Everything We Need Is Right Here

Why I’m staying Anglican

This church is St Michel’s, Beer Hackett, Dorset. (Pics my own)

When I was elected to the General Synod of the Church of England, I thought I knew what I was getting into. There was going to be conflict ahead. But that’s nothing new. As an avid reader of Church History, I knew the stories of Archbishop Cranmer, forced to watch two dear friends burned alive before he himself went to the flames.

I was familiar with the story of William Tyndale, the great Bible translator who may also have done more for the English language than Shakespeare. Copies of his New Testament in English were gathered up and burned on the steps of St Paul’s Cathedral before he was hunted down, strangled and burned.

Many others suffered a similar fate. In view of their sacrifice, I figured I could probably go to a few meetings.

It turned out to be lots of meetings.

Being a member of the General Synod means that I’m an ex officio member of my PCC, my deanery synod and my diocesan synod. I was then elected to represent the House of Laity on the Archbishops’ Council, whom I, in turn, represent on the National Safeguarding Steering Group.

I’ve been to so many meetings that it’s possible I have Stockholm syndrome. I have fallen in love with my captor. Far from resenting the Church of England, I’m a more passionate Anglican than ever. There is so much to fight for, defend and cherish.

Another General Synod beckons. In fact, it’s a special Synod, called so that we can discuss the Prayers of Love and Faith (PLF), which I’m not going to get into here. Suffice it to say the flaws of the Church of England are public, obvious and concerning.

A Church Worth Fighting For

But I’ve become more and more passionate about its past, present and potential. Allow me to explain what I mean.

My Instagram account only has pictures of two things. Churches. And Trees. Okay, three things. Stuff my daughter bakes which always looks amazing. But mostly it’s churches. Church of England churches. The best kind. Usually rural ones in Somerset or Dorset. The very best kind.

Let’s be honest. Walk into a rural church mid-week and you don’t get the sense that much is happening. Maybe that church is on the critical list. In fact, maybe it’s already dead.

But I had thought in a church just over the border from me in Dorset, St Michael’s, Over Compton. Don’t worry. It wasn’t a word of knowledge, premonition or prophecy. It was a thought: this Church is not dead. It is dormant.

The Church of England is not dead. Some churches are dormant. Many. Most, maybe. Things may not be what they were in, say, the 1590s or 1670s, or even the 1910s. You don’t need to get out graphs and charts to know that or prove it.

But the Lord Jesus Christ is our King. When he told his disciples to go and make disciples of all nations, he meant exactly that. He did not say ‘make converts of individuals’. No. The whole nation needs to bow the knee to Christ. Not just individually, but collectively.

Call me a post-millennialist if you like, and I am, but if you believe in the possibility of revival, and you should, and you think Jesus told us to make disciples of all nations, and he did, we’re on the same page here.

So, back at St Michael’s, Over Compton, I looked around and thought to myself, this place is not dead. It is dormant. And one day, we’re going to need this building. Which is great because everything we need is right here.

Everything we need is right here

In fact, everything we need is in every dormant, sleepy or drowsy Anglican church because we believe in the same gospel as those using this Church in the 1590s, or the 1670s, or the 1910s. They were here before us, and they left us the tools to carry on the job. This is our inheritance for which we can give great thanks.

My own church is smack in the middle of Yeovil. You can see the tower for miles around. Although populations have ebbed and flowed over the last thousand years, and there’s the occasional church in the middle of a field, as a general rule a Church of England church is in the heart of a community. It is visible. There’s a big tower that’s almost certainly the tallest building in the village, and maybe the town.

It’s beautiful. It’s a design that has never gone out of fashion. I find it hard to believe that anyone looked at my own newly completed church in 1400 and said, “Look at this modern monstrosity they’ve put up. What’s wrong with Norman?”.

Our churches are beautiful, historic and connect us to our parents, grandparents, great-grandparents, who were married and buried and celebrated Christmas and Easter in these buildings. And it is there that they remembered their war dead.

These buildings are costly and draughty and in need of a faculty but they are a wonderful inheritance. The cost of them is nothing new. They were costly at the time they were built. My own church in Yeovil was built by a grindingly poor agrarian population that had only just recovered from the Black Death.

Nice mountains. But look at the grass. Green? Nope. Photo by Thomas Rohlfs on Unsplash

The Grass is Not Greener

You could decamp to a school hall on the outskirts of town to become a church that you’ll never find unless you know it’s there. Even though you’ve been meeting there for six years and no-one knows seems to know. I know it has its upsides. It’s church without all that baggage. The baggage is, at least, easy to find.

A lot of people like the baggage. They like the history and the tangible connection with the past. Watch Who Do You Think You Are? Or The Repair shop. We are a rootless generation, yearning for connection to the past, to our ancestors, to something outside of ourselves. We have an inheritance that makes that connection.

No idea where this is. But there are literally hundreds of churches like this in England. Isn’t that great? Photo by Will Tarpey on Unsplash

Here’s the Church and Here’s the Steeple

Look inside this rural church, St Michael’s, Over Compton, and you will find everything needed for the faithful ministry of word and sacrament.

There’s a lectern with a massive Bible. Our forefathers battled to put it there in the language of the people. And anyone who walks in is expecting us to read from it.  There’s a pulpit, from which you can preach. The Church of England is founded on the preaching of God’s word. People are expecting a sermon. You have a licence to preach. Literally. We can use that licence and have confidence that the Spirit will do his work through his Word preached.

There’s a table for the eucharist, and everything you need to celebrate the Lord’s supper as Jesus commanded is stashed away in a cupboard. Doing this week after week has an effect. How can it not?

But what do you say at the eucharist? How do you explain it as you go? How do you pray? How do you structure the service? All done. It’s there in Common Worship. And all the other authorised forms too, all ready to go. You don’t need to spend hours every week composing opening and closing prayers that are consistent with Scripture and the historic teaching of the church. All done. It’s in that book.

Pick it up. Open it. Stand there. When the people come, say the words. Out loud.

Lectern, Bible, pulpit, table, prayer book and, oh look, an organ or piano so you can sing God’s praises. And seats! Already laid out. That’s good. These seats are especially designed to be sufficiently uncomfortable so that the congregation won’t fall asleep during your sermon.

By the door, there’s a font – probably a huge stone construction in which thousands and thousands have been baptised into the church. And that is something many still want for their children - because they know that we are God’s offspring and image-bearers. God has put eternity into their hearts. And they will probably want to be part of a mums and toddlers group too – and are happy to join a Christian one in which Bible stories are told.

Photo by K. Mitch Hodge on Unsplash

Rose Tinted To The Max

My glasses are heavily rose-tinted. I’m being optimistic. That’s partly my nature. But the grass is not greener on the other side of the fence. You’re just exchanging one bunch of problems you know about, for another bunch you don’t. Like, how to get hold of a school janitor on a Sunday morning when everything seems to be locked.

Back when lots of my friends were looking at ordination and going into ministry, they often said the Church of England was the ‘best boat to fish from’. Sure. If you want to call a luxury ocean liner ‘a fishing boat’! Admittedly that ocean liner might have electrical wiring from the 1920s… and inadequate toilet facilities but you get the point.

England is strewn with beautiful churches at the heart of communities that proclaim the good news of Jesus Christ. If we want to make disciples of this nation, everything we need is right here. And until our bishops change the locks and throw us out, I think we should crack on.

I gave a longer version of this as a talk at a Church Society conference in August. You can listen to it here.

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