Marcus Walker

‘No one pretends that modern services will fill the churches. But adult converts ought to be able to step naturally into being worshippers. How absurd that a convert should be warned to undergo cultural orientation before he comes to church.’ These words of the arch-reformer Colin Buchanan in 1979 sum up the views of that post-1960s generation, who believed that all the prayer and thought which Anglicans had inherited was alien to the new generation. It was thought so alien, in fact, that a full cultural orientation would be needed to persuade people to come to church. Modernity was the answer to most questions, and most especially: ‘How do we get the young to come to church?’ Fifty years later, I am not sure anyone would call this experiment a success.

‘I look forward to spending the next seven years with you,’ said Bishop Sarah Mullally at the Diocese of London’s ‘Chrism Mass’ on Maundy Thursday this year. ‘Well, that’s her out of the race,’ said everyone – and everyone was wrong. Perhaps this is a modern twist on the old nolo episcopari rule: that those being considered for episcopal office had to make clear they didn’t want it. Which, frankly, would be wise right now. As the Bishop of Gloucester put it, anyone wanting to be Archbishop of Canterbury ‘needed their head examined.’ The church is in a mess. It is deflated and downhearted; the old issues of female ordination and whether we can ordain or bless the marriage of homosexuals still foster great disagreements across the church.

Next week marks the 400th anniversary of the accession to the throne of Charles I. This moment began what was described in England’s greatest work of history, 1066 and All That, as the ‘Central Period of English History… consisting in the utterly memorable Struggle between the Cavaliers (Wrong but Wromantic) and the Roundheads (Right and Repulsive)’. It is worth marking this accession because the constitutional and religious drama of the Civil War still plays itself out in our political and public imagination. ‘I judge a man by one thing,’ said Isaac Foot, the father of Michael. ‘Which side would he have liked his ancestors to fight on at Marston Moor?

Christmas came early this year. No, I’m not moaning about the carols that my local café started piping at the beginning of September (although that’s enough to enrage any priest). This year my first proper Christmas moment occurred two weeks early when a lovely couple chose to have not one but two Christmas carols for their wedding. We hadn’t even hit December before I found myself in the curmudgeonly position of muttering ‘Except Easter’ as a full church belted out the line ‘This holy tide of Christmas all other doth efface’. It was all very jolly, even if I felt momentarily Scroogelike. Not that this was the most amusing of the winter weddings that we’ve held at my church, St Bartholomew the Great in West Smithfield.

‘The scale and severity of the practice was horrific. Five of the 13 I have seen were in it only for a short time. Between them they had 12 beatings and about 650 strokes. The other eight received about 14,000 strokes: two of them having some 8,000 strokes over the three years. The others were involved for one year or 18 months. Eight spoke of bleeding on most occasions (“I could feel the blood splattering on my legs”, “I was bleeding for three-and-a-half weeks”, “I fainted sometimes after a severe beating”)… Beatings of 100 strokes for masturbation, 400 for pride, and one of 800 strokes for some undisclosed “fall” are recorded.’ I chose to open with this quote so nobody can be under any doubt why Justin Welby has resigned as Archbishop of Canterbury.

Nolo episcopari. These were the words a person was expected to say on being offered an episcopal see. It basically translates as ‘Don’t bishop me!’ and goes back to at least St Ambrose, who so wanted to avoid being made a bishop that he skipped town. The Church of England has worked itself into a new position, Nemo episcopari: nobody will be bishoped. In the past year, the process for appointing new bishops to Ely and Carlisle fell apart as the Crown Nominations Commission (CNC) decided not to appoint any of the shortlisted candidates. This has created a sense of crisis in the Church, and an emergency meeting of the House of Bishops was held after a report was hastily drafted by the Bishop of London.

What a clash of the titans we witnessed at the weekend. The Lionesses vs Divine Worship on a Sunday morning. An unfortunate conflict of timings meant that just as the England women’s football team were limbering up to kick the first ball in Australia, church services in England were launching into their first hymn. The Church of England knew which side it was on. ‘I know lots of people will want to watch the match live. That is fine from the Church of England’s point of view. Others will prefer to go to church and avoid knowing the score until they can watch the match on catch-up, and that is fine, too. Church services happen at different times in different places, so people can choose one that is right for them.

‘And girls in slacks remember Dad, And oafish louts remember Mum, And sleepless children's hearts are glad. And Christmas-morning bells say “Come!” Even to shining ones who dwell Safe in the Dorchester Hotel.’ ‘Christmas’. This poem by Betjeman conjures the magic of the season; conveys in its beat the sense of summons to the place where Christmas is celebrated and Christ is worshipped. This is a draw millions will soon feel, a tug on heart and soul that takes us to a place of candles and carols and babies and ritual and that musty smell of old stones and old books. Midnight Mass is, for many, the stand-out favourite.

Thursday was a curious day for us all. Anyone watching the news was treated to the complexity of commentators trying desperately hard not to say the thing that everyone watching knew was happening: that the Queen was dying, and was possibly already dead. The black ties around the presenters’ necks, the emergency flights from London to Scotland, Parliament breaking up in a state of near disarray told everyone with eyes to see what was happening. That didn’t mean I accepted it; I can’t speak for anyone else but my brain went straight into bargaining mode, desperately hoping this was a false alarm, glued to the rolling coverage on the news. I was jumpstarted out of my reveries by a text message from a parishioner asking if we were putting on a service for the Queen.