‘The Church of England is a complex mix of catholic and protestant ecclesiology…episcopally led, synodically governed (it is) ‘by-law-established’. Thus, there is a mixture of democracy and hierarchy, of lay and clergy leadership. For most Anglicans in England, it is assumed that the Holy Spirit works in and through the processes that have evolved over time. A recent report on the structures for shaping episcopal appointments (2001) had no trouble titling itself Working with the Spirit: Choosing Diocesan Bishops. The Church of England generally assumes that its structures – even quite recent ones – are ‘ordained’. Thus pragmatic and expedient decisions will be narrated as the leading of the Spirit. As such, many Anglicans (in the Church of England) gradually come to believe that the changes we make to our structures are, in some respects, also God’s direction for the Church…’
The Church of England, in every age, has faced fundamental challenges. Many would cite the challenge of secularisation or consumerism in our time as one of the tougher trials the church has had to negotiate. I am less sure, however. But I do think there are two distinct challenges facing the church today. Or rather, it is one challenge or coin, but with two faces. The singular challenge that the church faces today is that of distraction; but its two sides are an obsession with mission on the one hand, and with management on the other. We appear to be preoccupied with both, and to such an extent that the identity of the Church of England now finds that its energies are consumed with perpetual drives towards efficiency and productivity. More problematically, this absorption with mission and management is suppressing the liberating wildness and freedom that the Holy Spirit often breathes into the life of the church. The Church of England has appeared opted for the safety of compliance and secular complicity with managerialism, and for the target-driven pseudo-empiric, by which it judges its efficacy.
Yet the church exists to glorify God and follow Jesus Christ. It exists to be breathed upon by and receive the Holy Spirit. After which it may grow; or it may not. Its performance may improve too; or it may not. But it is imperative that faithfulness is always put before any search for success. Indeed, for the vast majority of the population of England, church-talk of mission and numbers tends to drive away far more people than it ever draws near. Evelyn Underhill, writing to Archbishop Lang on the eve of the 1930 Lambeth Conference, reminded him that the world was not especially hungry for what the church was immediately preoccupied with. Underhill put it sharply in her letter: ‘may it please your Grace…I desire to humbly suggest that the interesting thing about religion is God; and the people are hungry for God’.
The problem might be neatly encapsulated in Ernst Friedrich Schumacher’s Guide for the Perplexed (1977). In his landmark book, Schumacher distinguishes between two types of problem – convergent or divergent. Convergent ones are those that get a convergent solution – we can all agree on the right answer, or principles. But a divergent problem arises out of divergent contexts or institutions. We can’t agree on the answer(s), because the values at the heart of the institution are contested. The divergent problems tend to arise from diverse bodies.
The Church of England is clearly a highly divergent body struggling with the imposition of convergent structures and solutions. This is not a new problem. One could argue that the post-war era for the Church of England is a series of epochs, in which convergence has been sought as the socio-public identity of the church has gradually retracted into something more sectarian. Thus, the divergent nature of the Church of England – a gift to its ecclesial polity, I would argue, and of the Holy Spirit – is being undermined and overrun with convergent processes that seek to deprive the church of its divergent, broad, plural nature. The convergent solutions are often driven by mission-minded middle managers who mean well – but do not understand that the inchoate secular values they have adopted do violence to the body they seek to reform. Schumacher argues that convergent problems are those that belong with the non-living universe, whilst divergent problems are with the universe of the living. This is perhaps why the focus on mission and management in the Church of England is often experienced as robotic and unfeeling. Bureaucratic processes and criteria are being applied to something that is supposed to be spiritually felt and discerned.
Preoccupied with Productivity?
As any student of early church history will know, the beguiling attraction of the very first heresies and heterodoxies lay in their simplicity. They presented the most attractive solution to any immediate and apparently unsolvable problems. For the first generations of Christians, these usually lay in the sphere of doctrine and praxis. For us as a church today, the presenting problem appears to be declining numbers in our congregations. Ergo, an urgent emphasis on numerical church growth must be the answer. Right, surely? But wrong, actually. The first priority of the church is to follow Jesus Christ. This may be a costly calling, involving self-denial, depletion and death. Following Jesus may not lead us to any numerical growth. The first priority of the church is to love the Lord with all our heart, mind, soul and strength, and our neighbours as ourselves (Lk. 10: 25). There is no greater commandment. So the numerical growth of the church cannot be a greater priority than the foundational mandate set before us by Jesus.
It was Karl Barth who observed that the true growth of the church is not to be thought of in mainly extensive terms, but rather those that are intensive. He argued that the vertical (or intensive) growth of the church – in both height and depth in relation to God – does not necessarily lead to any extensive numerical growth. He added that ‘we cannot, therefore, strive for vertical renewal merely to produce a wider audience’. Barth concluded that if the Church and its mission were used only as a means of extensive growth, the inner life of the church loses its meaning and power: ‘the church can be fulfilled only for its own sake, and then – unplanned and unarranged – it will bear its own fruits’. That would seem to settle the matter. Moreover, many parish clergy, and those working in all kinds of sector ministries, already know this to be true. The church does not exist to grow exponentially. Mission is deeper than that. The church exists to be the body of Christ.
The pastoral theologian Eugene Petersen once commented that the one thing he had learned in mission and ministry is how complex measurable growth can be. Here, Petersen draws on the theologian, essayist, poet and farmer, Wendell Berry. Petersen says that under Berry’s tutelage he has learnt that ‘parish work is every bit as physical as farm work: it is about these people, at this time under these conditions’.
The pastoral turn towards an agrarian motif is arresting. Jesus told a number of parables about growth, and they are all striking for their simplicity and surprise – especially the allegory of the sower (Mt. 13: 3-9, etc.). This parable probably should be the template for all Diocesan Mission Action Plans. For what Jesus is saying to the church is this: have regard for your neighbour’s context and conditions. So, you might work in parish with the richest soil, where every seed planted springs to life. The seasons are kind; the vegetation lush; the harvest plentiful. But some places are stony ground; and faithful mission and ministry in that field might be picking out the rocks for several generations. Others labour under conditions where the seeds are often destroyed before they can ever germinate. Others, where the weather is extreme, and although initial growth is quick, it seldom lasts.
The question the parable throws back to the church is this: what kind of growth can you expect from the ground and conditions you work with? And this is where our current unilateral emphasis on numerical church growth can be so demoralising and disabling. Is it really the case that every leader of numerical church growth is a more spiritually faithful and technically-gifted pastor than their less successful neighbour? The parable says ‘no’ to this. It implies that some churches labour in harsh conditions; some fairer. So be wise to the different contexts in which our individual and collective ministries take place.
I mention this for one very obvious reason. If we continue to place the heterodoxy of numerical growth at the heart of the church, we risk eroding our character, and our morale. Some will argue, no doubt, that if you aim at nothing, you’ll hit it every time. Better to have a target and a plan than to just keep plodding on. Maybe. But the Charge of the Light Brigade (1854) had vision, courage, objectives, and some strategy; these were not in short supply. But the rest, as they say, is history.
Factors in numerical church growth and decline are always complex. But the church might need to do some work basic on our maths. In the secular world, one plus one equals two. But counting and adding whole numbers in the church is fuzzy logic. Is a newly baptised infant ‘one unit’ in terms of believers? Does the person who comes every week, but has more doubt than faith count as ‘one’ or a ‘half’? Is the regular, but not frequent churchgoer ‘one’ – or less? Is the person who comes to everything in church, but has a heart of stone, count as one? Or less?
We know that God counts generously. The poor, the lame, the sick, the sinners; all are promised a place at God’s table in his kingdom. That’s why Jesus was seldom interested in quantity; the Kingdom is about small numbers and enriching quality. Yet we live a culture that is obsessed by measuring things numerically, and judging success from this. Fortunately, God is loving enough to tell us lots of counter-cultural stories about numbers: going after one, and leaving the ninety-nine, for example. Or, dwelling on a single sparrow; or numbering the hairs left on your head.
God’s maths is different to ours. And God does not easily concur with our cultural obsessions with “growth-equals-success”. No-one denies the urgency of mission, and for the church to address numerical growth. But the church does not exist to grow. It exists to glorify God and follow Jesus Christ. After which it may grow; or it may not. So faithfulness must always be put before the search for success.
So the key to understanding numerical church growth might be to engage in some deeper and more discerning readings of our contexts – the very soil we seek to nourish and bless, so the seeds can flourish. This will usually be more a complex piece of work than simply announcing another new vision or plan for mission. The pun is intended here: there is work to be done on the ground. To be sure, we need leaders who can ride the cultural waves of our time. But we also need other leaders who can read the tides, and the deeper cultural currents of our age. Our recent emphasis on numerical church growth – borne largely from fear, not faith – has led to the unbalanced ascendancy of mission-minded middle-managers.
It is hard to imagine a Michael Ramsey, William Temple or Edward King receiving preferment in the current climate. If all leaders must now make obeisance before the altar of numerical church growth, we will erode our character and mute our mission. The veneration of growth squeezes out the space for broader gifts in leadership that can nourish the church and engage the world. As with all things Anglican, it is a question of balance. No-one can or should say that an emphasis on numerical church growth is wrong. It isn’t. The issue is one of proportion. There are no bad foods, only bad diets. And the continued over-emphasis of numerical growth skews the weight and measure in the body of our leadership.
This is a more subtle disproportion than it might at first appear. It was said of the late Cardinal Basil Hume that ‘he had the gift of being able to talk to the English about God without making them wish they were somewhere else’. The value of this gift should not be underestimated. And for our national mission, this is precisely why we need a leadership that incorporates space for the holy and devout; the gentle pastor; the poet and the prophet; the teacher and theologian; and possibly a radical or two for good measure.
The church may not always draw near to such leaders. But the nation often does – especially those who don’t usually go to church. For the first time since the Reformation, we now have no bishops who have held a university post in theology. The nation may not notice this explicitly, but at a subliminal level, it will certainly sense the lack. So for the sake of national mission, and our credibility, we may want to intentionally develop a broader range of leaders than the very singular objective of numerical church growth currently allows for.
But let us return to numbers. Some of the most recent figures for numerical church growth in the Church of England offer up some surprising anomalies. In the 2010/11 Church Statistics, many dioceses that had well developed mission strategies showed continuing numerical decline. Only a few did not. Perhaps the greatest surprise was to discover one diocese that had enjoyed significant numerical growth – a whopping 17 percent in average weekly and usual Sunday attendance. Ironically, this was led by a bishop who had seemingly little in the way of experience in mission and ministry. Like Basil Hume, the bishop had not been a parish priest, and could not tick any of the boxes that indicated he had led any congregation to numerical growth.
The diocese was Canterbury. And the bishop was someone who also had the gift of being able to talk about God in public. Having a knack for imaginative, reflective and refractive public theology and spirituality does indeed intrigue and draw in people, who might not otherwise pay attention to the rumour of God. So by welcoming some teachers, poets and prophets amongst our leadership, and who point us imaginatively and compellingly to Christ, we might yet discover an even richer, more effective purpose in our mission. And in so doing, also find some other routes to numerical growth along the way.
Over-Managed, Theologically Under-led?:
What then, of management? Here, I do not propose to rehearse the extensive and helpful contributions of Richard Roberts to the debates on management and leadership in institutions such as universities, and by implication and extension, our churches. His recent work in this field is sublime and matchless. Instead, I want to begin with a story.
A few years ago, a guest of mine waited in the Common Room of Cuddesdon with a cup of tea until it was time to meet. She sat and read, but quickly found herself tuning in to a conversation some distance away between three ordinands, gathered around the fire. The subject was ‘how to get on in the church’ – granted, a tiresome-though-typical conversation between students at any theological college. One said it was important to make sure you went to a high-profile parish as a curate. Another, that the key was connections – making the most of who you knew, not what. The third said that what was needed were intellectual qualifications – ideally, a doctorate in theology.
What my guest found strange was the way the first two ordinands rounded on the third. Being theologically well-qualified was fine if you wanted to specialise, they said. But as for getting on in the church, it was surely more of a hindrance than a help. Good management and good connections were the way forward. Good theology would most likely hold you back, and might even marginalise you as ‘a specialist’.
My guest left at this point and headed over for our appointment. She reported the conversation with some bemusement. She asked whether or not I thought it was true. I said I hoped not; though I feared so. This is partly because our current appointments process serves a nest of core priorities: numerical church growth, management and organisation. Being a ‘teacher of the faith’ or offering cogent public theology has now moved from ‘essential criteria’ into the ‘desirable’ column. Theologians amongst our leadership may be appealing, but are not actually necessary. We can manage without, apparently. As a church, we are now management-led, albeit with an added emphasis on mission. We tend not to choose leaders with rough edges, or who might not fit the mould. (Never mind what the Spirit may be saying to the church; the managers run the show).
So, the managerially-led process delivers what the managers say the church wants: growth, organisation and management. So, predictability is preferred to prophecy. More alarmingly, consistency and compliance are mistaken for catholicity. As a church we have now confused management and leadership to such an extent that our system of preferment is geared up to the evisceration of truly creative theological leadership. This places a limit on the breadth of the Holy Spirit’s gifts.
But there is a further problem here. The managers driving such processes believe and act as though they are leading the church. As Adrian Wooldridge and John Micklethwait claim, ‘managers have always fancied themselves in the officer class’. Most key policy areas in the church today are governed not by theological leadership and vision, but by management. True, in some ways leadership is a process similar to management. Leadership entails working with people; so does management. Leadership is concerned with effective goal accomplishment; so is management. But whereas the study of leadership can be traced back to Aristotle and Plato, management science only emerged around the turn of the 20th century with the advent of advanced industrialized society. Management was created as a means of reducing chaos in organizations, to make them run more efficiently and effectively.
The primary functions of management – identified by Henri Fayol – were planning, organizing, staffing and controlling. These functions are still representative of management. Fayol worked for one of the largest producers of iron and steel in France. He became its managing director in 1888, when the mine company employed over 10,000 people. Fayol realised that the goal of management was to serve processes that produced predictable results. We make round pegs to fit round holes; square for square. Management eliminates rough edges. Any creative friction tolerated will have to be subordinate to the processes and their goals. So, management will not have a vision for an organic institution, where the wrong shapes might eventually meld together, or even ultimately make something better. As with management, so with the church, perhaps?
Comparing management with leadership, John Kotter’s work argues that the two are contrary, but also connected. The task of management is to provide order and consistency. The task of leadership, in contrast, is to produce change and movement. Management focuses on seeking order and stability, whereas leadership is about seeking adaption and constructive change. That’s why management and leadership will always need each other, of course.
Abraham Zaleznik’s work went one step further, however, and argued that managers and leaders are actually different types of people. He maintained that managers are reactive, and prefer to work with people in order to solve problems – but tend to do so with ‘low emotional involvement’. Essentially, they act to limit choices. In contrast, leaders are usually emotionally engaged. They try and increase the available options in order to resolve problems. Leaders seek to shape ideas; managers just respond to them.
Whether or not one accepts this leadership-management distinction, it is my contention that the church today is primarily a management-led organisation. Which is why the relatively new procedure for selecting diocesan bishops is so interesting to reflect upon. It has become a management-led process. The procedure is as follows. Interviews are held in Lambeth Palace or Bishopthorpe. So there is no opportunity for the candidate to see the place to which they might be called. Families and spouses – their needs (or indeed gifts) – are not part of the consideration process. There is little sense of this being a broader vocational discernment that involves a wide range of potential stakeholders. After a candidate has made a brief presentation, there is an interview lasting barely one hour. In such a short space of time, this hardly has the spiritual gravitas of a gathering designed to cultivate and capture discernment.
All candidates are asked the same questions. There is a nest of issues that all interviews focus on: the priority of numerical church growth, the need for management and clear organisation. But there is no time for vocational dialogue or the development of shared wisdom. There is no space for serious discussion about public theology and national issues requiring theological reasoning, or questions on international issues.
There is no time to test the financial acumen of a candidate, despite diocesan budgets measured in millions. Questions on how candidates might approach divisive issues are mostly avoided. There are sixteen people present at the interview, but around two-thirds of the interviewers will sit in total silence – there is not time for them to ask questions, or engage in conversation. All candidates are processed identically, thereby ensuring fairness and organisational compliance. When voting takes place, the preferred candidate needs a two-thirds majority. Compromises are perhaps inevitable at this point. Yet everything remains subordinate to ‘the process’.
Management-led processes tend to reproduce in their own image: more management. So the process cannot receive candidates, for example, who may be artful in the practice of ‘loyal dissent’ – a charism often thought essential for the church, not least for its own good health and conscience. Instead, the premium is placed on managerial compliance. The advent of women bishops will occlude this; but only briefly. The chance of a genuinely radical woman being appointed to a See remains remote. An emphasis on managerial amenability will, alas, see off any serious consideration of women who have prophetic or theological gifts.
A one hour interview for a position of major ecclesiastical responsibility will seem curious to most outsiders. Especially since many clergy, when applying for an incumbency, might spend the best part of the day being interviewed by a very broad array of people. So, for a bishop who will have hundreds of ‘employees’, and most likely sit in the House of Lords, a one hour interview seems a rather slight process of discernment.
At this point, some additional observations on the CNC interview process may provide further confirmation of the ‘management-led’ dynamics with which this section is concerned. All the candidates (up to four) arriving for a CNC interview are ‘pre-processed’ – required to fill in their DBS form (Disclosure and Barring Service check), and produce other relevant documentation before being seen by the panel. After all the candidates have been interviewed and sent home, the panel discussion and voting takes place. The first and second names eventually forwarded to Downing Street each require a two-thirds majority. This might seem like the end of the process – but not quite.
At present, an STV (Single Transferable Vote) system is in operation, by secret ballot. (See General Synod Standing Order 122, 2009, p.11, and recently amended in July 2013). Under STV, an elector has a single vote that is initially allocated to their preferred candidate. But as the count proceeds, and candidates are either selected or eliminated, that vote is transferred to other candidates according to the elector’s stated second and third preferences. However, this can produce some strange results. For example, it is possible for the panel to select a first choice candidate (who has secured a two thirds majority), but not reach agreement on a second name: in which case the whole process must be re-started from scratch. More generally, STV systems tend to eliminate the potentially more creative candidates, and coalesce around a compromise. So an STV system, on the face of it, might seem like a good ‘fit’ for the Church of England. It can engage seriously with the kinds of tribalism that might be represented in the various wings and factions of the church, but the eventual outcome tends to lead to a compromise candidate. (This does of course help explain why poets, prophets and teachers are seldom selected). But the system has other flaws. There is some anecdotal evidence that in the past, local panel members may have run a ‘party whip’ for their preferred candidate – effectively blocking the selection of any other nominee. So some tribalism can triumph in the process, after all.
Yet in all of this, the operation of such a complex system places managers, and managerial method, at the very heart and centre of what should actually be a process of spiritual discernment. Ultimately, the whole process – and any discussion of it – tends to keep theology and theologians in a subordinate relationship to management: on a short lead, so to speak. But this situation is hardly unique in the church today. Similar tales could be told of theological courses, colleges and programmes being controlled and shaped by central management; or by bishops, of pastoral and missional priorities being determined by executive managers. Some may ask, as this point, why doesn’t the leadership of the church do something about this? The answer is, simply, that our current leadership is now being led by management. And now that managers are in power, it is highly unlikely that they will put themselves out of office.
By replacing older vocational processes for discerning diocesan bishops with a newer set of managerial procedures, there is a sense of subduing the work of the Spirit – of managing the transcendence of God. To be sure, management never intended this. But in the relentless pursuit of control, compliance and consistency, the result is nearly always the same: predictability. The casualties are obvious: theological prescience and perceptiveness, both effectively eviscerated from the episcopacy.
A Wider Debate?
The sources of this malaise may lie in a misconceived ecclesiology – simply put, is the church an institution, or an organisation? If the former, then a broad and plural value system will shape ecclesial life; but if the latter, then the church behaves more like a sect, with clarty (and narrowness) in power-relations much more to the fore. Philip Selznick notes that,
The most striking and obvious thing about an administrative organization is its formal system of rules and objectives. Here tasks, powers, and procedures are set out according to some officially approved pattern. This pattern purports to say how the work of the organization is to be carried on, whether it be producing steel, winning votes, teaching children, or saving souls. The organization thus designed is a technical instrument for mobilizing human energies and directing them toward set aims. We allocate tasks, delegate authority, channel communication, and find some way of co-ordinating all that has been divided up and parcelled out. All this is conceived as an exercise in engineering; it is governed by the related ideals of rationality and discipline.
Philip Selznick argues that organizations primarily exist for utilitarian purposes, and when they are fulfilled, the organization may become expendable. Institutions, in contrast, are ‘natural communities’ with historic roots that are embedded in the very fabric of society. They incorporate various groups that may contest with each other over the very nature of the institution and its values. Following Selznick, a church is much more like an institution, thereby requiring a particular kind of moral leadership from its ordained leaders (including character, compassion and wisdom), rather than (mere) management.
For Selznick, the very term ‘organization’ suggests a certain rudimentary bareness; a kind of lean, no-nonsense system of consciously co-ordinated activities. It refers to an expendable and rational instrument engineered to do a job. An institution, on the other hand, is more of a natural product of the prevailing social needs and pressures – effectively a responsive, adaptive organism. This distinction, claims Selznick, is a matter of analysis, rather than of direct description. It does not mean that any given enterprise must be either one or the other. While an extreme case may closely approach either an ‘ideal’ organization or an ‘ideal’ institution, most living associations resist such easy classifications. They are complex mixtures of both designed and responsive behaviours.
According to Selznick, organizations are technical instruments, designed as tools or means for definite goals. The institutional leader, in contrast, is primarily an expert in the promotion and protection of values. And in one sense, this distinction between organizations and institutions can act as a helpful aid in reflecting upon and discerning the contrasting attitudes to leadership in the Church of England, and that have characterized ecclesiological organisation and attitudes to theological education. The more associational and congregational the pattern of churchgoing, the more likely it is that the sponsoring pedagogy for ministers will be rooted in organizational and pragmatic assumptions. The inward turn produces its own seeds: a move from institutional identity to organizational frameworks. Thus the church is clearly more like an institution than an organization. It embodies the life of Jesus in times of penury and persecution, as well as in stability or revival. What it cannot do is to try and change its focus. It risks losing its identity if it does. And this is quite an issue for an institution like the church, where our primary defining identity is the body of Christ. Why might this matter for the ecclesiology of the Church of England?
Most dioceses now live in the hinterland between organisational and institutional identity. Snappy strap-lines, logos and branding all suggest an appreciable attempt at creating a sharper distinctiveness. ‘Growing upwards, inwards, outwards…’, for example, may well provide a focus for cohesion and energizing. So might ‘Committed to Growth’ or ‘Going for Growth’ – two contrasting mottos for different dioceses in the Church of England at present. ‘Transform’ is the most commonly used word in the thirty or so Church of England dioceses that have straplines. The words ‘Jesus’ and ‘Love’ do not appear in any strap line.
Straplines are very much the tools of marketing for organizations. They belong to the same genre as ‘Coke adds life’ or Vodafone’s ‘power to you’. The straplines exist to engender publicity and popularity. (Although my personal favourite is ‘the Church of England: Serving the Nation with a Slight Air of Superiority Since 597’). Some welcome the relatively rapid adoption of new managerial and growth-related thinking in the church. Some do not. Indeed, the range of opinions indicates that the church may still be rather unsure of its moorings here. Are the vogue-ish organisational theories currently shaping the church a season in the desert, a stop-over in Babylon, or the proverbial sojourn in the Promised Land? As with most divisive issues in Anglicanism, there are at least three campfires of opinion. We know we are in transit – the church always is. But we are unsure as to whether the next gate is for a departure or an arrival.
It is perfectly understandable that we might want to better co-ordinate our mission and ministry. The question is how, and to what ends. Where you are in this debate will depend your understanding of God. And how you see the church: more as an institution, or as an organisation? What then flows from this is our understanding of the nature of ministry. So, re-branding and re-launching are fine for organisations seeking to maintain a customer base and grow new markets. But in contrast, such activity can be rather unsettling for institutions, often cultivating initiative-weariness. Furthermore, in constantly trying to remind the public of their identity and purpose, institutions can risk looking a little desperate, undermining rather than instilling confidence.
At the heart of this is a sense that measurable growth and rational organisation are relatively easy to introduce and reify within our institutions. But some commentators are less sure. David Hare, in his play The Power of Yes (2009), has an imaginary conversation between a pro-organisation banker and someone in public service, who works in an institution. The character speaking puts it like this:
…people say, ‘Oh get some private-sector people into the schools, that’ll sort them out.’ Actually I doubt if there are many jobs in finance as hard as teaching a class of fourteen year old boys in a tough school. Because business is in some way quite simple, it has clearly defined aims. The aim is to make money.
So you have a measure against which to judge all the subsidiary actions which add up to the overall result. Managing a hospital is rather more complex. Because it’s very hard to know what your objective is. There’s no money-metric to help make the choice between better cancer care or having a better A & E. It’s a judgement call. And running a hospital is an endless series of judgement calls where the criteria and objectives are very far from clear. So don’t tell me that’s easier than making money.
Later on, another character says this:
Once Bradford and Bingley became a bank, I remember taking an immediate dislike to a new non-exec who said, ‘I want one thing from this company.’ He said, ‘What I want is regular, incremental growth.’ In other words, he was saying ‘This company must grow every year.’ Now that we all know that nothing in the world shows regular incremental growth. You know that. I know that.
So growth is not an axiomatic certainty related to technique. We need a watchfulness; some careful husbandry – to step back, but also to be willing to plant. Not everything can grow all the time.
To quote an older and much-loved text, ‘we cannot persuade ourselves that the time is ripe for major works of theological construction or reconstruction…(but perhaps) it is a time for ploughing, not reaping’; ‘it is a time for making soundings, not charts or maps’. Soundings concludes with a startling essay from Alec Vidler, in which he questions whether the Church of England can be satisfactorily regarded as a ‘religious organization’. He thinks not, and argues for a national church, in which public debate – and salient theological contributions to such debates – can make a real difference to humanity. Vidler believed that the Church of England remains well-qualified, and less at peril, of becoming a mere ‘religious denomination’. Even if its anomalous relation to the state looks quirky to some, the advantages to public life and social well-being, and to the church itself, remain substantial.
The point is that the church – to be spiritually faithful to the vocation of incarnation – needs to heed the spirit of the age and the Holy Spirit, and to be engaged, therefore, in public theology, not private church-speak. Let me illustrate this, if may, by highlighting a 1971 Doctrine Commission that looked at a key aspect of public prayers in funerals, the Church of England drew the membership of this body from Donald Allchin, John Austin Baker, Christopher Evans, Leslie Houlden, John Macquarrie, John Packer, Hugh Turner, Arthur Peacocke, Maurice Wiles, Michael Green – amongst others. It is an impressive list. A more recent group in the church, forty years on, and configured to do more or less the same job, made for less satisfying reading. The membership of the group mainly reflects ecclesial party interests – with only a couple of names that have any profile in university or academic sectors. The comparison is striking for at least two reasons. First, it shows just how disconnected the church has become from mainstream academic theology. Second, the membership of the group seems not to be connected up with the wider contemporary academic debates on thanatology, care of the dying, social theory or any cultural studies in relation to bereavement. Indeed, there is no sign of any real engagement with the social sciences at all that might illuminate the reworking of our liturgies and prayers, and their public impact.
In December 2011, The Economist lead article had this to say about the Church of England:
Time and again, bishops sound like shop stewards for the welfare state, taking to the airwaves to demand the preservation of specific benefits without mentioning the church, the role of faith or Christianity. The church has a perfect right to comment on politics. If you love your neighbour, you must have a view on policies that affect his or her welfare. (But) England is an odd place: a secular country where an established church still has a role in public life (and, on the ground, does much unsung good).
But the economy may be about to fall off a cliff. That poses a huge test for the Church of England and its claims to be a source of national strength. If the church cannot offer a message more spiky and distinctive than social democracy in a clerical collar, it will fail that test.
In The Economist leader for December 2012, the tone was really not that much different:
…the prevailing view of churchmen, that disentangling church and state would be too complicated for any government to attempt, appears complacent. Indeed, the government might seem to have made a start on it. On whether or not that is a good idea, your columnist, like so many Britons, is agnostic.
In a godless age, an established church that can accommodate the values, if not the beliefs, of the increasingly liberal mainstream could provide an appealing historical continuity and space for discussion of ethics in public life. (But) a church doggedly at variance with public opinion will already have removed itself to the margins.
These journalistic summations of the present situation encapsulate a problem: what is it to be a public body, with a public theology – and yet also counter-cultural? And they also invite us to ask what the Holy Spirit might be saying to the church today. Two observations come to mind.
First, that the Church of England still has a vital role to play in contemporary culture: shaping society, proclaiming the gospel in the world, and embodying virtues and character that speak of freedom, truth, trust, love, peace, patience; and, above all, God. I hold that the Church remains a source of hope and an ark of salvation; and that the good news of the life, death and resurrection of Jesus remains as vital and relevant today as it did two thousand years ago. Second, however, that we do ourselves no favours as a church by failing in the role, identity and task – often inhibited through a lack of confident theological engagement with contemporary culture – by collapsing into narrow forms of conservative, reactive faith. We often fail to live up to our calling. If we could but find ways of developing confident theological engagement in contemporary culture, we may find ourselves less marginalized. So what might a recovered vision for the Church of England look like? And how can our church more faithfully embody the Holy Spirit to engage with the spirit of the age?
Recovering a Jesus-Centred, Spirit-Led Ecclesiology
It would be obvious, I suppose, to say that the earthly life and ministry of Jesus – and his advocacy and augmentation of the Kingdom of God – is the measure against which we judge the church. Jesus’ ministry confounded his contemporaries, and it continues to disturb our sense of boundaries. He reaches out to the Samaritan woman; and tells stories about good Samaritans, much to the annoyance of his potentially loyal Judean audience. He embraces the widow, the lame, the ostracised, the deprived and despised, and the neglected. He befriends the sinners and sinned against. He takes his tea with tax collectors. Jesus heals nobodies; the gospels, in nearly all cases, not able to name the afflicted individuals. The people Jesus reached out towards were excluded from the mainstream of society and faith. Jesus was no crowd-pleaser; he was, rather, their confounder. Jesus was a disturber of crowds. He did not seek their praise. He sought their commitment.
The kingdom that Jesus preached, however, was more than just a creature of his adult imagination and inspirational prophetic vision. His childhood, I think, had probably taught him a thing or two about people, society and God. He grew up in occupied territories, so had seen the good and bad side of that coin – oppression traded off against organisation. His childhood had included a sojourn in Egypt. And we know that by working in Joseph’s trade – carpentry and building (Gk. tekton) – he had, by living in Nazareth, been exposed to the nearby Roman settlement of Sepphoris. This was a Hellenized community of almost 30,000 in Jesus’ childhood, compared to the population of Nazareth, which boasted a mere 300. So Nazareth was a dormitory village supplying labour to a much larger cosmopolitan community nearby. It would have been full of Gentiles of every kind. So, from an early age, Jesus would have been exposed to a world beyond his native parochial Judaism.
The theatre at Sepphoris seated 5,000. It is almost certain that Joseph took Jesus. For Jesus, in his adult life, uses the Greek word ‘hypocrite’ quite a few times, which simply means ‘actor’ – one who is masked, and playing a part. What is significant about this, I think, is this. Jesus’ Kingdom of God project, was, from the outset, supra-tribal. It reached out beyond Judaism to the Gentiles. Indeed, he often praised gentiles for their faith, and often scolded the apparently ‘orthodox’ religion of his kith and kin for its insularity and purity. Jesus saw that God was for everyone; he lived, practised and preached this. We see this in the healing miracles that Jesus wrought – to a Canaanite girl, a Samaritan woman or a Roman centurion’s servant. To lepers, the blind, the demon-possessed; Jesus touches the untouchable, hears the dumb, speaks to the deaf and sees the blind. His healings are highly partial, being overwhelmingly directed to the marginalised and ostracised. It is there in parables too, with Jesus constantly teaching us about the least, the last and the lesser; God can’t take his loving eyes off the people and situations we most easily neglect.
The ministry of Jesus is startling in its inclusivity. Consider, for example, the feedings of the 5,000 and the 4,000. It is customary, in a kind of lazy-liberal and rather reductive way, to suppose that the gospel writers simple got their maths muddled, and were a bit confused about a single event. But in actual fact, there may be good reasons to regard the two miracles as quite separate. The feeding of the 5,000 takes place on the western banks of the Sea of Galilee. The region was almost entirely Jewish, and the twelve baskets of leftovers symbolise the twelve tribes of Israel. What then, of the feeing of the 4,000, and the seven baskets of leftovers? The event occurs on the eastern shores of the Sea of Galilee, and the region was almost entirely Gentile in composition. The seven baskets of leftovers correspond to the seven Gentile regions of the time (i.e., Phoenicia, Samaria, Perea, Decapolis, Gaulanitis, Idumea and Philistia). Moreover, the baskets in the feeding of the 5,000 (kophinos) are smaller than those mentioned in the feeding of the 4,000 (spuridi – a basket big enough for a person, as with Paul in Acts 9: 25). The point here is that the new manna from heaven will be distributed evenly, across all lands. There is plenty for all. The gospel of Christ is, in other words, radically inclusive: Jew, Greek, Gentile, slave, free – all shall be welcome in the Kingdom of God.
To some extent, it is a pity that the term ‘inclusive’ today has become so bound up with a slightly tribal and ‘liberal’ identity. But perhaps this should not surprise us. For the word ‘include’ began its life with a fairly insular definition. Drawing from the Latin word includere, it means to ‘to shut in, enclose or imprison’ – just as ‘exclude’ meant to ‘shut out’. But Jesus is not for either option. The defining character of the Kingdom of God Jesus inaugurated draws from a rather richer word: incorporate. That is to say, to put something into the body or substance of something else; from the Latin incorporare, it means to ‘unite into one body’. The Kingdom of God, like the church, was to be one of hybridity. A lesson Jesus learnt in his childhood, and embodied in adulthood. God brings us all together. He’s all done with working through a single tribe or race. The church that begins at Pentecost has been dress-rehearsed in Jesus’ ministry: it will be multi-lingual, multi-cultural and multi-racial. It will be multiple. Yet we, though being many, are one body.
The worldwide Anglican Communion is, of which the Church of England is a microcosm, is arguably, born of a hybridity and diversity that affirms the spirit of Jesus’ Kingdom project. Yet today its rich diversity also means that is also contains a great many varieties of tensions. On the surface, some of the most manifest difficulties appear to be centred on issues such as sexuality, gender, the right use of the bible, and the appropriate interpretation of scripture. But on its own, as a thesis, this is clearly inadequate, as tensions have existed within Anglicanism from the outset. There has not been a single century in which Anglicanism has not wrestled with its identity; it is by nature a polity that draws on a variety of competing theological traditions. Indeed, hybridity is an important key in understanding the wisdom of God – in Christ, his incarnate son – who chooses to work through miscibility rather than purity.
Jesus is for incorporation, and aware of the costs of that. Anglicans are born of hybridity and incorporation; in compromise – literally, to promise together – we find God. If this sounds an unlikely thesis, consider what the Jesuit scholar, Luis Bermejo, muses on his work The Spirit of Life (1989). There are four stages of ecclesial life, he says: communication, conflict, consensus and communion. Issues in the Anglican Communion tend to get refracted through this four-fold process, as much as they do through scripture, tradition, reason and culture. This is how the Holy Spirit moves the church; it is not the case that only the last of these stages – communion – is the ‘spiritual’ stage. The Holy Spirit is also manifest in conflict.
To have conflict, you have to have meetings: this is where difficulty, disagreement and acrimony are primarily encountered. But lest this sound negative, we do well to remember that Christian history, generally, is a history of progression through tense meetings. The great councils of Nicaea and Chalcedon, or the debates at Worms, the Reformations in Europe, right the way through to the First and Second Vatican Councils, and to Lambeth Conferences, are gatherings of differences and diversity. These are places where ideas clash, are discerned and distilled, before slowly forming into a rich harmony infused with tension and agreement. As any parish priest knows, it is no different in the local church. Christians work through differences to find common ground. Lex Orandi, Lex Credendi, Lex Vivendi: As we Worship, So we Believe, So we Live.
Tense meetings then, are rather uncomfortable vehicles to sit in; but those on the journey generally reach unity. But unity is not to be confused with uniformity. The first Lambeth Conference gathered because of disunity, not unity. In 1867, as now, a number of bishops refused to come. But it was not a disaster. Conflict is not a bad thing in itself; it can be creative and point to maturity in polity that is the envy of narrower ecclesiological frames of reference. Conflict can challenge commitment and breathe life into the connections that configure communion. Church is, after all, a long-term community composed out of committed relationships. It is not a short-term project or relationship that depends on agreement in the present; let alone an immediacy of rapport. In Communion – just like a good marriage – Anglicans work through conflict and difficulty; our faithfulness to God and one another sees to it that we find enrichment rather than weakness in our apparent tiffs and tantrums.
In focussing on the very idea of meetings – even difficult ones – we might be able to see more clearly something of the revolutionary character of the church. This lies in the radical nature of gathering, which in turn was rooted in the revolutionary character of a theology that believed in a God who called us to together to form a new community. The ecclesiology flows from the theology. Exactly how is this? To make the point more sharply, we need to understand that long, long ago, there were essentially two kinds of god. The older and more primal gods are those that emerged out of communities, tribes and nations, and consecrated their habits and forms of association as virtuous and sacred. The gods of the pagan world were of this kind, and they tended to reside in shrines and other specific places, and unless visited or called upon, did little to alter the day-to-day world of their followers. These gods looked like humans, lived and loved like humans; and they could even be as fickle as humans.
The other kind of God does not live in a shrine. The second kind calls new communities into being. Every area of life is touched. God is infinite and beyond human thinking and emotions – indeed, beyond comprehension. The second kind of God is timeless and placeless, and there can be no image for such a deity, save perhaps, the one that the Gospel of John gives us: the word made flesh. This kind of God is indescribable. All the words and images that convey the mystery and overwhelming reality are inherently insufficient.
And there are two kinds of religions. The first is older, and shrine-based. In ancient Rome, followers of the gods were much more like a clientele than a membership of worshippers. Clients came to temples with specific issues. But they patronised the temples and shrines; they did not belong to them. Thus, an average Roman in AD30 might pay a visit to the temple of Zeus in the morning for one serious matter; and perhaps hoping for luck in love later on, might patronise the shrine of Aphrodite or Eros on their way home from work. The temples and shrines charged their clientele for prayers, feasts, services and rituals. And many of the temples and shrines received financial support from the state as well. The gods who dwelt therein were appealing precisely because they were quite human in their virtues, faults, passions and proclivities. And they supported the state – and the status quo.
The second kind of religion was more difficult to fathom. The religion of the monotheists made no sense to the modern world of the first century Romans. A God who seemed distant and difficult to comprehend was one problem. But the larger problem for the first century Romans was that monotheistic faiths tended to gather crowds, or congregations. The worshippers belonged to their God, and then to one another in worship and bonded fidelity. Moreover, to follow this one God necessarily meant that that there was one kingdom – yet to be realized – that was greater than the state. To belong to a faith that had one omnipotent ruler or God was to align oneself with a spiritual and political outlook that potentially placed the congregation above and certainly at odds with the state. The catholic ideal was, therefore, first and foremost, a vision of faith that preceded the state, and would finally triumph over temporal authority. The earthly kingdoms of the present were mere interludes.
Partly for this reason, the Romans persecuted the Zoroastrians and the Magi, who intentionally gathered together for worship. They suppressed the Bacchanalians too, who also gathered as one. Isis inspired congregations too – and the Romans suppressed them as well. Just as the Romans also suppressed the Jews, and then the Christians – who also both formed congregations. There were good reasons for the Romans to be fearful of congregations. Every meeting was, potentially, a subversive political gathering; and coming together for worship could not fail to make a socio-political statement. To some extent, you can see the traces of this problem in modern China. The state is largely happy to support Daoism, Confucian and Buddhist temples – where attendance at shrine-based places of worship is mainly individual, not corporate. So churches, which gather people together, need a more watchful eye from the state.
There were other reasons to fear the new congregations rooted in monotheism. The old faiths dealt with the baser senses, and were rooted in civic ceremonies, private petitions and public feasts. The new faiths – of monotheism – touched the senses in quite different ways, and were rooted in liberation, joy and even ecstasy. There was talk of love for one another; and of a God who loved creation and humanity too. No Roman seriously believed that Jupiter loved them; their gods were fickle, and to be feared. But monotheists did think that God loved them – and although God was to be feared too, God was also a redeemer.
The new monotheistic faiths also stressed individualism and virtue. The gods of the state were to be set aside in favour of personal salvation. The monotheists believed that individuals could be saved; practices such as purification, prayer, baptism and other practices emphasized this. The new faiths also had scriptures – something the old faiths lacked. The emerging new faiths were, quite suddenly, written and therefore rational. They also became organized – not only with priests, deacons and overseers – but also as distinct bodies with memberships. Congregations came into existence. Romans were infrequent and irregular visitors to their temples and shrines. The new faiths gathered intentionally, purposefully and regularly: ‘when you gather…do this, in remembrance of me’. And this is partly what made them such a threat to the Romans. This is indeed partly why the church, like the synagogues, were persecuted; the simple act of gathering was of itself revolutionary.
But just how radical were these gatherings? If you could travel back in time to Paul’s Ephesus, you would notice, like any Mediterranean city of the day that it was buzzing with cultural and ethnic diversity – much like our cities today. But there were some crucial differences. It was difficult to keep order in such cities. Magistrates and other officers handed out justice, but a person who was not a citizen of that city could ask to be tried by their own people under their own laws. Paul, as a Roman citizen, was able to invoke the privilege. Cities, to be well-ordered, were governed by assemblies. These were sometimes called ekklesia – an ancient commonplace secular word from which we derive the term ‘church’. And to help keep order in cities, ethnic groups who were non-citizens often lived in neighbourhoods or ghettoes. Indeed, even in modern times, we find areas of a city – sometimes called ‘quarters’, such as a Latin Quarter, literally meaning places to stay – for the Spaniards, French, Chinese; and sometimes for groups that are marginalised (e.g., Jewish ghetto). In ancient times, the areas reserved in a city for non-citizens were known as paroikia – from which we get the English word ‘parish’. This is where the resident aliens lived; those who lived in the city, contributed to its welfare, but had no voting rights as such.
In the churches that Paul knew, the ekklesia was complex. People gathered – they assembled; in itself, unusual for a religion. In the first churches, we find Jews, Greeks and Romans; slave and free; male and female. All one in Christ. The slaves are marked with tattoos; the children run free; the men and women mix; origin and ethnicity no longer matter, for all are one in Jesus Christ. In this radical new ‘assembly’ of non-citizens, all are equal. Class, race, gender and age are all transcended. The ‘parish church’, then, is the inside place for the outsider. Or as William Temple once put it, the only club that exists for non-members. This is what it means to be one in Christ: built together to be the dwelling place of God; the oikos – ‘God’s household’. The body of Christ, indeed.
Churches rarely think about the origins of their identity in this radical way. They mostly go about their business assuming their values, and implicitly imbibing these from one generation to the next. In a way, this is a pity, as valuable practices are often left to chance: inchoate by nature, they simply persist implicitly. Churches rarely think, for example, about how and why they welcome the strangers and aliens in their midst – mostly very easily, and without fuss or further reflection. But welcome they do: not only giving to the stranger, but also receiving from them. This is not merely an observation about how Christians engage with others who are not kith and kin; it is also a remark about the oft-hidden dynamic of reception, gift and charity. So just how revolutionary is the church? Thomas Tweed observes that they:
(Religions)…are confluences of organic-cultural flows that intensify joy and confront suffering by drawing on human and supra-human (i.e., divine) forces to make homes and cross boundaries.
I am rather drawn to this definition of religion, and by extension, of churches. Churches, at their best – and one presumes a passionate real faith in a real God as a basis – know that good religion, when it comes together and gathers intentionally, performs four important transformative tasks.
First, they intensify joy. They take the ordinary and make it extraordinary. They know how to celebrate lives, love and transitions. They bless what is good, and raise hope, thanks and expectation in prayer and praise. They lift an institution and individuals to a new plane of existence – one of the blessing and thankfulness for what is and can be. And they not only move, but also intensify. Just as a birth becomes even more in a baptism, so in mission and ministry does a ceremony become more with prayer and celebration. Second, suffering is confronted. Working with pain, bereavement, counselling and consolation will be familiar to all ministers and churches – providing the safe space and expertise that holds and slowly resolves the suffering that individuals and institutions carry inside them. Third, the making of homes is a profoundly analogical and literal reference to the function of faith. Making safe spaces of nourishment, well-being, maturity, diversity and individuation; our ‘faith homes’ are places both of open hospitality and security. Fourth, faith helps us to cross boundaries – to move forward and over the challenges of life to new places. It can be crossing deserts to find promised lands; or passing from darkness to light. Religion never keeps us in one place; even with our homes, it moves us. It is in gathering that we meet the One who is present in bread and wine as we sit at table; who is there in the breaking of the bread; who makes our hearts burn as the scriptures are read. Meeting together is where we encounter Jesus Christ more richly than we can on our own. We discover the life-saving truths for the world in the radical act of our gatherings.
The Gospel of John seems to suggest that one of the key words or ideas to help us understand the ministry of Jesus and the subsequent blueprint for the church is that of ‘abiding’. The word is linked to another English word, ‘abode’. God abides with us. Christ bids us to abide in him, and he will abide in use. He bids us to make our home with him, as he has made his home with us. Christ tells us that there are many rooms in his father’s house. There are many places of gathering and meeting there. And central to the notion of an abode is the concept of abiding. To abide is to ‘wait patiently with’. God has abided with us. He came to us in ordinary life, and he has sat with us, eaten with us, walked with us, and lived amongst us. That is why John ends his gospel with Jesus doing ordinary things. Breaking bread; or eating breakfast on the seashore. God continues to dwell with us. He was with us the beginning; and he is with us at the end. He will not leave us. And he wants his church to abide with the world – and especially to be with all those who have no-one to be with them. The friendless, the forlorn, the forgotten – God wills us to abide with them, and with each other. Deep, abiding fellowship is God’s will for creation, not just well-organised congregations.
Conclusion:
That the Church of England currently finds itself over-managed and theologically under-led is not in doubt. There has been a weakening of theological acuity amongst our leadership, and the impact this now has on wider public theology, is not in doubt. That we have a convergent set of processes for a divergent church, and which are ill-equipped to capture the spiritual breadth of the church, and the work of the Holy Spirit breathing through the Church of England’s polity, is now very apparent. The problem is deep and widespread, and might be expressed, as one writer puts it, something like this:
…in the Church of England this (problem) is reinforced by a whole raft of legislation from national government and from the Archbishops’ Council. Child Protection, Disability Discrimination, Employment Law, Charities Law, Clergy Code of Conduct, Clergy Discipline Measure, Clergy Terms and Conditions of Service, Ministry Development Review and Continuing Ministerial Development requirements have all fuelled expectations that the clergy will routinely operate to professional standards of work, behaviour and accountability. There are good reasons why the Church should warmly welcome these developments.
We definitely do not need less professionally aware clergy pastoring and leading the twenty-first-century Church in mission and ministry….However, we must also realize that we are living with a major culture shift in the Church where there seems to be little room left for the old tradition of the ‘holy companion’ type of pastor, still less for the amiable, bungling, and largely ineffectual ‘holy amateur’.
At the same time as we are called to be locally and publicly holy and human we are expected to be professional about what we profess. This, with major changes in church economics, all leads to a much more ‘managerial’ culture in relationships between clergy and people and between clergy and those who call and lead them. This in turn leads to reinterpretations of the basic dynamics of ministry practice so that many clergy are coming to see their work, and even their personal spirituality, as an unending series of project management exercises (though they rarely express it explicitly in these terms).
This kind of cultural and institutional development is likely to have a strong influence on the way we think and therefore the way we speak about the people we lead and serve. If this ‘project management’ dynamic of ministry is allowed simply to continue without being subjected to careful theological reflection, it can suck the spiritual guts out of the clergy as well as of the churches they lead. The ‘language’ of the gospel and the language of those who lead in ministry can become foreign tongues of each other without anybody really noticing that it is happening.
It would be too easy, here, to point the finger at management, and accuse it of exceeding its authority. However, of more concern here is the accidental way in which mission-minded management stifles the creativity and challenge that the Holy Spirit brings to the church.
Do all bishops have to be subject to the same criteria for selection? Management says, in the interests of compliance and fairness, ‘yes’. But a more attuned ecclesial polity would answer with a resounding ‘no’. Some could simply be chosen. Other candidates could emerge through more locally-appropriate processes. London has no particular theological significance; a system designed and built in one small bureaucratic office need not be rolled out across the country. The process that is designed and implemented, in any case, has no parity with the power of a synod or the gravitas of conclave. It becomes hard to avoid a form of ecclesial narcolepsy if we have unintentionally muted theologians who have the necessary vision and urgency to cause the church to awaken. Management tends end up taming and domesticating the Holy Spirit – the very opposite of what the church needs in this century.
So, the revolutionary patience that Ched Myers speaks of, or the loyal dissent advocated by Gerald Arbuckle, can lose their place and value within a managerially-shaped ecclesial body. The possibility of radical theology – from the Latin, radix, meaning ‘root’ – and that gets to the heart of a matter, is quickly subsumed in cultures and agendas of conformity, management and productivity. Indeed, and to return to the parable of the sower, we can find that the forces of management and growth, weed-like, ‘choke’ the rarer border plants that contribute richly and differently to our fields of life, vitality and abundance.
Leadership, it is often said, is doing the right thing; and management is about doing things right. The church needs both, of course. But it is perhaps not unfair to say that the church of the post-war years has moved from being over-led and under-managed to being over-managed and under-led. Kenneth Thompson addresses this in his classic thesis, arguing that our post-war internal organizational reforms have been driven by two major external forces. The first, affecting the church in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, was the differentiation of institutions as they became more specialized in their functions. The church, for example, ceased to run adoption services in the way that it once did – or hospitals, universities and colleges, for that matter. The second to affect the church was an increased emphasis on rationality, accountability and productivity – such that we are increasingly pre-occupied with immediate, empirical and pragmatic ends. In other words, we try to justify our value through measuring success, and then driving that success by the criteria we chose to measure it by.
But what is often neglected by focusing on the measurable are more nebulous and extensive forms of engagement in public ministry. Prophetic engagement with issues of justice and peace, for example, may suffer: this can be time-consuming, and may not yield any immediate ‘measurable results’. Pastoral work too, is hard to quantify and measure. In all of this, the organizational-managerial star tends to rise, whilst that of the institutional-leadership wanes. The ‘life and work of the Holy Spirit’ becomes a box to tick on a form – not a rich vein of experience and reflection to explore and discern with potential candidates for a new post.
There is a serious theological issue bubbling underway in all of this. Augustine argued that the human mind could be divided into two; not left and right, but upper and lower. The higher part of the mind was the contemplation of God, and the lower for calculation and reasoning. A fourth century monk – Evagrius of Pontus – went further, and argued that there is something called nous – a kind of spiritual and intuitive intelligence, which only arises as the mind is in communion with God. It is this, I think, that the current managerial processes of the church lack. The processes for selecting bishops are mostly rational, measurable and transparent; they follow procedures. But for all their clarity, they lack spiritual intelligence. And they lack any theological basis.
Some years ago, John Milbank argued that the social sciences had little to contribute to our understanding of theology and religion. He suggested that sociology or anthropology attempted to ‘police the sublime’. Whilst I have always felt that social sciences and theology are rich in their complementarity, I am deeply concerned that the management sciences are now shaping our ecclesiology – ‘policing the sublime’. Certainly, managerialism is reining in the radical, patrolling our pastoralia and taming the theological. Wisdom is pushed to the edges; ‘management strategy’, masquerading as vision, has become central.
Some will doubtless opine that the church cannot wean itself off its absorption with management and mission, with such a narrow accent placed on efficiency and productivity. But as Wendell Berry has pointed out, the conviction that we cannot change, because we are dependent on what is wrong, is always the addict’s excuse. Deep down, we know it will not do. We, as national church, need be free of our distraction-dependency – of being satisfied with sating the quantification of expectation, and neuralgic yearning for conformity and control.
We need more emphasis on wisdom and depth; less dependency on orientating our life (and happiness?) by pursuing bigger number and better structures. We need more of the wild liberation of the Holy Spirit, and much less domination by mission-minded middle management. Only when we are free, can we begin to reclaim our identity as an institution that radically speaks of and embodies God – a vessel of God’s disturbing, disrupting and life-giving Holy Spirit rather than being consumed by shallower mission and management targets. To be sure, there is no doubt that the value of theological governance amongst our senior clergy has been steadily eclipsed by the current un-checked promotion of our own managerial culture, and by our absorption with mission and numerical growth. I hope that the tide will turn. But in truth, I fear it is still rushing in, and fast. The time has surely come to stop, reflect, and radically review. And to pray: ‘Come, Holy Spirit. Come’; ‘Maranatha’.
Coda
Much of our current church-focussed mission is about getting people in; but the gospel is basically about getting people out: ‘go!’ is one of the last words Jesus says to us. We should focus our energies on finding our communities and loving them; not on hoping they might find us, and like us long enough to stay awhile. Our misplaced sense of priorities is the problem. We often assume that the two fundamental problems confronting humanity are death and well-being; or poverty and lack. In other words, we do all we can to avoid ourselves, our communities and our churches declining; and do all we can to encourage growth.
But I think the heart of the gospel tells us that the main problem might be something different: alienation. Or perhaps put more sharply and pastorally, loneliness. Our isolation from each other, and from God, is the fundamental problem. This is how R S Thomas puts it in his poem, ‘The Word’:
A Pen appeared, and the god said:
‘write what it is to be
Man.’ And my hand hovered
Long over the page,
until there, like footprints
of the lost traveller, letters
took shape on the page’s
blankness, and I spelled out
the word ‘lonely’. And my hand moved
to erase it; but the voices
of all those waiting at life’s
window cried out loud: ‘It is true.’
And that is why God is Emmanuel – God is with us. He made us for company with each other, and for eternal company with him. God is with us in creation; in redemption, and finally, in heaven. God with us is how John’s Prologue begins – the Word was with God; he was with us in the beginning. God is with us in Psalm 23; he is with us in light and dark, chaos and order; life and death. Jesus, in his hour of darkness, longed for the disciples to stay with him; but they fled. But the women stood by him at the cross. And in the resurrection, Jesus is again, with us – more powerfully and intensely than ever. God is with us.
And I guess that is the question for the possibility of the church. As God is with us, can we be with each other? As God bears us all, can we bear each other? Can we truly bear the price of the church, which is togetherness; not being alone? For the possibility of the church is locked up in forsaking isolation from one another. Because togetherness, for company, and so that we should not be alone, is for what we were created. So I want to suggest that at the heart of ministry there is a deep theological mandate. To be with one another, as God is with us; and for our church leaders not to be so much for this or that; but with us too. We don’t want our bishops merely to manage decline; or to simply lead us into relative growth and prosperity. We want them to be with us, as a sign of God’s total commitment to this since creation; and in redemption. He is Emmanuel; God with us.
Ultimately, the shape of God’s future kingdom, and of our own church, eludes us. And this is certainly true for Anglicanism – both locally, on the ground, as well as internationally, as a Communion. For all of our ecclesiology and organization, and no matter how much we might claim our churches or denominations to be born of God’s nature or derived from human nurture, we need to heed Paul’s injunction: ‘I decided to know nothing among you except Jesus Christ and him crucified’ (1 Corinthians 2: 2). This is more than a declaration of some historical fact. Paul understands the crucifixion of Christ in cosmic terms: it stretches from the present to the very end of time. And so the Christ whom we know in the church – the only one we can know – is the One who was crucified and raised. But even when raised, still bears the marks of crucifixion.
The first disciples were troubled by this. They expected to see Christ manifest in some form of triumphant glory. But it was not so. The Christ who is revealed on the cross is the same who is revealed in the resurrection. The fullness of the revelation lies in the continuity. And this means that the church bears scars, wounds, pain and suffering in its ongoing life. The church – as wounded, but raised – is the body of Christ. The glory of God, it seems, will be made manifest in our weak and powerless states, not just our strengths and gifts. We find God in differences and in conflict, as well as in consensus and communion. The glory of Anglicanism lies, ironically, partly in its dependency and its incompleteness, as well as in its reformed catholicity. It lies in its breadth and depth; a pale reflection, no less, of God’s omnipresence and all-encompassing love. The true church of the Holy Spirit and Christ’s heart exists by incorporation – a lesson Jesus learnt in childhood, and embodied in adulthood. So here is how one former skeptic, a journalist, writes about the Church of England:
Why do I love it? Let me count the ways…I love it because it is patient. It does not expect the world to change in an instant, or to be bludgeoned into belief, because it knows that certain things take centuries. I love it because it is kind. It is kind enough to welcome strangers, whatever their beliefs, and shake their hands, and offer them a coffee after church…I like the fact that it is not arrogant or rude. I like the fact that it does not insist on its own way, but is genuinely tolerant of other religious beliefs – and none. I like the fact that it does not rejoice in wrongdoing, but quietly presents an ethical framework of kindness. I like the fact that it believes in the values of the New Testament, and of St Paul’s description of love, which I’ve just paraphrased, but also believes that it is more important to embody them than to quote them. I like the fact that it doesn’t speak like a child, think like a child, or reason like a child. I like the fact that it is mature enough to value faithful doubt. I like the fact that it is calm…
To be sure, the Church will survive. It is God’s body. He will not neglect it. That is precisely why gathering matters so much for churches and denominations, even when we are not quite sure of our moorings anymore, and perhaps even fear we may no longer belong together. Just ask the disciples, who when all seemed lost and hopeless, did not split up and go their separate ways. They still gathered together in an upper room, and waited for what must have seemed like an eternity. But wait together they did, for the promise of the Spirit to come upon them. And two other disciples, walking together one late afternoon, still in grief and shock at the loss of their messiah, and after a long hike up the road to Emmaus, invited a stranger who had strolled with them, to share in their simple supper. Anglicans know how that story ends. In breaking bread together, Jesus was truly present.
Notes:
The first part of this article is drawn from a short piece that appeared in the Church Times, 28th February 2014 (‘It’s Not Just About the Numbers’), and with a more extended version in in Modern Believing (volume 55, issue 3. 2014, pp.257-270).
Emma Percy, ‘The Church of England and Women Bishops: Questions of Authority’, Thinking Faith, August 14th, 2014. (See: www.thinkingfaith.org/…/church-england-and-women-bishops-questions).
See M. Percy, Easter Sermon, ‘More Than Tongues Can Tell’, April 13th 2013, delivered at Christchurch Cathedral, New Zealand, reprinted in Anglican Taonga, May 2013.
E. F. Schumacher, Guide for the Perplexed, New York, Harper, 1977.
K. Barth, Church Dogmatics, Edinburgh, T & T Clark, 1958, Volume IV, ii., chapter 15, p. 648.
See Eugene Petersen, see Under the Unpredictable Plant: An Exploration in Vocational Holiness, Grand Rapids, Michigan, Wm. B. Eerdmans, 1992; and J. Matthew Bonzo and Michael R. Stevens, Wendell Berry and the Cultivation of Life: A Reader’s Guide, Grand Rapids, Michigan, Brazons Press, 2008.
Statistics for the Church of England, London, Church House Publishing, 2012.
See R. Roberts, ‘Contemplation and the “Performative Absolute”: Submission and Identity in Managerial Modernity’, Journal of Belief and Values, volume 34, no. 3., December 2013, pp. 318-337. See also R. Roberts, Religion, Theology and the Human Sciences, Cambridge, CUP, 2001. Readers are also referred to Justin Lewis Anthony, “‘Promising much, delivering little’: Ministry Development Review and its secular critics,” Modern Believing, Volume 53, issue 2., April 2012.
Adrian Wooldridge & John Micklethwait, The Company: A Short History of a Revolutionary Idea, London, Weidenfeld & Nicolson, 2003, p. 11.
Henri Fayol, General and Industrial Management, London, Pitman, 1916
J. P. Kotter, A Force for Change: How Leadership Differs from Management, New York, Free Press, 1990
A. Zaleznik, ‘Managers and Leaders: Are they Different?’, Harvard Business Review, 1977, Volume 55., pp. 67-78.
See P. Selznick, Leadership in Administration: A Sociological Interpretation, New York, Harper, 1957. See also Paul Avis, Authority, Leadership and Conflict in the Church, London, Mowbray, 1992, pp, 107ff.
A. R. Vidler, Soundings, London, SCM Press, 1962, p. 3.
Luis Bermejo SJ, The Spirit of Life: The Holy Spirit in the Life of the Christian, Chicago, Loyola Univ Press, 1989
Rodney Stark, The Triumph of Christianity, New York, Harper 2011, pp. 9-31.
Stark, 2011.pp. 20-31
Thomas Tweed, Crossing and Dwelling, Harvard, Harvard University Press, 2006, p.12.
Ben Quash, Abiding, London, Bloomsbury, 2013.
Gordon Oliver, Ministry Without Madness, London, SPCK, 2012, p. 12.
See Ched Myers, Binding the Strong Man: A Political Reading of Mark’s Story of Jesus, Maryknoll NY, Orbis Books, 1970, and Gerald Arbuckle, Refounding the Church: Dissent for Leadership, London, Geoffrey Chapman, 1993.
K. Thompson, Bureaucracy and Church Reform: The Organizational Response of the Church of England to Social Change – 1880-1965, Oxford, OUP, 1970.
Augustine, On the Trinity, XII, 1.
Evagrius, ‘Chapters on Prayer’, in (trans. J. Bamberger), The Praktikos and Chapters on Prayer, Kalamazoo, MI, Cistercian Publications, 1981.
See J. Milbank, Theology and Social Theory: Beyond Secular Reason, Oxford, Blackwell, 1993.
I owe a profound debt to Sam Wells for these insights. See his OxCEPT paper from February 2013 on ‘what exactly is our problem, and what does God expect us to do about it?’, delivered at Ripon College, Cuddesdon.
R S Thomas Laboratories of the Spirit, London, Macmillan, 1975.
Christina Patterson, The Independent, July 29, 2009, p.28.
About The Author
