The Pope's gift to Rowan Williams

Let the Anglo-Catholics go. Time for C of E liberals to assert themselves

The Pope's "helpful" offer to Anglo-Catholics to leave the Church of England and form a special Anglican province under Rome provoked some interesting responses over the weekend. Writing in the Independent on Sunday Peter Stanford, a former editor of the Catholic Herald, asked if after 500 years the Pope had finally "outfoxed" Canterbury's archbishop, while in the Sunday Times the historian David Starkey implicitly answered "yes" to that question.

Both look back to that half-millennial landmark, the accession to the throne of Henry VIII - the monarch without whose marital difficulties there would have been no Church of England. And it is that fact, that decidedly shaky and non-theological reason for the C of E's foundation, that leads to the sense among some Catholics that it should never have really existed in the first place. Time for those great Gothic cathedrals to come home, to echo once more to the sung Latin Mass. The Pope's crafty move could be the first step.

But perhaps there's an opportunity here for Anglicans, too. What exactly do they stand for? And has it really been that useful having to accommodate all those Anglo-Catholics within their broad church? A few have converted along the way in any case, notably the former Telegraph editor Charles Moore and the paper's former proprietor Conrad Black. Another writer from the Telegraph stable, Mary Wakefield, wrote thoughtfully about her own conversion in the Indy on Saturday.

The strand that seems to me to be most attractive, and most distinctively Anglican, is the liberal tradition. It has, unfortunately, long appeared also to be the most apologetic strand in the church. Caught between the twin certainties of conservative evangelicals (no gays) and Anglo-Catholics (no women), it has failed to articulate itself; in fact, it has too often seemed embarrassed to assert itself in the face of accusations that it is merely "woolly". Its virtuous uncertainty was easily turned against it, most memorably in an episode of Yes, Prime Minister from 1986 when the PM, Jim Hacker, was presented with a choice of two candidates for a vacant Anglican bishopric. When the cabinet secretary, Sir Humphrey Appleby, mentions the first, Hacker expresses outrage. "But he doesn't even believe in God!" he says. "Yes, Prime Minister," replies Sir Humphrey smoothly, "but he doesn't have anything against him."

I laughed at the time. As someone brought up in a more obviously rule-based church - you must go to Mass on Sundays, you must go to confession etc - I was puzzled by this faith that seemed to make so few formal requirements of its members. Yet in the years since I've come to appreciate and admire that sense of questing, searching, rather than hastening to firm rulings, that prelates like Robert Runcie, David Jenkins and Rowan Williams exemplify. And I think with Archbishop Williams at its head the C of E is in a much stronger position to form and assert that identity than it was in the days of George Carey, a man so devoid of charisma and authority that AN Wilson's caricature of him as "Mr Blobby" seemed devastatingly apt. (That may seem cruel. But it is also true that Carey always came across as far lesser a figure than Cardinal Hume: quite a humiliation for an Archbishop of Canterbury to be overshadowed by a cardinal in his own land.)

Rowan Williams, on the other hand, has that unmistakable air of piety and humility that gives him dignitas. His careful statements (such as about sharia law, for instance) will always be too careful for some. He should shrug those oversimplified criticisms off, just as he should let the Anglo-Catholics go.

He reminds me of that wonderful last verse in the hymn Dear Lord and Father of Mankind:

Breathe through the heats of our desire
Thy coolness and Thy balm;
Let sense be dumb, let flesh retire;
Speak through the earthquake, wind, and fire,
O still, small voice of calm.

An Anglican church that stopped bending over backwards to compromise with those who are unwilling to do so might be a much smaller body. If it cleared away much of the noisy argument, however, maybe its true strengths would be more apparent. That "still, small voice of calm" is a deeply valuable part of our national life.

 

Sholto Byrnes is a Contributing Editor to the New Statesman
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How Donald Trump is slouching towards the Republican nomination

There was supposed to be a ceiling above which Trump’s popular support could not climb.

In America, you can judge a crowd by its merchandise. Outside the Connecticut Convention Centre in Hartford, frail old men and brawny moms are selling “your Trump 45 football jerseys”, “your hats”, “your campaign buttons”. But the hottest item is a T-shirt bearing the slogan “Hillary sucks . . . but not like Monica!” and, on the back: “Trump that bitch!” Inside, beyond the checkpoint manned by the Transportation Security Administration and the secret service (“Good!” the man next to me says, when he sees the agents), is a family whose three kids, two of them girls, are wearing the Monica shirt.

Other people are content with the shirts they arrived in (“Waterboarding – baptising terrorists with freedom” and “If you don’t BLEED red, white and blue, take your bitch ass home!”). There are 80 chairs penned off for the elderly but everyone else is standing: guys in motorcycle and military gear, their arms folded; aspiring deal-makers, suited, on cellphones; giggling high-school fatsos, dressed fresh from the couch, grabbing M&M’s and Doritos from the movie-theatre-style concession stands. So many baseball hats; deep, bellicose chants of “Build the wall!” and “USA!”. (And, to the same rhythm, “Don-ald J!”)

A grizzled man in camouflage pants and combat boots, whose T-shirt – “Connecticut Militia III%” – confirms him as a member of the “patriot” movement, is talking to a zealous young girl in a short skirt, who came in dancing to “Uptown Girl”.

“Yeah, we were there for Operation American Spring,” he says. “Louis Farrakhan’s rally of hate . . .”

“And you’re a veteran?” she asks. “Thank you so much!”

Three hours will pass. A retired US marine will take the rostrum to growl, “God bless America – hoo-rah!”; “Uptown Girl” will play many more times (much like his speeches, Donald J’s playlist consists of a few items, repeated endlessly), before Trump finally looms in and asks the crowd: “Is this the greatest place on Earth?”

There was supposed to be a ceiling above which Trump’s popular support could not climb. Only a minority within a minority of Americans, it was assumed, could possibly be stupid enough to think a Trump presidency was a good idea. He won New Hampshire and South Carolina with over 30 per cent of the Republican vote, then took almost 46 per cent in Nevada. When he cleaned up on Super Tuesday in March, he was just shy of 50 per cent in Massachusetts; a week later, he took 47 per cent of the votes in Mississippi.

His rivals, who are useless individually, were meant to co-operate with each other and the national party to deny him the nomination. But Trump won four out of the five key states being contested on “Super-Duper Tuesday” on 15 March. Then, as talk turned to persuading and co-opting his delegates behind the scenes, Trump won New York with 60 per cent.

Now, the campaign is trying to present Trump as more “presidential”. According to his new manager, Paul Manafort, this requires him to appear in “more formal settings” – without, of course, diluting “the unique magic of Trump”. But whether or not he can resist denouncing the GOP and the “corrupt” primary system, and alluding to violence if he is baulked at at the convention, the new Trump will be much the same as the old.

Back in Hartford: “The Republicans wanna play cute with us, right? If I don’t make it, you’re gonna have millions of people that don’t vote for a Republican. They’re not gonna vote at all,” says Trump. “Hopefully that’s all, OK? Hopefully that’s all, but they’re very, very angry.”

This anger, which can supposedly be turned on anyone who gets in the way, has mainly been vented, so far, on the protesters who disrupt Trump’s rallies. “We’re not gonna be the dummies that lose all of our jobs now. We’re gonna be the smart ones. Oh, do you have one over there? There’s one of the dummies . . .”

There is a frenzied fluttering of Trump placards, off to his right. “Get ’em out! . . . Don’t hurt ’em – see how nice I am? . . . They really impede freedom of speech and it’s a disgrace. But the good news is, folks, it won’t be long. We’re just not taking it and it won’t be long.”

It is their removal by police, at Trump’s ostentatious behest, that causes the disruption, rather than the scarcely audible protesters. He seems to realise this, suddenly: “We should just let ’em . . . I’ll talk right over them, there’s no problem!” But it’s impossible to leave the protesters where they are, because it would not be safe. His crowd is too vicious.

Exit Trump, after exactly half an hour, inclusive of the many interruptions. His people seem uplifted but, out on the street, they are ambushed by a large counter-demonstration, with a booming drum and warlike banners and standards (“Black Lives Matter”; an image of the Virgin of Guadalupe, holding aloft Trump’s severed head). Here is the rest of the world, the real American world: young people, beautiful people, more female than male, every shade of skin colour. “F*** Donald Trump!” they chant.

After a horrified split-second, the Trump crowd, massively more numerous, rallies with “USA!” and – perplexingly, since one of the main themes of the speech it has just heard was the lack of jobs in Connecticut – “Get a job!” The two sides then mingle, unobstructed by police. Slanging matches break out that seem in every instance to humiliate the Trump supporter. “Go to college!” one demands. “Man, I am in college, I’m doin’ lovely!”

There is no violence, only this: some black boys are dancing, with liquid moves, to the sound of the drum. Four young Trump guys counter by stripping to their waists and jouncing around madly, their skin greenish-yellow under the street lights, screaming about the building of the wall. There was no alcohol inside; they’re drunk on whatever it is – the elixir of fascism, the unique magic of Trump. It’s a hyper but not at all happy drunk.

As with every other moment of the Trump campaign so far, it would have been merely some grade of the cringeworthy – the embarrassing, the revolting, the pitiful – were Trump not slouching closer and closer, with each of these moments, to his nomination. 

This article first appeared in the 28 April 2016 issue of the New Statesman, The new fascism