chilly church hall, where the grown-ups stood around discussing the sermon while we kids ate cheap biscuits washed down with luminous orange squash.
The whole thing took forever, and the older I got, the more I quietly resented it. As far as my parents were concerned, though, my attendance was non-negotiable, not least because the congregation was so small that our presence sometimes doubled it.
Failing to show up would have let the side down and made the hymn singing even more embarrassing for the handful of reedy-voiced pensioners huddled in the front pews.
I understood and respected how much it all meant to them, and went along with it. Indeed, when I was 12, they briefly talked me into becoming a “server,” which involved wearing a white robe and processing down the aisle at the beginning and end of the service carrying a huge cross. I was mortified, but it made my parents happy.
The arrival of a charismatic new vicar from South Africa, a blonde firecracker reputed to be as handy with a rifle as she was with the chalice, was a huge relief. She had such a gift for making services interesting and entertaining that it almost became a pleasure.
As soon as I left home, I exercised my adult freedom to stop spending Sundays this way – though I was more detached than disillusioned. For the next two decades, I would dip in and out, sustained by the comforting familiarity of the order of service I knew by heart, and the sense of community and togetherness.
It was not until the pandemic that I began to feel actively hostile towards the church as an institution. With a gutlessness that took my breath away, at the first sign of wolves, the shepherds ran for cover, abandoning their flocks to their fate. By order of the state, doors to God’s house were locked, and the Archbishop of Canterbury – who I believe should have resigned sooner than let it happen – said barely a word.
The initial panic in March 2020 when the virus took hold in Italy, ripping through frail and elderly congregations in Catholic churches, was understandable: the Church had a duty of physical as well as spiritual care.
It would have been irresponsible to have defied that first “very simple instruction” from Boris Johnson to the nation to stay at home.
As time went by however, the absence of robust resistance from the highest echelons of the Church of England to lockdown policies that were causing huge unnecessary suffering became more and more difficult to understand.
By summer 2020, the sun was shining, the skies were blue, and people were gathering safely and sensibly in all sorts of settings, including garden centres and DIY stores. I felt sure the Church would encourage vicars to lead services outside – but no.
It was left to a handful of rebel reverends to take a stand, while a relaxed looking Welby streamed services from his kitchen, encouraging other men and women of the cloth to do the same. How could they have accepted ministry by Zoom meeting for so long, and what possessed them to accept the Government’s ludicrous ban on singing, a rule borrowed from the Taliban?
To this day, senior Church of England figures have failed to acknowledge the cruellest excesses of lockdowns: the hideous isolation of vulnerable care-home residents subjected to months of solitary confinement “for their own good”; the misery of crazed social distancing rules at funerals; the sickening forced separation of loved ones from dying relatives or partners giving birth.
So far from being appalled by the grotesque abuse of power, Welby seemed almost impressed by the might of the state at the time. Instead of injecting some balance into the crazed culture of fear, he penned a feeble article in which he argued that it was up to local communities to determine their response.
We will be living with the poisonous legacy of this disaster for decades – yet Welby has said almost nothing about the many millions of people of all ages in this country paying the price. He seems more interested in the plight of asylum seekers, illegal immigrants and unidentified descendants of 18th-century slaves.
The recent decision by the Church to pay out up to £1 billion in “reparations” for its association with the slave trade some 300 years ago sums it all up. While hard-pressed parishioners donate precious pennies to repair crumbling spires and leaky roofs, Welby and his acolytes are presiding over what must be the most expensive and misguided display of virtue signalling in history. What next – compensation for descendants of victims of the Crusades? Best not give him ideas!
As for his angst over the “immorality” of the Government’s Rwanda scheme, potential deportees have more than enough hand-wringing advocates.
If Welby believes his diocese extends to Africa, he should be shouting about the persecution of Christians in Rwanda, where thousands of churches have been forcibly closed. Certainly, his cup of compassion overfloweth, but why is it always for the wrong recipients?
No wonder many of those who stopped going to church during the pandemic have never come back.
My mother would have given these complaints short shrift. I think she’d say I should be more Christian; less political.
I’d reply that if the High Priest of Woke steps down from his pulpit, perhaps I’ll find my way back.