KNOW THE TRUTH
A MEMOIR
George Carey

COPYRIGHT

Harper Press

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd. 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF

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This edition published by Harper Perennial 2005

First published by HarperCollinsPublishers 2004

Copyright © George Carey 2004, 2005

George Carey asserts the moral right to

be identified as the author of this work

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is available from the British Library

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CONTENTS

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Foreword

PART I

1 No Backing Out

2 East End Boy

3 Signals

4 Shaken Up

5 A Changing Church

6 Challenges of Growth

7 Letters from Number 10

8 Archbishop-in-Waiting

PART II

9 Women Shake the Church

10 Forced to Change

11 Bishop in Mission

12 Power and Politicians

13 Clash of Cultures

14 Empty Stomachs Have no Ears

15 The Rosewood Tree

16 The Challenge of Homosexuality

17 Lambeth ’98

18 Opening the Door

19 Rubbing Our Eyes

20 From Crusades to Co-Operation

21 The Glory of the Crown

22 A World in Crisis

23 Quo Vadis?

Index

About the Author

About the Publisher

FOREWORD

When, halfway through my archiepiscopate, I decided to write my memoirs I was surprised to discover that I am the only one of 103 Archbishops to have done so. Admittedly Archbishop Thomas Secker in the eighteenth century set out on the task but his sudden death left his memoirs unfinished. This book is a reflection on a ministry of which Archbishop Cosmo Lang said long ago: ‘The post [of Archbishop of Canterbury] is impossible for any one man to do, but only one man can do it.’ Any holder of this historic office knows from first-hand experience that its demands, expectations and opportunities take one to the edge of human endurance, and require of its holders a recognition of our frailty and our need of God’s everlasting grace.

This edition of Know the Truth gives me an opportunity to comment on some of the reactions of those who have read the first edition.

I might have anticipated that certain sections of the press, and, indeed, a few Church leaders, would focus attention on what I wrote about the Royal Family. I was accused of breaking confidentiality, and one writer even saw this as ‘the ultimate betrayal of trust’. There is no truth in this claim. As will become clear to the reader, no conversation I had with any member of the Royal Family is divulged in the book. I have always kept strictly to the principle of pastoral confidentiality, with the Royal Family and indeed with anyone else. However, what particularly caught the media’s attention was the revelation that I had several private conversations with Mrs Parker Bowles. Again, no report of our conversation is given: all that is offered is my opinion of her as an extremely able and nice person.

Controversially, the book did offer my view that the Prince of Wales should marry Mrs Parker Bowles in due course, and I was delighted when the marriage took place on 9 April 2005 in St George’s Chapel, Windsor. If the uproar caused by my views encouraged their decision to marry I am pleased to have played a small role.

April 2005 also saw the death of Pope John Paul II and the inauguration of Pope Benedict XVI. Pope John Paul II will be remembered as an outstanding Pope and I feel privileged to have known him, and to have worked and prayed with him. If he has left behind him a great deal of unfinished business, it is up to his successor to take forward the hope that his predecessor has given. Scepticism has already greeted the appointment of the new Pope, whose record as President of the Sacred Congregation for the Defence of the Faith does not lead one to expect a great change in policy. However, Joseph Ratzinger has a brilliant mind and a deep love for his Lord. He knows the secular challenges all too well. I pray that he will take risks for the sake of the gospel. His own Church is dying in many parts of the West for lack of vocations to the priesthood. Now is the time to tackle the issue of priestly celibacy and make it optional in the Church, the time to look more sympathetically on the ordination of women and to encourage a healthy debate both within and outside the Roman Catholic Church. Now is also the time to support the action of Catholic agencies in caring for those affected by HIV/AIDS by allowing the use of condoms as part of the strategy to defeat the pandemic. I also suggest that now is the time to make Pope John Paul II’s encyclical Ut Unum Sint a gift to the unity of the Church. Only the Roman Catholic Church, with its pre-eminence in numbers, can do this. Many Christians have become impatient with the slowness of ecumenism and question the amount of time and money going into structural unity at the expense of mission and service.

In the first edition of this book I warned that the consecration of a practising homosexual in the American Church would lead to deep divisions in the Anglican Communion. This has proved the case and the future of the Communion may be bleak if the Episcopal Churches of the United States and Canada continue to assume that they can take unilateral actions on this matter without regard to the rest of the Communion. Events have confirmed my worst fears about the weakness of the Anglican theology of the Church.

Since original publication events have also shown the importance and urgency of the chapter on inter-faith co-operation. I remain convinced that Christians must continue their dialogue with Muslims and Jews in particular, but without forgetting links with other world faiths. Dialogue without friendship, kindness and honest criticism will always remain aloof and bland; with bonds of affection it can contribute substantially to our divided and polarised world.

Few spiritual journeys are ever walked alone. So many people have travelled with me, and I shall remain everlastingly grateful for their patience, kindness, friendship and support. Pride of place goes gladly to my wife Eileen, whose rock-like presence in my life and work is evident throughout this journey. What a great friend she has been over these tumultuous years and what times have we shared together. Then there are our parents who, though out of sight through death, are never out of our minds and grateful hearts. We think of our brothers and sisters whose lives are inextricably linked with our story, and of our beloved children and their husbands and wives, who have shared our joy and pain over some difficult years. Thank you, Rachel and Andy, for your love and care for us at the Old Palace; and Mark and Penny, Andrew and Helen and Lizzie and Marcus – not forgetting thirteen wonderful grandchildren. Thank you, each one of you, for constantly reminding us that life is a gift to be enjoyed.

In the making of this book there are a number of people who should be thanked and appreciated. I am so grateful to Julia Lloyd, who spent a year at Lambeth going through the records and recording speeches, travel journals and staff records in such a way that my task was made much easier. My son Andrew has also been a tower of strength, going over the draft chapters with a careful eye, reminding me of incidents I had forgotten – and in some cases those I wanted to forget! I am grateful to him for his thoroughness, wisdom, insight and incisiveness. Thanks must go to Sir Philip Mawer, Richard Hop-good and Richard Lay for their help with the chapter on the Church Commissioners; to Dr Mary Tanner for her careful insights on the ecumenical chapter; to Canon Andrew Deuchar, Canon Roger Symon and Dr Alistair Macdonald-Radcliffe for their suggestions with respect to the chapters dealing with the Anglican Communion; to Canon Andrew White and Canon David Marshall for positive comments on the inter-faith chapter; and to the Very Reverend Michael Mayne and Sir Ewan Harper for helpful criticisms of the chapter on the Royal Family. I alone am responsible for the use I have made of all the assistance offered; any shortcomings are entirely my fault.

I also wish to record my debt of gratitude to those whose contribution is deeper than I can possibly state. To Dr Ruth Etchells, whose friendship goes back many years, and whose wisdom has always been there and often sought. To Dr James and the Reverend Elisabeth Ewing, two dear American Christians, whose grace has touched the lives of our family so many times over the last decade. To Sir Siggy and Lady Hazel Sternberg and Lord Greville Janner, wonderful Jewish friends whose kindness has reminded me constantly of what we owe to Judaism. In recent years a rich friendship has been established with Professor Akbar Ahmed, a dear Muslim friend, whose scholarship and commitment to dialogue I admire. To Professor Richard McBrien, Professor of Theology at Notre Dame University; Beverley Bra-zauskas; and Professor Gerry O’Collins of the Gregorian University, Rome, for their rich Catholic contribution to our lives.

Finally, I am grateful, too, for the help and professionalism of my editors and the staff at HarperCollins. The final word of thanks must go to God himself. My journey has been one of finding the truth about the Creator through his final revelation in Jesus, the Christ. If my story helps others to find him my unworthy offering will be worth all that Eileen and I have shared together.

GEORGE CAREY

May 2005

I

1 No Backing Out

‘It is perhaps significant that though state education has existed in England since 1870, no Archbishop has so far passed through it. The first Prime Minister to do so was Lloyd George. Nor has anyone sat on St Augustine’s Chair, since the Reformation, who was not a student at Oxford or Cambridge. Understandably nominations to Lambeth have been conditioned by the contemporary social climate, but such a limitation of the field intake is doubtless on the way out. It is inconceivable that either talent or suitability can be so narrowly confined.’

Edward Carpenter, Cantuar: The Archbishops in Their Office (1988)

AS THE DOOR OF THE OLD PALACE BANGED behind Eileen and the family as they departed for the cathedral, I was left alone in the main lounge to await the summons that would most certainly change the direction of my life. At lunchtime with my family around the kitchen table there had been nervous laughter as Andrew, who had had his hair cut that morning, recounted hearing another customer talk about the ‘enthornment’ of the new Archbishop. We all agreed that that was a great description of it, although another of the family volunteered, ‘At least he didn’t say “entombment”.’

Somewhere in the building Graham James, my Chaplain, was sorting out the robes I would shortly wear. From the lounge window I could see and hear the crowds of people teeming around the west front of the cathedral. They were there to capture a glimpse of the Princess of Wales and other dignitaries including the Prime Minister, John Major. I could not help thinking wryly that within twenty yards of where I was standing another Archbishop of Canterbury, Thomas Becket, had met his death in the same cathedral on 30 December 1170. My journey from this room was not going to lead me to his fate, but it was bound to bring me too in touch with opposition and conflict, as well as with much joy and fulfilment. The massive, enduring walls of the cathedral overshadowing the Old Palace however were a reassuring sign that the faith and folly, the strengths and weaknesses, the boldnesses and blunders of individual Archbishops are enveloped by the tender love of God and His infinite grace.

The television was on in the room, and I could hear Jonathan Dimbleby and Professor Owen Chadwick solemnly discussing the significance of the enthronement of the 103rd Archbishop of Canterbury. Professor Chadwick, a well-known Church historian, was reminding the viewers of the significance in affairs of state of the role of the Archbishop, an office older than the monarchy and integral with the identity of the nation.

Graham swept in with the first set of clothing I had to wear. ‘We’d better get you dressed, Archbishop,’ he said. ‘There’s no backing out now!’

I put on my cassock as I heard Owen Chadwick say that today, 19 April, was the Feast Day of St Alphege, a former Archbishop of Canterbury who, in 1012 ad in Greenwich, was battered to death by Vikings with ox bones because he refused to allow the Church to pay a ransom for his release. It seemed a hazardous mantle I was about to don.

Suddenly a great deal of noise erupted outside, and we walked over to the window to see the Prime Minister arrive with several other Ministers of State. He waved to the crowds and was ushered into the cathedral.

The whole world, it seemed, was present at the service in one way or another. Not only all the important religious leaders in the country – Cardinal Hume and Archbishop Gregorius, Moderators of the Church of Scotland, the Methodist Church and the Free Churches – but also the Patriarchs of the four ancient Sees of Constantinople, Alexandria, Jerusalem and Antioch. Billy Graham was present as my personal guest and as someone whose contribution to world Christianity was unique and outstanding. Cardinal Cassidy represented Pope John Paul II and the Pontifical Council for Christian Unity. Every Archbishop in the Anglican Communion was present, as was every Bishop in the Churches of England, Wales, Scotland and Ireland.

Behind me Dimbleby and Chadwick were now speculating about the new Archbishop. I caught several of the comments: ‘A surprising appointment … he has only been a Bishop less than three years … Yes, an evangelical, but open to others … was born in the East End of London … working class … No, certainly not Oxbridge, but has taught in three theological colleges and Principal of another … comes with experience of parish life as well as being Chairman of the Faith and Order Advisory Group … I think he will be an unpompous Archbishop.’

Mention of my background brought home to me how much I owed to my godly and good parents, who sadly were not here to share in today’s momentous events. How proud, and yet how humble, they would have felt. I smiled to myself as I recalled my mother’s loud comment when in 1985 I was made Canon in Bristol Cathedral: ‘Now I know what the Virgin Mary must have felt like!’ Eileen, rather shocked, wheeled on her: ‘Mum, that’s blasphemy!’ Mother, unrepentant, just smiled.

Yes, how thrilled Mum and Dad would have been; but as realistic Christians they would not be glorying in the pomp and majesty of the day, so much as in the service it represented. They would also be sharing in the tumult of my feelings, and my apprehension as I faced a new future.

Actually, I was not the slightest bit ashamed of my working-class background, which I shared with at least 60 per cent of the population. The popular press had of course milked the story thoroughly, and it was the usual tale of ‘poor boy makes good’ by overcoming huge obstacles to ‘get to the top’. How I hated that kind of language of ‘top’ and ‘success’. It encouraged the stereotype that I was a ‘man of the people’, and therefore in tune with the vast majority of the populace. There was no logic in that, as a moment’s thought should have reminded such journalists that David Sheppard’s background – to take one example of many – did not prevent him from being closely in touch with the underprivileged. Nevertheless, I hoped with all my heart that it was true, and it was very much at the centre of my ministry to represent the cares and interests of ordinary people, with whom I could identify in terms of background.

Some writers, astonishingly, had drawn the conclusion that because I came from an evangelical background my politics were essentially conservative. That was clearly not the case, but neither did it mean that I automatically identified with any particular political party. I saw my role as Archbishop as a defender of the principles of parliamentary democracy. I wanted to support those called to exercise authority, and I would later remind Prime Ministers of both major parties that I saw it as my duty to confront them if they embarked upon policies which I felt undermined the nation in any way.

But what kind of Archbishop was I going to be? As the 103rd Archbishop I was spoiled for choice if modelling myself on any of my predecessors was the way to proceed. Becket feuded so regularly with his King that he spent most of his time in exile. No, that was not for me. The quiet, scholarly Cranmer, perhaps, with whose theology I could identify; but, then again, he was too vacillating and cautious. Nearer my time perhaps one of the greatest of them all, William Temple – scholar, activist, social reformer and inspirer. Yes, a giant among Archbishops, but he was Archbishop of Canterbury for a mere two years during wartime. As a model for this post there were many great men to consider. It struck me that whatever inspiration I received from my illustrious predecessors, I had to be my own man. One thing I could depend upon was that the same divine grace and strength that the previous Archbishops had received was available to me too.

‘It’s time to go, Archbishop,’ said a smiling Graham, handing me my mitre, and then with a prayer we walked towards the door, leaving the television commentary still describing the scene within the cathedral as we advanced to be part of it.

2 East End Boy

‘Perhaps more typical of the period after 1940, when the war settled down into the long slog that it became for most non-combatants is the comment of an old lady from Coventry. Asked by her priest what she did when she heard the sirens, she replied: “Oh, I just read my bible a bit and then says ‘bugger ‘em’ and I goes to bed.” ’

W. Rankin

THE WORLD INTO WHICH I WAS BORN on 13 November 1935 was a very troubled and insecure one. The nations were just emerging from the effects of the devastating Wall Street crash that had led to thousands of bankruptcies and to the ruin of many millions of ordinary people around the world. Europe had been badly affected by the Depression, and the rise of fascism was beginning to trouble many. The United Kingdom was not immune from the turmoil and confusion of the period, with unemployment blighting the lives of millions. An absorbing and important sideline was the worrying problem of the monarchy, that would very shortly lead to the abdication of Edward VII and the accession to the throne of George VI.

To what extent my working-class parents shared in these questions and concerns I have no knowledge, although poverty was an abiding reality in our home. Number 68 Fern Street, Bow, London E3, was a typical working-class terrace house, with two bedrooms and a toilet upstairs, and two rooms and a scullery downstairs. I never heard my parents complain about their council home. They kept it clean and were proud of it.

It was a very happy and loving home into which I was born. I was the eldest of five children. Dennis, the twins Robert and Ruby, and Valerie followed at roughly two-year intervals. It was our privilege to have two wonderful parents.

To outward appearances, there was nothing remarkable about them. Their marriage certificate declared that our father, George Thomas Carey, was a labourer at the time of my birth. His schooling had stopped at fourteen years of age, and from birth until well into his teenage years he was the beneficiary of cast-off clothes and shoes. His background was impressive only for the extent of its poverty and deprivation. He was eight months old when his father died in St Bart’s Hospital as a result of an appendicitis operation at the age of twenty-five. His earliest memory was of his mother’s second marriage to an Irish Roman Catholic, a street trader, who was habitually drunk and who often beat his wife when under the influence of alcohol.

In addition to his older brother John, Dad’s mother gave birth to a further eight children. She only married her Catholic husband on the clear understanding that the two sons of her first marriage were brought up in the Church of England faith. She often took them to Bow Church, which to this day occupies a position of prominence on Mile End Road.

My father told me that two moments of his childhood stand out. His maternal grandparents were both born blind, and when his grandmother passed away his grandfather joined this already very large family. The cramped house necessitated grandson and blind grandfather sharing a single bed. A close relationship grew between them, and the old man devoted many hours to teaching the boy to read. My father was encouraged to recite huge passages of the Bible that later in life he could still recall and repeat. At the age of ten, Dad was due to go on a school trip to Regent’s Park Zoo. The day before the trip, Granddad gave his daughter some money, with the mysterious instruction that should anything happen to him, nothing should stop George going to the zoo. Dad was suddenly woken up during the night and transferred into another bed without knowing why. On his return home from the zoo the following day his mother told him gently that his dear grandfather had died in the night with his arms around him. A very special bond was broken – but Dad remained devoted to the memory of his blind grandfather throughout his life.

Dad’s second memory was of a night in his early teens when he was woken by loud screaming and the sound of breaking furniture. Fearfully he crept out of bed, and struggled downstairs. The screaming was his mother’s. Candles were the only form of lighting, so it was with some difficulty that he found his way to her bedroom. Suddenly, confronting him was his stepfather, breathing heavily and clearly the worse for drink.

‘What’s the matter, Georgie?’ came the harsh voice.

‘I heard Mum scream, and it frightened me,’ the boy said.

His stepfather replied, ‘Go to bed, George. Your mother is all right.’

The following day he found out that his older brother had also heard the screaming and had pulled their drunken stepfather off their mother, who had been savagely beaten. He in turn was practically strangled before Nell, one of the stepsisters, was able to rescue him. Mother, son and stepdaughter were thrust from the house and spent the remainder of the night at an uncle’s home. The battered face of his mother the following day told the sorry story of the power of drink in his stepfather’s life. Apparently he could be the most charming of men when sober, but rarely did my father talk of him. There was, however, no mistaking the depth of the love between my father and his mother. Although I have no recollection of her whatsoever, the fragrance of her presence was almost tangible in my father’s life. Few of us realise how lasting is the impact that such caring and close relationships have on our children.

My mother, Ruby Catherine Gurney, came from a more secure and more prosperous working-class home – although the same struggle for existence blighted her life too. Looking at the earliest photos I possess of my mother, she was clearly a good-looking and gentle woman, intelligent, full of life with a great sense of humour. She too was from a large family, and like my father did not have the chance of a decent education.

It was not until many years later that I discovered the extraordinary fact that my mother’s side of the family had close links with Canterbury. My mother’s great-great-grandparents, Thomas and Mary Gurney, were born in Canterbury and baptised in St Alphege’s Church, just fifty yards away from the Old Palace. Their son James was married to Louisa Dawson in the same church on 26 March 1849, and their place of residence was recorded as Archbishop’s Palace, Canterbury. The Gurney family later moved to the East End of London, where my mother was born and grew up. One firm recollection of my parents, sharply etched in my memory, is the fact that they remained in love and cherished one another throughout their lives. I have no memory of them ever having an argument, and with their children they would rely on kindness and good humour to resolve any tense situation.

At some point shortly before the war my parents moved to Dagenham in Essex, which was just as well, as 68 Fern Street was badly damaged during the Blitz. We moved to a larger council house with three bedrooms. The houses around swarmed with young families, and the small number of cars on the roads meant that children could play safely on most of the sidestreets. Impromptu football matches started after school on most days. At the age of five I was enrolled at Monteagle Primary and Junior School, just a few minutes’ walk from home. Later in life I was surprised to discover that my academic year at Monteagle School was not only to yield a future Archbishop of Canterbury, but also a senior officer in the Royal Air Force and the captain of a Cunard liner.

My recollections of those early years are exceedingly vague, and consist of a kaleidoscope of war memories: the excitement of being bundled into underground shelters, the shattering of the calm order of life through three evacuations to Wiltshire, the drone of planes overhead, the sound of the dreaded ‘doodlebugs’ and the destruction they wrought. A tremendous camaraderie developed among the families in our road, and people went to great lengths to support one another, even to the degree of sharing rations if the children did not have enough to eat. Dad became very accomplished at making toffee, and Mum’s cooking became highly inventive, as she had to make do with whatever ingredients she had to hand to produce food for us all. Dad was not called up, but was involved in essential services’, working at Ford’s motor company churning out tanks and armoured vehicles for the army. Often after work he had to take his turn of duty as one of the Home Guard. As youngsters we were tickled pink to see our father donning his uniform, cleaning his Lee-Enfield rifle and parading with other members of his brigade to different parts of the city. In later years I could never watch BBC TV’s Dad’s Army without thinking of my father.

At times in the early days war did seem exciting and rather intoxicating. A sense of urgency gripped the nation, and that feeling of living on the edge of survival penetrated even the world of children of my age. It was impossible to escape the business of war. We knew we were living in desperate days. During the day barrage balloons filled the sky, and the unmistakable traces of fighter-plane tracks high in the heavens were witnesses to the dogfights going on far above us. I became all too familiar with the sound of the ‘doodlebug’, the German V1 rocket, which did so much damage to the East End. I learned that if you could hear it you were safe. It was when the engine cut out that you knew its journey was over, and you had better run for cover. Sadly, my best friend at school, Henry, was badly injured in a doodlebug attack. War invaded our daily lives – everyone, it seemed, had at least one relative in the forces, and at school assemblies prayer was earnest. All children learned how to put gasmasks on, and took in their stride regular visits to the air-raid shelters in the back garden – even though the dirty conditions and the presence of spiders made such times less than appealing.

War also intruded on our diet, in the form of rationing, which affected every person in Britain. Everyone had a ration book, and food was rigidly controlled, with priority given to expectant mothers and children. With five children, my parents had a hard time ensuring that we all received adequate nourishment. But while everyone was hungry in wartime Britain, no one starved. The irony is that, despite people having to go without, on the whole rationing meant that the nation was better fed than it had been in the 1930s. People preferred equality to a free-for-all in which the well-off might stockpile food and the poor starve. Poorer families such as ours were entitled to free school meals. Some of my most exciting memories are of my father saving enough sugar to make fudge for all the family.

There were periods when the level of bombing in London meant that children had to be evacuated to safe country areas. That happened to us three times, but thankfully, at least when we had to leave the security of home – in spite of the dangers of bombs – we had the reassuring presence of our mother with us. Many a London child of my generation has reason to be grateful for the wonderful care of country people who could not have been kinder and more welcoming to the city kids with their unruly behaviour and their ignorance of the ways of rural communities.

There was, however, one terrible experience which was imprinted on the memory of us all, when Mother fell out with a family with whom we were staying in Warminster. A deserter came to the door one day asking for bread, and Mum gave him some. The woman who owned the house was furious with her, and a violent argument ensued. The woman then told Mother that she was totally fed up with us all – we must go. We left in a hurry, and returned to London. But Mum only had enough money to reach Paddington, and Dad had no idea we were on our way home. It was very late in the evening when the train arrived, and we were all wretchedly tired. I remember that the younger ones were crying, and Mum was forlorn and exhausted. Suddenly, to our relief and joy, a neighbour recognised Mum and greeted her: ‘Ruby! What on earth are you doing here so late? Why, you all look in need of a good meal.’ Mum, in tears, explained her predicament, and the good Samaritan bought us all fish and chips and gave us the money to complete our journey home. It was one of those moments forever treasured in our family history. For my parents it was a real sign that ‘Someone’ was watching over us all.

But we could not stay in Dagenham, it was far too dangerous, and once more we were evacuated – this time to Bradford-on-Avon and to a remarkable family, the Musslewhites, whose kindness we always remembered. Mr Musslewhite was the billeting officer and also churchwarden of Christ Church, Bradford-on-Avon. It was his job to match children and families with hospitable homes. I was told by one of his children that when he came face-to-face with Mrs Ruby Carey and her five offspring he was so touched by this very close family that, acting on impulse, he decided: ‘We will take in this family ourselves.’

We stayed with them for several weeks before a house was found on White Hill, which became our home until it was safe to return to Dagenham. Mr Musslewhite and his family also helped us in more than practical ways. He helped to reconnect us with our church, because it was entirely natural to go to his church every Sunday and to enter into the rhythm of worship and praise, community life and the care of one another. For us children it also meant education at the local church school, which we greatly appreciated. Ever since those days Bradford-on-Avon has had a special place in our affections.

I have little recollection of the many schools I must have entered during those years, except the shock of sitting the eleven-plus examination in 1946, and failing it. Of course, most working-class people then – and possibly even today – gave very little thought to such exams. Life had dealt them such a poor hand that they became accustomed to failure and constant disillusionment. I don’t recall my parents being terribly bothered by my failure, but I myself was keenly aware of its momentous significance. Looking back, I am sure that the shock of failing the eleven-plus had a very important part in my later determination to succeed academically. Even at that age I was aware that this exam could determine, to a large degree, the trajectory of one’s life. I was shaken, angry and very disappointed with myself.

So to Bifron’s Secondary Modern School I went. It wasn’t such a bad place for a boy keen to learn, and I quickly made friends. ‘Speedy Gonzales’ was my father’s nickname for me, because I always had my head in a book, and ‘speedy’ was, to be honest, the last thing I was. School reports from the period inform me that I was regularly in the top three places in most subjects. My favourite teacher, Mr Kennedy, a delightful Scot who had entered the teaching profession directly from the navy, taught English. He opened to me the riches of literature, and I borrowed book after book from him. To this day I owe him so much – for teaching me, with his softly-spoken Scottish accent, the power of literature and the need for precision in language. I recall one time when I had to read out an essay I had composed to the class. I felt very proud to be chosen, and weaved into it a few newly discovered words. Suddenly I came to ‘nonchalantly’.

‘What do you mean by that word, Carey?’

‘Well, sir, I think it means “carelessly”.’

‘Then why didn’t you use the word “carelessly”, because all of us know that word better than “nonchalantly”!’

Afterwards, Mr Kennedy said, ‘A good essay, George, but don’t use language to show off!’

And then there was the Headmaster, Mr Bass, who always wrote in green ink. His impact on my life was his belief in me. I remember the time when Alec Harris, my best friend, and I played truant. Alec had been asked by his mother to do some shopping. No shopping was in fact done. With the money burning a hole in his hand, Alec and I went to Barking cinema – known as the ‘fleapit’ – instead, where a horror film banned to children was the main attraction. We attached ourselves to an obliging man and spent Mrs Harris’s money on the tickets, ice cream and sweets. We got our just deserts, because the film was particularly horrible, with realistic scenes of a hand that strangled people. Leaving the cinema, both of us realised the even more horrifying consequences of what we had done. Not only had we played truant, but we had spent someone else’s money on a film we were not entitled to see. Mrs Harris was, not surprisingly, angry, and reported us both to the school. I was caned, but long after the pain had subsided the rebuke in Mr Bass’s voice hurt me more: ‘I am disappointed by you, Carey. You have let yourself down. You are worthy of better things than this.’

What made this incident particularly distressing was that the late forties were very tough for ordinary people. Employment was not a great problem and most men found work quickly, but wages were low, and poverty dogged the steps of most working-class families. Mrs Harris had every right to be profoundly distressed. Luckily I was able to keep the story from my parents, who would have been appalled by my behaviour. As for our family, Dad continued to work at Ford, and brought home just enough for us to pay the rent and get by. Life was hard, but we were a happy family, and entertainment came from fun in the home, close friendships at school, and of course from the radio, or ‘wireless’ as everyone called it.

One day the wireless packed up. We were dismayed beyond measure, but Dad reassured us that we would get a new one, although as we could not afford to buy it outright, it would have to be on hire purchase. I shall never forget the day the salesman came to agree terms with our parents. Soon we would be the proud owners of a new radio, and for the five children it was a moment to savour and look forward to. After the man had left, one look at Dad’s face told the story – he did not earn enough to pay the monthly instalments for a new radio; we had to settle for a second-hand one that Mother bought with some saved housekeeping money the following day. I would not go so far as to say that that incident alone made me conscious of the unfairness of life, and the way that a privileged class controlled the rest of us. It is true to say, however, that the form of Christian faith I espoused later in life had a clear social and political foundation. If it did not make a difference to life, it could never be for me a real faith.

Party politics did not intrude greatly into our home. Mum and Dad were working-class Conservatives, as far as political affiliation was concerned. My father was an intelligent man and enjoyed a good argument. His daily paper was the Express, and every Sunday the People was read from cover to cover. They were Tory papers. He had no time for socialism, believing it to be allied to Communism, and therefore in his view opposed to everything that made Britain great and free. Our parents were also unashamedly royalist, principally, I believe, because the monarchy gave a visible form to British traditions and values.

Nevertheless, even as a young teenager I could not help wondering, as I watched our two happy parents, what the Conservative Party had ever done for them. ‘Look at how poor you are. Look at the way you struggle to make ends meet,’ I thought. I could not understand their acceptance of the way things were. Deep down I felt that there ought to be, indeed must be, a better way.

Shortly after the war we moved again, this time to a three-bedroom council house in Old Dagenham. Our parents had a modest bedroom overlooking the rear garden, which was bigger than our previous one, the girls were in a pokey ‘box room’, and the three boys shared a larger room overlooking the road. It was a house full of noise and fun. Most evenings we listened to the radio which engaged with our imaginations with serials like Dick Barton, Special Agent and many other favourites. We were encouraged to read, and the local library was a great resource. Whenever he had time Dad would disappear into the shed where his tools were stored and make toys for us all. Alas, I never did acquire his practical ability, although my brother Dennis did in abundance.

With romantic notions of the ocean, I decided to join the Sea Cadets at the age of twelve, and I stayed with this great youth organisation until I was sixteen. Admittedly I had to lie to get in, as the minimum age of entry was thirteen, but I was a tall, strong lad and managed to convince the CO that I was old enough. The Sea Cadets helped me to mix with other teenagers and gave me confidence in holding, my own with them.

At thirteen I was able to sit another examination to see if I was up to the level to attend high school, and this time I passed. I can still remember the feeling of happiness. I was not a failure after all. But then came another let-down – my parents visited Mr Bass, and the conclusion of the meeting was that there was more to be gained by my staying at Bifron’s than moving on at that stage. I was not unhappy with the decision, because I was comfortable at the school, was cruising through the classes and had made many friends. The blow was to come when, at the age of fifteen and a half, I had to leave Bifron’s with no qualifications whatsoever. Secondary-modern pupils did not sit the matriculation examination.

This did not bother me at first, because I did not realise the significance of matriculation. My reading had made me thirsty for adventure, and I dreamed of joining the Merchant Navy and becoming a Radio Officer – no doubt the legacy of Mr Kennedy’s tales of his life in the Royal Navy before he became a teacher. The outside world, however, brutally woke me up to reality. For the vast majority of working-class children, school ended at fifteen and work beckoned. So I was suddenly pitched into the world of employment, and became an office boy at the London Electricity Board in East India Dock Road, Bow.

The adult world I now found myself a member of was certainly not dull or lacking interest. On the contrary, it was a bustling, urgent world of caring for customers and serving others. As office boy I was at the bottom of the heap, and the servant of all. At the top of the pile was Mr Vincent, a tall, emaciated figure who swept through the outer offices to sycophantic calls of ‘Good morning, sir! Good morning, Mr Vincent.’ Without acknowledging any of the greetings he would disappear into his office, closing the door sharply behind him.

I fell foul of Mr Vincent in my second week. I was summoned into his office and given instructions to go to a shop in Whitechapel and collect some goods he had ordered. He gave me £5 to cover the cost. I was thrilled at this opportunity to show him that I was up to scratch. I jumped on the bus happily and then, for some reason known only to the brain of an absent-minded fifteen-year-old, I started to clear out my pockets of their debris, discarding some items and shredding others. I arrived at the shop, and after I had been handed the parcel I reached for the note I had put into my top pocket. With mounting horror, I realised what I had done. From my pocket I withdrew – half of a fiver. The shopkeeper refused the tattered remains of the note point-blank, and with panic I returned to face the music, knowing that my job was on the line.

A stern-looking Mr Vincent heard me out in total silence. ‘Now go to the bank,’ he ordered, ‘and in return for the half of the banknote, you may be able to get a new £5 note – otherwise you will have to pay for this yourself.’ As that represented at least two weeks’ salary for an office boy, I was relieved when the bank gave me a whole £5 note for the fragment I sheepishly presented. It was not a happy start to my working life.

There was, however, another side to this unpopular boss whose grumpy personality made him seem a tyrant to his staff. One lunchtime Mr Vincent found me in the corner of the open office reading a book I had withdrawn from the local library. As I was by far the youngest in the office I had no one of my own age to chat with, and reading was the only way to pass the time – not that I, of all people, complained. No doubt Mr Vincent had observed me reading on other occasions, but this time he approached me with a book.

‘Carey. Have you read much of Charles Dickens?’ he asked.

I replied that I had not.

‘A pity,’ he said. ‘He is in my opinion one of the greatest writers in the English language. Here, borrow this book, and tell me what you think.’ He disappeared into his office, slamming the door behind him.

Within a few days I had read Nicholas Nickleby and returned it. The following day I was called into Mr Vincent’s large office and, standing on the other side of his desk, I was required to give him a critique of Nicholas Nickleby. His muttered grunts indicated approval, and another Dickens novel was passed across the desk. I must have read my way through most of Dickens’s oeuvre before I left to do my National Service at the age of eighteen. How I thank God for Mr Vincent for giving me such a wonderful apprenticeship in learning. It dawned on me later that it wasn’t only the reading of Dickens he encouraged in me, but the articulation of ideas. He made me use words more effectively, and made me listen to the rolling cadences of prose. ‘Read that again,’ I was often ordered. ‘Do you see the way he was combining nouns, adverbs and verbs to bring the reader into the story?’ He made me pay attention to the uses of language, as well as to its beauty.

But another discovery – an even more important discovery – happened during this period. I discovered there was a God.

My family was not religious – at least, not in the sense of feeling a need to go to church and worship. To this day I am not religious in that way. Worship is of course important, and people who claim to be Christian should belong to a congregation and attend as regularly as they can. But if worship is the outward badge of being a Christian, putting one’s belief into practice will always be its heart.

It was Bob, one of the twins, four years my junior, who first started going to Old Dagenham Parish Church. From the back of our three-bedroom council house at 198 Reede Road we could see the tower of the church in the old village of Dagenham. Bob loved the people he met there, and told me about them. So after work one day I decided to go along to the Youth Club that met on a Monday evening.

I made friends instantly. Every Monday the open Youth Club met, and on Tuesdays there was a meeting of ‘Christian Endeavour’. It was these that really interested me. They took the form of a service lasting one hour, led, in the main, by young people. Most of them were from lower-middle-class backgrounds, and they were zealous and bright. A few of them stood out, and would become special friends: Ronald Rushmer, Edna Millings, and the twins David and John Harris.

They were all a year or two older than myself, and I was impressed by the depth of their faith, the rigour of their thinking and the breadth of their lives. There was nothing ‘holy’ or ‘religious’ about them. They seemed to me to be whole people, and their interests were certainly mine. The fact is that, whether religious or not, I was deeply interested in philosophy, and particularly the meaning of life. I can’t even begin to date this interest, although I know that as soon as I was old enough to get a library ticket I started to read books by great thinkers. I vividly remember reading a book by Bertrand Russell for over an hour at Becontree library, and being asked to leave by an impatient member of staff who wanted to lock up.

The war had deeply unsettled my generation, and led many of us to ask fundamental questions about the meaning of freedom, democracy and peace. Working-class men returning from six years of conflict were determined to put behind them forever the nightmare of the thirties. Winston Churchill’s stock in the country was still high, but it was felt that even he represented a period that demeaned the vast majority of people in the land – as was demonstrated by his defeat in the general election of July 1945.

War affected me too: not in the sense of unsettling me psychologically, so much as making me aware that there were exciting questions concerning the meaning of life. Later I would find that Immanuel Kant’s classic formulation expressed my search succinctly: ‘What can I know? What must I do? What can I hope for?’ The three questions, focusing on epistemology, morals and the future of humankind, seemed to me to identify the truly crucial issues. For me as a teenager, however, the questions took a less sophisticated form: ‘Is there a God? If so, what is He like? Is He knowable?’

Old Dagenham Parish Church, with its open and evangelical style, suited me perfectly. A new vicar had arrived, the Reverend Edward Porter Conway Patterson – or ‘Pit-Pat’, as the young people instantly baptised him. Pit-Pat had recently returned from service in Kenya as a missionary. His preaching was direct, and always contained an appeal for people to turn to Christ. Many did, and the congregation grew. There could be no denying Pit-Pat’s great abilities and focus. His theology was Christ-centred and Bible-based. He was against anything that watered down the heart of what he believed to be Anglican theology, and particularly disapproved of Catholicism in any shape or form. If there was anything worse than Roman Catholicism, it was Anglo-Catholicism. He urged his congregation to abstain from drink and to avoid cinemas and theatres: ‘Come out from among them and be separate’ was one of his favourite Pauline texts.

Pit-Pat’s great strengths were his directness and simplicity; his weaknesses were the same. It did not take me very long to discover this, and in time I became concerned that he was projecting a joyless and stern gospel that fell short of the faith I was discovering for myself. Sadly, the negative influence of his teaching resulted in my feeling guilty for the next ten years whenever I saw a film or drank even a glass of beer or wine.

Worship puzzled me as well as impressed me. It was always based on the Book of Common Prayer, and a great deal of it seemed boring. It was the sermon we looked forward to, and following the service those young people who wanted to would go to the curate’s house for coffee and a discussion of the sermon. As time went on, however, I began to appreciate the framework of worship. Because of my growing love for the beauty of language, I came to find the Prayer Book evocative and wonderfully inspiring, and it took root in me. There are times even now when I wonder if the Church took a wrong turn in developing modern liturgies from the 1960s onward. We have certainly lost ‘common prayer’. In my youth, every parish church was bound together by the 1662 Prayer Book, even though it was expressed in many different ways. Sadly, today ‘uncommon prayer’ is closer to the truth, and many evangelical churches have departed from authorised forms altogether.

My intellectual development continued when the Harris twins began to interest me in music. Until then my musical education had been limited to what I heard on radio, which was largely the popular music of the time. I was, and continue to be, a fan of big bands and jazz. Ted Heath and his orchestra, Dizzy Gillespie, Stan Kenton and his band were among my favourites. One day John Harris said to me, ‘George, do you fancy coming round to our house on Saturday afternoon to listen to music?’ I readily accepted, expecting that we would be listening to jazz. Not a bit of it. I found myself listening entranced to classical music for three hours. This became a regular feature of my weekends, listening to great music, which like literature and philosophy took root in me – Elgar, Beethoven, Chopin, Bach, Mozart and other great composers. Ironically for a developing evangelical, Elgar’s Dream of Gerontius had a major impact on my emotional and theological development. It remains to this day one of the finest pieces of music I have ever heard. Through the influence of John and David Harris, music became an essential element of my growing faith. In time I was able to say with Siegfried Sassoon:

From you, Beethoven, Bach, Mozart,

The substance of my dreams took fire.

You built cathedrals in my heart,

And lit my pinnacled desire.

You were the ardour and the bright

Procession of my thoughts toward prayer.

You were the wrath of storm, the light

On distant citadels aflame.

As my thinking progressed, so did my journey into the Christian faith. I bought my first Bible, and read it avidly. At the same time I was reading Christian writers such as Leslie Weatherhead, the great Methodist teacher. Pit-Pat, recognising my thirst for reading, lent me books on prayer and spirituality, on faith and doubt, on doctrine and dogma. The focus of my interest was the person of Jesus Christ. His claims, and the claims that the Church made about Him, were so remarkable that I was forced to ask: Is it true that He is the hinge of history, that decisive omega point, by which all faith is assessed? The point came when I passed from a vague belief in God to a firm and joyful conviction that Jesus is the Son of God, Saviour of the World and, what seemed more important at the time – my saviour and Lord. There was no blinding Damascus experience, rather a quiet certainty that many of my questions had been answered, and my Christian life had begun.

I told Pit-Pat, and he was thrilled, although his response unnerved me: ‘I want you to read John 1.1, and memorise it to the end. Come back next week and recite it to me. Now, next Sunday, after the evening service we are going to have an open-air service in the banjo directly opposite your house. I want you to give your testimony.’

The first request was easy, but the thought of giving a testimony, a familiar practice in evangelical circles, terrified me. Because the ‘banjo’ (a familiar pattern on council estates, with houses arranged in the shape of a banjo around a small green) was opposite my house, all our neighbours would be able to see me standing on a soapbox, and would hear me speak. The implications were horrifying. My parents would be ashamed. But Pit-Pat would not hear of me backing down. ‘You have committed yourself to Christ. Now nail your colours to the mast!’

The following Sunday evening after the service, about thirty of us were there on the green, and a simple service began with a few hymns, a speaker and my ‘testimony’. I doubt if it lasted more than two minutes, but it was enough to satisfy Pit-Pat. In his opinion George Carey, at the age of nearly seventeen, had declared himself a believer.

Looking back fifty years, I have no doubt in describing it as a real conversion experience which changed the pathway of my life. It was forged from reading, from worship, fellowship and prayer. But it was only a beginning. Other great moments of discovery were to follow, and one can only call such youthful moments of conversion authentic in the light of what develops from them.

Great joy was to follow as other members of our family followed Bob and myself on this journey of faith. Our sisters Ruby and Val attended a church camp, and returned with a story of a commitment to Christ. And then our parents quite unexpectedly followed. I will never forget the moment Mum and Dad committed themselves to Christ. They had watched their children’s spiritual development with curiosity mixed with joy and, no doubt, alarm. That they did not know what was going on was evident, but they were pleased with the difference faith made to our lives.

Youth for Christ rallies were held regularly in Dagenham at that time, and we had invited Mum and Dad along to one particular meeting. The preacher invited all those who wanted to follow Jesus Christ to come to the front. To my amazement our parents walked hand-in-hand up the aisle. For both of them it was a ‘coming home’. They had been brought up as Christians, and had gone to church as youngsters. My father’s life, especially, had been irradiated with the spiritual through the influence of his blind grandfather. Now both of our wonderful parents were convinced Christians.

Dennis, eighteen months younger than me, was in the meantime going out with Jean, his future wife, and missed the spiritual revolution going on in the family. Although sad that this was not to be his story too, he was never made to feel excluded in any way. Indeed, I always felt very close to him, and knew that the Christian faith was also real to him, although expressed in a different way.

The impact of my father’s dramatic conversion revealed itself a few weeks later. Dad said early one Sunday morning, ‘I’m not going to church today, because I’ve got to put something right.’ He explained that when he was fourteen he had worked for a Christian man named Mr Zeal in Forest Gate, and had stolen some money. ‘But he must be dead by now!’ said Mother, amazed by Dad’s insistence that he had to at least try to make amends.

Later that day, Dad returned from his journey with a glad and triumphant smile on his face. He had gone to the nonconformist church where Mr Zeal worshipped and had been informed that Mr Zeal was still alive, but was not very well. Dad went round to his former employer’s house, reintroduced himself and confessed that he had taken a small amount of money. Mr Zeal looked at him with complete amazement and joy. ‘You know, Carey,’ he finally said, ‘I knew you had taken the money, and I have been praying for you ever since.’ What a shot in the arm for my father’s faith that was, and what a lot it taught us all about the power of prayer.

Even as a youngster I could tell what that commitment to Christ did for my mother and father. It changed them both, and gave them a great thirst to know more not only about the Christian faith, but about how to apply that knowledge to life around them. The limited education my father had received made it impossible for him to do anything other than lowly jobs, and soon after his conversion he became a porter at Rush Green Hospital in Romford, where he made a deep impact on the lives of many patients through his Christian goodness and kind words.

As for me, my learning too continued. My work at the London Electricity Board did not tax me, and I was eager to move on. The opportunity came when, not long before my eighteenth birthday, I received a letter informing me that I was due for my National Service call-up. I was delighted. It was time for me to move from my secure home, and I was ready to go.

3 Signals

‘Why couldn’t Quirrell touch me?’

‘Your mother died to save you. If there is one thing Voldemort cannot understand it is love … love as powerful as your mother’s leaves its own mark. Not a visible sign … but to have been loved so deeply, even though the person who loved us is gone, will give us some protection forever.’

J.K. Rowling, Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone

WITH A YOUTHFUL IMAGINATION fired by Mr Kennedy’s stories of the Royal Navy, and fed by my experience in the Sea Cadets, my preference was to do my National Service in the navy. Unfortunately, the Royal Navy did not accept conscripts at that time, so it had to be the Royal Air Force. As it turned out I was not to be disappointed in the slightest. For a young man eager to explore life and widen his horizons, the Air Force suited me down to the ground.

First came a week of ‘kitting out’ at RAF Cardington, where hundreds of dazed and subdued eighteen-year-olds gathered to be allocated to billets, receive severe haircuts and don the blue uniform of the youngest service. Pit-Pat’s final advice to me the previous day seemed particularly daunting: ‘George, you must disclose that you are a Christian right from the start. Don’t be ashamed of your faith. When lights go out, kneel by your bed and say your prayers.’ This had seemed easy enough to agree to when in church, but I confess that as I surveyed the crowded billet on my first evening, with the good-natured banter of high-spirited young men all around me, my resolve wavered. Nevertheless, taking a deep breath, I knelt and spent several minutes in prayer.

The reaction was interesting. First there was a quietening-down of voices as everyone realised I was praying and, unusually courteously, gave me space for prayer. The second reaction – clearly predicted by Pit-Pat – was that it marked me out as someone who took his faith seriously. The following day at least six young men in the billet took me aside and declared that they were practising Christians. By the end of the second day we were told of a SASRA (Soldiers and Sailors Scripture Readers’ Association) Bible-study meeting that evening. SASRA was particularly favoured by nonconformist and evangelical Christians, and throughout my National Service I found it a wonderful source of fellowship and support.

I never found that my practice of public praying, which I kept going for a great deal of my time in the Air Force, limited or negatively affected my relationships with other servicemen. To be sure, there were often jokes when I knelt down to pray. There were several times when things were thrown at me, and once my left boot was stolen while I was on my knees – just minutes before an inspection. Somehow I managed to keep to attention with one boot on and one off as the officer advanced through the billet.

Years later, in fact just a few weeks before I retired, I was touched to receive a letter from a Mr Michael Moran, who wrote to my secretary at Lambeth Palace:

Dear Sir,

Are you able to tell me whether George Carey spent the early years of his National Service at the basic training camp at RAF Cardington? When I was there at that time I was deeply impressed (and this has remained with me ever since) by the devotion and courage of an eighteen-year-old named George who knelt to pray at the side of his barrack-room bed. At no time in the following two years did I see anyone else show such evidence of his faith.

I was rather uncomfortable to receive such praise, because I did not kneel down to impress people by my courage, or to be the odd man out. In fact, I shrank from doing so. I did it simply because I felt Pit-Pat was absolutely right: if prayer is important, and if one is in a communal setting with no private place to pray, one ought not to be ashamed or embarrassed to be known as someone who loves God and worships Him. Later in life I would put the issue as a question to others: ‘Muslims aren’t ashamed to pray publicly, so why should Christians feel embarrassed? If it is a good way of praying when one is alone, why should we be ashamed of acknowledging a relationship with God when we are with others?’

The relative calm of the kitting-out week was followed by eight weeks’ hard square-bashing at West Kirby, near Liverpool. To this day, while I am left with many questions about the psychology behind the tyrannising and brutal attitude of the Platoon Leaders and Sergeants, there can be little dispute that it is a highly efficient way of moulding young men into effective members of a military unit. For eight weeks we were terrorised by screaming NCOs who told us in unambiguous terms that we were the lowest forms of life ever to appear on earth: ‘You are a turd of unspeakable putrefaction’, ‘a cretin with an IQ lower than a tadpole’, ‘You are the scum of the earth! What are you? Repeat it after me: the scum of the earth’, ‘You are hopeless, hopeless, hopeless.’

The verbal ingenuity of some descriptions was rehearsed in the billet long into the evening, as we sympathised with victims or rejoiced at the misfortune of a rival platoon. There were times when I too became the object of the Squad Corporal’s wrath. ‘Carey, you little bleeder!’ he screamed into my face, his saliva making my eyes water, ‘I am about to tear your ****ing left arm off and intend to beat your ****ing ’ead in with the bloody end, until your brains – if you have any – are scattered far and wide.’ Imagine my disappointment when I discovered later that this threat was far from original, and was in fact a tried and trusty favourite of that particular NCO.

I was able to gauge attitudes to the Church from the viewpoint of the ordinary conscript. The vast majority of my ‘mates’ had no contact with institutional religion. Although most of them, deep down, had faith, few of them had the ability to convert it into anything of relevance. They were not, on the whole, helped by the Chaplains, who held officer rank and talked down to the conscripted men. We all had to go to compulsory religious classes, and I can only say that from a Christian point of view these were something to be endured rather than enjoyed. The talks were usually moralistic, and the most embarrassing were about sex, a subject on which the Chaplains were definitely out of touch with the earthy culture of working-class people. I remember asking myself: ‘Why are they so shy about talking about the subject where they are expert? About the existence of God, about spirituality and prayer, about Jesus Christ and His way?’

Even more frustrating to me was the fact that I never saw a Chaplain visiting the men, either in the mess or in the billets. Far more effective was the ordinary ‘bloke’ from SASRA, who at least had the courage to meet the men where they were. Church parades were no different. The hymns were sung indifferently, and the sermons went over the heads of all. I was often embarrassed by the effete way services were conducted, and felt that overall they did more harm than good to the Church.

Although I was glad when the square-bashing was over, I have to admit that it taught me a lot about myself and how to cope when pushed to one’s limit. At the end of the eight weeks I was posted to RAF Compton Bassett in Wiltshire to train as a Wireless Operator. If I was not able to be a Wireless Officer in the Royal Navy, well, being a Wireless Operator in the Royal Air Force seemed an interesting challenge. And so it turned out to be. The training took twenty weeks, and included elementary electronics as well as having Morse code so drummed into us that by the end of it most of us were able to send and receive Morse at over twenty words a minute. As VHF was still in its infancy even in the RAF at that time Morse code was a reliable and efficient form of communication, though of course very slow.

At Compton Bassett we were able to participate in many activities, ranging from sport to hobbies of all kinds. Discipline continued to be very strict, but we were now finding that the ordered life enabled work and leisure to function smoothly. I played a lot of football, and enjoyed running as well. At weekends evening worship at Calne Parish Church was certainly far more authentic than the formal and compulsory church parades.

At the end of the training, everyone waited with impatience for their postings. I was astonished to be selected for the post of Wireless Operator on an air-sea rescue MTB (motor torpedo boat) operating out of Newquay in Devon. It seemed that at last my dreams would be fulfilled. If not the Royal Navy, at least I would be at sea with the RAF. But it was not to be. Two days before taking up my posting I was told to report to the CO’s office, where I was given completely different instructions – to go home on leave immediately, and to report to Stansted airport the following Sunday evening for an unknown destination.

I was among twenty or so extremely puzzled airmen on a York aircraft which left Stansted that September Sunday evening in 1955. To the question I put to the Sergeant on duty I received the friendly rejoinder, ‘You’ll know soon enough where you are when you land, laddie.’

Sure enough, I did. The following morning I found myself in Egypt, and the same day I started work as a Wireless Operator (WOP) at RAF Fayid – a huge RAF camp alongside part of the Suez Canal known as the ‘Bitter Lakes’. With a large group of other WOPs work began in earnest, handling signals from Britain and the many RAF bases in the Middle East. In my leisure time I enjoyed exploring beyond the base and discovered many things about Egypt, its culture and life. I settled down to church life on the base, and made many friends.

After three months at RAF Fayid I was sent to RAF Shaibah – a posting which was greeted by howls of sympathy by my colleagues. Shaibah was a tiny base about fifteen miles from Basra, at the top of the Persian Gulf. It is very hot most of the year, and the temperature rarely falls below 120 degrees in the shade in summer. With just 120 airmen to service the squadron of Sabre jets and cover the region I was told that it was a deadly appointment, and that I was to be pitied.

On the way to Shaibah a bizarre incident took place that was to make me chuckle often in later life. The journey began with a flight to Habbaniyah, a large RAF camp close to Baghdad, from where I was to make my way by train to Basra. I boarded the plane and was shown to my seat by the WOP, who told me, ‘Carey, your lunch is on your seat. Make yourself at home,’ before disappearing into the cockpit alongside the pilot. There were no other passengers, but I noticed that there was another lunchbag on the seat alongside mine. Surely this was for me too, I concluded. It was, I admit, naïve of me to suppose that the RAF would offer me two lunches and without hesitation I scoffed both of them. To my surprise the plane landed in the Transjordan, and as we taxied towards the concourse the terrible truth dawned on me – we were about to pick up another passenger, and I had eaten his lunch.

The passenger in question was an elderly clergyman, who was greeted with deference by the crew and shown to his seat alongside mine. We had a brief chat, and the plane took off. The moment came when he reached for his lunchbox, and I had to stammer out an apology for having eaten his lunch. He made light of it, and we relaxed into a pleasant conversation in which he showed great interest in my welfare and future. On landing at Habbaniyah I was impressed to see a red carpet laid out to welcome somebody – I knew it was not for me. The top brass were all there alongside the CO. The elderly clergyman paused to say goodbye to me, then turned to the steps to be greeted by the CO and whisked away.

‘Who was that?’ I asked the WOP.

‘Oh, that’s Archbishop McInnes, Archbishop of Jerusalem and the Middle East,’ came the reply.

Sadly, I never had an opportunity to apologise again to Archbishop George McInnes for having eaten his lunch that day; but at least I was later able to tell his son, Canon David McInnes, of the incident. David had followed his father into the Church, and completed a very distinguished ministry as Rector of St Aldate’s, Oxford. He was sure that his father would have been delighted and thoroughly amused that the culprit was a future Archbishop of Canterbury.

Despite the warnings of my colleagues at Fayid, Shaibah was to prove a wonderful posting for me. I was one of eight WOPs who had a special role as High Frequency Direction Finding Radio Operators (known as HF/DF Operators). So primitive and sensitive was this means of communication that it required the erection of special radio huts three miles from the camp, out in the desert. On each side of the hut stood four large aerials which received signals from transport planes, and which provided an accurate beam by which a plane could determine its position and find its way to us.

Operators were on duty in these isolated huts for eight hours at a time, and for many months we worked around the clock. The duty was often boring, very hot and lonely. There were however times when the importance of our work was driven home. On one occasion several Secret Service personnel called on me to help trace the position of a Russian radio network which was proving to be a nuisance to the RAF. Another time, a two-engine transport plane from Aden to Bahrain was in serious trouble, with one engine on fire and the other causing problems. To this day I recall the SOS ringing through my headphones, and the signal telling me that the plane needed help urgently as it was about to crash. All the training I had received was focused at that very moment on giving the crew directions on how to find their way to Shaibah, then alerting the main camp and the emergency services that a crippled plane was in need of help. As a member of the air-ground rescue team I would be required to switch instantly to new responsibilities if the plane crashed in the desert. Fortunately I was able to help nurse the plane to the base, where it made an emergency landing and all was well.

It was a lonely job most of the time, but I loved it. It gave me time to read and reflect. When things were quiet and no planes were within a two-hundred-mile radius it was safe to walk a short way from the hut and explore the desert. The idea that the desert was void of life, I discovered, is quite erroneous. There were always fragile, tiny yet beautiful flowers that one could find, and the place teemed with insects, snakes and scorpions. As for human contact, I often met passing Bedouin tribespeople: sometimes shy, giggling young girls hidden behind their flowing black robes, herding their black goats; sometimes their more confident brothers and fathers. They were always friendly, even though we could only communicate through signs and through my limited Arabic, which caused great merriment. In exchange for water, which I had in abundance, I would often receive figs, dates and other fruits. Their simple, uncomplicated lives seemed attractive and natural. It was always a joy to meet them, and for a few moments share a common humanity in a hostile terrain.

I do recall though one terrifying time when I wandered a little too far, and could not find my little signals hut in the expanse of desert. The realisation that I was totally lost, without water, and that my replacement would not arrive at the hut for six hours panicked me greatly. I tried to take my bearings from the puffs of smoke coming from the distant oilwells in Kuwait, but to no avail. I walked carefully north, hoping to find some clue that might orient me. Then, with relief, I heard the sound of singing, and into view came some of my Bedouin friends. They were shocked to see me so exhausted, and after a drink of water I was taken back to the hut. Perhaps only forty minutes had passed, but it made me aware of how fragile life is, and how the desert can never be taken lightly.

In our leisure time there was opportunity to explore the surrounding region, including the teeming city of Basra, a forty-minute car ride away. Every Sunday evening dozens of us would go to worship at St Peter’s Church, where there was a hospitable expatriate congregation. I confess that I can scarcely recall the services at all, and the only thing I remember is the vicar’s fascination for the card game Racing Demon, that was played every Sunday evening following choral evensong. But the worship was excellent, and almost without realising it I was nurtured and sustained by it.

Several of us went on a number of trips to the ancient Assyrian site of Ur of the Chaldees, home to Nebuchadnezzar. Time had reduced this great archaeological site to pathetic heaps of stone, but its grandeur and imposing scale was undiminished.

It was the living, vibrant Iraq that intrigued me, however, and I went out of my way to find out more about the life of its people. I made some enquiries at the Education Centre on the base, and enrolled in a class to learn Arabic. In this way I encountered Islam as a living faith. I was the only pupil in the class, and I took advantage of such personal tuition. My teacher was an intelligent middle-aged Iraqi named Iz’ik, who took great delight in teaching me the rudiments of a graceful language. In addition to the language, he introduced me to his faith. Through his eyes I gained a sympathy towards and an interest in Islam that has endured until the present time.

I was impressed by my teacher’s deep spirituality and devotion to God. It was not uncommon to see Muslim believers serving on the camp lay out their prayer mats wherever they were and turn to Mecca at the set times of the day. Many of my fellow airmen mocked them, but I could not. I sensed a brotherhood with them in their devotion and their openness about their spirituality. Although sharp differences exist between the two world religions, the way that Islam affects every aspect of life continues to impress me.

I was led also to appreciate the overlap between the Christian faith and Islam. I discovered its deep commitment to Jesus – a fact hardly known to most Christians – who is seen as a great prophet who will come as Messiah at the end of time. I began to appreciate the remarkable role of Mohammed in Islam, and the way in which he is a role model for male Muslims. Perhaps one of the most striking things that Iz’ik revealed to me was the fact that in Iraq Christians had been living alongside Muslims for centuries in complete harmony. In time I met a number of Assyrian Christians whose faith was deep and real.

Iz’ik and I often discussed the areas of faith and life where our religions diverged. Among these was the Trinity, and I hope that my youthful explanation led my teacher to understand that Christianity is monotheistic, and not polytheistic as many Muslims believe. I argued as strongly as I could for the relevance of Jesus Christ and the determining significance of Him for faith. As I saw it then – and still do – one can have a high regard for Jesus (as Muslims undoubtedly do), yet fail to see that unless He is central to the faith, that faith is inadequate without Him. Some thinkers have termed this the ‘scandal’ of Christianity, and the reason it can be seen as uncompromising and exclusive.

Perhaps above all I was led to appreciate the spirituality of Islam, and its devotion to prayer and the disciplined life. Although, as a young evangelical, I was perhaps over-eager to convince Iz’ik of the truth of Christianity, he would give as good as he got, and we both enjoyed our weekly discussions. Later in life those times would help me to treat Islam not as a faith hostile to Christianity, but as a religion with many virtues and many similarities to our own. Sadly, when I left Shaibah I left the study of Arabic behind me as well. In 1956 I did not consider it remotely possible that I would ever find the language useful in the days to come. How wrong I was.

The months passed quickly because there was so much to do. As the Wireless Operator of an air-ground rescue crew, I enjoyed several weekends on practices in the wonderful Iraqi marshes, which in recent years Saddam Hussein has so destructively drained. In the 1950s it was a fertile area for wildlife and fishing, and if the truth be known, the air-ground rescue practices were in fact an opportunity for the CO to indulge his love of shooting game. Besides being the wireless link with the base, my other job was to pluck and skin the beautiful pheasants he shot. Ironically, on one of these weekends an aircraft actually did crash in Kuwait, and an ad hoc rescue team had to be formed to do what we were supposedly training to do.

Because the desert ground was so hard, and the heat so debilitating, free time was passed in less strenuous activities, and the open-air swimming pool was our daily centre when off-duty. I was keen on other sports too, and accompanied a friend who was a dedicated runner in punishing laps of the perimeter of the airfield. The daily routine of work and sport allowed time for Christian fellowship as well. Of the 120 men on the base, there was a small but healthy number of practising Christians of all denominations and traditions. There was no Chaplain, so we had to create our own worship, which usually took the form of Bible study with hymns and prayers.

Towards the end of my time at Shaibah I found an old building left open for spring cleaning. Shaibah had been a huge base during the Second World War, and most of the former camp was now closed up. To my surprise I found myself in a well-kept Anglican chapel. I immediately conferred with some of my friends, and we agreed that it would be good to keep it open – that is, if the CO agreed. He did, but for a limited time only. So for several weeks we held services according to the Book of Common Prayer rite and I celebrated holy communion – quite illegally, of course. I don’t suppose for one moment that the Almighty was bothered that in the absence of a priest a group of young men took it in turns to use the words of the 1662 Prayer Book and to celebrate communion.

Once a week a flight from RAF Habbaniyah would bring us one of the latest films being shown in the UK, and we would gather in the open air to watch them. I well remember one which suggested to me the residual hostility some people felt towards the Church of England. The title I cannot remember, but one of the characters, a vicar, was a detestable man out to con an old woman of her wealth. When he was shown putting on his dog collar, jeers and whistles of disgust drowned out the soundtrack. The moment seemed to show that young people felt alienated from the life of the Church. That of course had not been so in my case, but I had to remember that not everyone had had good experiences of clergymen.

There was a darker side to service life which brought home to me the value of a faith, with its framework of moral values. Several times a week men would visit the brothels of Basra, and sometimes they returned with the unexpected fruits of pleasure – in the form of gonorrhoea, syphilis and other sexually transmitted diseases. This meant that we had to endure horrific educational films on the dangers of these diseases, which certainly disturbed many of us, but did not seem to dampen the ardour of others. I did not see it as my job to reprove them, although I would certainly put my view forward. Neither was I immune from the temptation that led them to succumb, but I suppose I felt that my faith expected me to honour women, and not to treat them as mere objects of sexual gratification.

As time drew close to my demob, the next stage on my journey increasingly occupied my mind and prayers. One evening when I was on a late shift, the silence of the desert called me to reflect deeply on the future. When the shift ended I signed the usual summary of work, then waited outside for the car that would bring out my replacement and take me back to the camp. I could not but marvel at the beauty and brilliance of the night sky from the darkness of the desert in which I stood. Thousands of stars illuminated the heavens, and seemed within an arm’s length of me. As I drank in the awesome scene, I was overcome by the finiteness and smallness of man when measured against the age of the universe. And yet, that did not intimidate me. Later Gerard Manley Hopkins’s great poem ‘The World is Charged with the Grandeur of God’ would become one of my favourites, and would capture for me the feeling of awe I felt then.

It has sometimes puzzled me that the size of the universe has led thinking people into agnosticism. Some have said to me, ‘How can you possibly believe in a personal deity when our planet is a third-rate planet in a tenth-rate galaxy in one of countless solar systems?’ I would usually reply that this was making too good a case for the earth, but that size has little to do with it. If the Almighty is so awesome that He has created as many galaxies as there are grains of sand in a million deserts, that same awesome God may still love us and be our heavenly Father. Pascal’s cry, ‘The silence of eternal space terrifies me,’ did not stop him trusting in the maker of all things.

It was those evenings in the southern Iraqi desert, under the velvety blanket lit by the brilliance of thousands of stars, that led me to take an interest in cosmology and the mystery of creation. I have not read anything since that has caused me to falter in my conviction that a personal faith in a loving God is not irrational or incredible. But it is not faith that drives people to serve God and others, so much as love. I was convinced of the love of God for all, and that was the element that energised my response perhaps more than any other.

But that moment beneath the stars also crystallised a question that had been on my mind for months: what was I going to make of my life on my return to England in a few weeks? Teaching was an admirable profession. Social work too attracted me. But the tug at my heart was definitely the ordained ministry, and in prayer I tried to put into words my deep desire to serve God and humankind with all my heart.

I had no qualifications to speak of, just an overwhelming longing to make something of my life with all the energy and ability I had been given. Yet even with the optimism and self-confidence one has at that age, I was conscious of the huge challenge ahead of me. But under that wonderful night sky the thought began to enter my head that ordination might not be beyond me. I might lack academic qualifications, but I did not lack ability or a great desire to do something useful with my life. I was still young enough to learn. I could only do my very best, and rely on God’s grace.

4 Shaken Up

‘Don’t trouble because you think you are not fit. Of course you are not fit. The greatest saint is not fit for the service of God: but there is a wise saying that God does not choose what is fit but he fits what he chooses … the sense of unfitness is one of the signs of vocation.’

The Spiritual Letters of Father Hughson (1953)

AT THE END OF JANUARY 1956 I was demobbed, and exchanged the heat of Shaibah for the cold of Dagenham. I received a wonderful reception from my parents and family, and it was so good to be home. Later in life T.S. Eliot’s wonderful poem ‘East Coker’ would become one of my favourites. It includes the simple line ‘Home is where we start from’. Eliot was making the point that home is the cultural, spiritual and social start for us all – and for me it was certainly all of those things. Returning home made me realise what I missed those many months but had never pined for, because the security of a good home gives one the strength not to rely on it as a crutch, but to know it as a resource. Nevertheless, it was a great homecoming, and the future beckoned.

A few days after my return the church had its annual New Year party, and of course I wanted to be there. It was a foggy evening when I set out, and on the ten-minute walk I had to cross a footbridge over a railway line. I could hear footsteps approaching, and out of the fog appeared a young lady of about seventeen. We recognised one another from the church youth group, and walked together to the party, chatting happily and catching up on one another’s news. Her name was Eileen Hood. She was working as a nanny and studying for her NNEB (National Nursery Examination Board), and was intending to become a nurse when she qualified. She was an intelligent girl, and she was also very good-looking. Later, as I became increasingly drawn towards her, I found I had some rivals to see off, but at that time romance was not high on my or her agenda. A friendship developed, however, and we began to see a lot of one another.

Of greater concern to me at that moment was my future, and the tug I felt in my heart to be ordained. I resumed my job with the London Electricity Board, but made no secret of the fact that I did not see my long-term future there. I was moved by the understanding and encouragement of Mr Vincent and other senior staff. They may not have shared my goals or my religious commitment – though some certainly did – but they knew that another kind of career beckoned.

The problem was my lack of academic qualifications, which I felt keenly. It came home to me with a particular shock when a few months after demob I served on a youth camp. Also helping out were a few students from Ridley Hall, Cambridge, one of the Church of England’s theological colleges. One of them, a few years older than me, asked what I was going to do in life. I replied rather hesitantly, ‘I feel the call of ordination.’

I shall never forget the look of incredulity on his face. ‘Forget it!’ he said instantly. ‘You’ll never make it!’

I never did ask him to explain himself. Such a crushing retort momentarily knocked the stuffing out of me. If that was how a fellow young Christian could react to another’s aspirations, what future did I have in the ministry?

A clue to the answer came in a much more encouraging form from the curate at Dagenham Parish Church, Eric Vevers. Mr Vevers was in his thirties, and had been a carpenter before training for the ministry at Oak Hill Theological College. When I told him I wanted to be ordained, he gripped me by the shoulders and said fiercely, ‘Don’t do it, George. Don’t be ordained.’ Seeing my startled response, he continued, ‘You must not even consider the idea of ordination unless you feel in your heart that this alone is what you want to do, and that God is calling you and is confirming it through His Church – otherwise it will be the most terrible of all professions.’

His words struck home, and I had to reflect deeply on what constituted the character of vocation to the ordained ministry. It seemed to consist of three elements. The priesthood had to attract. I could say without any equivocation that it did. There was the intellectual challenge it offered, the centrality of people and community, the joy of speaking of one’s faith – all this and more appealed to me greatly. Then one’s own personal abilities and qualifications came into it. Long before intellectual attainment one must have qualities that are ‘ministerial’ in character. My family and friends were telling me that I got on well with all sorts of people, that I had the ability to communicate, that I possessed the basic knowledge of scripture, that I was eager to learn. Above all I had a passion for Christ and His Kingdom. Lastly, I recognised that no good thing came without some sacrifice. I had to be prepared to accept the cost. The priesthood then – and now, but especially then – was very poorly paid, and vocation entailed accepting this as a precondition of service. I was ready for that too.

Pit-Pat, our vicar, was of great help. In spite of the differences in our understanding, which had deepened since my return, he was a constant encouragement and support. Indeed, in his time as vicar at least six young men sought and eventually received ordination – remarkable for anywhere, let alone a place like Dagenham. He knew of my great desire, but was also well aware that unless I had an opportunity to matriculate to university I had no chance whatsoever. He brought to my attention the work of the Reverend ‘Pa’ Salmon, who lived in Rock House, Woldingham, Surrey. Pa was a rich evangelical clergyman who used his wealth to help disadvantaged young people. To my delight I learned that he would not only provide board for me in his home, but would give me uninterrupted time to study for matriculation, and would provide a tutor. I leapt at the offer, said goodbye to the London Electricity Board and moved to Rock House.

Pa Salmon’s remarkable offer felt like an answer to prayer, and I shall never forget the warmth of his family and the privilege it was to study in his house with six other young men. It was, I suppose, a kind of monastic community as we gathered each day for study, for fellowship, for prayer and for work. We were led by the Reverend John Bickersteth, who kept an eye on us all, guided us in our various studies and, week by week, gave the most insightful Bible studies, drawing imaginatively on the Greek text of the New Testament. John was the ideal person for this kind of ministry. He was just twelve or so years older than most of us, and well able to connect with our aspirations. He gave great personal encouragement to me, and I flowered under his leadership.

I had set myself the goal of studying for three ‘A’ levels and six ‘O’ levels, and my target date was a mere eighteen months ahead. There was a lot to do, and very little time. But I was hungry to learn, and highly motivated. I discovered the joy of studying systematically, reflecting and arguing with texts. The days, weeks and months raced away as my studies deepened. And of course I grew as a person. It is difficult for people who are used to speaking with fluency and ease to understand that others may find social communication simply terrifying. So it was with me – I felt awkward and very aware of my working-class background and speech. However, my confidence developed as I discovered that I could hold my own in argument; that I was as bright as, if not brighter than, some of those I envied for their social ease.

I saw a lot of Eileen, who was also working for exams. We were falling in love although I could not understand what she saw in me. She knew the way my life might turn out, and we discussed whether she really wanted to be the wife of a clergyman. Her immediate future, as she saw it, lay in nursing, which she also regarded in terms of vocation and as a Christian ministry. It was her intention that once we were married she would continue in her profession, as well as giving herself unstintingly to a common life with me serving our Lord. I could not have asked for more.

At last the exams came, and when the results arrived I had passed in all subjects – three A’ levels and six ‘O’ levels in eighteen months. I made sure to thank all those who made it possible – Pit-Pat, Eric Vevers, the church family, and above all Pa and John Bickersteth. At last, I felt, I was really on my way.

Almost at the same time as I sat the exams I was required to attend an Ordination Selection conference, or as people of my generation called it, a CACTM (the Church’s Advisory Council for the Training of Ministry) conference. It was a nerve-racking experience to be one of thirty or so young men grilled by half a dozen experts over a twenty-four-hour period. Two things I especially remember. The first was a group session, designed to allow the Selectors to assess the would-be ordinands’ social and group skills. I enjoyed this a lot, but I was disconcerted by some of the assumptions that prevailed. One that particularly shocked me was a discussion as to whether or not Baptists were actually Christians. If the fact that we were discussing such a question surprised me, still more troubling was the discovery that a significant number of the group actually thought the Baptist tradition was sub-Christian. This made me aware that I was one of just a handful of evangelicals on that Selection conference. At that time evangelicals were few in the leadership of the Church, and as far as I can remember there was not one evangelical among the Selectors. Later the subject of ecclesiology was to become an important element in my theological thinking (see Chapter 5), but at that moment I was only aware of deep differences in the family of the Church, and that the tradition I had come from was in a minority.

My second memory was of an enjoyable conversation with the educational Selector. He asked me about my reading, and I spoke with great gusto of books that had influenced me, and others that I was currently reading. ‘Such as?’ he threw at me. I replied that I had just finished Bertrand Russell’s Why I Am Not a Christian, then gave a résumé of the book and why I found it unconvincing.

The Selector said with a quizzical smile, ‘Well now, imagine that one day you bumped into Bertrand Russell in Blackwell’s bookshop and you were given the opportunity to show why you are a Christian. What would you say?’

With some rapidity I gave my answer. The Selector looked at me, still smiling broadly, and said after a long pause, ‘Well, Carey, I hope you don’t meet him for a very long time!’ It was a response I deserved. I had a long way to go in understanding the difficulties of those who honestly cannot believe, as well as in appreciating the deeper issues of philosophy, science and epistemology that separate unbelief from faith.

A few weeks later I was informed that the Selection Board had recommended me for training, and I was given the green light to go to college that autumn, at the age of twenty-two. But which college? Pit-Pat was desperate for me to go to either Wycliffe Hall, Oxford, or Ridley Hall, Cambridge. If neither of these appealed to me, he felt I should choose a clear-cut evangelical college such as Oak Hill or, preferably, Tyndale Hall, Bristol, where he had trained for the ministry.

I was open to all suggestions, and visited six or so colleges in rapid succession. Each was excellent, but one stood out for me – one that Pit-Pat did not know well and did not care for particularly, the London College of Divinity, at Northwood. LCD, as it was known, was the former St John’s, Highbury, which was destroyed by enemy action in the war. The Principal responsible for the college’s move to Northwood was Dr Donald Coggan, who in 1956 became Bishop of Bradford, and was later to become Archbishop of Canterbury. Now, under the principalship of an Irishman, Dr Hugh Jordan, LCD was enjoying great popularity and attracting many students.

There were two reasons why LCD appealed to me. It was an evangelical college, but it was not narrow or partisan. I must have felt instinctively that I needed a broader theological education, and that LCD would suit my temperament. The second reason was equally important I was attracted by the intellectual rigour of the London Bachelor of Divinity course, with its emphasis on languages, philosophy and historical theology. The course taught at both LCD and King’s London offered all I was most anxious to study. It did not worry me that I was bypassing colleges at Oxford and Cambridge. I was fully aware of the excellence of theological education in those venerable universities, as well as the snob value of an Oxbridge degree, but I was quite satisfied that the London BD offered a more satisfying course that would stretch me fully.

For non-degree students the basic course for those under thirty was the three-year ALCD (Associate of the London College of Divinity) course. Those who had matriculated to do the degree course, such as myself, were required to do the four-year course, which included the ALCD.

It was with some nervousness that in September 1958 I entered the gates of the London College of Divinity and set out on a four-year programme that was to change me forever. Deep friendships were developed, and the rigorous academic regime was punctuated with much fun and fellowship. One particularly memorable moment was when Eileen paid her first visit to the college. It was an inflexible rule that girlfriends could only visit at the weekends, and then only with the Principal’s approval. On the last Saturday of the Michaelmas term I went to the station to meet Eileen. During my absence the other students covered the walls of my room with pictures of their girlfriends. Eileen’s astonishment and my dismay at seeing photographs of dozens of girls caused great amusement, but I had trouble persuading her that they had nothing to do with me. The embarrassment was completed when later that evening, having returned from taking Eileen to the station for her journey back to London, I found that the lock had been changed on my room and my bed was now outside the Principal’s office. I was grateful that Dr Jordan was able to see the joke.

Compared to today, the theological training of my day was monastic and Spartan. The few married students in college were required to live apart from their wives, with only two free weekends per term. Permission to marry during one’s training had to be obtained from the Principal and one’s Bishop. The day started with worship at 7.15 a.m., and failure to be there meant an explanation to the Principal. The mornings were given over to lectures, and the afternoons devoted either to sport or manual work around the grounds. Further study followed from 4.30 p.m., and after evening prayer and supper, study continued until 9.30 p.m. Compulsory silence was demanded from 11 p.m. until 6 a.m.

For those of us newly returned from National Service, and especially for someone like myself, for whom education had come at such a price, this discipline hardly seemed draconian. Indeed, I soon found that I wanted more time to study, because I enjoyed it so much. Although I pitched myself into the social life of the college and had a regular place in the football team, I felt that I had to discipline my use of time so as to squeeze as much as I possibly could from the hours given to me. I found that by getting up slightly earlier than the others, going to bed slightly later, spending a little less time drinking coffee after supper and so on, I had more time for the reading and study I so relished.

There was no protection from the world of hard ideas and difficult questions. The staff was dedicated and talented. I particularly remember Victor McCallin, the Vice Principal, another Irishman from Trinity, Dublin, who gave us splendid, though whimsical, lectures in philosophy. ‘Never avoid critical questions during your time here,’ he would warn successive generations of students, ‘because if you do, when you are alone later in ministry they will come and grab you by the throat.’

I was not alone in finding many of my ideas and beliefs being challenged. Degree students such as myself were required to prepare for a university entrance exam at the end of our first year, so the work was thorough and searching. It seemed at times as if the faculty intended to drive every certainty from us: our Old Testament study focused on the historicity of the texts, and took us into the arid wastes of dry Germanic scholarship; New Testament study seemed designed to show that we could know very little of the Jesus of history; philosophy led us to questioning certainty of any kind; and history and comparative religion forced us to consider the competing claims of other religions and other denominations. That we did not cave in under this avalanche of critical theology owes much to the rhythm of worship which underpinned our studies, as well as to the caring teaching we received. We were in no doubt that each member of the staff was a practising and believing Christian, and that they were always on hand to explain and assist if any student floundered intellectually or spiritually.

All this was grist to my mill. To swim as a tiny minnow in this ocean of ideas and follow in the wake of great giants like Augustine, Thomas Aquinas, Martin Luther, Karl Rahner and William Temple was a wonderful privilege. Although an evangelical and thoroughly committed to a belief in the authority of the Bible, I was unable to accept narrow theories of inerrancy, in which the Bible was held to be historically accurate as well as literally ‘true’ in every detail. I did not, for example, see a scientific world-view as incompatible with the world view of the scriptures. Many evangelicals may have believed the world was created in seven days, but that was not my interpretation of the Book of Genesis. As time went on I realised that there was nothing preventing me from accepting with conviction the trustworthiness of the Old Testament in its fundamental purpose of disclosing God’s will for His chosen people Israel, and the unfolding drama of redemption leading to the coming of Jesus. In short, I did not require a book devoid of human error, corrupted texts or mistakes.

When later in my first year I asked a prominent evangelical preacher to explain to me why 2 Chronicles was so different from 2 Kings when both books were largely describing the same historical events, his reply astonished me. ‘The difference,’ he opined, ‘is that similar to a photograph and a portrait. The books of Kings describe what actually happened, but the books of Chronicles are looking at it from an artistic point of view.’ Even though I had just commenced Old Testament studies, I was staggered by the ignorance of this answer, although no doubt the speaker truly believed what he said. I remember thinking at the time that if that was an accurate expression of evangelical orthodoxy, it was too facile for me. No serious student of the texts could dismiss the profound differences between the two books in such a simplistic way. However, the answer that I found so unsatisfactory led me to dig deeper, and it took me months to acknowledge that I had to face up to the fact that the two books of Kings as well as Chronicles were primarily theological works, in which the writers were reflecting on history as well as seeking to write it. To this day I remain dismayed that many evangelical clergy seek to shield their congregations from critical scholarship. It need not disturb trusting belief – on the contrary, it will often lead to the strengthening and maturing of faith.

My faith was greatly shaken by the rigorous studies at LCD. But such shaking is an important element within the strengthening of faith. My knowledge was broadening out to include new ways of understanding God’s truth. Of course, holding together the content of faith – namely God as understood through Jesus Christ – as trustworthy and reliable is only possible through the lived experience of knowing Him and walking with Him. This, for me and for my colleagues, took the form not only of regular worship in chapel, but also the discipline of private prayer and reflection on scripture. This practice has continued through my life and ministry, and is the foundation of what I am and what I do. My experience echoes the wonderful answer given by Carl Jung, the famous psychologist, when he was asked towards the end of his life, ‘Do you believe in God?’ To which he gave the breathtaking answer: ‘I don’t believe – I know, I know.’ My studies of philosophy showed that epistemology (the science of knowing) takes many forms, in which analytical knowledge – two and two makes four – is but a small part of what we can grasp as truth. Indeed, analytical knowledge is not without its difficulties, as its truth derives from the self-contained world of arithmetical knowledge. Knowledge as we normally understand it emerges from reflection on experience, and is as foundational for every area of life as it is for theology.

At the end of my first year at LCD the Reverend E.M.B. Green, a dynamic young evangelical scholar, joined the staff and sharpened the missionary focus of the college. Michael arrived with an impressive reputation as a scholar and teacher. He was the possessor of first-class degrees in classics and theology, and the author of several studies of New Testament subjects. To have him as one of our faculty was a great coup for the college, and he did not disappoint. We were riveted by his challenging teaching and the depth of his lectures. He was also a gifted evangelist, and many of us went on unforgettable parish missions with him. His love of God and willingness to share his conviction made a lasting impression on my life and ministry. The combination of classics and theology that Michael brought was a great gift to us all, and my understanding of the Greek text of the New Testament deepened, just as my knowledge and grasp of Hebrew flourished under the wise teaching of Mr Jordan, our Principal.

As my theological knowledge and my experience of faith developed, so did my relationship with Eileen. We had already committed ourselves to one another in a long engagement that had started on her eighteenth birthday, but now, two years later, we were anxious to get married well before I was ordained. The problem was that the rule of the Church then was very firm: marriage and ordination training did not mix, so marriage had to be delayed. I was not convinced by this logic. Nervously I approached both Bishop and Principal, and presented the strongest arguments I could muster. To our great delight both gave their full agreement, and we made plans to marry on 25 June 1960, after a three-year engagement and halfway through my studies.

This was perilously close to the prelims of the degree course, and to my dismay I discovered that the first paper in Hebrew, which was mandatory for honours degree students, was scheduled for the Monday following our wedding. The shock was compounded by the fact that we had planned to take our honeymoon in Dunoon, on the Clyde, where Eileen’s mother had been brought up. How on earth could I possibly square this circle – to marry on Saturday, 25 June in Dagenham, fly up to Glasgow, and take a Hebrew exam two days later at the University of London? It was agreed that I could sit the exam at the University of Glasgow – but what would Eileen say about this? Fortunately, instead of throwing up her hands in horror at this intrusion into our honeymoon she saw the funny side, and agreed that somehow the exam had to be included in our plans.

Our wedding was a wonderful celebration and commitment. Dagenham Parish Church was packed with family and friends. Pit-Pat took the service, and preached on the text from Joshua 24: ‘As for me and my house, we will serve the Lord’ – a verse that would continue to inspire and guide us through the years. Although Eileen gave the traditional promise to ‘obey’ her husband, both of us knew that our marriage would not and could not be based on inequality. True marriage, we knew, was a mutual obeying, trusting and learning. I realised that I had much to learn from Eileen, and I hoped that I could offer something to her as well.

We had a wonderful honeymoon, despite the interruption. While I sat in an examination hall in Glasgow University, Eileen waited on a park bench outside in glorious sunshine. I remember going into the examination in a carefree mood – I was rather surprised to find out much later that I had passed comfortably.

After an engagement lasting three years it was a relief to live together as man and wife. Today, the distinctions between married and single life have largely gone, and many cohabit without any sense that it might be wrong. I regret the loss of innocence that this implies, and the fact that it suggests that marriage is no longer special. This may be dismissed as the thoughts of someone out of touch with modern culture. So be it. I remain unconvinced that society has improved on God’s will for His people by such laxity in sexual matters. We have lost the grandeur of holiness and the personal discipline involved in keeping oneself solely for another precious person.

Back from honeymoon we settled in Northwood, sharing a house with another newly married couple, Bill and Maggie Barrand, who became lifelong friends, especially Maggie, who had earlier distinguished herself as a member of the England badminton team. Eileen began work as a staff nurse at Mount Vernon Hospital, where she worked with terminally ill carcinoma patients.

Towards the end of my final year at LCD the security of our faith and the calmness of our lives were shaken by the loss of our first child. We had both been thrilled when Eileen became pregnant. She had a very good pregnancy, and was physically well throughout it. She reached full term, and we awaited the birth with enormous excitement. The days dragged by, until fourteen days later she was admitted to Hillingdon Hospital to be induced. After examining her carefully, the doctor shook his head and told us with great sympathy that the baby was dead. To this day I admire so much that young woman who, at the age of twenty-three, had to endure twelve hours of agony, knowing that at the end of it a dead baby would be the issue.

After her ordeal we clung together tightly, wordlessly, helplessly, and found comfort in one another. So much joy and happiness had been invested in that baby – a boy, to whom we had already given the names Stephen Mark. In the delivery room I held him in my arms, and could not believe he was dead, he seemed so beautifully formed. Eileen was not so fortunate. She only saw him briefly, because the Sister firmly believed it was not in the mother’s interest to hold him. In her kindly Irish Catholic way she told me firmly, ‘Don’t worry, dear. We Catholics believe he lives in a special place called Limbo.’ It was meant to be helpful. We did not find it especially so.

We emerged from the hospital reeling, empty-handed and wounded. Where is God when bad things happen to good people? Neither of us was so naïve as to believe that our happiness and welfare was the test of God’s existence and His providence. We knew we lived in a world shot through with tragedy and the effects of man’s sinfulness. As Christians we were also aware that membership of God’s family did not give us a cast-iron guarantee that we would float through life trouble-free. But this was our first personal experience of suffering, and our thoughts constantly turned towards that vulnerable and helpless baby who never had an opportunity to live.

Two things, I believe, kept us going – personal experience and fellowship. We knew we lived in God’s love, and were aware of His presence beside us. Our tragedy also made us aware of how precious it was to belong to a tightly-knit Christian community. At its best the Church is a wonderful source of friendship and kindness – and that is what we found at college, where we were supported and embraced by affection and prayer. Almost immediately we found that our suffering became part of our lives and ministry. To our astonishment we realised that other young couples had also suffered the death of a child, and we were able to share our experience and share in their suffering. But, of course, one can never forget. On every 2 April we think of Stephen Andrew and remember him in silent prayer, wistfully wondering what kind of person he would have become.

Both of us returned to work, and I had to focus on my finals. I was determined to give of my very best, and studied night and day until the examinations which fell at the end of June – then waited anxiously for the results. I was overjoyed to see my name among those awarded a 2.1 honours degree. As I stood there looking at the board outside the Senate House in Gower Street, I thanked God for His grace which had led me to this day. Now I had to take the learning, the knowledge and the training gathered over the years, and put it to work.

I visited a few parishes to see if I was acceptable to the incumbent. One experience hurt me a little. The Principal wished me to see Canon Tom Livermore, a prominent evangelical and the Rector of Morden in Surrey. I made the journey by train, then walked to the Rectory. Canon Livermore was expecting me, and to my surprise he had his overcoat on. Without inviting me inside he said, ‘Let’s take a walk around the parish.’

As we walked he interviewed me, but I had a sneaking feeling that he had already made up his mind about me. We walked past the old parish church, then into a council estate and past the mission church. ‘That is where I would put you, Carey,’ he said, ‘if I had a job to offer, but only a few days ago I offered the curacy to somebody else.’ By this time we were almost at the station: ‘Now, how much was your fare? Well, here it is. Goodbye.’

I could not believe that anybody could be so cruel. I felt I had been dismissed as a working-class lad who could only work in one culture. Later I got to know Canon Livermore, and found him to be a friendly man and an effective leader. Everybody, I suppose, can have an off day.

Happily, we were soon offered a post at St Mary’s, Islington, in north London, where Prebendary Peter Johnston was the vicar. After years of sensing a vocation, facing the doubts, the rejections, the obstacles and the sheer hard work of intense theological study, my ministry was about to begin.

5 A Changing Church

‘He never attempted brilliance, but thoroughness; he thought more of conscience than genius; more of great futures than little results. He was deaf to the praise or blame of the world.’

Tribute to Archbishop Frederick Temple

OUR FIRST VISIT TO ST MARY’S to meet Peter Johnston and his wife Phyllis, and to see the church and parish, was an unforgettable moment in our lives. After a distinguished ministry at St John’s, Parkstone, Dorset, Peter had only been instituted a few months before our arrival, and was beginning to find his feet in this very different parish. He was a bluff, determined and clear-sighted man with firm objectives and a steady evangelical spirituality. Phyllis was a sparkling woman a few years older than her husband. As they had married late in life, the energy and love they might have poured into family life they gave instead in generous commitment to others. Their open home and commitment to building Christian community became a lifelong model for us. We were immediately attracted to them, and an instant friendship developed. Phyllis took Eileen under her wing, and through the training and leadership I received at his hands Peter was to become one of the greatest influences on my development as a minister.

We joined a large and vigorous team. St Mary’s was – and continues to be – a leading London church. Under Peter’s predecessor Maurice Wood, later to become Bishop of Norwich, it had become very popular with students and nurses. Peter did not want to diminish this ministry, but he did want to make St Mary’s a church for those who actually lived in the parish, and this became the central plank of his policy. Islington in the sixties was not the ‘yuppie’ place it is today. It was a predominantly working-class district with a great deal of poverty, and there were many destitute families and desperate, housebound elderly people. Situated at the southern end of the A1, the church received more than its share of ‘gentlemen of the road’ – so much so that one of Peter’s initiatives included turning the crypt into a night shelter for the homeless.

St Mary’s was also distinguished for its firm commitment to the evangelical tradition. In the nineteenth century Prebendary Wilson had founded the Islington Clerical Conference, which had become a major annual gathering of evangelical clergy for fellowship and teaching, in reaction to the increasing ‘Catholicising’ of the Church of England through the Oxford Movement. Peter continued the Conference, and indeed developed it, broadening its emphasis to take into account relevant themes confronting the Church. However, he used to joke that St Mary’s was more famous for its curates than its vicars, and would trot out such names as the great hymn-writer and Methodist leader Charles Wesley, Donald Coggan, who was later to become Archbishop of Canterbury, and a future Bishop of Liverpool, David Sheppard.

My predecessor, David Fletcher, had been a very popular teacher and evangelist. I felt unworthy to be stepping into his shoes, and was secretly afraid that I might let Peter down. The senior curate was Michael MacGowan, and we were soon joined by five other staff members: David Green, Chrisanther de Mel, David Boyes, Tom Jones and John Barton. Peter was assembling a new team to serve the community.

Together with my fellow curate David Green and at least forty other young men, I was ordained Deacon of St Mary’s in St Paul’s Cathedral on Michaelmas Day 1962 by the Bishop of London, Robert Stopford. I cannot recall much of the service, except my very strong feeling of unworthiness and helplessness. I was only too well aware of my shortcomings, and the burden of my background seemed a weight too great to bear. However, I was equally aware that the grace of God was more than a promise – it was a fact in the lives of those who took the plunge. And so it proved to be.

Eileen and I lived in a tiny cottage in the grounds of the church, and there in the course of the next four years we were to bring into the world our three eldest children, Rachel, Mark and Andrew. We were poor but very happy. My stipend was very low, and Eileen recalls that her housekeeping amounted to £3.155. a week. We could not afford a car, but through the generosity of a friend were never without one to get away on our day off. We did not have a washing machine or any of the gadgets that most young married people now take for granted.

The cottage, the oldest building in Islington, was very damp, but we managed to bring up three very healthy children in it. In spite of living on our beam ends, it was a wonderful four years of training in a great parish and at a significant cultural period. London was the pulsating centre of the ‘swinging sixties’. Rock and roll was in the ascendant, and the Beatles were making their way into the hearts of the young everywhere. A heady and optimistic excitement about the future prevailed, accompanied by a cynicism towards spiritual values and tradition. The witty but irreverent That Was the Week That Was expressed the mood of the decade. The Church was not immune from the spirit of enquiry and the culture of the age. Across the River Thames, the diocese of Southwark appeared to be the vanguard of new ideas, new experiments in ministry and new approaches to gender and sexuality. In America as well as in Britain, certain theologians affirmed ‘the death of God’, by which they meant the demise of traditional ways of conceiving of Him. Harvey Cox, one of the most radical and interesting of the new wave of theologians, predicted the death of orthodox theology by the end of the century. In Britain John Robinson, Bishop of Woolwich, produced a sensational book, Honest to God, which seemed to call into question the nature of the Christian faith. In the view of the press and the chattering classes it signalled that the Church had realised at last that traditional ways of talking about God were no longer relevant. The Church was at a crossroads: either it entered this heady new world where everything was being questioned and nothing was sacred, or it lived on as an out-of-touch irrelevance in a buzzing, exciting new age.

In reality there was nothing new in Robinson’s book – it was little more than a scaled-down popularising of the thinking of such theologians as Paul Tillich, who had posited the image of God as ‘ground of being’ (rather than an external deity), Rudolf Bultmann and Dietrich Bonhoeffer, a Lutheran pastor who resisted the Nazis and claimed that man had come of age. It caused an instant sensation, however, and made Robinson famous and the book a bestseller. Within weeks Archbishop Michael Ramsey, greatly alarmed by the furore aroused by Honest to God, responded with a devastating riposte arguing that, while Robinson’s concerns were very real, orthodox teaching properly understood and interpreted had the depth and strength to give confidence in the Christian faith. The irony is that today, despite the sales of Honest to God it now appears dated, whereas Michael Ramsey’s reply to it has a timeless quality.

The intellectual storm created by Honest to God was far from altogether negative. At St Mary’s, with an intelligent and discerning congregation, the opportunity was taken by the staff to preach on the themes of Robinson’s book, and we were not afraid to encourage the congregation to read it. One of my responsibilities was for the thirty-to-forty age group, which met following the Sunday-evening service. We usually numbered in excess of fifty, and sometimes up to a hundred if I managed to tempt a popular speaker to address us. In addition, I started a fortnightly study group for those who wished to explore the Christian faith more deeply, and a regular membership of twenty to thirty was soon established.

Peter was a disciplined leader whose expectations were high. Visiting the parish systematically was a priority, and each of the staff had to make twenty-five calls a week, which had to be written up with a verbal report to be presented at the Monday staff meeting. To start with I found this a great irritant, but as time went on I grew to appreciate its thoroughness and the concern for people that it demonstrated.

Without realising it at the time, I caused a small sensation in my first week by going to the local town hall and asking if I could speak to the person in charge of Social Services. I managed to see the Chief Social Officer, and after explaining who I was, asked him whether, as I would be visiting a great many people in the months and years to come, he did not agree that there would be some virtue in my knowing who was concerned with the elderly, handicapped and others from the standpoint of the Social Services. Could not some collaboration be considered?

I recall to this day the look of astonishment that passed over his face. ‘In all my years of working,’ he slowly remarked, ‘a representative of the church has never bothered to contact us or made a suggestion of this kind. I think it is a splendid idea, and we must make sure we are in touch.’ Peter Johnston was contacted later that week, and was delighted that official links would be established between Social Services and the church. For myself, I was startled that everyone found the approach so remarkable. I thought it was obvious. It was illustrative of the wide gap between the church and the community which still exists to this day. It also highlighted an unwillingness on the part of many clergy to work with other professionals.

As a curate I was required to attend Post-Ordination Training with other Deacons and young clergy in the diocese of London. ‘Potty’ training, as it was known to us all, consisted of lectures on themes related to the ordained ministry, together with essays that we had to submit at regular intervals. I had heard from others that the training was unsatisfactory, and decided to approach the Bishop of London with another idea – could I be allowed to enrol at King’s College, London to pursue a master of theology degree? Permission was given, and soon after ordination to the priesthood I began research on the Apostolic Fathers. At college I had become aware of the importance of a collection of writings – some obscure, others less so – that appeared at the end of the New Testament era and at the beginning of the second century AD. This little-known period is of critical importance for the study of the Church and its ministry, known as ecclesiology, because it was then that the Church first wrestled with vital principles relating to its development and growth throughout the Mediterranean region. I was fully aware that it would be very difficult to balance the demands of parish and family life with the obligations of a research degree, but I was determined to try. Eileen was also keen for me to do postgraduate work, and I duly registered and obtained the services of Professor H.D. McDonald, Vice Principal of London Bible College, as my supervisor. ‘Derry-Mac’, as he was popularly known, was an Irish nonconformist scholar of great erudition and ability. We clicked immediately, and the work began.

Central to my desire to study this period of the Church’s life was a fascination with the Catholic tradition of the Church, especially Roman Catholicism. All I knew of Roman Catholicism had been derived from books, largely anti-Rome, and from the partisan sermons of Pit-Pat. I was unable to accept that the Roman Catholic Church was as heretical and unreformed as I had been led to believe, and believed that research into the Apostolic Fathers would help to answer many of my questions.

I was fortunate that my study coincided with the Second Vatican Council, called by Pope John XXIII in 1959 and concluded in 1965. Although John XXIII was an old man, dismissed by many as a ‘care-taker’ Pope, his decision to call a General Council revolutionised the Catholic Church through its policy of ‘aggorniamento’ (renewal). It was a breathtaking decision. From that moment on the Roman Catholic Church entered upon an engagement with the world, other Churches and other religions that allowed it to speak again with authority.

The Second Vatican Council was having an effect at the local level too. I was asked by the Bishop of London to join a small Roman Catholic/Church of England study group to study the impressive documents of the Council. If I had any prejudices or suspicions about Catholicism, this encounter with Roman Catholic priests, religious and lay people, laid them to rest entirely. I particularly recall a Bible study when a nun of my age exclaimed, ‘We must go back to the scriptures and find our unity there!’ The statement surprised and angered me at first, but the more I thought about it, the more it appealed to me. My anger evaporated as I found myself thinking, ‘What do you mean, “get back to the scriptures”? You Catholics are the ones who have left them behind through teaching things which are not found in them.’ But I knew instinctively that such a possessive attitude to scripture was wrong, however disagreeable I might consider some aspects of RC teaching to be. She was correct – the only way forward was to go back to our common roots. Only by doing that could we find unity, by seeing one another as brothers and sisters bound by a common commitment to Jesus Christ, and not as two warring groups, each claiming to possess the whole truth and denying the other’s version.

I completed my fifty-thousand-word dissertation for the M.Th., sat a three-hour paper on the Apostolic Fathers, and then shortly before Christmas 1965 had to appear before the leading theologian Professor Eric Mascall and another examiner for the ‘viva’. It seemed to go well, but towards the end of the session I was longing for someone to put me out of my misery – had I passed or not? I didn’t feel I could ask, and believed that the examiners would certainly not tell me. But as Professor Mascall walked me to the door, he reached out his hand and, looking me intently in the eye, said, ‘You WILL have a very happy Christmas!’

All I could reply was, ‘Thank you, sir. I am so glad to hear it. Happy Christmas to you.’ I think I floated home to tell my patient wife what Eric had said. He was an outstanding scholar, and it was a privilege to have been taught by him and to have known him. I still feel a tinge of sadness that, although I regard the ordination of women as a wholly positive and necessary thing, and am delighted that under my leadership the Church of England had the courage to legislate for it, the decision caused Eric so much distress in his old age, as he felt our Church lacked the authority to take such a momentous decision alone.

Despite my other activities, ministry in the parish was certainly not neglected. I poured myself into the responsibilities entrusted to me – the work with adults, and also the Sunday school. With the help of Liz Salmon the Sunday school became a thriving and important part of the church’s mission. Liz became a friend of the family for life, and remained a committed member of St Mary’s as a churchwarden and a great supporter of missionary work abroad.

I felt strongly that the Sunday school could not rely simply on children coming to a dreary church hall on a Sunday afternoon – we had to supplement it with exciting initiatives to reach into the homes of the parish. I started a Boys’ Club, and established a football team. This certainly helped attract boys in football-mad Islington, the home of Arsenal FC. Every year during the Easter holidays several of us held a Children’s Holiday Club that attracted many youngsters. The theme varied: one year it was a ‘Wild West Week’, another the ‘Jungle Holiday Club’, another ‘Treasure Island’. Church members were roped in to assist, and we had considerable success in reaching out to the local schools and community.

The work was serious, but there were many funny moments too. One that stands out was my attempt to procure a horse and wagon for the Wild West Week. While I found a man with a horse and wagon – which in Islington was not easy – he would only hire them out if his pet monkey was also employed. There was much bemusement and laughter as I paraded through the streets of Islington dressed as a cowboy, with a monkey perched on my shoulder. It pulled in the children, however.

One of our most mischievous boys was a ten-year-old called Billy Budd. The reason I still remember his name forty years on was he was left behind in Southend when three coachloads of children went to the seaside for our annual summer outing. The trip was planned thoroughly, and considered foolproof; we did not take into account, however, the mischievousness of London children. Each child was given a card with details of the trip, the church and telephone numbers in case they got lost or needed help. Those were the days when one could take children to the seaside and let them roam at will. We drummed into the boys and girls the importance of being back at the coach station at 6 p.m.

The day was sunny and warm, and the trip was a great success. Most of the children stayed with their appointed leaders. When 6 o’clock came we did a thorough round-up – or thought we did. I counted all the heads in my coach and called out names; but somehow Billy fell through the net. Later we found that one of his friends had put up his hand when Billy’s name was called.

The next day was Sunday, and Mrs Budd came along to the hall that afternoon with a tired-looking Billy holding her hand. Looking accusingly at me, she said: ‘You left Billy behind yesterday, you know.’

I was startled, and laughed, ‘Certainly not, Mrs Budd. We counted everybody.’

She replied, ‘You did, you know. When he got to the coach park at 7 p.m. the coaches had left. He went to the police station and they put him in a comfortable cell, and I returned with him this morning on the milk train at 5 a.m.’

I stammered out an apology, and her tone softened immediately. She said, smiling, ‘I thought you would like to know.’ I dread to think what would be a parent’s reaction today.

In my third year at St Mary’s Peter asked me if I would be prepared to do a little teaching at Oak Hill Theological College in Southgate, as the member of staff teaching the doctrine paper for the London BD was sick. I was delighted, and accepted immediately, reasoning that as well as assisting the college, it would provide me with an opportunity to consolidate my knowledge. I was just about to register for a doctorate. I had decided so because just a few weeks previously I had received an envelope enclosing £50 with a one-sentence note: ‘For your Ph.D.’ Eileen was convinced – correctly, as it later turned out – that this kind and generous gesture had come from Peter Johnston’s wife Phyllis.

Spurred on by such belief in me, I registered for a doctorate in ecclesiology whilst still juggling the demands of the parish, family life and teaching at Oak Hill. It was a busy existence, but I loved it. If in later life I achieved anything at all it was due to the thorough training I received from Peter Johnston: his love of people and that rare gift of giving the other person instant and total attention; his thorough sermon preparation; his confidence in the gospel and evangelical witness; his humanity and tolerance of human weakness; his strategies for church growth – all these, and much more, were his legacies to his curates. He was never a soft touch, however. Never once in my four years working with him did I dream of calling him ‘Peter’ – he was always ‘the Vicar’ or ‘Mr Johnston’. He expected the highest standards from us, and showed his disapproval clearly when it was necessary. I remember being angry with him once in my first year when I turned up for the Sunday services in a pair of brown shoes – my black pair were unfit to wear. Mr Johnston took one look at them and said, ‘You can’t possibly process in brown shoes – go and sit in your stall at once.’ I did so in silence, feeling indignant that he did not allow me to explain that at the moment we did not have enough money to buy a new pair of shoes.

On another occasion I had agreed to speak at a meeting on my day off and I went to see the vicar to get my day off changed. He heard me out, then said: ‘George, I want you to learn that a day off is very important, and it should be only for emergencies that it is ever changed. No, you can’t have a different day. Fulfil that engagement, and learn the lesson.’ I did so, very quickly.

Peter Johnston was in every sense of the words a thorough professional in all he did. He was convinced that those who served Christ in the ordained ministry must give of their very best, and be a disciple and learner until their time was over. He was not a particularly exciting preacher, but his talks were learned, well prepared and biblical. He built up St Mary’s to be at the heart of the community and relevant to its needs because he understood that the Christian faith spoke directly to the hearts of all. Yet he had his Achilles’ heel. He often compared himself unfavourably with Maurice Wood, his predecessor, because he did not possess a degree. He had gone to Oak Hill College straight from the navy, and felt inadequate as a result. Of course he should never have thought that. His intelligence and wide reading made him an outstanding evangelical leader, and I am not alone among his many curates in testifying to the way he prepared us for our ministries ahead.

Our time at St Mary’s was drawing to an end. Eileen too had found it a place of growth. I marvelled at her ability not only to create such a warm family life but to open our home to all comers, as well as taking a full part in parish life alongside Phyllis. It was typical of Peter to mark our departure with a hint of humour. I preached for the last time on the evening before we left, and following my address I was astonished to hear Peter stand and say: ‘Our final hymn is “Begone, Unbelief, our Saviour is near!”’

‘Could any ministerial work be better and happier than St Mary’s, Islington?’ I asked myself as we followed the van containing our belongings in a friend’s car. Prebendary Maurice Wood had asked me months before if I would join his staff at Oak Hill, and I had agreed after much consultation. I regretted leaving parish life behind, as I had only ever thought of my ministry in terms of working with ordinary people and leading them to our Lord. I had never thought of myself as a teacher, and this invitation had taken Eileen and me by surprise. But instinctively we felt that it was right to accept.

We joined a strong and happy faculty with members of the calibre of Maurice himself, a gifted pastor and evangelist; John Taylor the Vice Principal, a superb Old Testament teacher later to be Bishop of St Albans; Alan Stibbs, the éminence grise of the college, whose biblical expositions were outstanding; John Simpson, who taught history, and would become Dean of Canterbury Cathedral during my time as Archbishop; and a number of other impressive teachers.

It was my task to take on the bulk of teaching doctrine for the London BD and Dip.Th. courses, which was an extremely heavy load. Considering that I was just thirty – younger than many of the students – I had every reason to worry if I would be up to it. I need not have done so: I managed to keep slightly ahead of the students in the first term, and then quarried away until I was on top of the material.

We had a very happy four years at Oak Hill, during which I completed most of my dissertation for the Ph.D as well as having time to reflect more on the challenges facing the Church, and the desperate need for unity. In particular I began to wonder if I was truly at home in the evangelical tradition. I felt guilty about even entertaining the question. After all, everything I had received and everything I was, I owed to this noble tradition.

As I wrestled with the issue, I realised that it was not the substance of evangelicalism I was doubting, so much as the superficial assumptions many evangelicals made. It was depth that they seemed to lack. When I considered the books on my study shelves it was clear to see the influence of a godly liberal tradition ever since I had started to become a thinking Christian. Furthermore, I was uncomfortably conscious that, even at Oak Hill, there was too much superficial teaching and intolerance concerning other traditions in the Church, especially any form of Catholicism. More to the point, I was finding myself increasingly drawn towards that tradition. Just a few miles away in Cockfosters was a small Roman Catholic monastic community, and on the occasions when I was there for an act of worship I found it inspiring and moving. I could not accept that Christ was absent from that small band who, though no doubt different from me in many respects, were just as devoted as I was to the Christian faith.

I realised that I could be of best service to Oak Hill if I used these feelings, doubts and questions to inform my teaching and to challenge those listening to me. My focus became the intention to help evangelicals to become as inclusive as I believed the Christian faith to be – in other words, to be aware of the strength of other traditions as well as the strength of their own.

I was helped by a sad incident. That laid-back philosopher Victor McCallin, Vice Principal of the London College of Divinity, had just left the college to become vicar of Jesus Church, Enfield, a few miles from Oak Hill. It seemed an unusual post for a Low Church Irishman, because Jesus Church was notoriously ‘High’. Nevertheless, I was delighted to have my old teacher and friend so close. No sooner had Victor started his new work than he asked me if I would cover his services while he and his wife Joan took two weeks’ holiday. I was glad to agree, but within a few days I was told that on the eve of his holiday Victor had collapsed, and had been rushed to hospital. Eileen and I visited him, little suspecting that anything was seriously wrong – but we were told that Victor had leukaemia, and was not expected to live. Within days he was dead.

We could scarcely take in the suddenness of his death. It hardly seemed possible that the smiling, relaxed Irishman with his kindly and gentle humour was no longer with us. Instead of covering his services for two weeks, I became the resident minister and priest for nine months. The congregation of Jesus Church were shattered by Victor’s death, and I did my best to provide cover and care during this period. It meant learning the ropes of doing things the ‘Anglo-Catholic’ way, and I began to respect the thorough and painstaking character of Catholic worship. Donning chasubles and copes eventually became second nature. Students from Oak Hill came across to preach and share in the life of the church, and they too began to appreciate the strength of a tradition so different from their own.

In 1970 I joined the staff of St John’s College, Nottingham. This sideways move was not made because I had been unhappy at Oak Hill. For some time Michael Green, who had replaced Hugh Jordan as Principal at the London College of Divinity, had kept me in touch with the exciting plans to move LCD to Bramcote, Nottingham, where it became St John’s, Nottingham. The invitation to return to my old college as a staff member was an exciting one, and I was attracted by the teaching I was offered and the more historical approach it would enable me to take. An additional attraction was that St John’s would be a constituent college of the University of Nottingham, which would bring me into contact with a wider range of fellow teachers.

The difference between St John’s and Oak Hill lay not in evangelical character so much in ethos and style. The students at St John’s were on the whole much younger, with a greater number of graduates. There was a heady buzz about the place, with a strong missionary focus and great intellectual content. The students were lively, and were not content with half-baked views or shoddy thinking. Spirited discussion shaped the life of the place, and a deep and healthy spirituality fused academic and worshipping life. Some of the friendships we made with students continued for the rest of our ministry – particularly with Paul and Mary Zahl. Paul, a very bright American, was reading for a master’s degree, and later went on to complete his doctoral studies at Tübingen under Professor Jurgen Moltmann. He would later become Dean of Birmingham, Alabama, where his scholarship and effective preaching increased the cathedral congregation significantly, and where he developed an international ministry. Paul was not the only high flier at St John’s by any means; there were others there whose academic prowess may have been less distinguished, but who were not lacking in other skills and abilities. The chemistry of intellectual vigour; spiritual commitment and deep interest in engaging with the contemporary world made the college an exciting place to be in the 1970s.

The staff was the most able and happiest team I have been privileged to be part of. Michael Green led us with typical enthusiasm and enormous commitment to the gospel, and there was little doubt that his presence drew many students to the new college. Julian Charley, the Vice Principal, had just joined the newly formed Anglican/Roman Catholic International Commission as its only evangelical scholar. The awakening of evangelical interest in and sympathy towards Catholicism owes a great deal to Julian’s dedicated interest in the Roman Catholic Church, which took a personal form in his deep friendship with Father Jean Tillard, one of the Catholic representatives on the Commission. Sadly, Julian’s outstanding ability was never fully recognised by the “Church, and he was never offered a senior office commensurate with his gifts.

Colin Buchanan was another outstanding teacher whose energy, entrepreneurial ability and scholarship made a breathless and dynamic contribution to the college. Possessor of one of the sharpest brains in the Church, Colin was also a man of integrity and deep faith. His combative personality and direct, uncompromising style earned him a few enemies over the years, but his pastoral concern and commitment to people won him more friends than he lost.

Charles Napier taught doctrine alongside me, and brought something very special and distinctive to the college. Brought up as a Roman Catholic and ordained a Roman Catholic priest following advanced studies at Louvain University, Charles had left his Church and had become an Anglican. He contributed a deep stillness and a lovely debunking attitude that gently put any bumptious student – or staff member, for that matter – in his or her place.

Within a short while St John’s became the largest and most popular college in the Church of England. Whilst clearly within the evangelical tradition, its stance on most things was refreshingly radical, in the biblical sense of being rooted in a commitment to New Testament orthodoxy, yet open to all that God wanted to give us together. The Charismatic Movement was now beginning to make inroads in all Churches and it was hardly surprising that it soon found a home at St John’s. At first the form this took was in new songs, and especially a beautiful Polkingham sung mass that we used at every college communion service. Later it manifested itself in several students claiming that if one desired to be empowered, ‘baptism in the Holy Spirit’ was necessary. I found myself in strong conflict with this theology, although not in opposition to the spiritual awakening it brought. In my view, the idea that there could be a special group of Christians, superior to others by reason of a second baptism, flew in the face of Christian thought. There could only be one baptism for the forgiveness of sins.

Before very long I found myself somewhat embarrassed by an event that was to change me dramatically, and that made me more sympathetic to Charismatic theology. Things were going well at St John’s. I had finished my Ph.D, and I was thoroughly enjoying the intellectual challenge of the work and the close friendships with students. But I was beginning to be aware that my spiritual life was lagging behind my intellectual development. I was at a loss to know what to do about this. I realised that part of the problem stemmed from the nature of priesthood. When one is a priest, and particularly when one is associated with such a clear-cut tradition as evangelicalism, the pressure to conform and to give the impression that one’s faith is impervious to doubt and unbelief is enormous. Unlike the Catholic tradition with its time-honoured policy of spiritual direction, the individualism of the evangelical tradition had no comparable support structure. There was no one to whom I could turn and talk things through frankly. Even to admit to questioning the essence of Christianity in a theological college where I, as one of the teachers, was a purveyor of certainty, seemed shameful. Although I knew I could have trusted any of my colleagues, I was reluctant to do so. I felt trapped.

As I analysed my problem, I detected a layer of fear in myself that I had never encountered before, including fears of death and dying. These surprised me, and I had no idea where they had come from. At first I wondered if they originated in the study I was doing at the time on existentialist thinkers such as Kierkegaard, Jean-Paul Sartre, Albert Camus and others. This focused on the principles that seemed to underpin modern life and culture, and I was enjoying this particular dimension of thought. The fears, however, were real, and faith seemed so insubstantial. The challenge of the ‘absence of God’ coincided with a spiritual barrenness that I was palpably aware of. Worship seemed boring and unreal; God Himself seemed remote and without substance, and the arguments for His existence weak and foolish. Even Jesus Christ, for so long the heartbeat of my faith, now appeared to be little more than a vague historical figure, incapable ever again of inspiring enthusiasm and commitment in me.

In the priesthood, the job and life are one. I was in my mid-thirties, still very young in ministerial terms, and merely to go through the motions was hypocritical and out of the question. I knew that if I could not sort this out, I was finished as a priest. I was faced with a dreadful reality – all that I had worked for and stood for seemed perilously close to disappearing.

I tried to confide my feelings to Eileen, but she was bearing the burden of a growing family, and as a protective father and husband I felt inhibited from sharing them fully with her. Much later I realised that I was wrong to carry this all alone – Eileen was more than capable of understanding, and would have been an enormous help. Nevertheless, only those who know something of the ‘dark night of the soul’ can comprehend the darkness I was feeling then. Of course, as anyone in the priesthood knows – and for that matter anyone in any profession where strong convictions prevail – one can fool people a great deal of the time, and I am sure that few of those around me knew anything of my inner turmoil. But one cannot fool oneself. These struggles went on for many months, and were resolved in an unexpected manner.

The summer of 1972 was spent in London, Ontario, with Eileen’s widowed mother, and her sister Evelyn and brother-in-law Roy and their family, who had moved to Canada some years earlier. We were now a family of six, as Elizabeth had joined our brood eight months earlier. It was a delightful holiday with much bonding, laughter and fun. I took time out to study the Canadian Church, and read a great deal besides.

I refused all offers to preach or lecture – except one, to preach at Little Trinity, Toronto. Little Trinity, a large evangelical church, was led then by Harry Robinson, a dynamic minister and a very effective leader in the Canadian Church. The engagement necessitated a trip on my own, and I was put up in a community house on the evening prior to my sermon. I shall never forget what happened after I was shown to my room. I walked across to the bookshelves and saw a charismatic book that was very popular at the time, Aglow with the Spirit by Robert Frost. As I skimmed through its pages, I seethed with indignation at the author’s interpretation of the work of the Holy Spirit. Uncharacteristically I tossed the book away from me in disgust, and to my shame it hit a picture, which fell to the floor with a crash. As I walked over to replace the picture and retrieve the book, I found myself thinking that it is easy enough to throw away a book, but that what I could not discard was the faith, the confidence and the sheer joy of the Christian life.

I sat down and began thinking more about my faith, my spiritual state and my hopes for the future. I thought back to the start of my spiritual journey and the deep convictions I had had then, and which I no longer felt. I traced that journey of faith from my origins in the East End of London to Dagenham, and to the trust that others had placed in me. I knew that I still longed to serve God, but my personal integrity was crucial to my survival as a believer. In that quiet Toronto room I began to wonder if it was possible to recover my former assurance when it seemed that the iron of deep unbelief had entered my soul.

I decided to bury my pride, and fell to my knees. I remained wordless for a very long time. Then a prayer started to form which was, I suppose, in essence a confession of failure and an admission that intellectual pride and human arrogance had stopped me hearing God’s voice. How I longed to come home, I said to myself and to that ‘Other’ who was listening. Then something happened. There was no answering voice, no blinding light or angelic appearance – only a deepening conviction that God was meeting me now. I felt the love of God and His tenderness towards me. As I prayed out loud – a practice I strongly recommend – I felt a sense of joy and elation, of reassurance and hope as I resumed my walk with God.

I returned to my feet after what had been a very long period of quiet prayer, reflection and encounter. Even now, many years later, it is impossible to say why that moment was so important to my life and experience. Was I so longing to believe that I made myself believe? That might be possible, but so strong in me is the spirit of enquiry that such an interpretation could not sustain me in the long run. I am not the kind of person who is afraid of doubt – indeed, I regard it as an essential component of faith. The steadiness of my faith since that encounter in 1972 is for me an assurance of the reality of faith, not an illusion. It represented a ‘coming home’ to the roots that alone hold one fast. The nearest approximation I have read to what I felt then is by the scientist F.C. Happold, who in his book Religious Faith and the Twentieth Century recounts his own experience:

It happened in my room at Peterhouse in the evening of Feb 1st 1913 when I was an undergraduate at Cambridge … When I tried to record the experience at the time I used the imagery of the Holy Grail; it seemed just like that. There was, however, no sensible vision. There was just the room, with its shabby furniture and the red shaded lamp on the table. But the room was filled with a presence which in a strange way was about me and within me, like light or warmth. I was overwhelmingly possessed by Someone who was not myself, and yet I felt I was more myself than I had ever been before.

That seemed to capture the essentials of my experience.

Two things flowed immediately from this unspectacular but important event. First, the grave doubts and spiritual darkness were a thing of the past. I was now able to move on with contentment and trust – and with no little joy. Of course, such experiences of God’s love do not mean the end of doubt or distrust. Any thinking Christian will encounter the unknown, the darkness within and without. Doubt, as I have observed, is an important element for faith and may at times even be the engine that drives trust. But what I had dealt with – or rather, what God had sorted out in me – was that terrifying shadow that had clouded my faith and work.

The second result of that meeting with God was that it denoted for me an awareness of the Holy Spirit and, as a consequence, an experiential discovery of the Trinity. I guess that many evangelicals encounter God through Jesus, and this can result in an overfamiliar view of God that scorns mystery, distance and wonder. In the same way, there are Catholics whose Christian experience seems wholly theistic, avoiding any personal intimacy with Jesus Christ. I recall once overhearing a Bishop say: ‘I’m a God-the-Father kind of Christian’ – a code that intimated that he found ‘Jesus’ talk too embarrassing to handle.

My Toronto experience unexpectedly opened up the Trinity for me in a most exciting way. It dawned on me that I had never thought much about the Holy Spirit, who up to that point had been for me either a doctrine in the Creed or a mysterious force at work in the Bible. Now I saw Him as a living reality in the Church today, and at the heart of what we mean when we say ‘God’. This led me to a greater sympathy with Charismatic theology and practice, whilst still rejecting the two-stage baptismal theology that some believed in. Where I found myself overlapping with Charismatic thought was in the realisation that there was so much to discover, experience and understand about God’s love. In the wonderful words of John Taylor, Bishop of Winchester: ‘Every Christian is meant to possess his possessions and many never do.’

This new experience of God’s love in Christ, made known again to me through the Holy Spirit, was like a second wind to me in my work. I returned to St John’s bursting with energy and eager to get on with the job. The remaining three years of my time at the college were very creative ones, in which I completed my first book, I Believe in Man, which explored human nature and sexuality. But the Toronto experience led me to reconsider my future. After nine years in two theological colleges it was time to move on, and put into practice all I had gained in theology and experience. In 1975, at the age of thirty-nine, I became vicar of St Nicholas’s, Durham.

6 Challenges of Growth

‘I have no difficulty in saying how I conceive the work of a parish priest. My object is first of all to gather a congregation; large, converted, instructed and missionary-hearted and then set it to work. Forge, temper and sharpen your sword – then wield it.

Peter Green of Salford

THE DECISION TO LEAVE ST JOHN’S and return to parish ministry was not taken lightly. There were those who felt that I should stay on at St John’s and consolidate my work, but the ‘Toronto experience’ had given me a thirst to work out what I felt God was teaching me. I considered a number of parishes which the Bishop of Southwell asked me to visit, but an invitation to St Nicholas’s, Durham, caused my heart to beat in excitement. St Nic’s, as generations of Durham undergraduates still call it affectionately, is a leading evangelical church in the north of England, with a distinguished teaching ministry. Interestingly, the previous incumbent was also a ‘George’ and his wife an ‘Eileen’. George Marchant had served for twenty-five years as vicar of St Nic’s before becoming Archdeacon of Auckland. A fine scholar and pastor, he had served the church devotedly and would be a hard act to follow.

Our first visit to St Nic’s confirmed my suspicions that there was much to do there, but that suited me down to the ground. I needed a real challenge, and a cosy bolt-hole was not for me. We met the churchwardens, Gerald Brooke and Dick Bongard, and hit it off with them at once. They were frank about the church’s problems, which were many. The local congregation was very small; there was hardly any youth or Sunday-school work to speak of; the buildings were in bad shape; the student congregation had shrunk ever since George Marchant had left, wooed away by the Charismatic, Catholic style of another city-centre parish, St Margaret’s; giving was appalling; and there was too much reliance on a small but dedicated lay team who had struggled manfully during the interregnum.

I was to learn some very important lessons during the exciting seven years I spent at St Nic’s. First, one has to have a clear theological vision. I made no secret of mine when the churchwardens and the Church Council asked me what I stood for. I replied that I was first of all a Christian who accepted other Christians of all mainstream traditions as full members of the Body of Christ. Although the Church is hopelessly divided, all baptised Christians are members of God’s one family. I remember quoting the statement attributed to Archbishop William Temple: ‘I believe in one holy, catholic and apostolic church – but regret that it doesn’t exist.’ I went on to say that I was a cradle Anglican, able to work and live with people from other traditions in one Church. Although an evangelical – and absolutely convinced of the role of the Bible as the ultimate authority in matters of faith and morals – I did not regard the evangelical tradition as the repository of the total truth about God. Furthermore, I continued, I believed that the emerging Charismatic Movement in the Church of England had much to teach us. It would be my intention, subject to Church Council agreement, to bring in some of these new elements in worship and their spiritual gifts to make the faith more appealing and exciting. I am glad to say that the Council were prepared to take a risk by giving their wholehearted backing to this vision of change.

Secondly, I found that one has to have clear objectives. For me the overall objective was to make St Nic’s an open, accessible church where everyone was welcome. I believed in growth, and aimed to increase the congregation and improve the giving. The church was positioned perfectly at the heart of the small city but was closed six days a week, when shoppers, workers, students and tourists crowded the streets, and only open on Sunday, when there was hardly anybody around. I wanted St Nic’s to be available to all, truly a serving and caring church.

In order to achieve this objective of growth, the character of worship had to change. Worship at St Nic’s was solidly morning and evening prayer according to the Book of Common Prayer, but there was no choir to lead or enliven it. With a heavy heart I came to realise that the services were, frankly, very boring. Furthermore, the coldness of the church building meant that there was little that might attract casual worshippers to come regularly. Although there was a regular 8 a.m. communion service every Sunday, celebrations of the Holy Communion at other times amounted to the final part of the 1662 Service, used after a morning or evening service for the handful of worshippers who remained. This was plainly unsatisfactory. The missionary situation the Church was now in demanded a fresh approach to worship – it had to be accessible, friendly, joyful, yet also reverential. I was confident that we could make it so, with the talents of the many able people in the congregation. Indeed, as I drew upon these talents in creating a music group, and in encouraging children to bring their instruments along when a church orchestra was formed, the congregation increased and with it a deepening sense of fellowship.

Not everyone liked the changes to the worship, of course. A small core of devoted members of the congregation felt that I was changing the character and identity of St Nic’s to such an extent that it was no longer their church. One evening in my second year a former churchwarden asked me to meet twenty-two mainly elderly members of the congregation. I was shocked and saddened to learn of their deep distress. The last thing I wanted was to cut them off from their spiritual home. As we talked I realised that the conversation was wholly one-sided. They were only concerned about their worship, what the church meant to them and how important the Book of Common Prayer was to them. There seemed to be no awareness of the missionary context of the Church, and the necessity of adapting to meet the needs of a new hour. The Church of England had been experiencing years of decline, which accelerated during the 1960s and 1970s as I began my own ministry. The situation was so serious that no regular churchgoer could afford to be sanguine. The need for change, I felt, should have been obvious to all.

I realised that there was no real meeting of minds; yet it was important to keep everyone within the family of the church. We therefore replaced the 8 a.m. communion service with a new traditional service at 9 a.m. All the services with their new styles of worship attracted greater numbers, including this one, although its growth was more modest.

This was a very important lesson to me, showing that it was possible – indeed, essential – to include the more traditional element in church life. That is not to say that the other services were extreme, by any means. I saw no reason to depart from the Church’s expectations that clergy should use the official prayers and should robe properly. It was and remains my conviction that liturgies, appropriately and imaginatively used, and the traditional dress of clergy are not barriers to understanding.

Another lesson I learned at St Nic’s was that if there is to be growth in church life, it cannot be accomplished by the clergy alone. It is imperative to utilise the gifts and abilities of lay people. The problem was that at the beginning I had to do everything. This was a shock to the system, having served my curacy at St Mary’s, Islington, where I was used to working in a team, and having attended two theological colleges where manpower was readily available. I realised that I had to bring about a change of culture in which the leadership of the church was corporate rather than singular. Of course there were lay leaders there from the beginning, but there were many others whose talents were not being tapped. Over the next few years I gradually broadened the leadership team.

This was not without its problems. One of the main challenges when lay people bring their gifts and skills to the task of leadership is the tension between the corporate and the specific responsibility for the ‘cure of souls’ entrusted to the clergy. The church, through the Bishop, had given me responsibility for building up the congregation, and the Bishop’s words at my induction rang through my mind again and again: ‘Receive this charge which is both yours and mine.’ I could not democratise this role too much without completely abdicating from it. On the other hand, neither could I run away from a desire to share my leadership, and to accept the challenge when somebody else came up with a brilliant idea or when I found myself in a minority.

In my third year this became a very real issue. I began to feel uncomfortable and even threatened by the fact that more and more people were sharing the exercise of leadership. At about this time I shared the platform at a meeting with a leading clinical psychologist, Dr Frank Lake. I told him privately that although the work was going well at St Nic’s, I had a problem: ‘As I widen the team I’m finding that I’m delegating areas of ministry where I’m strong, and being left with areas of ministry where I’m weak-’

Before I could finish, Frank beamed at me and said, ‘That’s wonderful, George! How few clergy have the grace and ability to surrender what they’re strong at and bear the burden of weakness!’ Without another word, he left for another seminar he was leading.

Frustrated, I initially did not consider this to be an adequate reply to my comment, but as I drove home I began to see that he had in fact given me a profound response. He was saying: ‘Leadership includes the ability to trust others and give them freedom to flourish. A true leader keeps watch on the whole, but is prepared to exercise humble ministries as well.’ That was an important lesson, and my sense of feeling threatened when leadership was shared diminished – indeed, my confidence in the exercise of my own leadership deepened.

Another thing I realised was that we had a very serious problem, in that there was hardly any children’s work going on. Even though St Nic’s was fortunate to have its own youth centre, it was rarely used. A young priest, Graeme Rutherford, who was doing a master’s degree at the university, was attempting to create an open youth club, but it was an uphill struggle and the results were meagre as far as church attendance was concerned.

It was the condition of the church accounts that gave the impetus to a change of attitude. As I pored over the accounts prior to my first Annual General Meeting of the Church Council, it dawned on me that they were a very good indicator of what we considered important. Our spending showed very bleakly that mission did not matter to us, and that areas like Sunday school and youth work were deemed unimportant. Indeed, the finances showed that the church was interested in maintaining itself only by spending money on buildings, repairs and heating.

I set the church a challenge. From now on, I said, our missionary giving must start at 10 per cent of gross income, and not what we can spare when all expenses are paid. Furthermore, I continued, we must have a realistic budget for children and youth work, for the reason that a church that does not invest in the young is doomed. Again the Parochial Church Council backed this overwhelmingly, but sadly the Treasurer himself was the first casualty of the strategy. He resigned because ‘the church would not be able to afford it’. The interesting thing is that when a congregation is set a healthy challenge, it will respond to it. This proved to be the case at St Nic’s. Giving soared as we created a missionary budget aimed not at simply maintaining ourselves, but at attracting new members.

Perhaps one of the most exciting developments was the creation of ‘Watersports’. The idea started when a new member of the congregation, David White, came to me one day and said hesitantly, ‘I know you’re appealing for people to help with youth work. At the age of sixty-two I’m hardly the sort that youth workers are made of, but I have a boat, and I’m prepared to take children sailing.’ From this small beginning developed a number of children’s and youth activities which continued for many years. Many dozens of families from inside and outside the church community, as well as a number of youngsters from areas of social deprivation, learned sailing and canoeing with the church in the Lake District. As a consequence many new children were fed into the Sunday schools, and often their parents began to attend the church.

I wanted the church to serve the wider community. For me, Christianity was too important to be left to churches and Christians. My theology was, and is, that God is at work in the world, and uses people of all faiths and none to further His purposes. Furthermore, caring practically for the body and the mind is as much a priority of the gospel as caring spiritually for the soul – indeed, the two cannot be separated. So I had no hesitation in raising the question: How may we serve our community better? As I saw it, healthy churches are relevant to the needs of those they serve.

It was difficult at first to see how St Nic’s was serving the wider community. I decided to do my own private survey, by going to people outside the church to see what they thought of it and what suggestions they might have. I approached the Mayor, the Chief Executive of the city council, market traders, shopkeepers, shoppers and others. The results were sobering as well as challenging. For the majority of them St Nic’s was ‘just there’, part of the landscape of Durham, and they had no expectations of it. But when I pressed the question: ‘What would you like to see the church providing?’ the answers were positive. Some wanted the church to be open, so they could go in and pray. Others suggested that they would like to see church people more involved in the life of the city, and St Nic’s more visible in providing help to the elderly, the young and the destitute.

This deepened my own resolve to get involved in the life of the city. I became a part-time Prison Chaplain at Low Newton Prison, which held over three hundred young men and about forty women. I spent up to twelve hours a week in the prison, and found it a healthy balance to the middle-class life of St Nic’s. I also became Chaplain to the Royal Air Force Club, where as an ex-RAF man I was made very welcome. This brought me into close contact with another side of Durham life, that of ordinary citizens very similar to the people I grew up with in Dagenham. Another area occupied a great deal of my time – I chaired the local committee of the Cyrenaian organisation, which dedicates itself to serving homeless people. From my days in Islington I felt I had a calling to help the members of this underclass, who usually drop out of mainstream community life. Today they constitute an even more serious problem than they did then. I and two other men of my age, one an agnostic, the other an atheist, made an unlikely trio as we set about helping such people get back on their feet by overseeing the management of a hostel where they could stay. Homeless men were frequent visitors to the vicarage as well, especially around dinnertime, when Eileen would make up a sandwich and a cup of tea for them.

Largely as a result of my desire to make St Nic’s more central to the life of the community, we set about a radical reordering of the building. From my first visit to the church I realised it had huge problems, but equal potential. It was ideally and excitingly positioned in a busy market square, yet it was in a very rundown state. The interior was gloomy and unattractive. The pews, many in very bad condition, made it difficult to adapt the space for anything other than worship. Heating was supplied by a temperamental coal boiler which, I was told, was the last solid-fuel boiler in the diocese, and which required stoking from Friday onwards before the Sunday services could be comfortably held. There were also serious leaks in the roof – six or so buckets were placed by the church cleaner, Mrs Simpson, at the offending places. If one adds to the list of problems the fact that the church interior was defiantly puritan in its ugliness and tastelessness, something radical had to be done.

The creation of an attractive interior that provided facilities which could be used seven days a week became the mirror image of the spiritual pilgrimage of the congregation at the same time. I learned the lesson that no reordering of any building should happen without the spiritual reordering of people. That we were able to raise £350,000 within two years at a time when inflation was raging at around 20 per cent was only slightly short of miraculous. I remain convinced to this day that many congregations do not properly see that buildings may either be part of their successful outreach into the community or, in the majority of cases, significant reasons for the decline of church life.

It is said in the Old Testament that Jacob’s love for Rachel was so special that his seven years of service ‘seemed but a day’. My time at St Nic’s was sometimes tough and always exhausting, but it stands out as perhaps the most significant period of our joint ministry. Eileen was blissfully happy bringing up our four children and sharing energetically in our work together. All of the children started school in Durham, and our eldest, Rachel, went away to college in London, while our sons Mark and Andrew completed A’ levels and ‘O’ levels respectively. Our youngest, Lizzie, was in primary school by the time we left. We lived in a beautiful seven-bedroomed vicarage overlooking the cathedral and castle, with grand, high-ceilinged rooms for entertaining, and a garden filled with adventure for the children and bushes packed with summer fruits. The whole family were to remember Durham with great fondness; it was an idyllic place to grow up.

Eileen’s ministry developed to such an extent in the church family that she provided much of the hospitality offered by St Nic’s, and opened the vicarage for bed-and-breakfast in order to raise money for the building project. Eileen’s mother, Margaret Daisy Hood, now in her eighties, came to live with us, having spent the last ten years of her widowhood with Eileen’s sister in Canada. It was clear that Mrs Hood was suffering from dementia, and this became very distressing for us all. Sometimes she would wander from the house, to be found in a confused state in some part of the city and be brought back by a kindly and sympathetic neighbour. This certainly added to the stress on Eileen. Alas, both her mother and my father died within a short while of each other towards the end of our time at St Nic’s. Both were wonderful Christian people whose influence on us was great. I particularly felt the death of Dad as his passing was so sudden – he had a severe heart attack and died instantly. His funeral in Dagenham Parish Church took the form of deep thanks-giving for the rich life of a truly humble man whose legacy was considerable.

In my second year at St Nic’s an unexpected phone call from Christopher Hill, on the staff at Lambeth Palace, affected my life greatly. Christopher’s responsibility was for ecumenical relationships. I remember that November morning very well.

‘Would you like to spend three weeks in Rome?’ was the strange question.

Looking out of my office window on a very bleak and cold Durham, I replied, ‘Yes please. But tell me more.’

I was told that the following February the Anglican Centre in Rome would be hosting a three-week course for representatives of all Provinces of the Anglican Communion, organised by the Pontifical Council for Christian Unity. John Moorman, the former Bishop of Ripon and now retired to Durham, was to lead the course. I had been chosen to represent the Church of England.

It was a life-changing experience. Ever since my Oak Hill days I had been becoming closer and closer to Christians of other denominations, especially in the Roman Catholic Church. In Durham warm relationships with Father John Tweedy, the local Roman Catholic priest, were quickly established and we worked closely together. I was also a regular visitor to Ushaw Seminary, a few miles outside the city. The visit to Rome made me aware that this great Christian city was part of my heritage of faith, and Roman Catholicism entered my understanding of theology. The place overwhelmed me, and in my spare time from the lectures and sessions of the course I would walk for miles – retracing the journey of many a martyr from the Colosseum to the catacombs. In the crypt of St Peter’s I would linger and pray at the very place where the bones of St Peter were laid.

Bishop John Moorman, a renowned authority on St Francis, was a splendid leader. Other teachers shaped our thinking – including a youthful Terry Waite, who was then working for the Roman Catholic Mission Department, and Professor Gerry O’Collins, New Testament theologian at the Gregoriana who later became a dear friend. Among fellow Anglicans was Misaeri Kauma, Assistant Bishop of Namirembe in Uganda, an inspiring and dynamic missionary Bishop. The three weeks in Rome gave us all an opportunity to study Catholicism, not only through the lectures and reading but also through rare opportunities to meet representatives of the many ‘dicasteries’, or departments, that comprise the Vatican.

But this three-week study course was not an unembroidered charm offensive by the Roman Catholic Church. It was a deliberate attempt to open the Church to others. I was especially struck by our private audience with Pope Paul VI. A deeply holy man, he was frank about the problems of his Church following the Second Vatican Council. As he saw it, the Council, which concluded its work in 1965, and with which he clearly identified, had left the Church divided. Implementation of its vision had fallen to him but was proving difficult to achieve, although much had been done. Now, in the twilight of his life and ministry, he was showing signs of great weariness, yet a serene spirit in Christ came through strongly to us.

On the course we were invited to put our toughest questions to our Catholic friends. As the only evangelical present, my theological questions concerned the infallibility of the Pope, the Marian dogmas, the authority of the Church, and prayers to the saints. While I was by no means fully satisfied by the responses given, I was better informed when I returned home. Two years later I made a private visit to consolidate my knowledge and to study in greater depth the significance of the Virgin Mary.

In my sixth year at St Nic’s I began to receive letters, phone calls and personal messages asking me to consider putting my hat in the ring for the Principalship of Trinity College, Bristol. I rejected all these overtures for a number of reasons. The first, and most important, was that my work at St Nic’s was not over. I could not leave when there was still a large amount of money to raise and the building work had not yet begun. A second reason which appeared to make it unlikely that I would be offered the post was that Trinity College’s theological tradition seemed far removed from mine. It stood for a reformed evangelical doctrinal commitment which seemed to me narrow, negative, anti-Rome, and puritanical. Perhaps this perception of Trinity was ill-founded, but it was shared by many other people in the Church at that time. Strong appeals to consider the post, however, made Eileen and me waver. What should we do?

I decided to get my Bishop’s advice. I did not know the Bishop of Durham, John Habgood, very well, though I had met him many times. He was an excellent speaker, preacher and scholar, but seemed rather remote to ordinary mortals. He had no capacity for small-talk, and most clergy in the diocese dismissed him as a pastor. This latter estimate, I knew first-hand, was mistaken. Two years before I had had a car crash and had ended up in hospital, following which I had required several weeks’ convalescence. On hearing this, John Habgood made available a sum of money to allow me to have a proper rest. I knew that, in spite of the impression he could give at times, he was a caring man, and would answer every question with great insight. I outlined my predicament to him, and without hesitation he gave his opinion that Trinity needed to be brought into the Church of England, and that I was ideally positioned to do it. He urged me to be positive about meeting the College Council, but said that I must make it clear to them that I had to finish the building project at St Nic’s before I could possibly take up the position.

In the light of that advice I accepted the invitation to visit the college and meet the Council. To my surprise, I found that it was set up as a formal interview. As I was not convinced I should even be considering the post, I had not prepared myself to argue my corner. Before the interview I met Trevor Lloyd, later Archdeacon of Barnstaple, the other person being interviewed that day, who shared with me his opinion that Trinity was at a crossroads – unpopular with Church of England ordinands, it was having to rely on American students from nonconformist traditions who were beginning to change the culture of the college. Trevor’s verdict was that Trinity was in a make-or-break situation, and that the appointment of the next Principal would be decisive for its survival. That was a sobering thought to take into the interview. However, the meeting with the Council went very well. I made it abundantly plain that I was not seeking a new post at the moment, and would have to have very good reasons to move from St Nic’s, where I was very happy. To my utter astonishment, at the end of the day I was summoned to meet the Council again, and was offered the post of Principal of Trinity College, Bristol.

I returned home on the train stunned. Eileen had not bothered to come with me, because neither of us had believed that this move could possibly be right for us. But as I told her about the day’s events we began to see that this could be the next step for us. It was a real and demanding challenge. The more we thought about it, the more we could see that my experience of theological education and parish life fitted me well for the post. We had to admit that once the building project at St Nic’s was complete my presence was not necessary for the next stage, which was to use the buildings for the wider community.

The lay leaders of the church were wonderful in their acceptance of our decision and their willingness to release us once the building work had been completed. The next nine months sped by quickly – we raised the remaining £50,000; indeed we exceeded that amount – and a week of celebrations were held, with the Bishop of Durham leading a service of blessing for the development. The farewells were sad and generous, and we travelled to Bristol with heaviness of heart but much gratitude to God for all we had learned at St Nic’s. We had been blessed beyond belief.

All my fears concerning Trinity College were confirmed when I began my new work as Principal in September 1982. Life at St Nic’s had been tough enough, especially in the first four years, but I seemed to have fallen from the frying pan into the fire. There were structural problems with the constituent colleges in the union. Tyndale Hall, associated with the famous names of Stafford Wright and Jim Packer, was renowned for its emphasis on uncompromising and clear evangelical teaching rooted in the inerrancy of scripture. Clifton Theological College, associated with Alec Motyer, had been established in protest to Tyndale and took a milder line on doctrinal matters, although it was still clearly evangelical. The Women’s College, which was itself an amalgam of St Michael’s House, Oxford, and Dalton House, had buildings across the Downs. Years earlier Oliver Tompkins, Bishop of Bristol, had issued an ultimatum to the three evangelical colleges to amalgamate, and they had done so with a lot of grumbling and not a little feuding.

When I arrived, the amalgamation was not complete. An independent body called the Clifton College Trust still held the deeds of the main building, and was reluctant to surrender them because of suspicions that the ethos of Tyndale would dominate. I found myself regarded with no small suspicion. Older Council members representing the Tyndale tradition were worried that my more open style would undermine a clear-cut evangelical tradition, whilst some of the Clifton College fraternity were fearful that I would be taken over by the dominant Tyndale group. It was clear that if this division were to be overcome – by love and persuasion – it would take some time to achieve.

In the short term the college was in a mess, partly due to its undeserved reputation in the Church of England, which I myself had shared. I realised from my first day that the college was served by an able and highly dedicated faculty who could hold their own with any theological department in the country. Nevertheless, the immediate future was troubling. The break-even financial figure was 105 students, but four weeks before the beginning of term only just over eighty had enrolled to join us. We were heading towards a huge deficit. Of those likely to join us, only forty-eight were ordinands, even though the Church’s allocation of ordinands to Trinity was eighty. The bursar told me that nothing could be done to tackle that year’s deficit.

I was dismayed, but I was also quite sure that a great deal could be done. To begin with, it was important to restore confidence in the college, starting with the staff. Once again the theological vision had to be shared and owned. I was delighted to find no objection to my desire to do something about the worship, which I felt must combine that Anglican balance of word and sacrament. I knew that with talented students the musical standard, and therefore the quality of worship, would steadily improve. When the students arrived our policy was to help them to realise that they had come to the best theological college in England. There was, I felt, a natural and healthy pride in speaking confidently of this. Another part of my job as Principal was to promote the college and make it visible in the structures of the Church. This was done in a variety of ways.

First, I accepted many speaking engagements, as a means to promote the college and to inform as many people as possible that Trinity gave a first-class theological education. Second, I revived a practice which Maurice Wood had developed at Oak Hill, of staff and students spending long weekends in parishes talking about the call of ordination. Third, I kept in close touch with some of the large parishes which were key providers of ordinands, especially at Oxford and Cambridge. My former Principal Michael Green was now at St Aldate’s, Oxford, and his church became a particular quarry for excellent and gifted ordinands.

The students themselves were a good bunch on the whole, but I was worried about the quality of some of the non-ordinands. It is understandable, if not excusable, for Principals to admit people simply to make up numbers. A few of the students at Trinity were plainly unable to cope with the college’s demanding intellectual disciplines, and were there hoping that the course would provide a back door into ordination.

If this troubled me, I had a greater shock when I received worrying reports about one particular student. The first complaints came from two of the women students, who reported that he was sexually harassing them. I called him in at once. He was from a breakaway Christian group, and was hoping to obtain a degree so that he might be ordained in his own Church. He listened to the complaints in an untroubled way, and it was clear that he had pestered the women but was completely free of shame. I gave him a lecture on the kind of behaviour I expected from students at Trinity. However, his view of sexuality appeared to amount to nothing more than an expectation of gratification. He assumed it was obvious that, as a single man, he had sexual needs that should be fulfilled. I asked him to square this with his theology and the discipline of the college. Sending him away again with a warning, I felt with sinking heart that I was encountering a wholly new phenomenon in my experience – a Christian who felt that there were no rights or wrongs in the area of sexual morality. My fears were realised as I and his tutor watched the man’s progress. Besides his inappropriate behaviour with female members of the college he was a practising homosexual. And then he mentioned without a trace of shame that he paid weekly visits to his ‘hooker’ in a nearby village. My mouth must have dropped. Perhaps I had misheard. ‘My hooker,’ he repeated. He did not last long in Trinity after that.

The episode prepared me for aspects of culture that I was to meet later in my ministry as Archbishop – namely the erosion of holiness by a cultural view that sexual intercourse is of little more significance than shaking hands. When this is combined with a view of the Bible as itself being culturally conditioned, with no authority in matters of sexuality, the drift into hedonistic narcissism becomes inevitable. The Church which blesses such immorality, or calls it holy, ends up as nothing more than a benign religious club.

Returning to theological education after seven years away in parish ministry brought to the surface some of my deepest questions and worries about the purpose and success of our colleges and courses in turning out effective ministers and priests with the leadership skills to work with others and to build up congregations. Was it our aim to produce theologians? Or to produce pastors and teachers? The curriculum of most colleges and courses did not make the purpose transparent. From my experience of three theological colleges it was clear that the majority of their staffs had little experience of parish life, and even less of leading congregations into growth. But it was also true that the brightest and most visible of students did not necessarily make the most dedicated and effective clergy.

These two facts worried me a great deal. If the task of the Church of England’s colleges and courses is to turn out godly men and women with fire in their bellies to teach, evangelise, pastor and build up congregations, then the logical conclusion is that that task is closer to vocational training than it is to making men and women academics. But compelling though this argument was, it was not without problems. My own experience told me that we could not ignore the intellect. While I wanted my students to leave college with a clear focus, dedication and enthusiasm for building up churches, I was also concerned to equip them to handle ideas, and that meant taking theology seriously. How could one square that circle?

I had also become aware of a very significant difference between Catholic and Anglican models of theological education. The Roman Catholic model focused on ministerial formation, whereas the Anglican model was more intent on information. It seemed as if we attempted to prepare people by loading them with knowledge, while Roman Catholic priests were formed in their spirituality and the application of theological knowledge to the life of the Church.

I found myself arguing more and more for two significant changes in theological teaching. First, that the present basic education of three years for those under thirty, and two years for those over, was woefully inadequate. Our starting point should be four years for those under thirty and three years for those older. Furthermore, my experience suggested to me that the best way to prepare would be by sandwich training, with substantial time spent learning from effective ministers and priests. Lastly, the whole purpose of theological education and training must be earthed in prayer and spiritual transformation. I was convinced that effective ministers – of all traditions – shared one striking characteristic: they had a burning love of God and a yearning to share Him with others. However, the responsibility for delivering such radical changes in ministerial formation was not mine – it belonged to the Church centrally.

My thoughts about the necessity of changes for the future of the Church’s ministry did not stem from any misgivings about my students. We were able to attract men and women of great ability, and student numbers grew to such an extent that by the time I left Trinity in 1987 it was the largest theological college in the Church of England. Furthermore, the divisions between the Clifton College Trust and Trinity had been resolved to everyone’s satisfaction.

At the end of my fifth and final year at Trinity one of our most gifted students, Phil Potter, mentioned to me in passing that there was a lot of talk about my becoming Bishop of Bath and Wells. I was flabbergasted to learn this, but what I was even less prepared for was the way that the thought both disturbed me and prompted unhealthily ambitious thoughts. Up to that point, senior office in the Church had not entered my head. I was prepared to stay at Trinity until my work was over, and then return to parish ministry. But ambition now began to enter my psyche, and I both liked it and loathed it. Looking back on that time, I am still not sure how to interpret the ambition I felt. Of course, ambition is not always unhealthy. When one has gifts to offer any organisation, the desire to give leadership for the good of the whole is not bad. A part of me was suggesting that I had proved myself for a wider leadership role, and that there was nothing wrong in this unexpected desire to become a Bishop. However, to this day I feel that I was encountering something within me that was not good. I was desiring the role of Bishop more than the task of leadership it demanded. It was important to resolve this, which I attempted by an honest analysis of my desires and by taking them to God in prayer.

In my journal from this period I wrote: ‘It’s an awful cancer. I know at the level of my mind that this is all about baubles; that serving Christ is the most important thing. That being faithful, obedient and ready is all He requires. But deep within there is a demon which loves power and authority, and he will be disappointed if nothing comes.’ A realisation dawned that I needed to rededicate myself to the work of Trinity College. And in prayer I dedicated myself to God’s work rather than my own concerns. I found this liberating, as though a weight had been lifted from me.

Two days later, on 23 June 1987, an envelope dropped through our letterbox from Number 10 Downing Street. The letter, signed by the Prime Minister Mrs Thatcher, simply said that the Crown Appointments Commission had put my name forward, and that she hoped I would accept this offer. After careful thought and prayer I did, and was consecrated Bishop of Bath and Wells on 3 December 1987.

7 Letters from Number 10

‘What the average Englishman wanted was a Church which would respond to his needs, teaches a message which he could understand, and lift him to a higher level of life – but, this, somehow, was just what he never got.’

Ronald Jasper, A.C. Headlam (1960)

THE MOVE TO WELLS WAS NOT without its sadness. We had enjoyed our time in Bristol greatly, living for the first time in our married life not in a college community or a house tied to a church, but in a normal street. And so much had been achieved at the college. With the co-operation of the faculty and council the college was now united, phase one of an exciting building programme was complete, and Trinity was full and attracting ordinands from throughout the Church of England.

True, an intriguing future beckoned, although aspects of it terrified me. Not the actual work, because I was comfortable with a leadership role and the speaking and teaching that went with it. But I was ignorant of the secondary aspects of being a Bishop – what one had to wear, what the expectations were, and what were the different responsibilities in a diocesan team.

Of course there were people I could rely on for advice and information. The suffragan Bishop of Taunton, Nigel McCulloch, a young and very popular Bishop, offered his assistance readily, as did David Hope, the Bishop of Wakefield, later to become Bishop of London and then Archbishop of York. Both were from the Catholic wing of the Church, and were on hand to show this evangelical what to wear and when to wear it. Not that copes, mitres and chasubles bothered me much. Although I preferred to dress simply, my attitude was that if this was what the Church wanted me to wear, then I was quite prepared to don the unfamiliar for the dignity of the office.

First I had to be ordained for this ministry, and a date was fixed for 3 December 1987 at Southwark Cathedral. Up to that point I had not met Robert Runcie, the 102nd Archbishop of Canterbury. From a distance Robert seemed a reserved and lofty figure. He had the reputation in evangelical circles of being wobbly and indecisive on doctrinal and ethical issues, and the only contact I had had with Lambeth Palace as a Principal was distinctly unpromising. An able ordinand had resigned over the statements of David Jenkins, the then Bishop of Durham. As a result I had written to the Archbishop expressing my concern that a Bishop of the Church should express his doubts so freely about the resurrection of Christ. I received what was obviously a standard letter, signed by a staff member, to the effect that David Jenkins’s views did not state the mind of the Church. I was not impressed.

I met Robert for the first time on the evening before my consecration. The convention is for the family of the new Bishop to stay overnight with the Archbishop. Our large family was delighted and excited to accept this kind invitation, and it turned out to be a wonderful occasion. Before dinner Robert and I had a thirty-minute conversation, and my opinion of him changed as we spoke together. I could not fail to notice his evident spirituality, his wry sense of humour and his distinct love of people. But he seemed terribly tired and preoccupied.

The reason for this became apparent during dinner. I was sitting next to Lindy Runcie, whose direct and candid observations on every subject made her an entertaining companion. Looking across at Robert, she suddenly exploded and said, ‘Poor Robert is under such pressure. That wretched man!’ As the adjective was clearly not aimed at her husband, I asked her what she meant. Out poured a great deal of vitriol directed at Dr Gary Bennett, then Chaplain of New College, Oxford, and a leading Anglo-Catholic theologian, who she believed was the author of the Preface to the new edition of Crockford’s Clerical Directory, which by tradition was written anonymously by a prominent cleric. The Preface was critical of Robert’s liberalism, and accused him of packing the House of Bishops full of his cronies. As I was hardly one of these I could barely contain my mirth, but Robert and Lindy were obviously most distressed. This was my first encounter with the demands of the Archbishop’s office and the way criticism could work its way under one’s skin, causing real emotional pain.

The service in Southwark Cathedral the following day lived up to my expectations. Robert led it very well, and Canon Roy Henderson, Chairman of Trinity Council, gave an inspiring address. I had asked the cathedral if the college music group could lead some devotional songs during the offering of communion, and they did so very beautifully indeed.

The press were out in force after the consecration to cover what seemed to be a developing civil war in the Church. Robert was besieged by photographers and cameramen, and journalists clamoured for him to give his view of the damaging Preface, and to offer an opinion about the identity of the author. Of course he declined because it was not the time or place to comment upon such a matter.

If the Preface did originate from Gary Bennett, it was unworthy of a writer of such distinction. As it happened I knew him well, and liked him, although we had clashed ideologically as fellow members of a Commission which had been brought together to examine the theology of the Episcopate, and the Preface’s style was certainly similar to his. It was a commonly held view that Gary was ambitious to be a Bishop, and very bitter towards the two Archbishops, who he felt were blocking his chance of higher office. The story was to end tragically a week later, when Gary committed suicide after having been exposed as the author of the Preface on the front page of the Sun newspaper.

Looking back on that episode, which brought such shame on the Church of England, I doubt very much if there ever was a liberal conspiracy. The Crown Appointments system does not operate like that. Archbishops have considerable but not final influence in deciding which names are put forward for appointment. The truth was possibly more mundane – that the Anglo-Catholic tradition had declined from greatness to a less pivotal position in the Church. Was it any longer able to provide men with the ability and vision needed to lead churches into mission and life? In my judgement it now appeared to be obsessed with issues which were of secondary importance to most members of the Church, such as the ordination of women. It was a tradition in crisis.

What kind of Bishop did I want to be? This question was very much in my mind from the moment the offer had come from the Crown. I spent many hours considering it and praying over it, and two conclusions emerged.

First, all I could offer was myself in all my humanity. I was overcome by the thought of being a Bishop and there was every reason for trepidation. Few people from my kind of background ever came this close to senior office in the Church. With genuine humility I could only offer my unworthiness and weakness, and ask that this sacrifice of love might be pleasing in God’s sight. The day before my consecration as Bishop I had read 2 Chronicles 1, and had written in my private diary the following words: ‘Reading from 2 Chron. 1 this morning the words leapt out: God said “Ask what I shall give you?” Solomon replied: “Wisdom and knowledge to go out and to come in before thy people.” How relevant! I feel I need this too but combined with an unflinching faith in the power of the Gospel and an undying love of God. Only if I truly love Him will I love others.’

Second, I believed I was called to be a Bishop-in-mission. As I considered what was expected of me, I felt dissatisfied with the traditional role of being a Bishop, just as the traditional role of being a clergyman had not satisfied me in Durham. It was assumed that I would pastor clergy, confirm and institute them into new work and generally oversee the work of the diocese. There would certainly be enough to do even if I restricted myself to such a traditional role. Bath and Wells was one of the larger dioceses, with about 590 churches and over three hundred clergy, four hundred Readers and many thousands of active Anglicans. But the traditional role would not satisfy me – for several reasons.

For a start, it was clear that though the Church was still very influential in Somerset community life, it was not attracting enough people to regular worship. A different approach was required if we were to reverse years of decline in a changing society. An equally serious reason was that the clergy seemed embattled and ill-equipped to handle a different kind of community from the one they been trained for – one in which they now had to go out and sell their wares. Trained, by and large, for traditional ministry, in which pastoring and leading worship were the major elements, they were now required to build Christian congregations and lead others to faith. Though they were highly dedicated and very able, their sense of self-worth was being undermined by lack of affirmation in the community and poor responses to their overtures. It was obvious that I needed to build up the confidence of the clergy and people, and lead by example.

I also knew that I had much to learn myself, and there were many wise and experienced priests who could help me to be a trustworthy and faithful Bishop. I did not have to wait long for a few useful lessons to arrive. My very first confirmation service was at High Ham, a small village about nine miles from Wells. It was a Deanery confirmation service, which meant that fifteen or so clergy would be there to see this new Bishop take his first service. I was keen to do my best, and prepared well. Everything ran smoothly until the very end. The choir preceded me to the door of the church, and I turned to face them to say the words: ‘Go in peace to love and serve the Lord,’ to which the response was: ‘In the name of Christ. Amen.’ As I started the sentence, I realised that my pastoral staff was well and truly jammed in a grating at my feet. Laughter rang around the church as I, mortified, tugged in vain to free it. It stood upright and defiant in the grating until someone strong enough was able to release it.

Disrobing in the vestry, I had a chat with Peter Coney, who was Diocesan Communication Officer. ‘Peter,’ I said, ‘I am keen to learn. How did it go?’

Tenderly, Peter held my arm and said, ‘Bishop George, you were appointed because the Church wanted you – not somebody else.’

That was the most comforting thing anybody could have said. His message was very clear: ‘Be yourself and use your gifts. Don’t try to be something other than yourself.’

If Peter was a valued friend who helped me to relax into the ministry of Bishop, Douglas White helped me to see the ministry through the eyes of clergy. Douglas was eighty-four years of age when in my first year I took a service in his church near Yeovil. He had been incumbent since 1948 or so, and therefore was not bound by the official retirement age of seventy, which came into force in 1976. He had married Yolanda, a bride of thirty-seven, at the age of sixty-four, and they had two teenage girls. Even though he was going blind he was determined to resist all attempts to move him from office. We robed in his kitchen and prepared to go across the beautifully-kept churchyard to the lovely small church just thirty yards away.

‘Bishop,’ said Douglas, turning to me, ‘may I say just one thing? I really am not used to Bishops being around. Do forgive me if anything goes wrong in the service.’

I was touched by this, and suddenly became aware that Bishops could overawe even the most experienced of godly priests. Very moved by his transparent honesty, I held his arm and said, ‘Douglas, if you only knew the fear of this very inexperienced Bishop every time I take a service. Come on. Let’s go out there and face them together.’

And we did. The church was packed, and it was obvious that Douglas was a devoted clergyman, loved by the village and very popular with children. The service was not without its comical moments. Douglas was more blind than he let on, and he relied on his memory to get him through the Book of Common Prayer. Now and again his memory would fail him, and members of the congregation would assist. He began: ‘Dearly beloved brethren, the scripture moveth us in … er … in, er …’ From the back came a loud whispered voice prompting ‘sundry places’. Others picked this up, and ‘sundry’ rang out from several pews. Douglas then continued: ‘Oh yes, sundry places.’

There was a lovely symbiosis between Douglas and his congregation, of the kind expressed perfectly by the seventeenth-century poet and priest George Herbert in The Country Parson: ‘So the country parson who is a diligent observer and tracker of God’s ways, sets up as many encouragements to goodness as he can, both in honour, and profit, and fame that he may, if not the best way, yet any way, make his parish good.’ That was Douglas’s way. He died in harness at the age of ninety-two, full of years and full of faith.

Douglas’s fear made me realise that one is put on a pedestal as a Bishop, and that it was important to hold on to two crucial facts: one should never demean or undermine the office by one’s behaviour; but at the same time one should never hide behind the office or use it to promote one’s own importance. Douglas’s statement led me to recall what someone had said to me following my consecration: ‘George, from now on two things will happen to you. You will never lack for a good meal, but from now on, no one will ever tell you the truth.’ I was determined to have my ear close to the ground, so that I could learn – and face the truth, whatever it was.

Being a missionary Bishop means being a missionary with others. It was therefore crucial to assemble a team of lay people around me, and to offer my help to parishes and deaneries. I invited Brian Pearson, a non-stipendiary priest who was then Vice Principal of a college in Brighton, to join me as a Chaplain and to head up the team. We then secured the services of a group of musicians, dramatists and other lay leaders to assist. Thus commenced a programme of what became ‘Teaching Missions’, of which there were fifteen during the nearly three years I was Bishop of Bath and Wells.

The format was nearly always the same. They would last about five days, and each evening there was a main teaching slot which I would give in the context of a lively and varied programme. Each day there would be a variety of activities which included visits to schools, youth events and meetings with local men’s and women’s groups. I made it clear that a Teaching Mission was not an evangelistic event. Nevertheless, I was convinced that the faith could be taught in such a way that people would understand it and form a judgement. It was my hope that by teaching the faith, and not ducking the challenging questions that thinking people would ask, they might hear the fresh and hopeful tones of the gospel.

So it proved. The very first one at the parish church in Wellington was memorable for both the congregation and my fledgling team. The Anglo-Catholic church was rather fearful of the word ‘mission’, and Father Terry Stokes, the parish priest, had urged me to bear this in mind. I had no difficulty in assuring him that my approach would be cerebral, not emotional, and that it was my desire to fit in with the tradition of the parish which hosted the mission. We hit upon the theme ‘A Faith to Have and to Hold’, based on words from the marriage service, which formed a wonderful centre around which the events in schools, clubs and pubs could cohere. I was told that it proved to be a turning point in the life of this church, encouraging faith and deepening confidence in its mission.

Teaching Missions became a vital lifeline between me and local communities, reminding me constantly that the role of a Bishop has to be measured by his relationship with society at large, not merely his diocese and church. I found them so valuable for my own ministry, and for bringing new life and confidence to local churches, that as Archbishop I continued to lead missions in the diocese of Canterbury.

A Bishop is of course more than merely a local Bishop. He is a national figure, at once a performer on the wider stage. I was keen to develop the national ministry, even though it would be some years before my turn came to be introduced into the House of Lords. Through my reading I had come across the scathing comment of Archbishop Benson, written a hundred years earlier, on Bishops who never ventured forth from their dioceses: ‘Bishops of their dioceses were not so much Bishops of England.’

I had already accepted the Archbishops’ invitation to chair the Faith and Order Advisory Group, the Church’s central committee for handling theological issues related to unity. This gave me an immediate entrée into the wider ecumenical scene both at home and abroad. I knew there would be other invitations for national ministry, but for the moment I was happy to wait.

However, membership of the House of Bishops was a major commitment. I disapproved of clergy isolating themselves from the wider Church by not attending Synods and diocesan events, and had expressed myself forcefully on that point at times. I therefore believed it was my duty to make the House of Bishops a priority in my diary. It was later to be a sadness during my time as Archbishop that this commitment was by no means universally shared. There were always a few who took their attendance at meetings of the House of Bishops lightly, and this seemed to me symptomatic of the state of the clergy generally – a half-hearted commitment to the institutional Church, suggesting a weak understanding of a theology of obedience.

Notwithstanding this, I quickly came to the conclusion that if one’s commitment to the House of Bishops was formed with reference to the actual quality of its meetings, truancy was entirely understandable. They seemed to be arranged so as to forbid participation. Organised as it was then by Derek Pattinson, Secretary General of Synod, conduct of business seemed limited to the two Archbishops, a few senior Bishops, and those who were bold enough to speak up and who sat close enough to the front to understand what was going on. The rest sat in the semi-circular chamber facing a large table behind which the two Archbishops, Derek Pattinson and a few lay staff sat. There were no microphones to aid communication.

Robert made no secret of the fact that the House of Bishops bored him, and allowed the Archbishop of York, John Habgood, to take the lead on the majority of occasions. John had a very quiet voice, which added to the already overwhelming atmosphere of an impenetrable club in which new members could barely hear what was said, let alone contribute. Consequently few did, in many cases because they were too terrified to speak up unless invited to do so.

I remember being greatly struck in my early days in the House of Bishops by three of my senior colleagues whose rhetorical skills were outstanding, but were not always employed constructively. David Jenkins, Bishop of Durham, could always be relied upon to speak entertainingly and often brilliantly, but I felt that he had spent so many years in academic teaching that his concerns were not always grounded in real life and the experience of people in his diocese. Bill Westwood, Bishop of Peterborough, was popular with the media and was also effective in raising emotions in the House, but he worried me by his tendency to pour doubt on all diocesan efforts to raise funds or enthusiasm. ‘We have tried it in Peterborough and it doesn’t work,’ seemed to be his constant and discouraging refrain. I recall arriving at a House of Bishops late one day because of a train delay, and asking Bill, ‘How’s it going?’ To which he replied, ‘All right, but it’s becoming increasingly difficult to be a Christian here.’ I thought that was a little rich. David Lunn, Bishop of Sheffield, a fierce defender of the Prayer Book and of Catholic life, was another whose eloquence was often unintentionally destructive through its gloomy diagnoses and assumptions. I have often wondered if the three men realised how negative they appeared to be.

Although these three Bishops did not represent mainstream thought in the House of Bishops, they undoubtedly affected its mood, as pessimism and despondency always will. Mark Santer, Bishop of Birmingham, was one of the most articulate and probing of the Bishops and a joy to hear, especially on ecumenical matters. David Sheppard, Bishop of Liverpool, and Jim Thompson, at that time Bishop of Stepney, spoke up passionately for the Church’s involvement in society, and were very much behind the report Faith in the City which had caused such a furore a few years before, and which was about to take a practical form through the implementation of one of its recommendations, the Church Urban Fund.

The Church Urban Fund was a test of our mettle as Bishops, and although a majority of us voted to go ahead with it, I was troubled by a clear lack of enthusiasm among some of our number. We were not agreed on the principle of raising substantial funds for the urban Church, and some were convinced that the proposed figure of £20 million could not be raised in the economic climate of the late 1980s. It was a moderate triumph that we eventually agreed to raise this sum, which in my view was a very modest goal. The Fund was launched in Westminster Abbey in 1989, and attracted great publicity because there was so little government money going into urban development at the time. That the Church of England was prepared to pour so much money into our cities was a vigorous sign of our mission to the nation.

As far as Bath and Wells was concerned, our mainly rural diocese was expected to raise £350,000, which to my delight we managed relatively easily. Indeed, we gave £500,000 to CUF, and could have raised much more. Most dioceses reached their targets with ease, and in some cases – Oxford and Lichfield – raised substantially greater sums which were used to fuel diocesan projects. It has always seemed to me a pity that we had not started with the aim of raising twice as much money, although that would have met many objections.

As it happened, the way the Fund operated meant that far more than £20 million was given to our cities. Because a great number of the grants were offered on a matching basis, or initiated other giving, it is possible that the CUF in reality made £40 million available. Later, as Archbishop, I was able to see at first hand what a difference the Fund made to our mission. I recall visiting Barking and Dagenham, and seeing six CUF projects. I was amazed to find so many people in those churches supporting the vulnerable. When I asked the Archdeacon of West Ham, Tim Stevens, what difference the Fund had made to my old haunts, he replied simply, ‘It has made us credible.’ On the present level of funding grants, the CUF will come to an end in 2007. Will the Church have the courage and faith to relaunch it? We shall see.

If I had worries that Church of England Bishops were disunited, my experience of the Lambeth Conference of 1988 raised major questions in my mind about the state of worldwide Anglicanism. As the Conference fell just seven months after I had taken up office as Bishop, I was one of the newest there, and found myself rubbing shoulders with such giants as the Nobel Prize-winning Desmond Tutu and many others. On the face of it the Conference was a splendid show of Anglican strength and the growth of the Communion, especially in the developing world. I was, and am, proud to belong to a tradition which emphasises incarnational ministry among the very poor and the distressed. Desmond’s outstanding ministry in South Africa was greatly applauded, as was the fine work of Archbishop David Gitari in Kenya, whose bold condemnation of corruption had put him at great risk. Archbishop Robin Eames’s attempts to reconcile divided communities in Northern Ireland were also honoured, as was Bishop Samir Kaffity’s impassioned representation of the Palestinians.

But there was another side to Lambeth 1988, in spite of Robert Runcie’s gentle, wise and humorous leadership. I saw for the first time how easy it is for contentious matters to be ‘spun’ by the press. There were a number of Bishops who were able to use the media very cleverly. Bishop Jack Spong, Bishop of Newark in the United States, was particularly adept at getting his message across. A charming and handsome man, he was so often speaking to the media about the ordination of women and homosexuality that he was invisible as far as the Conference itself was concerned. The Bishop of London, Graham Leonard, was equally determined to promote his opposition to the ordination of women. Richard Holloway, the Bishop of Edinburgh, was the other media star turn of the Conference. But while all three were successful in getting the ear of the wider public, they gave a misleading impression of what was happening within the Conference itself. In the background was an awareness that Provinces such as England were preparing to introduce legislation to ordain women as priests, and that others such as the United States were already thinking beyond this, to the ordination of practising homosexuals.

Cultural divisions between First and Third World Bishops became apparent at the Conference. These were brought to a head in an absorbing debate between David Jenkins of Durham and David Gitari of Nairobi. Both speakers were excellent, but the evening belonged to the developing world, as David Gitari spoke with real fire and passion, whereas, as I wrote in my diary that evening: ‘David Jenkins’ address was brilliant but had no cutting edge or call to discipleship.’ To me, it simply lacked Christian conviction.

Lambeth ’88 will always be remembered as the Conference at which Bishops of the developing countries ‘came of age’ and spoke with confidence and authority. They were no longer prepared simply to make up the numbers, or to take orders from white Bishops. They were the ones bearing the heat of persecution or the cost of poverty, and this gave them an authority that others lacked. It was largely the Bishops from the developing countries who gave impetus to one of the few Resolutions that was to have significance in the days ahead. Arising from the Pope’s call to make the 1990s a Decade of Evangelisation, the motion that the Anglican Communion should declare it a Decade of Evangelism won overwhelming support. Resolution 44 read: This Conference

Calls for a shift to dynamic missionary emphasis going beyond care and nurture to proclamation and service; and therefore

Accepts the challenge this presents to diocese and local church structures and patterns of worship and ministry, and looks to God for a fresh movement of the Spirit in prayer, outgoing love and evangelism in obedience to our Lord’s command.

Inspiring and splendid as the Resolution undoubtedly was, I walked away from the conference hall rather uneasy. We had failed to ask how this could be achieved. Everyone can agree that the world ought to be a better place, but mere words will not make it so. Structured action is required, a budget has to be prepared, leaders have to be chosen. Nothing like that was done, and that remains the central failure of the Decade of Evangelism, even though it achieved a great deal through its implementation by too few people.

For those of us from the Church of England it was good to be reminded how others saw us. In the words of a former Free Church Moderator, Professor Elizabeth Templeton, ‘the Church of England is a kind of ecclesiastical duck-billed platypus’. And yet, as one Third World Bishop observed, it was through this ‘strange Church in the United Kingdom that missionaries came to tell my people about Jesus. I shall always be grateful to you.’

At the ’88 Lambeth I had the great honour to present one of the most significant ecumenical motions ever put to an international Christian body: that ‘This Conference recognises that the Agreed Statements of ARCIC 1 on “Eucharistic Doctrine, Ministry and Ordination” … offer a sufficient basis for taking the next step forward towards the reconciliation of our Churches [Roman Catholic and Anglican] grounded in agreement in faith.’ I spoke briefly to the motion, offering the opinion that our ready acceptance of the work done by ARCIC (the Anglican-Roman Catholic International Commission) would not only encourage the ecumenical theologians in their continuing work, but would signal to the Roman Catholic Church that the Anglican Communion was ready to move into an even deeper reality of Communion. The motion was overwhelmingly accepted, with just one absention.

Tuesday, 17 July 1990 will forever remain etched in my memory. At the end of the staff meeting at the Bishop’s Palace in Wells, one of my secretaries told me that Robin Catford, the Prime Minister’s Secretary for Senior Appointments, had phoned earlier. I was asked to call back as soon as possible.

I was intrigued. Why did he want to speak to me? The announcement of Robert Runcie’s retirement as Archbishop of Canterbury had been made some months previously, and I knew that the Crown Appointments Commission was due to meet soon. Not for one moment did I think I would be a candidate, and assumed that my advice was being sought concerning possible contenders for this crucial appointment. As soon as lunch was over, I phoned.

‘George, are you likely to be in London in the next few days?’ Robin asked.

‘No,’ I replied. ‘I was in London for a meeting yesterday, and the next time I’m due to be there is in September. Can it wait until then?’

‘I’m afraid not,’ came the reply. ‘I need to see you very soon.’

I was even more intrigued. ‘Well,’ I said, ‘I suppose I could make a special effort. My day off is Monday. I could see you next week. Is the matter so important that you would want to break into my day off?’

The answer was swift, and made me anxious. ‘Yes. I need to see you as soon as possible.’

I decided to push him. ‘If it’s that important, you must come to me. I commence a Teaching Mission on Thursday. I’ll be speaking at a school near Bath at 10 a.m., but I’m free for two hours after that. I’ll meet you at Bath railway station.’

‘Right,’ said Robin. ‘I’ll look at the timetable, but I’ll have to catch the next train back to London, because I must return for the Royal Garden Party.’

I reported this conversation to Eileen. What could be so important that Robin would come all the way to Bath to see me on Thursday, then rush straight back to London for the Royal Garden Party? Surely it couldn’t be ‘Canterbury’? The thought seemed laughable. I had been a Bishop for less than thirty months, and it was surely ridiculous that one of the newest Bishops could be considered for this great office. We reasoned that Robin must be coming for some other reason – perhaps it was to seek my advice about another person who was under consideration. But then again, it might have nothing to do with ‘Canterbury’. Even so, we were unsettled. We agreed that after seeing Robin I would meet up with Eileen at the most convenient spot for us both, which happened to be a pub on the outskirts of Bath.

I got to Bath about thirty minutes before Robin’s train arrived. I went straight away to Pratt’s Hotel near the station, and explained to the manager that I required a room to discuss some private matters with a friend from London.

I met Robin, and escorted him to the hotel. The manager was in the foyer, and came across to meet us. With no knowledge of the identity of my visitor, but possibly with a nose for intrigue, he said, ‘You’re not coming to take our Bishop away, are you? Is it Canterbury?’

‘Come on,’ I laughed. ‘I’m one of the newest Bishops on the bench. Of course not.’

Robin and I went to the room I had reserved, and after a few minutes of desultory conversation he said, ‘Well, I suppose we had better get down to business. I have a letter here from the Prime Minister.’

My blood ran cold. I opened the white envelope and read Mrs Thatcher’s invitation to accept the Crown’s offer of the See of Canterbury.

I laid the envelope on the table, looked up and stared into Robin’s face. ‘Robin,’ I said, ‘I need to ask you one question. Am I the first name, or the second name? I must have the answer to that question before we go any further.’

He replied in a level voice, looking at me steadily, ‘I can confirm that you are the Commission’s choice. You are the first name.’

I explained to him that I needed to know this, and that had it been otherwise I would not have accepted, because I was so inexperienced as a Bishop that the call had to be clear.

To say that I was shocked by the letter would be an understatement. I was deeply troubled. My work at Bath and Wells had just begun, and there were so many things I wanted to do. Eileen and I loved the diocese, and had expected to spend the rest of our working life in Somerset. I explained my turmoil to Robin, and said there were so many other good men in the House of Bishops who should have been considered. What about John Habgood, the Archbishop of York? Or David Sheppard, and other able men like them?

Robin agreed that they were able, and said they had been considered, but that the Commission felt a younger person, who could give at least ten full years to the role, ought to be invited. Furthermore, a different approach was felt to be necessary, and they had wanted an Archbishop with a yearning to put mission at the very top of his agenda. In short, the Commission believed that I was the person with the gifts required.

For nearly an hour we discussed the issues. I told Robin that I had never made a momentous decision without prayer and a full discussion with Eileen, but under pressure from him I promised I would get back to him as soon as possible. I warned him, however, that I was in the middle of a Teaching Mission which would not end until Sunday evening. I walked with him to the station, then returned to the Teaching Mission in Midsomer Norton with this staggering question: Should I accept the Prime Minister’s offer?

In a daze I drove to the pub where Eileen was waiting. It was a lovely sunny day and we sat outside in the grounds overlooking the beautiful city of Bath, hardly appreciating the food before us. Eileen read the Prime Minister’s letter, and we looked at one another with disbelief and astonishment. What were we to do? It would not be too much to say that we were both petrified and dismayed. One thing was clear, however. I had never sought a post in the Church, but equally I had never turned anything down. I have always had a high doctrine of obedience to the Church, and believed that if, after due processes and much prayer, it had decided to call me, I could scarcely refuse.

With a hurried farewell to Eileen I rushed away to resume the Teaching Mission, and the whirl of activities put this momentous matter almost out of my mind. But in between the various events – a Mothers’ Union service, a young people’s event and an evening speaking engagement in a marquee at Radstock – the terrifying invitation kept leaping into my mind. What was I to make of it?

I phoned Eileen late in the evening and we talked again at great length. There seemed only one answer we could give: it had to be ‘yes’. I asked Eileen to phone Robin to say that I was prepared to accept the Prime Minister’s invitation. My private diary takes up the story: ‘Had a terrible night and simply could not sleep. Fear was present. Will I be ridiculed and mocked for my lack of experience? … What an awesome responsibility!’

The next day, there was another bombshell. The Prime Minister wished to see me on Tuesday. Could we go to Downing Street to meet her? We accepted, and following the final Teaching Mission event on Sunday evening we travelled to London to stay with our son Andrew.

On the Tuesday the Prime Minister was engaged in a reshuffle of Ministers, and I was asked not to go to 10 Downing Street, where the press would immediately put two and two together, but instead to go to Number 11, wearing an ordinary shirt and tie. We walked through a rabbit warren of corridors into Number 10, where in Robin’s office I changed into my clerical shirt and dog-collar. Eileen and I met Margaret Thatcher in the famous Green Room. She greeted us warmly and then, to our astonishment, proceeded to speak at inordinate length. I glanced at my watch at one point and realised that she had scarcely drawn breath for eight minutes. I asked myself in desperation, ‘How on earth do I get a word in edgeways? I must say something!’

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