I’m not keen on saints. They’re too perfect. The nearest thing to saints I’ve come across are those who live with the most awful grinding problems day by day, hour by hour, minute by minute, yet still manage to keep their heads above water, if only just, smiling and glad to be alive.
Being a saint is not about piety and being seen to do the right thing. It’s about persistence, perseverance, determination, self-knowledge. It’s about disturbing the comfortable and not being swayed from the cause of right. It’s about being real and authentic.
Prophet Micah says do justly, be merciful, walk with humility. Prophet Stanley says Micah is right. One day you’ll be dead, and it could be very soon, so live life to the full: justly, mercifully, humbly. Those who do that, who use their gifts and lives to make the world a better place, are saints in Prophet Stanley’s book.
If you want to be remembered as a saint, forget it. If you don’t care how you’re remembered other than as someone who did their best, then you might be in with a chance—if that matters, which it shouldn’t.
It’s trite to say that every saint has a past and every sinner a future, but its true. Prophet Stanley goes further and says that you’ve no chance of living life to the full unless you’ve cocked up in the past—cocked up often, and learnt from it. The words of an All Saints hymn “we feebly struggle, they in glory shine” are wrong, wrong, wrong. They shine, and we shall shine, because we have feebly struggled, and continue to feebly struggle.
We are creatures of this earth. From the earth we come and to the earth we return. Nature gathers up particles and atoms and molecules into what you see when you stand with no clothes on in front of the mirror. And when you pop your clogs you disintegrate as molecules and atoms and particles return to the cosmos for reuse. Some might say it’s a kind of reincarnation. Certainly, nothing is wasted.
Earth. Humus. Humility is the key. Feet planted firmly on the ground, living in the here and now, not in some la-la-land of your or someone else’s imagination, or of how things used to be when you were young.
People come, people go, but particles, atoms, molecules remain. And, get this:
we are never not in the presence of particles, atoms, and molecules of those who’ve been before us; we are never not in the presence of particles, atoms, and molecules of those who will follow us: we are never not in the presence of past and future.
One of my former churches was often visited mid-service by a vagrant. He tended to arrive “tired and emotional” during the sermon. I welcomed him from the pulpit and told him to sit down and shut up. After some chuntering he did. He enjoyed the wine. We chatted afterwards.
That man suffered the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune more than I shall know, for he died recently. He coped with life as best he could without the insulation I enjoy that comes from stable relationships, employment, a roof to sleep under, and a pension. His addictions more often got the better of him than do mine of me. His courage was all the greater. He added colour and earthiness to a narcotic and entitled church community. I shall miss him.
You might remember Terry Waite, adviser to a former Archbishop of Canterbury, who was captured and kept in solitary confinement for over three years in Lebanon. He speaks with some authority about how to survive in difficult times.
He has in no uncertain terms told us to stop being so pathetically wuss (my words not his) about dealing with the privations arising from efforts to stop the spread of covid. We should stop moaning and be constructive about organising our lives. We could read more, be creative, use technology to chat to people. However bad we think it might be, it has to get a lot worse before it compares with being on your own in a Beirut shithole for years. In short, we should take responsibility for ourselves and not expect someone else to come along and sort us out.
It applies to every aspect of life, not least health.
Actions have consequences. If you stuff your face with cream cakes from the rising of the sun unto the going down of the same, don’t be surprised if you get fat, develop diabetes, have a heart attack, and suffer from joint disease because your joints weren’t expecting to have to support a ten ton truck.
Part of the blame lies with the NHS—or rather the way we have allowed it to develop. Having it as a safety net is one thing, but now we expect it to deal with the consequences of our stupidity. We think that we have a right to feel as good at 70 as we did at 30. We refuse to take responsibility for ourselves in the expectation that the NHS will sort it out for us.
It’s a bit like praying to a sky-pixie to sort out problems that we have brought on ourselves. Indeed, it is exactly like that. The Dalai Lama has pointed out how silly it is: “humans have created this problem, and now we are asking God to solve it. It is illogical. God would say, solve it yourself because you created it in the first place.”
And so with health.
Make a weekend visit to a casualty department (after covid, if it ever ends). Wade through the vomit on the floor caused by alcohol overconsumption. Is this what the NHS is for? Why should doctors be non-judgmental? When I was a teenager, my GP told me I was too fat and should do something about it. He was right, and I did.
None of this is easy to manage. Some of us eat to make us feel better about ourselves. At least the food loves us even if nobody else does. Some of us have genetic predispositions to certain conditions and there is little we can do other than manage them. Life is difficult. We are at the mercy of our obsessions and addictions – and don’t kid yourself that you don’t have any because we all do. Here’s a list.
Nicotine/tobacco. Alcohol. Exercise, Porn. Golf (I’m not old enough to play golf, but I’m told that it’s popular amongst the brain dead). Recreational drugs (cannabis is less dangerous than alcohol; cannabis rice krispie cakes are delicious). Religion: ecstatic trances of mystics are orgasmic, and for some people religion is merely a prop like smoking or drugs or booze to help them get through the day. Some people are addicted to money, power, controlling others, pleasing people, wanting to change people, gambling, internet, social media, books, buying stuff you don’t need, gossiping, criticizing, moaning, being miserable.
We’re all addicted to something—several things in my case. Look at your addictions. If you think you haven’t any, you deceive yourself. We are all in recovery from something.
You hear people compare themselves to others: “if she can eat it, why can’t I?” The sad truth is that as with everything else, our bodies and our metabolisms are unpredictable. We are not all the same. Swallow a handful of paracetamol and see what happens. Some of you will have no detectable symptoms; some of you will die. Or covid: some people have mild or no symptoms, some have serious symptoms that last ages; some die.
And all of you will die sooner or later. The longer you live, the more likely you are to die. Life is not fair. Life is uncertain. Get over it.
One of the first things that medical students do is study a dead body. It is a ritual that helps define them as trainee doctors. All their patients will die, and so will they. As a priest, at every funeral I took I pointed to the coffin and said “every single one of you is going to go in a box like that, and it might be later today, so get your affairs in order, make peace with those you need to, and if there’s something you need to do, do it now. And stop moaning”. I had more complimentary remarks as a result of that stark advice than ever I expected.
My reading of Scripture tells me that we are to be responsible for ourselves. You are no good to your neighbour if you don’t look after yourself. The NHS encourages some of us NOT to take responsibility for ourselves, instead remaining as infants expecting nanny (NHS staff) to deal with the consequences of our idiocy.
You could say that the NHS is UNChristian in tolerating irresponsibility.
Following my blog Avoid the stupid and hardworking about the Prussian Army types that Baron Kurt von Hammerstein-Equord encountered, a friend has written an updated version for today’s British Army. My correspondent is an Army Officer so is well qualified for the task.
Some thoughts from a more modern perspective – about 1952, which is where the Army is stuck.
The Army is a firm believer in investing in people and maximising talent [pass the sick bag already], which mean that the MOD can pay a consulting firm millions to develop glossy on-message brochures, which they then roll up to sodomise you. The Army’s version of maximising talent is putting the big lads first to act as a human buffer against razor wire.
The personnel appraisal system has mysteriously endured through successive defence reviews and budget upheavals, I imagine because it is now so entrenched in our language that the thought of changing it would have senior officers reaching for the sal volatile—or the nearest NCO to give him a good lashing.
We in the Army are “thirded”. Top third, middle third and bottom third. All three are used as a form of introduction, though never in the presence of the subject. “Did you know that Capt Suchandsuch is joining us next month? I’ve heard he’s a solid middle thirder.”
Bottom thirders are referred to in a number of ways. Lizard, melt, creature, and cluster are the most common. In the officer’s cohort insults abound: “I wouldn’t follow him around a supermarket”; “he has all the depth of a car park puddle”; “he has the breaking strain of a soggy kit-kat”. These chaps tend to go to the logistics corps, although there is a smattering of them across the Army. They tend to have utterly unfounded yet deeply held self-belief, and often fall in to the bracket of the dangerously incompetent [von Hammerstein-Equord type 4]. The best thing you can say about a bottom third officer is that he’s bottom third but he knows it. Sadly, a lot of the senior leadership are bottom thirders. They have survived by dint of ‘staying on the log’ – more on that later – and have been promoted simply by remaining alive long enough, but certainly not through merit.
Some of the more progressive, or soft and “caring”, officers have pointed out that “bottom third” is a rather humiliating term – bad for morale – and have suggested alternatives such as “lower third” or “other third”. Needless to say this silly wokery hasn’t caught on, and those who suggest it are shunted off to bottom third jobs where they can’t do any more damage.
Most people – 90% – constitute the middle third. Synonyms include “won’t set the world on fire”, “bit of a grey man” and “I honestly can’t remember anything he has ever said”. They won’t fuck-up but they bring no glory. They are officers who would make it through a war without firing their weapon or dying. They are generally content with their lot. They aspire to retire on a Lieutenant-Colonel’s pension somewhere in the Cotswolds with a spaniel, a couple of kids at uni and a spouse in a Barbour jacket, Alice band and solid employment. As soldiers, these are the guys you want: reliable, competent, and usually extremely good company.
Top thirders are either extremely effective or the absolute worst. The worst are the thrusters, those who know how bum-snorkel like a champ, reliably absent when any actual work needs doing, but appearing like a shapeshifter moments before the CO shows up. As officers they epitomise the Sandhurst ethos of “run fast, shout loud”. You can have all the substance of candyfloss, but run fast and shout loud, and well, you’re in the top third, my lad. Thrusters know they are thrusters, and don’t care. They would happily sell their granny for facetime with the boss, and they would just as fast throw that boss under a bus for some crotch-sniffing with a general.
The good top thirders are referred to as genuinely good blokes, gleaming, or golden. They are rare and valuable, both extremely competent and self-aware, and for that reason usually lift the curtain of the Army sooner than most and have all left within six years of joining to earn gazillions in the City. The ones that stay do well, they are the ones who normally make Chief of General Staff level.
Earlier, I wrote of “staying on the log”. This refers to the log run. On arrival in basic training every recruit is given the necessary kit to survive the impending course, including, ominously, a short length of rope. The purpose of this becomes clear a few weeks in – you knot with another, slip it underneath a horizontal telegraph pole, and as a team, all with your little rope holders, lift the log and run with it forever. There is always a rotating reserve and when your hands begin to bleed or you feel you cannot hold on for much longer, you rotate out and get a bit of a breather, until the next sorry sod raises their hand, at which point you rotate back in. If you fall back or fall over, you get the honour of a place in the jack wagon, the slow moving landrover which follows behind such activity for health and safety reasons. Going in the jack wagon is a heinous sin – you had best be dying, but more likely you are a malingering bottom thirder with an ouchy leg. Staying on the log at the front, setting a ridiculous pace and bellowing “keep it up, chaps” every few minutes is a top thirder’s role, thrusters and good blokes alike. But as long as you are still on the log by the end, even if that means getting out of the jack wagon because your ouchy leg feels a lot less ouchy now the end is in sight, then you pass. Hence the term, stay on the log.
Here ends my correspondent’s text. The parallels with the church are striking.
So there we have it, girls and boys. There are lots of ways to classify people. Perhaps you like von Hammerstein-Equord’s taxonomy. I do. Perhaps you see merit in the Army’s thirding. I do. Perhaps like me you can see lots of overlaps. Invent your own taxonomy. I used to classify people as fxxkers, wankers and buggers. Then I added tossers. But this isn’t really adequate since for me wankers and buggers (as in silly …) are terms of endearment, and none of them sufficiently describes the scabbiest specimens of the species.
In any case, have a good laugh. And for goodness sake, look in a mirror and laugh at yourself.
I have recently – too recently – come across a rather splendid way of putting people into pigeonholes.
It’s based on the quite brilliant taxonomy of the Prussian officer class by Generaloberst Baron Kurt Gebhard Adolf Philipp Freiherr von Hammerstein-Equord (1878-1943).
“I distinguish four types,” he wrote. “There are clever, hardworking, stupid, and lazy officers. Usually two characteristics are combined. Some are clever and hardworking; their place is the General Staff. The next ones are stupid and lazy; they make up 90 percent of every army and are suited to routine duties. Anyone who is both clever and lazy is qualified for the highest leadership duties, because he possesses the mental clarity and strength of nerve necessary for difficult decisions. One must beware of anyone who is both stupid and hardworking; he must not be entrusted with any responsibility because he will always only cause damage.”
Here is my take.
Clever and hardworking. Reliable, meticulous, imaginative, industrious. They get things done. Inclined to be workaholics. Good friends.
Stupid and lazy. They work to live. Don’t think too much. Not over bothered about standards: “it’ll do”. Good fun.
Clever and lazy. Strategists who see the big picture but have the sense and humility to know that masterly inactivity is often the way. They don’t need to bolster fragile egos by waving their willies about. They are aware of all possibilities, all the “what ifs?”, but they don’t waste their or anyone else’s energy by imposing silly tasks. They are aware of their own strengths and weaknesses and welcome wise advice – indeed they seek it. They can be firm and courageous in making difficult decisions, and neither stand nor impose nonsense. Without doubt, these people should be, but so rarely are, in charge.
Stupid and hardworking. The most dangerous. With their misplaced self-confidence linked to a combination of intensity and density, they fool people into appointing them to senior posts. Because of their arrogance and the ignorance of their own limitations, they wreak havoc and endanger others. They are like black holes, sucking the life force from all they come into contact with. They stifle initiative and surround themselves with even stupider yes-men so as not to be challenged.
It’s not difficult to categorize people thus. The fourth group is stuffed full of politicians. I guess that most bosses fall into the first (good) and fourth (not good), whereas ideally they’d be in the third – clever and lazy. Doctors are easy to categorize too. And so are clergy. Use your imaginations, but suffice it for me to say that being a member of the fourth category seems to be a prerequisite for preferment.
Baron von Hammerstein-Equord was an interesting man. Aristocrat, Prussian then German army, and plotter against Hitler (how did the Baron survive?). At home he openly talked of planned anti-Jewish action so his many children could warn their Jewish friends. Two daughters passed information to the Soviet Union by means of the German Communist Party – indeed the whole family was somewhat cavalier about their own safety in the increasingly repressive Nazi state. He knew the Gestapo were onto him, but he bashed on.
He died of what might have been parotid cancer having ignored symptoms – typical man – for years. I suppose the cancer got him before the SS.
Two months before he died he said to a visitor “I am ashamed to have belonged in an army that witnessed and tolerated all the crimes”.
A good and decent man, and clearly an extraordinarily shrewd judge of people.
The Church of England is, to put it mildly, wetting its knickers about attendance. No punters, no moolah. In a bid to save money it’s dumping ordinary clergy and leaving posts unfilled. It’s still appointing bishops and administrators, but that’s modern management for you.
Church hierarchs – and let me assure you that I yield to no-one in my admiration for and loyalty to the church politburo – think that mission initiatives will sort it all out. There’s a whole series of blogs I could write on the idiocy of this, but though I’m convinced that there are too many people on the planet and humanity needs culling, death from boredom reading this blog is not the way to do it. So let’s move on.
In a recent Church Times piece, a senior cleric suggests that missions could be held in gyms and cafes. A retired colleague, Dean Henley, pointed out on the blog Thinking Anglicans some of the difficulties of this in a gym, bearing in mind “the sound of the thumping treadmills, the pop music, the grunting and the slamming metal of the weights machines” and that most of the participants wear headphones. “It might not be the right time to ask if someone is saved as they attempt the downward dog in a yoga class.”
He is absolutely right. I go further.
People who don’t use gyms often have a mistaken view of what goes on in them. Perhaps they see them as social clubs with people chatting, gossiping, making deals, arranging dinner parties, having a pint or a gin after sitting on a bike for 5 minutes in the latest designer gear, peering into mirrors saying “does my bum/belly look big in this?” Like a golf club, I suppose (I’m not old enough to play golf, so I wouldn’t know for sure).
I’ve been a gym rat for over 40 years on and off. What I see are people with focus, determination, discipline, and commitment to healthy living. They mind what they eat and drink, so church functions with their farinaceous and sugar-laden fare are for them (and me) evil.
For us, gym = church. There are all sorts, conditions, faiths, races, ages, shapes and sizes. The atmosphere is businesslike and purposeful. No gossip, socialising or preening – there just isn’t the time when you’ve got to be back at work. The admiration of someone with a fine physique is not accompanied by snide remarks or by belittling those without, as would often be the case in equivalent circumstances in church where cattiness can be woeful. On the contrary, in gyms there is acknowledgement of the courage it takes to start a journey: mutual encouragement.
So I ask myself: what would anyone who takes physical wellbeing seriously enough to be a gym regular want or need of church? What does church have to offer that gym does not?
Every good thing that church provides is available at the gym: companionship, common purpose, community, ritual, discipline, time out from the daily grind. People mind their own business but are happy to help when asked. No bossy interference.
And the gym provides one thing that church does not: a sense of achievement.
Does the church offer anything that gyms do not?
Yes. The threat of damnation. Indeed, the church harps on incessantly about this: after a good sing, it has people grovelling for being miserable sinners. Now, given that many of us use the gym as therapy for depression, anxiety and other mental health issues, being brought down low by this medieval control-freakery (control is what it’s all about) is not conducive to mental well-being.
Gym wins hands down.
The church politburo has it the wrong way round. If they are serious about spreading the message of Jesus Christ – life abundant – then rather than running mission initiatives in gyms, they’d be better off making gyms of all the churches. A different sort of conversion.
At first, the virus signalled the end of the world. Now we know it to be neither particularly lethal nor particularly infectious.
We have been led to hysteria.
Opinions differ about the lockdown. Evidence is equivocal: its effects, however, are not. The economic consequences will be felt for generations, and the geopolitical maelstrom is only just beginning.
But whatever about the big picture, the lockdown has been desperately cruel for many, especially the chronically ill, the dying, the grieving, and those in sheltered accommodation and care homes.
The purpose of this piece is not to provoke discussion about the handling of the pandemic or the nature of the lockdown, but rather to let a dear and longstanding friend tell the story of how it has affected him and his wife. They are examples of the heroism that has emerged from this terrible wound that our society has inflicted upon itself.
Over to you, friend.
I already look with horror at the misery caused not by the virus but by our response to it. My wife, sadly, has dementia and Parkinson’s disease, and has lived in a care home for over three years. I was excluded from visiting her altogether from the day lockdown started and left her the day before that wondering if I would ever see her again. Her capacity precludes any meaningful contact by telephone or video calling.
The home has been visited by the virus with proportionate fatalities, but she has not so far been infected as far as I know. But over the first two months she gave up eating and drinking properly, lost more than half a stone in weight and has not been out of doors other than to make two trips to A&E following falls with injuries. Without saying how, I have found my way round the restrictions on visiting though I am limited to one visit per week at present. She is now showing more interest in eating and her mood has lifted at least some of the time.
I am slightly nervous, as lockdown is lifted, that my access may perversely be blocked again for reasons of preventing virus spread in the interests of others. The national policy has been one of panic rather than reasoned risk assessment with measured responses.
The English public, if it thinks of the Church of England at all, assumes it’s phenomenally wealthy, and that the church receives funding from the state or from taxes.
None of this is true.
The church is at a crisis. The history of how it has come to this is long and complex involving mediaeval laws and customs, agricultural and land legislation, economic changes, societal and cultural changes, the impact of scientific endeavour, and more. But though the history is interesting, we must move on from where we are now.
Funds come from:
personal giving by parishioners;
fees from weddings and funerals;
parish rental and investment income, if any; and
subventions from the Church Commissioners whose funds are also dependent on rental and investment income.
As a result of lockdown, church closures and economic effects of government response to the virus:
Giving has plummeted. Although some churchgoers give by standing order or direct debt, more do not, instead putting cash on the collection plate week by week—which of course has completely dried up. Most churchgoers are elderly and many know nothing of online banking.
There are no occasional offices in church at present, and in any case they were in sharp decline before covid.
Church halls are shut, so there is no rental income. Income from residential and commercial property is significantly reduced. Investment income has been decimated by the stock market crash.
Commissioners’ funds have taken a big hit for similar reasons.
Funds from parishes, sources 1, 2 and 3, go to:
Pay, pension and continuing training for all clergy except bishops and cathedral deans.
Diocesan advisers, administrators and secretaries
Churches, parish buildings and their maintenance
Funds from Commissioners, source 4, go to:
National mission initiatives
Central administration (Church House London, Lambeth Palace), large and Byzantine.
Subventions to dioceses to help plug the gap between what comes in from parishes and what goes out in pay and pensions. Such subventions do not close that gap.
Most dioceses are using reserves or are already bust.
Liverpool and St Albans have furloughed some clergy.
Sheffield even before covid was aiming to reduce paid clergy numbers by almost a half in the next few years.
Worcester has asked the public for donations to pay clergy.
Chelmsford has told parishes if they can’t stump up £60K annually, they won’t get a paid parson, and has announced that paid clergy will be cut by a third.
It’s acknowledged or rumoured that Truro, Hereford, Sodor and Man, Blackburn, Manchester, Newcastle, Derby, Leicester, St Edmundsbury & Ipswich, Southwark, Rochester, Portsmouth, and Guildford (Surrey of all places!) are at the edge or just tipping over. Others too possibly.
One source who knows Carlisle diocese said that the only reason it isn’t bust yet is because it doesn’t spend anything – and as a Carliolian by birth and Cumbrian by descent and upbringing, I see this as admirable prudence.
Clergy pay and pensions
Consider these figures.
1 Archbishop of Canterbury £85,070
1 Archbishop of York £72,900
1 Bishop of London £66,820
39 other diocesan bishops £46,180
About 60 suffragan (assistant) bishops £37,670
43 Deans £37,670 (Dean of Oxford not remunerated by the Church)
About 100 Archdeacons £36,100
Ordinary paid parsons £25,265 minimum (about 5000 I guess)
Although the typical parson receives an annual stipend of just over £25K, the cost to the parishes is about £60K since the parish share also funds the parson’s pension and continuing training, parsonage maintenance, and diocesan staff such as mission advisers, safeguarding advisers, vocations advisers, and other advisers, administrators and secretaries. The church collects the money and passes it to the dioceses that then pay the clergy. Wealthy parishes that pay more than £60K in theory subsidise poor parishes that can’t afford to. Some do. Other wealthy parishes resent giving their money to an organisation that they disapprove of and withhold what they are asked to pay as a form of blackmail.
Since income from parishioners (source 1) has now dried up, the Commissioners recently loaned the dioceses £75 million to tide them over the covid crisis. Note: loaned—I’ll return to that. The pension is a significant call on funds, for it is a non-contributory defined benefit pension with a very generous lump sum. Furthermore, for Bishops, Deans and Archdeacons, the pension enhancement that comes from their increased pay is backdated to the year of their entry into clerical orders—this could amount to 20 years’ worth enhanced pension. That is scandalous.
Pensions used to be the responsibility of the Commissioners, but in 1997, after the Commissioners had had their fingers burnt, they were passed to the dioceses, that is the parishes. Parish income having now collapsed, the Commissioners will have to pick up the cost, and this will leave a big hole in their assets—unless of course clergy pay and pensions were to be slashed.
Sources 1, 2 and 3 also fund the building. Think ancient, damp, roof, structure, stained glass, organs, plumbing, electrics, heating, and more. Think of a building the size of a small cathedral, often to be found in inner city deprived areas, sustained by a regular congregation of say 25 people all over the age of 60.
Remember that the vast majority of congregations are numerically tiny, elderly, and on pensions. As a result of the lockdown they have lost the habit of weekly attendance. Lost habits are hard to re-establish. Will they want to return given the anxiety that will persist about catching the virus? How many will still be alive next year? Another issue is that many churchgoers have loyalty not to Christianity, nor to the parson, but to the building and, in rural areas, to the graveyard where they wish to be buried with their ancestors.
Why would these people continue to give to church funds if they’ve stopped attending? And it’s unwise to put any faith in online worship: it brings in no money, it requires web access and equipment, it is yet another task, and it is questionable how well supported it will be when people are able to resume “normal” activities.
The Commissioners fund, in short, cathedrals, bishops, central administration, training institutions and mission initiatives. In 1997 their assets were about £2.5 billion. After they stopped funding clergy pensions, assets grew to about £8 billion. As I said earlier, that’s being eaten into as I write: property prices and rental incomes are slashed, markets are depressed, and with working from home here to stay, rent from commercial properties is in short supply. And now they will have to take back most or all the pensions burden.
So far, then:
Parishes are in the red and reserves are being gobbled up.
Dioceses are in the red and reserves are being gobbled up.
The £75 million loaned to the dioceses some weeks ago won’t last long – it may already have run out. How can dioceses be expected to pay back this loan?
Prospects are gloomy.
You can see why there’s a money problem.
And I hope you can see that the biggest drain on funds is clergy pay and pensions.
What to do?
Closing and selling off churches has been suggested.
Who wants them? Few are amenable to other uses. They wouldn’t raise much cash given present property prices, and once a church is sold, it’s sold.
If they are sold, the heritage brigade will be up in arms: national heritage, part of the landscape. belong to the community, the people’s patrimony – all this they will cry. Morally, selling them to fund the religious activity of a dwindling sect is questionable since the buildings over the centuries were largely funded from taxation or levies and so can indeed be said to belong to the people.
Most significant of all, many—most—people are emotionally and atavistically attached to churches whether they attend or not: churches are community temples and memory deposits; they are often focal points of community cohesion. People care about churches and graveyards, but they don’t care about a resident parson. To them, buildings matter more than clergy or doctrine. Many clergy, and I suspect bishops too, find this difficult to stomach: they regard churches as inconvenient and expensive money pits and would rather worship in a warm industrial unit.
If churches were to be closed and/or sold, how would decisions be made and by whom? Many of the poorest churches are in the most deprived areas—the very areas where the churches do the most valuable work. Will the well scrubbed and well heeled of leafy suburbia be happy to see their money going to needle-strewn inner city parishes?
In summary, selling off churches would be a once-off; it wouldn’t raise much; and it would be hugely unpopular with a substantial and vocal section of the public. It would, truly, strike at the nature of the culture we have inherited.
So how about reducing pay and pension costs?
Since all clergy will in future have to be paid by the Commissioners, change the whole basis. Abolish all differentials. Pay all clergy the same, bishops the same as parsons, and reimburse expenses in full according to the nature of the work. It’s worth noting that clergy in France, including bishops, get less than a half of what a C of E parson gets. Yes, French clerics are unmarried, but then most C of E clerics have earning partners.
Restructure the pension scheme to be more in line with almost every other: contributory, DC, realistic lump sum.
Cull paid clergy
Reduce numbers by at least two thirds, those remaining being sited strategically in accordance with population or geographical factors. Most churches could be served by unpaid clergy living locally, selected by local agreement.
Stop – now – recruitment to paid posts. A few years ago there was a national drive to recruit more young people to the ranks of stipendiary clergy. This was immoral then, and is much more so now. There is no way that the church will be able to fund them for say 40 years, let alone provide a pension.
All other paid clergy to take early retirement, packages funded by the Commissioners.
Ordain nonstipendiary ministers as required on the basis of local recommendation, and after rigorous training.
But: do turkeys vote for Christmas?
Within one hour by road of where I sit there are five, maybe six diocesan offices, finance departments, safeguarding teams, mission teams … and so on. So:
Merge all 42 diocesan administrations into one central body, sited in the midlands or the north. Think of the likely savings and increased efficiency.
Dioceses should retain only pastoral functions.
Ordained diocesan staff now surplus to requirements should serve in parishes or use their skills in other careers.
Bishops don’t need cathedrals (Lutheran style), so cathedrals to become merely churches with historic titles only (Presbyterian Church of Scotland). Deans, chapters, residentiary canonries to be abolished. Musical and other mission activities could – should – survive, appropriately funded.
Fabric and maintenance of large churches and “cathedrals” to be funded centrally, perhaps with the introduction of a voluntary church tax (continental style) to support only the fabric (but not the activities within). Maybe HMRC would deal with this. Or perhaps, French style, fabric could become the responsibility of the state given the payment by the Commissioners of a suitable dowry. Unfortunately, available funds are unlikely to be adequate, and the economic and political circumstances are far from propitious.
All other churches to be run by unpaid clergy and/or lay minsters living in their own homes.
There are too many churches, especially in towns, so churches could be offered to local communities. Unwanted churches should be abandoned or demolished.
Sell all parsonages no longer required.
Bishops and dioceses
Some say we need fewer, some say we need more.
Option 1: reduce the number of dioceses and diocesan bishops from 42 to about 17, and the number of suffragans from about 60 to 14 or so, suggested * below, on the basis of population and/or area and communications.
Durham, Newcastle *
Carlisle, Blackburn, Sodor & Man *
Liverpool, Manchester, Chester *
Lichfield, Coventry, Birmingham *
Hereford, Worcester, Gloucester
Bristol, Bath and Wells, Salisbury *
Exeter, Truro *
Winchester, Portsmouth, Guildford
Southwark, Rochester, Canterbury *
London * *
Norwich, St Edmundsbury & Ipswich *
Ely, St Albans
Peterborough, Leicester *
Sheffield, Southwell. Derby *
This would run the risk of fewer bishops feeling more important with a regrettable further increase in clericalism.
Increase the number of dioceses and bishops from 42 to about 150 – maybe each deanery as at preset becoming a “diocese” (do we need the title?).
No suffragan bishops needed, nor Archdeacons or Deans since a cathedral is now no more than a church with a history.
No fancy titles. No House of Lords. No pay differentials. No purple shirts. No clericalism. No establishment. Perhaps these “bishops” would be the only paid clergy.
Increase the number of unpaid clergy. Ordain on the basis of local recommendation and need,
A difficult business, especially given the shortage of funds. At present there are nine residential institutions and a multiplicity of local part time courses. Some clergy are trained for three years full time, others (like me) for two years part time with a few residential weekends. There is no agreed national curriculum. Some students are grounded in New Testament Greek, some are not. Some are fed the arcane enthusiasms of course staff.
I don’t know what the future of training will be, but online learning and e-resources are essential. We don’t need so many training institutions, but we do need:
Standardisation with agreed curriculum.
Intelligent study of Scripture.
Instruction in basic liturgical history and praxis.
Instruction in church history.
Extensive e–resources in the widest possible sense.
And finally …
This is a great opportunity for radical action. The church does not need a sticking plaster, but rather a scalpel wielded mercilessly to drain the abscesses. “I came not to send peace, but a sword.”
I thank many people for stimulating me to think about this, and am particularly grateful to “Froghole”, Rupert Moreton, Andy Sparrow and Susan Monkhouse.
Coronavirus is the virus. Covid19 is the disease it causes. Coronaviruses have been with us a long time. The flu virus is one of them. Some common colds are caused by coronaviruses. Covid19 is caused by a new strain—hence the adjective novel. I dare say, dear reader, that you knew this. But I’m ashamed to say it hadn’t dawned on me until fairly recently. Now on with the plot.
I don’t see any prospect of controlling this pandemic until herd immunity has been achieved. Herd immunity comes from a combination of immunisation and recovery from infection.
A vaccine is at least a year away and anyway vaccines don’t always work. The first recorded influenza pandemic was in 1510. We haven’t yet fathomed the disease and a flu vaccine is as far away as ever. Furthermore, the common cold, sometimes of coronaviral aetiology, eludes all cures. The polio vaccine took decades to be usable, though we’ve moved on scientifically from then. I’m old enough to remember the polio epidemic of 1957/8. As an asthmatic child often fighting for breath, pictures of children in iron lungs terrified me.
For recovery from infection we need about 60% of the population to be infected, with the inevitable proportion having life threatening disease and dying. The trouble is that this virus has great propensity to mutate. Its mutated forms could be more vicious than the present one, and herd immunity, or vaccines for that matter, for the present strain won’t necessarily work for new ones. So we are faced with the possibility of wave upon wave of epidemic. Epidemics in general are occurring with increasing frequency (Asian flu, polio, SARS, foot & mouth, Ebola, now this … and more).
And of course there’s always the possibility that new viruses will emerge.
Viruses are clever. They use other creatures for reproduction—their only concern—remorselessly. Just as tectonic plates do the “things that come naturally” leading to quakes and tsunamis, so viruses do the “things that come naturally” leading to morbidity and mortality in vulnerable creatures including humans. It is the natural order.
Viruses are as much part of creation as we are. Praying to a sky pixie for delivery from the pestilence of viruses, as religious nutters do, is no more than human arrogance and hubris. We have viruses in our intestines, necessary for digestion, just as we have billions of bacteria living in us and on us, all necessary for an efficient bioeconomy. Are they asking the sky pixie to discern which bugs to zap and which to leave unhindered?
If covid19 were left unchecked, the best option scientifically, it would amount to survival of the fittest. The trouble is that the burden on the health services would soon be catastrophic. The strategy adopted, distancing and such like, spreads the load over a longer period. But no matter how we get there, herd immunity is needed—and may never be achieved. I suspect that governments have been informed of this, but dare not admit it publicly.
This brings me to the reliability of what we are told. Take today’s BBC news item “New data has added to growing evidence that the number of deaths linked to coronavirus in UK care homes may be far higher than those recorded so far.” Note the vagueness. “Deaths linked to coronavirus” – what does that mean? Deaths “may be” linked. They may not. Just because someone with a cough and pneumonia dies, it doesn’t mean they died of covid19, nor does it mean that the virus contributed to their death. Only testing will tell, so we need reliable tests. Not all tests are reliable. If one reads only the headlines, and many of us do just that, it’s easy to panic.
Ultimately—and I wish people would realise this—we’re all going to die, if not of covid19 this month, then something else later. And let me repeat that as someone with a great future behind him, I would expect a younger person who could get back to work to jump the treatment queue before me. I’m ready to die, though I don’t want to yet.
I don’t much care what others think this says about my morality: to me it’s pragmatic necessity. I acknowledge that I have a peculiar, even brutal, attitude to death. It comes from having seen death as welcome in severely ill people especially babies, having handled cadavers in anatomy dissection rooms for 30 years, and having suffered the death of one of my sons.
Turning from biology to economic and political affairs, the consequences of the pandemic could be serious in Europe, and cataclysmic elsewhere.
In the west, an economic slump of staggering magnitude is almost certain: some economic historians have said the worst in 10 generations (400 years), others 200 years, and certainly 100 years. As one commentator put it, it’s almost as if the virus were tailor-made to strike at capitalism. The financial markets are in turmoil. What will happen to the banks? Fewer people will be able to buy houses, house prices will plummet (a good thing you might say), savings wiped out, pensions destroyed. Power cuts, shortages, rubbish uncollected, unemployment, poverty, civil unrest, suicides. Back to the middle ages. Governments won’t be able to bail us out: national economies will be in the doldrums for decades after the financial largesse already being handed out. Taxes will rise. This economic reality is already fuelling demands for the lockdown to be lifted so that people can get back to work.
Elsewhere – a worst-case scenario
China is already buying up commodities now that the prices are rock bottom.
The US sees covid19 as China’s fault and demands reparations. China says no. The US refuses to pay back interest on its substantial loans from China. China sees this as an act of economic war. Then what?
The slump in oil prices destabilises the Middle East, especially Saudi. Oil supplies are cut. Dictators emerge.
The Russian economy being too dependent on oil, Putin invades Ukraine for food and the Baltics for minerals. Will Western Europe fight for the Baltics?
The peace since 1945 has been dependent upon economic prosperity. When that is taken away nationalism rises and fights are picked.
Africa is devastated. Infected migrants hammer at Europe’s doors. Shots are fired to keep them out: many will be killed.
I imagine something similar could happen in South and Central America – poor and populous.
The already creaking EU disintegrates.
Surveillance becomes intrusive (it’s getting that way already).
Totalitarian governments take over. Maybe China takes over. Or Russia.
Now, you may say that this is unduly bleak. But none of it is beyond the bounds of possibility.
I could be wrong. Part of me hopes I am. Part of me thinks that our lifestyle in the West is dissolute and decadent and needs sorting. But events that lead to correction of our lifestyle will likely lead to horrific, in human terms, sequelae for the third world—which now includes much of our inner urban areas.
Life is a terminal disease, its death rate 100%. People are going to die of this and other viruses. Measles is coming back. Polio and Ebola and Foot & Mouth lurk in the shadows ready to erupt unpredictably. The best thing we could do for one another is to help each other come to terms with uncertainty and mortality. I did my best from the pulpit and I do my best through my blog.
The fact is that there are too many people on the planet. There are far too many cooped up. Maybe the planetary ecosystem is resetting itself. I’m not a proponent of the Gaia theory, but I know that we reap what we sow. At present we are reaping. As far as creatures of the earth are concerned, apes like us are vulnerable, impotent and expendable.
But never mind. The sun is shining, the sky is clear, riverbeds visible, air cleaner. The night sky is spectacular. This virus is doing the planet a favour. Perhaps too it’s the scalpel that releases pus from the putrid abscess of aggressive capitalism.
I thank James Drever and others for help with this, but please don’t associate them with my prognostications.