Bishop sacrifice

When it comes to sexuality, the Church of England remains uneasily in the closet.

When it was announced that the Church of England had established an advisory group on human sexuality, consisting of four bishops and a retired civil servant, there was some criticism of the fact that all its members were (ahem) male. But that was only to be expected, and not just because it happens to be a group of bishops, which remains, for the time being at least, an exclusively male club. In Anglican parlance, "human sexuality" is code for, "What do we do about the gays?"

Overt homophobia is increasingly a fringe element in British Christianity these days, represented best by the likes of Stephen Green. Last week, the founder of Christian Voice claimed to have persuaded God to punish Tesco for its support of a gay pride event ("Significantly, we prayed for a drop in their share price").

Meanwhile, the mainstream churches continue to move at varying speeds in the same general direction as the rest of society. Not that you'd realise it from the tone of much of the coverage.

In the case of the Church of England, there are currently two major sticking points, which may or may not be linked: the question of whether civil partnership ceremonies should be allowed to take place in church, and the question of whether openly gay men, even if celibate, should be allowed to become bishops. In both cases the present situation is one of studied hypocrisy.

The second issue has been bubbling away at least since 2003, when the then Canon Jeffrey John (who has a civil partner) failed to be appointed to the relatively lowly post of bishop of Reading, despite having been offered the job in quite clear terms.

There's no doubt that John was shabbily treated. As soon as the appointment was mooted, John became the target of a campaign of ugly homophobia -- even though he described himself as celibate and thus eligible.

Homosexual orientation, the current church doublethink has it, is not sinful in itself; it only becomes sinful if you do something about it. But such subtleties were lost on religious conservatives at home and abroad, who could only recoil in sheer horror at the idea of a "gay bishop".

As a celibate gay man, John would have been in the same position as countless bishops in the past. He would not even, well-informed observers suggested, have been the first gay bishop of Reading. The only material difference was that he had taken advantage of changes in the law to contract a civil partnership. He was, that it, open and honest about his orientation, unwilling to engage in the dissimulation and evasion that was traditional and, in previous eras of repression, mandatory.

As so often happens, the cracks were papered over and a face-saving formula devised. Jeffrey John was made Dean of St Albans, arguably a more high-profile and powerful job than bishop of Reading. But he couldn't call himself "Right Reverend" or wear the pointy hat.

For some unfathomable reason, a gay (but celibate) senior dean is acceptable but a gay (but celibate) junior bishop would be an outrage. That alone says much about the Trollopian mess the Church of England has got itself into.

Now, following a second disappointment in 2010 when he was briefly in the running for the bishopric of Southwark (which is a proper bishopric), it's been reported that Jeffrey John is considering taking legal action for discrimination. Informed observers suggest that he would probably lose.

Certainly the Church of England seems to be quite secure in its legal advice that it has enough of an opt-out from equalities legislation. But even if he doesn't stand much chance of forcing the Church of England to offer him a mitre, Jeffrey John does threaten to shine an unflattering light onto the secretive appointments system that, in the words of the late Dean of Southwark, Colin Slee, "stinks".

It would be hard to argue that anyone has a "right" to be a bishop. Indeed, the notion of going to court to demand episcopal preferment is so out of keeping with traditional norms of clerical behaviour that it might be held to be, in itself, a disqualification for the job.

A bishop doesn't run for election. A bishop is dragged reluctantly to his throne, like Mr Speaker only more convincingly, protesting that he is not worthy, but that since God wants him to do the job it would be worse than churlish to refuse. To be made a bishop is not even to be promoted: it is to submit oneself humbly to a more onerous form of service. That at least is the party line.

Ambition aside, there are other reasons why Jeffrey John is unlikely ever to become a bishop, even though everyone seems to agree that he is well qualified. He has become a divisive figure in a church that values unity, and a clear-cut figure in a church that values ambiguity and opacity.

Whether he intended it or not, he has become the standard-bearer for the cause of gay equality. His appointment, whether or not it split the church, would be seen as highly political and as a piece of deliberate provocation. His tenure would be dominated by rows and walk-outs: at least that's what those who blocked him undoubtedly feared.

At vital moments like this, the Church of England usually puts expediency ahead of principle.

The day will no doubt come when the appointment of an openly gay bishop is no more surprising that then appointment of an openly gay cabinet minister, itself once unthinkable. But when it comes, don't expect any public apologies to Jeffrey John. He committed a far worse sin than homosexuality, after all. He rocked the boat.

 

Belief, disbelief and beyond belief
Getty
Show Hide image

The decline of the north's sporting powerhouse

Yorkshire historically acted as a counterweight to the dominance of southern elites, in sport as in politics and culture. Now, things are different.

On a drive between Sheffield and Barnsley, I spotted a striking painting of the Kes poster. Billy Casper’s two-fingered salute covered the wall of a once-popular pub that is now boarded up.

It is almost 50 years since the late Barry Hines wrote A Kestrel for a Knave, the novel that inspired Ken Loach’s 1969 film, and it seems that the defiant, us-against-the-world, stick-it-to-the-man Yorkshireness he commemorated still resonates here. Almost two-thirds of the people of south Yorkshire voted to leave the EU, flicking two fingers up at what they saw as a London-based establishment, detached from life beyond the capital.

But whatever happened to Billy the unlikely lad, and the myriad other northern characters who were once the stars of stage and screen? Like the pitheads that dominated Casper’s tightly knit neighbourhood, they have disappeared from the landscape. The rot set in during the 1980s, when industries were destroyed and communities collapsed, a point eloquently made in Melvyn Bragg’s excellent radio series The Matter of the North.

Yorkshire historically acted as a counterweight to the dominance of southern elites, in sport as in politics and culture. Yet today, we rarely get to hear the voices of Barnsley, Sheffield, Doncaster and Rotherham. And the Yorkshire sporting powerhouse is no more – at least, not as we once knew it.

This should be a matter of national concern. The White Rose county is, after all, the home of the world’s oldest registered football club – Sheffield FC, formed in 1857 – and the first English team to win three successive League titles, Huddersfield Town, in the mid-1920s. Hull City are now Yorkshire’s lone representative in the Premier League.

Howard Wilkinson, the manager of Leeds United when they were crowned champions in 1992, the season before the Premier League was founded, lamented the passing of a less money-obsessed era. “My dad worked at Orgreave,” he said, “the scene of Mrs Thatcher’s greatest hour, bless her. You paid for putting an axe through what is a very strong culture of community and joint responsibility.”

The best-known scene in Loach’s film shows a football match in which Mr Sugden, the PE teacher, played by Brian Glover, comically assumes the role of Bobby Charlton. It was played out on the muddy school fields of Barnsley’s run-down Athersley estate. On a visit to his alma mater a few years ago, David Bradley, who played the scrawny 15-year-old Billy, showed me the goalposts that he had swung from as a reluctant goalkeeper. “You can still see the dint in the crossbar,” he said. When I spoke to him recently, Bradley enthused about his lifelong support for Barnsley FC. “But I’ve not been to the ground over the last season and a half,” he said. “I can’t afford it.”

Bradley is not alone. Many long-standing fans have been priced out. Barnsley is only a Championship side, but for their home encounter with Newcastle last October, their fans had to pay £30 for a ticket.

The English game is rooted in the northern, working-class communities that have borne the brunt of austerity over the past six years. The top leagues – like the EU – are perceived to be out of touch and skewed in favour of the moneyed elites.

Bradley, an ardent Remainer, despaired after the Brexit vote. “They did not know what they were doing. But I can understand why. There’s still a lot of neglect, a lot of deprivation in parts of Barnsley. They feel left behind because they have been left behind.”

It is true that there has been a feel-good factor in Yorkshire following the Rio Olympics; if the county were a country, it would have finished 17th in the international medals table. Yet while millions have been invested in “podium-level athletes”, in the team games that are most relevant to the lives of most Yorkshire folk – football, cricket and rugby league – there is a clear division between sport’s elites and its grass roots. While lucrative TV deals have enriched ruling bodies and top clubs, there has been a large decrease in the number of adults playing any sport in the four years since London staged the Games.

According to figures from Sport England, there are now 67,000 fewer people in Yorkshire involved in sport than there were in 2012. In Doncaster, to take a typical post-industrial White Rose town, there has been a 13 per cent drop in participation – compared with a 0.4 per cent decline nationally.

Attendances at rugby league, the region’s “national sport”, are falling. But cricket, in theory, is thriving, with Yorkshire winning the County Championship in 2014 and 2015. Yet Joe Root, the batsman and poster boy for this renaissance, plays far more games for his country than for his county and was rested from Yorkshire’s 2016 title decider against Middlesex.

“Root’s almost not a Yorkshire player nowadays,” said Stuart Rayner, whose book The War of the White Roses chronicles the club’s fortunes between 1968 and 1986. As a fan back then, I frequently watched Geoffrey Boycott and other local stars at Headingley. My favourite was the England bowler Chris Old, a gritty, defiant, unsung anti-hero in the Billy Casper mould.

When Old made his debut, 13 of the 17-strong Yorkshire squad were registered as working-class professionals. Half a century later, three of the five Yorkshiremen selec­ted for the last Ashes series – Root, Jonny Bairstow and Gary Ballance – were privately educated. “The game of cricket now is played in public schools,” Old told me. “Top players are getting huge amounts of money, but the grass-roots game doesn’t seem to have benefited in any way.”

“In ten years’ time you won’t get a Joe Root,” Rayner said. “If you haven’t seen these top Yorkshire cricketers playing in your backyard and you haven’t got Sky, it will be difficult to get the whole cricket bug. So where is the next generation of Roots going to come from?” Or the next generation of Jessica Ennis-Hills? Three years ago, the Sheffield stadium where she trained and first discovered athletics was closed after cuts to local services.

This article first appeared in the 19 January 2017 issue of the New Statesman, The Trump era