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  • A Response to “The Exercise of Discipline and Clergy Exemplarity in the Church of England: The Case of Same-Sex Civil Marriages: A Report of the Faith and Order Commission” (GS Misc 1431)

    Fr Thomas Sharp is a priest theologian based in the South East of England and is also Provincial Secretary of the Society of Catholic Priests

    This was the third report which briefed the House of Bishops before they made their decisions in October about Living in Love and Faith (LLF). It purports to explore theological issues relating to three possible ways by which clergy in a marriage to a person of the same sex might be licensed in the Church of England. It also purports to explore what it means that clergy are called to an exemplary life, and what implications there might be for licensing married people who currently would need a civil partnership in order to be licensed.

    The Report claims to do all this whilst ‘not endeavour[ing] to resolve those differences, either finding for one side or making clear a previously unknown path to consensus’ (§214). It does this by almost entirely sidelining the views and voices of LGBTQIA+ people, presenting a viewpoint significantly informed by North American Evangelicalism as if it were a balanced presentation of Anglican variety. Of the 24 modern theologians engaged with in this report (Gregory Nazianzen and George Herbert are the other two theologians included):

    • 100% are white
    • 96% are white men
    • 83% are straight or in opposite sex marriages
    • 46% are North American
    • 12% are ex-gay / same-sex-attracted identifying evangelicals
    • Only one person, at 4% of the whole, is an affirming gay Anglican with a partner.

    The one affirming gay Anglican contribution cited is from Jeffrey John, in a book which was published in 1993 when I was two years old.

    This report does not meaningfully engage with the theology produced by or read by LGBTQIA+ Anglicans, or people who hold an inclusive theology. Simply directing us to the LLF Resources does not constitute theological engagement (§100). This report is not balanced or representative. It should not have represented itself as being such.

    However, it is lengthy and technical, and gives a very good sense of being comprehensive, even whilst it utterly fails to present or even really take into account the voices of those most affected by its subject matter. This is a shamefully inadequate Report whose omissions (wilful or otherwise) have potential to mislead its readers.

    In order to make this meandering and confusing report more intelligible, my response to it comes under six headings:

    1. Make doctrine a moving target
    2. “Communal regulation”, discipline and toxic theologies of power
    3. Are the clergy a special case?
    4. Leading us to think we are talking about sex whenever marriage is mentioned
    5. Despite divorce, we really do still hold to the traditional doctrine of marriage
    6. Disempower the Bishops

    This is a report which overwhelms by the sheer variety of arguments it includes. Here, I cannot deal with them all, particularly the biblical section and its lack of meaningful engagement with LGBTQIA+ readings of important texts.

     

    1 – Make doctrine a moving target

    The FAOC Report on Doctrine defined doctrine as: ‘true knowledge about God that is communally authorised by warrant in the Holy Scriptures and is, therefore, communally regulative’ (GS Misc 1429, §146). However, in this report, that simple definition varies. Early on, ‘authorised by warrant in the Holy scriptures’ is watered down and communal regulation does not appear: ‘Doctrine… is true knowledge about the living God, grounded in or agreeable to the Holy Scriptures, that the Church of England determines by a process of communal authorisation’ (§8).

    Later, elements of both are mixed as doctrine is ‘true knowledge about the living God that is communally authorised and communally regulative’ (§84 & §212). But the scriptures seem to have vanished. On one level this might be a symptom of speedy or sloppy drafting. However, on another, it could be understood as an attempt to give an impression of a clear definition of what doctrine is and how it operates in these arguments, without being willing to be pinned down to any actually clear definition. This sort of slipperiness and unclarity of meaning runs throughout the report.

     

     2 – “Communal regulation”, discipline and toxic theologies of power

    A theological high point comes in §§12-17, when the heresy of Donatism is dealt with and it is concluded that individuals and the wider church can have confidence in the sacramental ministry of a minister, even if they err in doctrine. However, as the report proceeds to outline a theology of discipline, it is unnervingly one-way, authoritarian and entirely lacking in awareness of the operative theologies of power which have led to both the abuse crisis in the worldwide Church and the failure of the Church of England itself to respond meaningfully to abuse.

    The report links discipline with discipleship, and it is established with reference to The Homilies that ‘it is imperative to think of discipline in both its proactive, formative sense and also its reformative and punitive senses in order to understand it fully’ (§17). This is good, but the formative is not really considered. It is the reformative and punitive senses of discipline with which this report is interested, i.e. what sledge-hammers the bishops can hit us with, whether it be for our benefit or to teach us a lesson.

    A survey then follows of reformative discipline as described in the liturgies of ordination of deacons, priests and bishops in Common Worship and the BCP. It entirely lacks any meaningful awareness of the fact that the power to discipline can be incredibly dangerous, despite the liturgy enjoining the bishop to use their authority: ‘not to destruction, but to salvation; not to hurt, but to help’ (§24). The vocation of a bishop ‘to minister discipline, but with compassion’ leads to a reminder that even a compassionate bishop may also need to punish: ‘it may be that such a response is the compassionate one’ (§27). But there is no awareness in the report that hurt and destruction, i.e. abuse, may result from such episcopal behaviour.

    The rather odd concept of “communal regulation”, which I explored (and we were all no doubt confused by) in the liturgical context with reference to the report on Doctrine, reappears. Apparently, the vow made by bishops to ‘accept the discipline of this Church, exercising authority with justice, courtesy and love’ (§29) is when a bishop puts themselves under “communal regulation”. What is entirely overlooked is the significance of justice, courtesy and love in the exercise of that ministry by any individual bishop, or the College or House of Bishops as a whole.

    The same blinkered focus is apparent in the report’s reading of the latter part of the consecration prayer:

    Further on the Archbishop prays, ‘Give him humility, that he may use his authority to heal, not to hurt; to build up, not to destroy’, a reference to 2 Cor 10:8 and 13:10. The emphasis, like in the rephrased declaration, is on the corrective and reformative aspects of discipline.

    It takes deliberate one-track thinking to fail to spot the critique of punitive authoritarian power in this prayer. Punitive authority is the focus of this report. That seems to be what “communal regulation” actually means.

    This disturbing theology of power in the report comes out strongly when clergy families are considered. Canon C26’s injunction to the minister to order their life and their family’s lives in a manner ‘that provides a wholesome example and pattern to the community’ (§36) is presented uncritically. Though the duty to order our family members’ lives is ameliorated since the phrase ‘as much as in him lies’ is interpreted to remind us of ‘the limitations of any individual to determine the behaviour of other family members in all times and places’ (§37). But it is crystal clear that “communal regulation” should be exercised in the home as well, mostly I imagine over wives and children, but over clergy husbands and extended family as well. This is not a theology of power which a responsible theologian simply states uncritically.

    There is a hint that this dangerous and toxic theology of power might be applicable in wider discipleship (“heavy discipling” is one euphemism for spiritual abuse and grooming, after all). The report notes, again uncritically, the linguistic or etymological links between spiritual discipline, church discipline and discipleship: ‘The complementary relationship between spiritual discipline and church discipline would indicate the broad range between the proactive, formative and the condemnatory, punitive ideas that inhere in the single word discipline’ (§43). Tellingly, throughout this passage, the role of the ‘authority figure’ as the exerciser of discipline in its various forms is emphasised.

    Finally, the image of a doctor prescribing medicine from Gregory Nazianzen’s second Oration is used to support this broader deployment of discipline (§46). This is particularly unfortunate and ironic. Gregory wrote his second Oration shortly after his ordination, having fled his post because he did not think he was able to bear the weight of the pastoral duty imposed upon him. He writes in a manner which emphasises the importance and weightiness of pastoral care, almost to an absurd extent. This is an apologia for his belief that he should not be entrusted with such authority to discipline. It is not a suggestion that every bishop and priest should start prescribing punitive medicine.

    This isn’t a funny theological blooper. Rather, it reveals just how far the compilers of the report were not aware of the issues of power underlying the texts with which they engage. Bishops might well read Selina Stone’s A Heavy Yoke: Theology, Power and Abuse in the Church (London: SCM Press, 2025) before they decide that this is the sort of power in relation to God’s people which they want to define themselves as having. If they do, they need to deploy it in all areas of their episcopal ministry and equally on all people in the church, not just LGBTQIA+ people. Gregory, given the choice, ran away from it.

     

    3 – Are the Clergy a Special Case?

    In order to answer this question, the report presents a bewildering array of arguments, many of which are specious or based in unreality. I shall try here to present this torrent of uncompleted ideas in a way which is moderately digestible.

    First, the report argues that ‘The broadest possible jurisdiction one can conceive for church discipline includes baptised Christians on an electoral roll in the Church of England’ (§48). You might think we were about to get a sense of how “communal regulation” applies in the community of the baptised. But this is passed over, moving on to a discussion of Lay Ministers (§49). It seems simply to be accepted that discipline is not something which touches the baptised who are not licensed. This is unsatisfactory and inconsistent with the theology of discipline presented thus far.

    This gap in the argument means that the next argument, that clergy are held to a ‘higher moral bar’ than the laity (§50), seems to arise solely by virtue of ordination. No argument is offered to justify the statement that due to the ‘exceptional nature of holy orders’ the church ‘expects a public transparency about many aspects of life, including areas in which lay Christians are afforded the ease of privacy’ (§50). This is an unreasoned distinction from the privacy afforded to the laity which is presented as self-evident. And should then the bishop, as even more exceptional than the priest, be required for example to publish their bank statements on the diocesan website? There is no theological substance here.

    A strange argument is presented about the call for clergy ‘to witness by example against the norms of the culture in which they sojourn’ (§53). It is not stated directly, but we are used to this sort of homophobic gaslighting, which argues that we are not to be in ‘normative alignment with the shifting sands of cultural values’ (§52), those shifting values being a fictional secular society which is a nirvana of inclusion for LGBTQIA+ people. That secular inclusive society against which the church is called to witness is fiction and a foil. Society is deeply homophobic, even as it is deeply misogynistic and racist still. Homophobia in the Church is in lockstep with the homophobic abuse and discrimination we experience in the secular world every day. It’s not countercultural, it isn’t cool, and it isn’t a witness.

    The distinctive witness of clergy to procure the good conduct of children and their spouses is considered again in the context of this cultural witness. This is passed off masterfully with the sentence: ‘Modern assumptions about the alignment of private, domestic space with public order differ significantly from the assumptions in [the pastoral epistles]’ (§59). It is odd that the report should accept women’s lib and contemporary appreciation of children’s dignity and autonomy so easily after all the handwringing about being counter-cultural. If applied to LGBTQIA+ people, it is simply not clear why the same counter-cultural discipline would not be applicable to women, children and those in clergy households, and no arguments are made.

    The report advances an argument that the vocation to ordained ministry is a ‘whole-life dedication’ which makes it ‘difficult, if not impossible, to separate the moral from the exemplary imperative in a life conceived as a form of witness’ (§64). This is an extraordinary argument for an Anglican to advance, especially as it is essentially the root of the argument for clerical celibacy in the Roman Catholic Church. If ordination is ‘whole-life dedication’ to God, then heterosexual marriage and dedication to another person also should be inappropriate for the clergy.

    Then the report argues that we must take particular account of the perceptions of outsiders.

    The pastoral epistles… even specify that the exemplar ‘must be well thought of by outsiders’ (1 Timothy 3:7). It behoves us to consider the same in the 21st century just as it was commended in the 1st century. In practice, it is inescapable.

    This is blunt application. And it is hard to see why this argument for not ordaining or licensing those in same-sex marriages would not also hold for women, immigrants, disabled people and people who are racialised. Their ordination, as they will tell you, also prompts push-back and elicits ableist, racist and misogynistic abuse and even scandal. And yet again there is no considered argument in the report about why this problem of perception should only apply to LGBTQIA+ people.

    There then is yet another strange argument: that allowing clergy to marry their same-sex partner would ‘alter the context in which Christian exemplary witness is offered and point to the fragmentation within wider society of a consensus on the nature of marriage and sexual intimacy.’ This is simply delusional. There is no fragmentation in secular society on the issue of sexual intimacy. Rather, there is general agreement in secular society that the place of sexual intimacy is no longer anything to do with marriage. Indeed, for even the majority of conservatives in the Church (at the level of operative theology rather than theory) the question is really about what sexual intimacies you enjoy before marriage and which ones you save for your spouse. Again, cultural witness is set up as a straw man, in which resistance to LGBTQIA+ people is supposedly the keystone holding up the Church’s moral witness.

     

    4 – Leading us to think we are talking about sex whenever marriage is mentioned

    In §68 the report acknowledges that clergy households where a couple are in a civil partnership can be exemplary, but it is not clear why those in a same-sex marriage would not be. And in §70 the report acknowledges that things are hard for Christian couples in civil partnerships, but there is no sense that the writers of the report are aware of how the Church’s approach following the 2005 pastoral statement also impacts the broader Christian family gathered around the couple.

    At the heart of the problem here is that the report refuses to say plainly that a same-sex marriage has no more presumption of sexual activity than a civil partnership. The Marriage (Same Sex Couples) Act 2013 inserts s.12(1-2) of the Matrimonial Causes Act 1973, which disapplies the requirement that same-sex couples consummate their union in order to have a valid marriage. In law, there is no expectation that a gay couple who are married will be having sex, any more than there is for a civil partnership.

    The failure to acknowledge this amidst all the handwringing is one of the largest and most uncomfortable omissions of this discussion of “clergy exemplarity”. The readers of the report are left with the false impression that marriages mean gay sex while civil partnerships mean gay celibacy. This is a false impression. If clergy can be exemplary as civil partners, living a sexually sacrificial life for the Church, there is no reason why they could not also do the same as a married couple. There is no difference in terms of sexual activity between civil partnership and same-sex marriage.

    Indeed, the report stresses that ‘none of what follows intends to draw into question the current provision’ for clergy in civil partnerships. ‘It is nonetheless notable that if a pastoral accommodation is agreed [to enable the same clergy to get married] this may mean that provision [of episcopal guidance] for same-sex civil marriages and same-sex civil partnerships are different from one another’ (§93). However, given that neither involve sex, it is not at all obvious why this should be the case. Yet again, a spectre of something completely new and different is created without specifying any real difference, theological or otherwise.

     

    5 – Despite divorce, we really do still hold to the traditional doctrine of marriage

    The report twists logic to the point of breaking in order to advance two arguments: (i) that the bending of the doctrine of marriage which took place in order to enable the marriage of divorcees with a spouse still living is not analogous to any bending of doctrine required to enable same-sex couples in a civil marriage to be licensed; and (ii) that in any case, despite permitting the marriage of divorcees, we do actually still hold to the traditional doctrine of marriage, that it is between a man and a woman for life. Fair warning: your head will hurt trying to follow this meandering thread.

    We are told that same-sex marriage is in no way the same kind of thing as the marriage of divorcees. ‘While there are clearly similarities between the two, an argument that they are identical does not seem sustainable. Therefore, the logic used to support adding Canon C 4.5 [enabling the licensing of clergy in a second marriage] cannot be a precedent’ (§96). But no reason is given for this judgment that the two are not identical. Indeed, both marriages are a statement of the traditional doctrine, except for one thing: either the gender of the parties, or the “one man and one woman for life” bit.

    Perhaps an analogy could be constructed instead. We are told that ‘Theological reflection should always begin with scripture’ (§99), a statement which will come as a surprise to anyone versed in theological reflection as practiced in Church of England theological colleges. After this we are told that:

    It is true that Holy Scripture does not include explicit precedent for a faithful, stable, permanent same-sex relationship. Similarly, one might observe that ‘Scripture’s teaching on homosexuality is sparse and ambiguous and it is highly questionable to what extent we can derive from it any application to the ethical issue of gay relationships as it faces us today. (§99)

    This is not an argument routinely advanced by LGBTQIA+ people today, who find precedent for our relationships and identities throughout scripture. But the report entirely ignores our love for and valuing of scripture, referencing a group of mostly American straight Evangelicals talking about LGBTQIA+ people (and also referencing Jeffrey John). Unlike divorce, which does exist in scripture, LGBTQIA+ people’s lives and relationships are portrayed in the report as absent from scripture, so without precedent, so without theological existence.

    The report then charts the progress, from the Lichfield Report (1978) to the early 2000s, of the idea that a marriage can end such that a person can marry someone else. This includes: (i) the rejection of sacramental understandings of marriage and (ii) doctrinal clarifications (or developments) that marriage’s being for life was not an essential part of a marriage’s nature, only an ideal (§§111-118).

    We supposedly have arrived at a relatively straightforward conclusion: there cannot be ‘a complete analogy’ (§118) with the marriage of divorcees. However, the argument continues, now in the context of divorce and in what sense clerics’ lives are meant to be exemplary.

    The report notes (referring to St Paul and St Augustine) that marriage was itself a pastoral accommodation in the first place to the ideal of celibacy. It suggests that, when considering making pastoral provision for same-sex couples in marriages, ‘one might contend that such an approach has parallels – though inexact ones’ (§120) with the Pauline and Augustinian accommodation of marriage. However, again, it is not clear why these parallels would not be exact. A thing is not the ideal for sexual ethics, but we make accommodation for it. Why the distinction?

    The section §§122-128 duplicates the arguments of §§52-60, sometimes verbatim, about culture and exemplarity. Again, this feels like an attempt to create an illusion of a coherent argument by repeating material rather than referencing it. On the other hand, it could simply be a drafting oversight.

    The argument seems to be that the pastoral epistles are contextual and culturally referential. They represent an attempt to work out what conduct should be required of the clergy in their own day, in order to be an example of godly life (§124). And so, scripture requires us to consider what holy life looks like today.

    Insofar as the Church of England aims to support and assist those who enter holy orders with the long work of forming and fashion their lives for a visible, grounded holiness, it can only deal in the on-the-ground realities of living as an ordained person in the contemporary culture in which they sojourn. This approach follows the scriptural lead: Paul’s example in the Holy Scriptures indicates it is impossible to think about the exemplary call without considering the context in which Christian witness occurs. (§126)

    A rare, positive conclusion is reached: that it might be possible to think about exemplarity in a way which refers to shifts in understandings of what being exemplary might mean, and in a way which is also biblical.

    Therefore, the argument that clergy in a same-sex marriage may be exemplary invokes cultural context – not in any way omitting theological rigour in preference for an appeal to contemporary culture, but as a move necessitated by Holy Scripture. (§127)

    However, the argument quickly moves off again in another direction, this time truly mind-boggling. The authors of the report wish to underline that the ‘call to celibacy’ may lead ‘same-sex attracted persons’ to opt for a ‘covenanted friendship[] or celibate civil partnership’. By analogy, we are reminded that ‘similar options have always been available to anyone who is divorced with a living spouse’ (§133).  Some choose to remain celibate after a divorce ‘since their remarriage would be a stumbling block to those holding to indissolubility for marriage’ (§133). An argument is being made that because some divorced people decide to remain celibate, that is an option open to LGBTQIA+ people too.

    The report then asks why many opt instead for further marriage. ‘There are surely a number of reasons – but it is hard to escape the conclusion that one reason will be because the church teaches sexual intimacy belongs within marriage and they wish to respect that’ (§134). This is frankly bizarre. On one level it is hard to believe that anyone has ever seriously made this argument. People who are divorced remarry because they want to remarry. The serial monogamist is not making a prophetic declaration that the place for sexual intimacy (with each of their sexual partners) is within marriage. This is utterly bizarre. However, this is advanced as an example of an argument in which an analogy might be possible for extending marriage to same-sex couples who are having sex, in order to affirm the church’s teaching that the place for sex is within marriage.

    However, this argument is so preposterous that it is hard to believe that it would ever be made by anyone who actually wanted to convince the reader that same sex marriage might be a good thing. The analogy with divorce makes it absurd. If the report was seriously offering a positive argument for marriage equality, it would simply argue that the place for sex should be within lifelong marriage. And that would be an argument that many LGBTQIA+ people do actually make.

    That positive argument is finally made, almost in passing, along with an equally easily missed reference to the possibility that same-sex couples who are married might not necessarily actually be having sex:

    While it is true that a same-sex marriage – which one cannot be certain is sexually active, but for those who want to affirm same-sex relationships offers a faithful, stable, and permanent context for sexual intimacy – does present challenges to the church’s teaching on sexual intimacy, which restricts it to heterosexual marriage, there is a case that a same-sex marriage offers a model that is exemplary in our society. (§138)

    But you could have been forgiven for missing those significant points as they flew past.

     

    6 – Disempower the Bishops

    In my response to GS Misc 1430 on marriage, I noted the high emotional tone of some of the language, which seemed aimed at making the episcopal readers less inclined to exercise their episcopal prerogative. We have seen how this report might well have the same effect, but by mystifying the reader in a barrage of confusingly arrayed arguments.

    However, the sections considering the possibility that the bishops might permit clergy, who currently need to be in civil partnerships in order to receive a license, to simply get married, and that they might just decide not discipline them, do sow fear. They do this by foretelling legal uncertainty and legal challenge in a manner that suggests the bishops would be taking a course of action which could be described as courageous.

    The ideal, surely, for all of us, is that we might come to one mind, with sufficient majorities to pass legislation which pleases everyone. However, if this is not possible, the report acknowledges that it is possible ‘for the diocesan bishops to exercise their discretion in responding to a situation that raises such questions about doctrine and practice being in tension’ (§82). This is a very odd way to frame episcopal discretion which arises from the tortured logic of ‘communally regulative understanding of doctrine’ (§84) which is rehearsed again. Far more sensible would have been a simple statement of the long-established episcopal discretion which exists for a bishop to administer their diocese as they see fit. A survey of the legal and historical as well as ecclesiological grounding for this would have been particularly interesting. But I suspect it would have shattered the illusion of a church held together by its ‘communally regulative understanding of doctrine’.

    The report notes that the House of Bishops could decide to relax discipline across the Church of England. ‘This would constitute a form of communal regulation – but only of one constituent house of the General Synod’ (§190). The argument is framed to evaluate every option for episcopal action through the lens of the ‘communally regulative understanding of doctrine’. Since that concept presumes that only maximum agreement can be acceptably communally regulative, this essentially paralyses the bishop from acting in their diocese.

    It is a masterful, if strangled, conceptual power grab. So the House of Bishops as a whole cannot act because they are only one house of Synod (§190). The bishop in their diocese cannot act because this ‘would also put the approach in tension with the idea that discipline operates on a communally [sic] regulative manner’ (§192).

    Indeed, with the concept of ‘communally regulative understanding of doctrine’, the bishop is rendered powerless, and the bishops as a House are disempowered utterly. They are responsible for discipline. But they cannot exercise their prerogative when it comes to discipline. Which begs the question, what is the point of a bishop? It is a line of reasoning which only works if you remain committed to the ‘communally regulative understanding of doctrine’ and wilfully ignore 2000 years of ecclesiological theology on the role of the bishop in their diocese.

    But, lest the bishops assert their prerogative, we are told that individual bishops inhabiting their role ‘carries the greatest risk for discipline to depart from doctrine, potentially resulting in legal challenges and increased confusion over such matters’ (§197). This argument is repeated in §213 as the last paragraph of the report, just to make sure the bishops were left with a dose of panic. Peter Collier KC has taken the teeth out of this legal threat pretty convincingly. Like many of the arguments advanced in this report, it is not real.

    The bishops should not be afraid to lead, to minister and to administer. Conservative bishops have done so, interpreting doctrine more tightly in some areas and more loosely in others as fits their own beliefs about what it means to be a shepherd of Christ’s flock in their diocese. Inclusive bishops should be similarly empowered. And the House of Bishops as a whole should not let its freedom to act be utterly dissolved into communal regulation. The bishops are not merely an upper rubber-stamping chamber for the secretariat and the Synod as a whole. For this reason, above all the others, this report must not become enshrined in Church of England thinking. What it risks is a functional Presbyterianism, a synodality which is not Anglican, and a House of Bishops who are ordained and consecrated to be shepherds of Christ’s flock, but who find themselves powerless to do anything meaningful in fulfilment of that calling.

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

  • Celibacy and Conscience

    by Professor Morwenna Ludlow, a historian, theologian and priest, specialising in historical theology. She is Professor of Christian Theology at the University of Exeter and Canon Theologian at Exeter Cathedral

    The question of how Christians understand celibacy has not gone away. Recent debates over Living and Love and Faith (LLF) in the July 2024 sessions of the General Synod of the Church of England show that. But this time, the issue of celibacy seemed to me to be tied to the question of the protection of conscience. It’s this connection I want to unpick here.

    In our General Synod debates, I continue to be moved by the testimonies of those who speak about their conviction that they are called to a life of celibacy. (These have, so far as I recall, all been speakers who have also stated they are sexually attracted to those of the same sex.[1] I would love also to hear testimony about the vocation of celibacy from heterosexual Christians!) I do not think that I am in position to question their sense of vocation. In good conscience, that is not my call to make. As a heterosexual woman in a long, happy and fulfilling marriage, which began with a ceremony in my parish church, there is especially an imperative on me not to be too quick in my judgment.

    Where I baulk, however, is when I hear some claim that their conscience should determine not just their own, but other people’s behaviour. There are two related ideas here. First, there is the idea that a conscientious restraint on one person’s part should be universalised to a demand for restraint by all who find themselves in a similar position – in this case, the idea that all lesbian and gay Christians should commit to celibacy. But, as I argued in an earlier blog, the church’s consistent, scriptural and traditional teaching (i.e. doctrine) of celibacy is that it should be a freely willed response to God’s call, not a demand placed on all. Second, there is the idea – put forward notably by the Church of England Evangelical Council (CEEC) – that the consciences of those who hold the conservative position should be protected by the provision of “a permanent structural rearrangement resulting in visible differentiation” from the rest of the Church of England.[2]

    But this second idea seems to me to involve the unexamined movement between several related positions:

    (a) In good conscience, person x believes that they can neither have an active sexual relationship outside heterosexual marriage, nor take positive steps which would condone or welcome such relationships (e.g. like offering the Prayers of Love and Faith for same-sex couples);

    (b) The conscience of x is troubled by those in their church who do have an active sexual relationship outside heterosexual marriage, or who take positive steps which would condone or welcome such relationships;

    (c) Person x has the right for their conscience to be protected from being troubled in this way.

    Points (a) and (b) are statements of fact; point (c) makes an ethical demand. In brief, I certainly think that the church and its members should acknowledge (a) by ensuring that no-one has to act against their conscience with respect either to their own intimate relationships or in offering prayers of blessing for others (and the current proposals are emphatic on this point). I also think that it would be wise for those like me to recognise the depth of feeling surrounding point (b): I may disagree with the conservative position, but I need to acknowledge the way these questions are bound up with profound aspects of faith like the interpretation of Scripture and understandings of holiness. I can acknowledge the depth of hurt, while considering its cause to rest on a misunderstanding of the gospel. Nevertheless, it is possible to recognise point (b), without conceding the demand in (c). The question is: precisely what purchase should troubled consciences have on the rest of the church? 

    It might be helpful here to reflect briefly on the role of conscience in theological ethics.[3] Broadly speaking, the Reformed tradition has been cautious about the role of conscience seen as a natural faculty because conscience, like other faculties, has been impaired by the fall. My conscience is subject to distortion by pride, selfishness and lack of attention to the other, especially those others who are vulnerable. At best my conscience can skew my moral judgment; far worse, it can become an instrument of ‘godless self-justification’ as I put my ‘personal innocence’ above my responsibility for my neighbour.[4] For this reason, theologians in the Reformed tradition see conscience not so much as a natural faculty but as that point of encounter between God and myself in the time and place I find myself in, in the world. Conscience then becomes the recognition, through grace, of God’s demand on me – or, to put it another way, the discernment of God’s call to be who God wants me to be right here and right now. This call might be addressed to me as an individual or to a community – the church.

    But what if we disagree? This question is sharp because the possession of a troubled conscience is not unique to those holding the conservative position on LLF. My conscience is deeply troubled by the fact that I am not just part of, but I am a priest in a church which I believe not to be including LGBTQIA+ people as I believe it ought. My conscience is troubled by the church’s treatment of people who are very dear to me. My conscience is troubled by the fact that, as a married heterosexual priest, I am part of a system which treats me better than it treats many LGBTQIA+ priests.

    So where might we look to resolve our disagreement on conscience? Reference is sometimes made by conservative evangelicals to Romans 14:14-15 and 1 Corinthians 8, where Paul insists that the conscience of ‘weaker’ believers to be protected. I am not sure that reference to this passage is helpful for our current disagreements. The issue in Romans and 1 Corinthians concerns beliefs circulating about the effects of eating certain kinds of food: some believers thought that eating food sacrificed to idols (or food which might be thought to have been sacrificed to idols) would imperil their salvation. But Paul is clear that he thinks that these ‘weaker brethren’ are wrong in their belief: ‘Hence, as to the eating of food offered to idols, we know that “no idol in the world really exists” and that “there is no God but one.” …. “It is not everyone, however, who has this knowledge. Since some have become so accustomed to idols until now, they still think of the food they eat as food offered to an idol, and their conscience, being weak, is defiled’ (1 Cor. 8:4-7). So any use of these passages to urge the protection of one’s position as a weaker sibling is implicitly acknowledging that one might be wrong, whilst also placing a demand on oneself to protect the conscience of those whom one believes to be wrong. Secondly, these passages are about what kinds of food are permissible, which is very different from questions of how to treat our LGBTQIA+ sisters and brothers. Thirdly, Paul begins Romans 14 with an absolutely explicit call for mutual compassion: ‘Some believe in eating anything, while the weak eat only vegetables. Those who eat must not despise those who abstain, and those who abstain must not pass judgment on those who eat, for God has welcomed them.’ Fourthly, Paul seems to be addressing issues in local communities, not making pronouncements for the whole church. In essence, the current proposals from the House of Bishops already allow for our ‘weaker’ siblings, in that they clearly allow priests and communities who do not wish to use the Prayers of Love and Faith not to use them.

    Where else might we look to learn about conscience? Because the term ‘conscience’ (suneid?sis) does not appear in the gospels we are perhaps in danger of leaving Jesus out of our accounts. If conscience is understood in God’s call to me, perhaps I should reflect on the way in which Jesus’ words frequently jolt his hearers’ out of their comfortable assumptions about their own virtue (the rich young man, those bringing the woman accused of adultery) or highlight the ever-present danger of hypocrisy and pride (the Sermon on the Mount). (I deliberately use ‘I’ here, for the danger of self-righteousness lies on both ‘sides’ of the debate.) Such encounters explain why theologians in the Reformed tradition write of conscience not as a natural faculty, but as the discernment of God’s demand on us. Conscience in this sense does not come ready-packaged; rather ‘individual moral judgement requires moulding by the believing community and its educative, pastoral, sacramental, disciplinary and therapeutic practices’.[5] This includes our reading and reflection on Scripture and a prayerful deepening of our understanding of the world. On this understanding, conscience cannot be something to be protected; rather, we are called to expose our consciences – to the gospel, to Jesus’ uncomfortable call on us, and to the messy realities of our complicated world.

    By contrast, I am hearing calls from conservative evangelicals for their consciences to be protected. These calls amount in some cases to the demand to be protected from being in full communion with those who are using PLF or who are in same-sex marriages – as if being in full communion places too great a strain on their conscience. This seems to me to be in danger of treating conscience the wrong way. Far from being the place of encounter with the call of Jesus Christ on my life, this view of conscience seems to treat it as a thing of holiness to be polished and protected. This could be understood in two ways (and I suspect that both are in play). First, conscience is understood as a pure thing to be saved from taint. Underlying this are ideas of impurity, which so often creep into Christian discussions of sex – especially when it’s women or LGBTQIA+ people whose sexual activity we are discussing. Does the idea of protecting one’s conscience (‘keeping one’s conscience clean’) presume that in fact all sexual activity, and especially sexual pleasure, is dirty – which is why it must be contained in (heterosexual) marriage and, if at all possible, redeemed by the birth of children? Second, conscience is understood as a fortress to be defended from attack, ‘that inmost citadel of the personality, where the self is… king of its own castle, uncorrupted by the compromises and pressures of the crowd’.[6] On this understanding, the exposure of the self to the ‘crowd’ imperils its very identity.

    Both understandings of why the conscience needs to be protected – a holy thing to be preserved from taint, a fortress to be protected from attack – help explain why feelings are so raw. But neither seem to me to reflect a good theological understanding of conscience as that point of encounter between God and myself. If attention to conscience means responding to Christ’s call on us, I don’t think that God wants us to focus on preserving our holiness – at least, not holiness understood in this narrow sense of protection from taint. God’s holiness does not withdraw from the reality of the world but is immersed in it. Neither do I believe that we need to preserve our identity from attack, for our identity has a sure foundation in our baptism in Jesus Christ.

    God’s call to holiness, it seems to me, calls on us to step into that crowd outside the castle walls, that place where Jesus walked and talked and prayed and ate. Sometimes that means we have to eat with people who disagree with us on issues so painful that our hearts are raw. But if my conscience is found in my encounter with Christ, it is formed precisely in my encounter with all those whom he came to love.

     

    Notes

    [1] I am trying to echo the language they themselves have used in recognition that, while many are happy to identify as LGBTQIA+, for others this is difficult.

    [2] See https://ceec.info/keepingfaith/: “What does the CEEC suggest as a way forward? CEEC remains committed to the highest degree of unity possible within the truth and doctrine of the Church of England. However, we believe that the current proposals will prevent us from walking together and promote disunity, even schism. It is clear that the strength of feeling amongst parties with differing convictions indicates that we have to find a better way forward. CEEC will continue to advocate a settlement, without theological compromise, based on a permanent structural rearrangement resulting in visible differentiation.”

    [3] I approach this topic from the perspective of the Reformed tradition, because that is where the most vocal defenders of the conservative position seem to be speaking from. The issue is treated somewhat differently by ethicists in other traditions. The authors I cite on the topic of conscience should not be assumed to agree with my position on sexual ethics.

    [4] Dietrich Bonhoeffer, Ethics (Minneapolis, MN: Fortress Press, 2009), 278, 276.

    [5] John Webster, ‘God and Conscience’, in The Doctrine of God and Theological Ethics, ed. Alan J. Torrance and Michael Banner (London: Bloomsbury T & T Clark, 2006), 152.

    [6] Henry Chadwick, Some Reflections on Conscience: Greek, Jewish and Christian (London: Council of Christians and Jews, 1968), p. 5, quoted by Webster, 152.

  • Giving Up Sex? What Macrina Tells Us About Choosing Celibacy

    by Professor Morwenna Ludlow, a historian, theologian and priest, specialising in historical theology. She is Professor of Christian Theology at the University of Exeter and Canon Theologian at Exeter Cathedral

    On 19 July, Anglicans remember Macrina and Gregory of Nyssa. Their family story reminds us of the richness and complexity of early Christian practices of marriage and celibacy. Gregory’s biography of his sister Macrina tells that she was engaged in her early teens. When her fiancé died before they could be married, Macrina promptly declared herself a ‘widow’ and dedicated her life to celibacy—first on her own, but eventually turning her whole household into a community for celibate women. This community included her mother Emmelia who, we are told, would have preferred to be a nun herself but agreed to the marriage arranged for her. She had ten children. Macrina was the eldest; the second child, Basil of Caesarea, lived for a while as a celibate in a small community of men in the grounds of the family estate. Basil later founded an important monastery at Caesarea (where he was Bishop) and his monastic “Rule” was an important influence on both eastern and western monasticism (via Cassian and Benedict). Macrina and Basil’s younger brother Gregory married, but was a widower by the time he was elected Bishop of Nyssa. He was supportive of his siblings’ monastic projects and several of his writings address the spiritual graces and challenges of a life of voluntary celibacy.

    Why do I think that we need to reflect on celibacy now? First, because it was celibacy, not marriage, that was counter-cultural in the early church. An arranged marriage was the way those with property ensured its orderly transfer to the next generation. Aristocratic, wealthy or middling families (whether Christian or not) married their daughters off at the age of around 12 to 14. The marriages of Christians were frequently blessed by a priest, but a Christian marriage service was very slow to emerge, especially in the west. To judge from grumpy sermons on the subject, Christians’ weddings would have been difficult to distinguish from others’. We have many stories of Christian women and men rejecting their families’ expectations to marry, instead taking up a life of celibacy dedicated to prayer and service of God. Those who chose to reject marriage in this way could easily paint themselves as taking up a Christian stance against their society—even if it was a society in which most people were Christian. Their decision to choose celibacy was frequently met with incomprehension and suspicion, not least because it often diverted wealth away from influential families to the church.

    Secondly, this decision in favour of a life of celibacy was not understood narrowly as ‘giving up sex’. Voluntarily celibate men and women saw themselves as following a calling to dedicate their whole lives to God. Whether they pursued this alone, in small groups or a larger community, they were dedicated to a life ordered by regular prayer and the singing of the psalms. Their lives were marked by simplicity in food and dress. For Macrina, this certainly meant giving up the comforts of her aristocratic upbringing. For the orphans she took into her community, or the homeless men who were trained in Basil ’s monastery, it meant a more stable life and a better diet. Many monks and nuns took up a life of regular work as well as prayer, working either for their community (growing vegetables, making clothes and so on) or serving the poor and sick who came to them.

    To be clear, there was a very strong strain of early church theology which was suspicious of the body, fearful of sexual desire and keen on the strict preservation of sexual purity (especially for women). But this was never the whole story and many monks and nuns were sexually experienced. Some were widows/widowers. Some married couples individually joined celibate communities after producing ‘an heir and a spare’. Very many people were sexually active outside marriage and some of these later turned to voluntary celibacy. Augustine of Hippo wrote about his concubine and son with great affection. This was not a period of his life which he repudiated in any straightforward sense; his relationship was even condoned by his pious Christian mother until such a time as she had found him a suitably aristocratic wife.

    Thirdly, and most importantly, this kind of celibate life was voluntary. Holy men and women were praised for their choice—a choice often made against the wishes of their families and friends. Macrina is a good example of this. It is true that these men and women often felt their calling as a kind of compulsion. Many, like Augustine, undertook it after deep and long struggles. Those called to ministry today might recognise that grappling in response to a calling. In time, celibacy was expected of priests and bishops (in the west) and bishops (in the east). But even if celibacy was experienced as a challenging call imposed by God and connected with a call to ministry, it was never required by the church of certain sets of people simply because of the way they were born. Indeed, there is clear evidence of rules designed to prevent certain people being pressurised into celibacy. Families were not to send a young girl off to a nunnery against her will. Husbands or wives could leave a marriage to pursue a life of celibacy, but only with the agreement of their spouse; if they did leave their marriage, they could not force their husband or wife to join a community of celibates too. This is not of course to say that these rules weren’t broken. The hierarchical society meant that women and slaves were vulnerable to cooption (and there were rules forbidding slaves to join communities without their masters’ permission). But the point is that the Christian doctrine of celibacy clearly taught that it was a voluntary dedication of one’s whole self and one’s whole life to God and a rejection of society’s pressure to accumulate wealth, improve one’s status and pass both down to the next generation.

    So was this just a fourth-century development in response to the coming together of Christianity and the Roman Empire? Ordered patterns of voluntary celibacy clearly predate Constantine. The earliest texts of Christianity witness to two kinds of leaders: the settled hosts of ‘house churches’ and others, like Paul and the disciples who travelled with Jesus, who were itinerant preachers and teachers. These wandering apostles were probably the first Christian voluntary celibates. Out of their practice grew more formalised traditions, like the wandering pairs of celibate men and women in the Syriac tradition (some scholars argue that very early narratives like the Acts of Paul and Thecla preserve a folk memory of this). In other words, the earliest evidence of consistent forms of Christian voluntary celibacy come from outside, or on the fringes of, the Roman Empire, well before the Empire was Christianised.

    A common Protestant narrative sees the Constantinian period as beginning all kinds of decline in the church and the Protestant Reformation did indeed criticise the corruption of monastic institutions and reverse the expectation of priestly celibacy. But those following Protestant tradition today have to grapple with the fact that Paul declared that it was ‘well’ for the unmarried and widows to remain unmarried as he was and that voluntary celibacy was one ‘particular gift’ among others (1 Cor. 7:7-8, 25). Early Christians reflected deeply on Scripture when teaching about voluntary celibacy. Works like Gregory of Nyssa’s On Virginity are heavily indebted to 1 Cor. 7, advocating integrity in whatever life is chosen. Arguably, the early church’s favouring of celibacy is more Pauline and more biblical than the Reformation’s declaration that celibacy and marriage were of equal value. In any case, early Christian celibates constantly expressed their calling in biblical terms, most vividly the idea that celibacy was a marriage with the heavenly bridegroom: just as each Christian was held to be the uniquely-loved adoptive son and heir of God through baptism, so each voluntary celibate—whether a man or woman—became the uniquely loved bride of Christ. They expressed this relationship using imagery from the Song of Songs, the parable of the ten bridesmaids (Matthew 25:1-13) and other New Testament texts (e.g. Matt. 9:15/Mk 2:19/Luke 5:34; John 3:29; 2 Cor. 11:2-4; Eph. 5). In other words, the biblical use of marriage as a symbol for salvation was not just used to validate earthly marriage; it was also—and I would argue was more emphatically and regularly used—as a model for the relationship of each celibate to their heavenly spouse.

    Early forms of Christian celibacy were varied. They were adapted to suit individual settings and cultural contexts. But they were united by a strong sense of a voluntary, permanent setting aside of one’s Iife for God, a commitment which was symbolised for women and men as a wife’s devotion to her heavenly husband. Just as marriage was based in both Jewish and Roman law on consent, celibacy was grounded on a voluntary commitment.

    Those modern Christians who demand celibacy for same sex couples may think they are defending the Christian doctrine of marriage. In fact, they are ignoring the doctrine of celibacy. Their position is unchristian, it is unbiblical, and it is unkind.

     

    Sources/further reading
    Brock, Sebastian P and Susan Ashbrook Harvey, eds., Holy Women of the Syrian Orient, paperback (Berkeley (CA); Los Angeles; London: University of California Press, 1998).
    Brock, Sebastian, The Luminous Eye.  The Spiritual World Vision of Saint Ephrem the Syrian, Cistercian Studies Series 124 (Kalamazoo: Cistercian Publications, 1992).
    Brown, Peter, The Body and Society: Men, Women, and Sexual Renunciation in Early Christianity (New York: Columbia University Press, 1988).
    Clark, Gillian. Women in Late Antiquity: Pagan and Christian Life-Styles. (Oxford: Oxford Univ. Press, 2008).
    Elm, Susanna. Virgins of God: The Making of Asceticism in Late Antiquity. (Oxford; New York: Oxford University Press, 1994)
    Ludlow, Morwenna. The Early Church. (London; New York: I.B. Tauris, 2009).

     

  • A Peek under the Episcopal Carpet – Past Cases Review 2 and its Blind Spots

    by the Revd. Dr. Brenda Wallace, a former member of General Synod, an active member of Broken Rites, and part of the organising group of the Campaign for Equal Marriage

    Last week, without much fanfare, the Church of England published the Past Cases Review 2. This summarises the thorough investigation into past cases of abuse which have been “swept under the carpet” by church authorities across the country. Time and time again, the need to protect the ‘integrity’ of the organisation has been prioritised over the need to protect the individual victims of abuse.

    The report notes that: ‘The review of the 75,253 files within the scope of PCR2 was conducted by independent reviewers across the dioceses and other church bodies between July 2019 and April 2022. […]  The independent reviewers identified 383 new safeguarding cases relating to children and vulnerable adults’ (p. 11).

    The continued scandal of the sexual abuse of children and vulnerable adults in the Church of England has – rightly – received much attention in recent years, as the Church has been forced by IICSA to wash its dirty linen in public and admit to its persistent failures to protect its most vulnerable members. Despite much handwringing by Bishops and Archbishops, and in General Synod, there is still a long way to go, both to address and redress the past failings, and to create a safer church.

    I don’t want to minimise this appalling record of cover-up of the abuse of children and young people within the church. But I want to draw out two areas of abuse which continue to receive little or no acknowledgement in discussions about safeguarding.

    The first is around the whole issue of human sexuality. Sexual orientation is a protected characteristic under equality legislation. Yet the Church has continued to allow discrimination against LGBTIQA+ members. In over 400 pages, the Living in Love and Faith book only mentions safeguarding twice, briefly, and in both cases, in relation to children. There is no comment on the constant abuse, marginalisation, and exclusion that many gay people receive in their churches and in social media. Pressure by some individuals and organisations for churches to be exempt from proposed government legislation to ban conversion therapy highlights the safeguarding issues and the danger that young people are in within certain church traditions, where attempts to ‘cure’ them of their supposedly aberrant sexuality continue to be practised.

    When the LLF discussions were taking place last year, the Campaign for Equal Marriage ran a series of workshops where those sympathetic to our aims could have a conversation within a safe space about the LLF Report. We heard numerous stories of individuals who had not felt that discussions within their Diocese or local church were a safe space for them to be, and that the Pastoral Principles which were supposed to provide protection were frequently ignored. While taking part in the national Safeguarding training required regularly for all licensed clergy, I raised the question of safeguarding for LGBTIQA+ people within church contexts. Those delivering the course looked puzzled that I even raised the question, and quickly replied that it was not part of the training. Of course, all young people and vulnerable adults need to be protected within the church, but an awareness of the particular vulnerability of young LGBTIQA+ people in our churches appears not to feature.

    The PCR2 report briefly mentions bullying (p. 107), quoting from a case of a priest who was persistently bullied by a member of the congregation and was forced out of post, which the church authorities dealt with inadequately. But there is no mention of numerous recent cases where gay, partnered priests were forced by Bishops to relinquish their licences and their posts because of their desire to marry their partners, the alternative being to live in enforced celibacy. The lack of pastoral care for clergy in many such cases, and the attempts of church authorities to suppress complaints, is well documented. This is yet another area where safeguarding is inadequate, and the institution is protected in preference to the individual.

    The second area which I would like to highlight is the issue of domestic abuse within clergy marriages. This does indeed get a mention in the PCR2 report – three whole pages (pp. 102 ff.)! It wryly notes that ‘The number of domestic abuse cases seems low for the size of the organisation and where allegations are made there is an inconsistent approach to investigating and identifying risks. There were cases where no final outcome was recorded, which could suggest that risks were left unmanaged, and no safeguarding was put in place’ (p. 103).

    In this context, I am writing as a member of Broken Rites, a charity providing mutual support when clergy marriages fall apart, founded in 1983 at the initiative of Frank Field MP. We are an ecumenical organisation with members from other UK Church denominations; it’s obvious that this is not just an Anglican issue. Our broken and bruised members, victims of failed clergy marriages, tell time and time again of the way in which the circumstances of their breakdown have been swept under the carpet by church authorities. These spouses, the majority of whom are women, have often suffered decades of physical or emotional abuse, coercive control, or narcissistic behaviour. Others have seen their marriage ripped apart by adulterous relationships by their priest partner. While marriage breakdown is always painful, it is particularly so for clergy spouses who have to leave their home in the vicarage, their own role within the church and its supportive network, and fight for financial support for themselves and any children. Some have to find paid employment for the first time, after many years of faithfully supporting their clergy partner’s parish work. Whatever their situation, they face being forced out of most of their familiar settings to make a fresh start, while recovering from the trauma of an abusive or broken relationship.

    The Church does now make some practical support and financial provision for separated clergy spouses, but the support is patchy and poorly signposted, and inconsistent across the country. In many cases, the offending priest gets to stay in post and in the clergy house, whilst the spouse is the one to move out. Even more patchy is the pastoral and emotional support for the departing spouse. Once again, the Church protects its own and has prioritised the safeguarding of the Church’s reputation rather than the individual. This is not the space to tell my own story, simply to note that I talk from personal experience.

    The stories we hear through Broken Rites are only a few – the stories of women and men who have had the courage to break away, despite the emotional and financial cost. We have no idea how many more continue to suffer because of the pressure to hold on to their marriage vows no matter what, and because of the lack of awareness of the problems by church authorities. Allegations of abuse by their partners have been repeatedly ignored or downplayed.

    PCR2 has taken a peek under the carpet and found a massive pile of debris. But, if you will excuse the mixed metaphor, there’s still an awful lot of muck left in the Augean stable under the episcopal floor-covering.