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Tag: power

  • Living in Love and Faith: Where is the Power?

    by Revd Ruth Harley (Vicar, Cowgate and Priest in Charge, Newbiggin Hall)

    Back at the start of the Living in Love and Faith process (LLF), one of the more useful resources to be produced was the ‘Pastoral Principles’ – a set of six concepts intended to enable better conversations across difference. One of the Pastoral Principles was “pay attention to power”. And yet, as we take in the latest update on LLF from the House of Bishops, it seems evident that little if any attention has really been paid to power in the course of the LLF process.

    Power is a slippery thing. It hides in plain sight, and works in ways which can be hard to grasp. And yet, if we do actually pay attention to power, and name how power is being used in in a particular situation, it can be deeply revealing.

    Power is an important theological concept. We speak of God as omnipotent – all powerful. We read Paul’s description of “Christ the power of God and the wisdom of God.” We might hear someone describe “the Holy Spirit moving powerfully” in a particular church or event. But what kind of power is this? Very often we don’t stop to examine it too closely. And unexamined power is always dangerous.

    I am not, here, attempting to offer a fully worked-out theology of power (for that, I recommend Anna Mercedes’ excellent book Power For). But I do want to consider the role of power which has led to this latest set of decisions from the House of Bishops.

    Sometimes it is helpful to separate out the church’s “espoused theology” – what we say we believe – from its “operant theology” – what the things we do and how we do them reveal about what we believe. Where those two theologies are at odds, it can be very revealing.

    The church’s espoused theology of power is one of equality and justice, but also of self-abnegation, servanthood, “God’s power made perfect in human weakness”. The story we tell about how power exists in the church is one of the foot-washing, self-emptying power of love which we see in Christ.

    But very often this is not the operant theology of power in the church, it is not how we really live and relate to each other. Certainly the operant theology of power in the LLF process is something very different, and if we really do pay attention to power, to how it actually works, rather than how it is spoken about, we start to see some of the theological problems underlying this latest set-back in the slow and painful process.

    Firstly, the espoused theology of power contained within the LLF process is one of equality: that we all approach the process from equal positions, with equal power, with equal concerns. This is demonstrably not so. And a failure to acknowledge an imbalance of power always works in favour of those with whom the power already lies. The operant theology of LLF is one in which LGBTQ+ members of the church (and to a lesser extent our allies) simultaneously have less institutional power, and more at stake – our identities, livelihoods, vocations, relationships, in addition to the theological, ecclesial and missional concerns which all parties bring to the LLF process. If this inequality goes unacknowledged, as it largely has, then everything that is built on that espoused theology of equal power will be at best precarious, and at worst false and manipulative.

    Secondly, the espoused theology of power within the church is one in which divine power, and therefore power within the church, functions very differently to worldly power. And yet, the attention paid to money and the threat of its withdrawal by conservative churches during the LLF process suggests a rather different operant theology.

    Thirdly, there is the question of whose voice is heard, and how. The espoused theology of LLF is that all voices are heard equally. And yet… The attention given to threats of schism, threats of diminishing numbers and income, by those promoting a conservative stance on sexuality is vastly greater than that given to the many LGBTQ+ folks and allies who have quietly walked away, or who have bravely spoken about the harm done to them and to those they love by conservative and sometimes openly homophobic church teaching, whose voices remain largely unheard, silenced or ignored. The operant theology of the LLF process is that some voices are worth more than others.

    Finally, there is the question of conscience. The latest update from the House of Bishops is keen to emphasise that the next stage of the process will “respect the conscience” of those opposed to using the Prayers of Love and Faith. Good – I don’t think anyone in favour of greater progress towards LGBTQ+ equality wants people to be forced or coerced into using prayers against their conscience. But the question of conscience, throughout the LLF process, only ever seems to cut one way.

    There are thousands of clergy currently forced to act against their conscience, myself among them. We act against our conscience every time we explain that we can’t marry a same-sex couple who wish to celebrate their love and commitment in the presence of God. We act against our conscience when we constrain ourselves to the meagre offerings allowed by PLF, instead of celebrating and blessing the fullness of what we see God doing in the lives and loves of faithful LGBTQ+ people. The cost of overriding our conscience is a form of moral injury, and a very real harm not only to individuals but to the church as a whole. But our conscience is of no concern to the House of Bishops, it seems.

    Whatever the espoused theology of the church, when the operant theology evident in the actions (or inactions) of its leadership reveals that some voices are worth more than others, some consciences more worth protecting than others, it is hard to escape the conclusion that some people are worth more than others: more fully human, more fully made in God’s image, more beloved.

    That, of course, is not true. And nor is it the church’s espoused theology. But it is too often, including in the House of Bishops’ latest (in)action on LLF, the church’s operant theology. And that operant theology damages the body of Christ because, whatever kind or well-intentioned words may be said, what is felt and known and experienced as the lived reality is a deeply damaging theology of power, which tramples over the lives and loves and the very humanity of LGBTQ+ folks (yet again) in the futile search for a false unity which will allow those who already hold power to hold onto it, without needing to pay any attention at all.

     

  • The Cost of Political Violence: After Charlie Kirk

    by Charlie Bell, Fellow in Public Theology and Medicine at Girton College, Cambridge, Associate Vicar of St John the Divine, Kennington, in the Diocese of Southwark, and member of the LLF Vocations and Ministry Working Group

    The truly horrible killing – in front not only of thousands of young people but also of his own family – of Charlie Kirk yesterday evening must rank amongst the most viscerally disturbing and potentially dangerous events of the past year. It is not, of course, the only example of gun violence – indeed, not even the only example of gun violence in the US yesterday – and nor is it the only killing, or attempted killing, this year of a figure in the US political arena, yet already it is clear that its impact on public life will be profound. At the time of writing, we know neither the identity nor the motive of the killer, yet it is already being described as a piece of political violence – and sadly, given the state of politics across the Atlantic and even on this side, too, there may be outrage but there is rather less surprise. We have sunk to this level, and we know it.

    The political response to these kinds of acts of violence is often mixed, but mainstream politicians – indeed, those who genuinely represent the mainstream perspectives of much of the population who sit somewhere around the centre ground – will usually see times like this as an opportunity to speak of, and genuinely strive for, unity. For all we disagree – sometimes vehemently and fundamentally – actualised violence in the public square is universally acknowledged as something to be avoided at all costs. It is through words that we disagree, and it is through democratic forms of accountability that we challenge and protest actions taken. A gun is never – and can never – be the answer to our differences. That way lies ruin and destruction, and, in the end, nobody benefits from cycles of violence – it is a path to civil unrest and devastation. This has been the accepted narrative through most of our recent history.

    Yet something seems to have changed, for the worse.

    As I say, as yet we do not know the identity of the killer, or their motive. Yet already we have heard a clear line being pushed by a number of politicians on both sides of the Atlantic that lay the blame for this on ‘the left’. In doing so, they play a very dangerous game indeed.

    Trump was first out the gates blaming the ‘radical left’. Musk, Yusuf, Harwood, Jenrick, and many more, followed him. X is full of sanctimonious blaming of ‘the left’ for fomenting this political violence. Others, like Nigel Farage, have followed, with allusions to ‘free speech’ which intentionally leave little to the imagination and suggest that there is a grand conspiratorial plot by their opponents to meet calm speech with violence. Indeed, the pervasive and rather vague language of ‘martyrdom’ is as disturbing as it is bizarre – and plain wrong.

    This does three deeply pernicious things. The first is to – again – blatantly ignore the impact of gun ownership, and the accompanying ‘God given right’ philosophy, on the potential for political violence in the US. The second is to blatantly ignore the swathe of political violence committed against those who would identify as left wing over the past year, pretending into existence an inevitable link between left-wing politics and violence, and further escalating the rhetoric that politicises and makes more dangerous an already tinder-box situation. And the third? In the process of doing this, to try to divert the public conversation from the actual rot at the heart of much of our contemporary public life and its source – cheap, amoral populism. It is to employ what is a horrifying human tragedy, with its structural underpinning, to further political game-playing and propaganda.

    Nobody in politics, from whatever wing, is immune from criticism in the way our public debate has been debased. This is not, really, a question of right and left, but rather, ultimately, of good faith and bad faith, whatever the political philosophy. There are plenty of right-wing and left-wing politicians who are able to clearly state this, and there are right-wing and left-wing identifying politicians and political commentators who instead choose to fan the flames of anger and division rather than seek for common ground. Yet our political ground – here and in the US – seems to have shifted to favour those who offer easy answers and lazy stereotyping in place of serious and calm debate. Politics has become less concerned with the common good, and instead tends towards authoritarian and totalitarian modes of behaving that all too easily take hold in our public life.

    And whilst it is true that words do not kill, we must surely not be naïve and imagine that our rhetoric has no impact, whoever we are, and however important we believe our cause to be. As cheap populism of all forms has grown in recent years, we have sat increasingly lightly to the truth and made use of caricature and lies to convince and convict others of our point of view. We have bought into the idea that ‘to win at all costs’ is the most legitimate of political philosophies, and forgotten the simple idea that telling the truth, and engaging with actual people and their ideas rather than caricatures and easy targets is the way to build a stable and secure democracy.

    We have, in the process, allowed bad actors to increasingly influence our debate, believing in and promoting the lie that saying disgusting and demeaning things ‘nicely’ and with a sense of ‘politeness’ is some form of hallowed civil public debate. We have similarly increasingly accepted the idea that ‘free speech’ in a democratic society comes with absolutely no responsibility – that disinformation, lies, dehumanising language are all important to preserve as part of ‘healthy debate’. Those who speak into public spaces cannot, surely, have carte blanche to stir up hate and even violence, however carefully and casuistically they say these things, and however much they smile at the same time in a performance of ‘reasonableness’.  

    At the same time, we have failed to pay proper attention to power dynamics and the unequal impact of our words on others, imagining that when we devalue another’s humanity it is all part of ‘the debate’. Not all words are equal, and nor is their impact – yet this simple and self-evident truth is all-too-frequently ignored. We ignore the fact that if we keep hacking away at another person with our rhetoric – and, indeed, with our actions – we cause deep wounds that dehumanise both them and us. In our pursuit of the mythical ‘freedom of speech’, we fail to remember that another key watchword of healthy democracies is the affording of dignity to all its members.

    Yet we seem unable to join the dots between intentional divisiveness, the dehumanising of opponents, the deserved and undeserved loss of trust in the institutions that have held us together, the fomenting of violent disagreement, the trivialising and normalising of violence in the public square (thinking, indeed, of January sixth), and the increasing preponderance of violence itself. It is – frankly – killing us.

    So how might the church speak into this space – especially an Established church like the Church of England? What might we do to try to play our part in reviving the best of public life and in banishing those things that lead to this kind of devastation?

    The first thing we must do, surely, is get our own house in order. Our public debates – the way we have spoken to and about each other, and spoken of each other’s ideas, has been a disgrace far too much of the time. Our willingness to scapegoat others, to see an issue and not a person, to blame someone else rather than take responsibility for our own actions and words, appears endless, and similarly our determination to debate in bad faith means our ‘good disagreement’ is nothing of the sort. At its best, the church – particularly an Established church – should, surely, be a place of genuine discussion and dignified (in its truest sense) debate. Imagine an Established church that gave the space for opposing points of view to meet, not only to find common ground but to more carefully understand and outline the differences that remain. Imagine a Church of England that could be not only an example of how things might be done, but the agora in which they actually are done.

    Yet we must not fool ourselves that this will happen overnight. Not only do we need to be a place that practices what we preach, but we need to find a way of speaking into public debate that dials down the rhetoric and promotes free and dignified speech in which the humanity of the other is our first concern. This will mean naming power imbalances and pointing out where cheap populism would rather scapegoat than engage. It means, for example, making clear that the question of immigration is not as simple as some wish to make out, and that simplistic answers will therefore not do. It means committing to listening as much as to speaking, and to recommitting to the idea of being accountable to one another as part of what it means to be human. It means respecting the other enough to really hear them, and building a society in which we can expect that from the other, too, where we might once again find trust in the public square.

    This is a hard ask, and it’s not something that’s going to happen overnight. Indeed, as much as the church wants to think of itself as a place and agent of reconciliation, let’s not be hasty and imagine we are at that stage yet. Perhaps the Church of England’s vocation, right now, is instead to call the nation to a period of reflection – one in which we need to share. This is not some nice-sounding but fruitless exercise – it is painful, and self-examining, and purposeful. This reflection is an active process – one where we have to be willing to attend to and address the rot, before we dare rebuild upon it. It is to call the nation – those of good will – to an active willingness to reject cheap populism and instead choose graceful truth-seeking, and be changed in the process. It is to reorient our public life. Perhaps, simply, this is the church’s vocation in such a time as this. If the Body of Christ cannot do it, then who can?

    And with God, nothing is impossible.

  • A Heavy Yoke: Selina Stone on Power

    I wanted to review Selina Stone’s new book, published today, on Via Media News, because this is such an important and accessible reflection on themes which are currently being discussed widely in our churches, particularly as we continue to reel from awareness of sexual and other forms of abuse: the themes of power, leadership, trust and success. While her approach is a theological one, Stone rightly points out that theology is expressed in practice and can be shaped and distorted by our personality and prejudices. And that was where I found her book was especially valuable, because she challenges each of us to face our own power in order to understand just where it is held, and how it can be abused.

    Stone writes from the Pentecostal tradition, but everything she discusses applies equally to other denominations. Leaders’ use of the church for their own ends is only made possible by the cultures in which they function and the Christian theology they can call on; certain theologies encourage particular power dynamics which increase the chances of spiritual abuse. In a comment which reminded me of the objections some individuals make when required to do safeguarding training, she notes that “Christians … imagine that there is no need to be trained to understand sexual harassment, toxic behaviour and racist abuse, since these are ‘worldly concerns’; instead, apparently, we simply need more Bible studies” (5). And, for those of us who are at least able to recognise abuse outside the Church, she argues that we need to do far more to understand what happens inside. Using Matthew 5’s “You’ve heard it said… but I say”, she invites churches “to critically engage with the traditions they have inherited” (11).

    I particularly appreciated Stone’s dissection of the current tropes of “disagreeing well” (31) and “servant leadership” (26), the second of these identified as virtue signalling, since it can disguise the immense power such a leader may wield over others, feigning service while keeping all the power. Stone uses the example of Jean Vanier’s abuse of nuns and lay women, which also leads her to explore the danger of concepts of spiritual fatherhood and of marriage imagery when talking about spiritual union.

    The chapter on the potential of preaching in grooming a congregation to accept abusive behaviour takes as its text a sermon by Mike Pilavachi, where he used the story of Jacob and Laban to argue that God sometimes sends toxic and abusive people into our lives because… He loves us. As a Black lay woman, Stone also knows all about churches “where white married couples occupy the highest rungs of power”, noting that the concerns of the “little people” were only properly heard after Matt and Beth Redman spoke out about Pilavachi.

    Another case study is that of SPAC Nation, whose wealthy leaders told young people to give them more money, including from selling their own blood, because this would become the seed of the church and would enable them to become rich too. To encourage this behaviour, SPAC nation drew on scripture about sacrifice and obedience. Here, Stone shows how we are still too quick to assume that dominance and numerical growth are evidence of success; and focusing on God as “Almighty” can stop us seeing how God can also be breath, or possibility.

    A further section focuses on John Smyth’s abuse, which was supported by specific readings of the Cross and theologies of atonement focused on God’s wrath. Here, Stone draws on the resources of Black female and womanist theologians, and on their interpretations of the “power in the blood”. After showing the different ways in which oppressed groups have drawn on this theology, she concludes that “God does not delight in the shedding of our blood, any more than he did in the torture and murder of Jesus” (106).

    She also explores the meaning of unity, uncovering the ways in which the word can be used to push the less powerful to remain silent so that the dominant group is able to continue as before, with any expression of disagreement being silenced as a threat to unity. But the price for unity should not be paid by those “who are already forced to carry burdens too heavy for them” (86). She asks what it really means to love each other, as opposed to merely tolerating those with whom we disagree.

    This is a book which fully grasps the complexity of power. When writing on the power of vulnerability as an element of good leadership, Stone shows how controlling leaders can pretend to be vulnerable as a technique to make others reveal their own stories, and also shows how the term “vulnerable adult” can be used to suggest that the survivor is somehow the cause of the abuse. She is very aware of body theology, particularly when analysing Vanier’s views on touch, which dangerously ignored boundaries and power. She contrasts Vanier with Jesus, who knows his power and what it is for, and always waits for consent.

    What is most challenging of all is when Stone turns from the shocking cases which have become familiar to us in the last decade or so and makes us look at ourselves, at “the wolf who might be within us” (13). For this, the most important chapter is the final one, on discernment. Here I remembered what I found most powerful in recent safeguarding leadership training: the Social GGRRAAAACCEESSSS. Taken from a social science context, these emphasise that we are all disadvantaged in some contexts and privileged in others, based on who we are. The long list used in C of E safeguarding training covers: gender, geography, race, religion, ability, accent, age, appearance, class, culture, education, employment, ethnicity, sexuality, sexual orientation, spirituality, and “something else”.

    Stone looks at discernment in the sense of a community and an individual working out how best to use their gifts in ministry, but also considers its less obvious aspects, such as knowing when to speak and when to remain silent, and recognising the spiritual influences behind people’s actions. She argues that we can’t ever spot every abuser and we don’t even know what we ourselves may be capable of doing. This is not made easier when we are not taught how to discern. Even within a church community we need to recognise the sense of something being “off”, perhaps from taking seriously our own bodily reactions. A church is which is a healthy space will have a sense of community, of making space for others, of leadership which does not control but develops other people. It will understand the importance of accountability and cultivate a culture of reflection.

    This is a clear, confident theological and personal appeal for a better understanding of power; I hope it will find its way on to the recommended reading sections of all diocesan safeguarding training materials.

     

     

     

  • Beyond Jay: Here’s What the Response Group and Synod Need to Do for a Safer Church

    by Gilo, hymn writer, co-editor with Janet Fife of the book Letters to a Broken Church, and co-creator of the House of Survivors website

    Three diocesan bishops seek my take, with varying degrees of regularity, on developments in the Church of England’s safeguarding and response to survivors. I’m careful to point out that any views I express are mine, mine alone, and do not represent those of any organisation or group. I neither seek nor receive any funds in the process. So the thinking expressed here is not the only viewpoint, nor necessarily the right one (if such exists). It is simply mine, in a field which is likely to be contentious in the forthcoming Synod.

    The three bishops have each asked what I think of the Jay report. In my view the Jay is undeliverable and, even if it were, would it necessarily result in something better than the current mess? Professor Alexis Jay has done the reverse of what she did in IICSA. The IICSA recommendations were limp and didn’t go far enough. Now she’s gone too far, and by proposing Org A she’s given CofE a possible excuse to slow down the crucial Org B. She is a political naïf, and in my view the recommendations in the Jay report arose perhaps as a form of psychological penance for not being ambitious enough in IICSA. I think this report will set the Church back, not move it forward. If you follow its course logically, then other institutions may seek Org A structures in the name of ‘independence’ and we’d end up with a multitude of safeguarding bodies creating further confusion. I think no amount of Org A, and no amount of expenditure on Org A (which would put current CofE safeguarding expenditure into deep shade) can stand in place of properly designed mandatory reporting in the statutory framework. This is the key. The best course of action the Church could be taking is banging loudly on Home Office doors to argue a case for an end to the ‘potemkin village’ Whitehall is wanting to create and instead to introduce effective mandatory reporting. Whitehall wants mandatory reporting in name only, in a watered-down version of the IICSA recommendation which was already itself a watery version.

    The Church has undoubtedly arrived at a car crash moment. Where does responsibility for this lie? Failed leadership. Synod must remind itself that failure at the heart of the axis of power, represented by the Archbishops of Canterbury and York in conjunction with the Secretary-General, has brought the Church to such a desperate situation. Had they resolved their differences with the ISB in a transparent and safe way there would have been no need for the Jay report.

    Let’s turn to the much-needed Org B, which is where I believe focus must be directed. Org B, as an essential body for scrutiny and oversight and the all-important handling of complaints is urgently needed, and is long overdue. The Church must give such a body effective powers if it is to avoid creating another toothless tiger (NSP anyone?). At present I believe the power to place a diocese into special measures lies within the gift of the Archbishop. This happened memorably to Chichester Diocese under Rowan Williams. This is the kind of bite Org B requires. Not the set of rubber dentures which Archbishops’ Council and their NCIs will be looking to manufacture.

    And no veto by an Archbishop. It may well be that one of the places needing such Special Measures might be the office of the Archbishop of Canterbury, alongside London Diocese which would seem a prime candidate for emergency action. London is not alone in being crashy, but it’s up there amongst the worst. We only need one diocese placed publicly into Special Measures and any other dioceses currently lagging behind in handling of cases or responses to survivors will tighten up their bootlaces in a weekend. The routine blanking and obfuscation that still persists in some quarters will quickly end.

    And above all it must end within the NST.

    Whatever shape the Archbishops’ Council eventually decides to give to a new shiny ‘independent’ model, the NST must be removed from the grip of the Secretariat. Its days as an arm of the legals and comms of Church House must end. If it is to have a positive future, it must be repurposed, retrained and given a new vision of itself, with independent management which involves survivors, with all our experience and narrative wisdom. The NST leadership must face their own cognitive dissonance squarely and courageously, and recognise that its deployment by Church House in various aspects of reputation management has been disgraceful and dishonest.

    Whatever happens, ‘Delay’ is likely to be the watchword. Delay by design, but also through incompetence and systemic dysfunctionality. One thing is for definite: the CofE must never again allow one individual to hold as much unaccountable power as is currently compressed into the office of the Secretary-General. He has presided over a rotten borough in the NCIs and puppet-stringed the NST to such an extent that it has become almost impossible for survivors to have much trust in the thing. But the problem is not William Nye alone; it’s the inherited system of which he is a part, albeit a big part. We must factor in too, the lack of leadership by the Archbishops, the Lead Safeguarding Bishop and the NST.

    The House of Bishops is an enfeebled house with a poor grasp of these things. What we’ve seen across the past decade is fewer than a handful of bishops speaking out. Alan ‘Elbows’ Wilson knew that any time the media approached bishops on matters ‘survivor related’’, the traffic would immediately be centrally controlled through Church House comms. He ignored this, and spoke directly to journalists without approval from the centralized machinery of the Secretariat. He was past playing safe games with the structure and was happy to be out on the edge speaking truth to its power. He doubtless took many a kicking but it never seemed to upset him. Julie Conalty has been a courageous voice too, often a lone voice highlighting particular aspects of corruption. But I suspect she’s marginalized by a structure which expects all bishops to stay blandly ‘on message’. She needs a few diocesans to step up and publicly support her when she dares to challenge the status quo.

    Bishops must stop being cowed, stop colluding with toxic culture. They must learn to get over their fear of receiving ‘heavy shepherding’ from one or other of the Archbishops when they speak out of turn. If an Archbishop arrives on your door to bully you into submission to the rules of purple enclosure – then stand up to him. If you stick your head above the parapet, you will be marginalised. Learn to embrace this. The likelihood is that this or that particular bit of funding for your diocese will be squeezed. It’s been indicated to me that this is quietly how the culture of collegiate control operates. So the purple enclosure stays on message and lets any missives be handed out by a Lead Bishop who to all intents and purposes seems mostly missing in action as far as survivors are concerned. When a bishop dares to go off-piste and makes an authentic comment, they experience the polite scowl of the institution. But if enough speak out, especially from the top of the Lead trio, then the toxic culture might begin to change.

    Successive lead bishops have discovered they have nothing but rubber levers to work with! The real levers, those of power and any real change, are held by Archbishops’ Council which in turn is heavily controlled by a shadowy Secretariat. The wheels turn slowly because everything is hardwired to move slowly. Just as the structure is hardwired to protect hierarchy and itself. One of the bishops who listens to me recently asked me what I consider to be the three main obstacles to progress. In my view, these are:

    (1) centralised and dysfunctional power which rules an unchecked empire with disastrous consequences. Look at the handling of the ISB members and the way they were closed down at an hour’s notice.

    (2) siloed mindset of the bishops who occupy a ‘me and my diocese’ headspace. There is little public collegiate expression of responsibility and far too much collegiate fear.

    (3) the transparency gap. Too much of the structure is wedded to reputation management and used to hiding stuff. The institution has failed to grasp that transparency is the best route to salvaging reputation.

    I want to end on a positive note, because the picture is not all gloom. Some dioceses have made huge strides. I’ve been supporting one survivor in recent weeks. We sent an initial letter of disclosure to the relevant diocese, and I advised that we should hopefully expect a response within 48 hrs. The reply came within 15 mins! And was hugely positive. Not only did the diocese agree to therapy costs immediately but they are also meeting us in the home geography of the survivor’s town rather than expecting us to make the journey cross-country. The bishop also sent a positive response as soon as he could. I believe dioceses must continue to retain responsibility for the deliverance of good safeguarding and positive response to survivors. And dioceses that are operating out of a handbook that should have been jettisoned a decade ago should be placed into the equivalent of an ambulance that Org B will need to have on standby for just such an eventuality.

     

     

  • Consent, Power, and BDSM in Theological Research

    by Dr Karen O’Donnell, Director of Studies at Westcott House Cambridge where she teaches Worship and Liturgy. She also teaches Gender and Christian Theology for the Divinity Faculty, University of Cambridge. She has published widely in trauma and feminist theologies.

    As a feminist theologian, the two contexts in which I find myself thinking about consent are in discussions about sex and in conversations about the ethics of research. As a theologian interested in trauma, discussions around sexual consent are often wrapped up with distressing accounts of rape and sexual abuse where consent was not sought, not given, or not meant if it was given. In the context of theological research, however, discussions around consent are often quite perfunctory. Students often consider the ethical questions around consent to be a hoop to jump through, to get their projects approved by the ethics committee. It’s fascinating that these two discussions of consent are so different; in one, consent is paramount and there is much discussion around the insufficiency of consent as a category for good, ethical sex. In the other, consent is the signature on a piece of paper allowing the researcher to begin.

    What might it mean to bring the concerns around the in/sufficiency of consent for good, ethical sex, into dialogue with theological empirical research?

    Theology has been tangled up with desire, sex, and penetration for centuries. In the work of the late Marcella Althaus-Reid we find the explicit recognition that ‘theology is a sexual act’.  She writes:

    Theology is a sexual ideology performed in a sacralising pattern: it is the sexual divinised orthodoxy (right sexual dogma) and orthopraxy (right sexual behaviour); theology is a sexual action. Theologians, therefore, are nothing else but sexual performers… [1]

    When it comes to empirical theological research, too, theology is a sexual act; specifically, it is an act of BDSM.[2] Here, I specifically want to draw a parallel to a BDSM scene between a dominant and a submissive. This might seem an unlikely parallel to draw but I think it is an important one. Christianity has an entwined relationship with power, both positively and negatively. In a postmodern age, where we are more attentive to power dynamics, abuses of power, and the ways in which the church has been complicit with such abuses, we must reflect carefully on our relationship with power. Whilst reflecting on this through the lens of BDSM might be uncomfortable, it creates a dissonance that offers a helpful interruption and opportunity to reconsider what we take for granted in terms of power. It’s also a great opportunity to learn from a community that has wrestled carefully with both issues of consent and power dynamics. Some researchers have even suggested that there is a spiritual dimension at play in BDSM itself!

    So, imagine the theological research interview as a BDSM scene: theology is the dominant discourse, making the theologian the ‘dominant’. The dominant/theologian sets the parameters of the scene/interview. They have a significant amount of power within the scene (and likely away from it too). The submissive/research participant has to trust that the dominant/theologian will do what they have said they will do and will not stray from the previously proscribed limits. The dominant/theologian engages in the scene to get their (research) needs met.

    Central to many experiences of BDSM is the concept of power or, more precisely, an unequable distribution of power between those engaged in the act. But this power is fluid, dynamic and difficult to pinpoint. Of course, the person in the dominant role holds plenty of power. However, this is not the only place where power lies. The submissive often has plenty of power too.[3] One submissive notes: ‘I’m the one who decides what will happen… how it will happen… how far it will go. I call him master but it’s my needs that are being met.’[4]

    In the BDSM community, the ethical model of consensual BDSM participation has long been a topic of discussion. Among BDSM practitioners and advocates, consent is of primary, nearly summary, ethical import.[5] Within the BDSM community, the giving of consent is largely understood not as a onetime thing but as something negotiated before an activity takes place and also as an ongoing, relational dialogue. The use of safewords to slow down or to completely end a scene represents this ongoing relational dialogue of consent. Consent is seen as an ongoing conversation respecting all parties and drawing on the wisdom of all those involved.

    What does this mean for seeing the empirical theological research act as a manifestation of a BDSM scene? Imagine a theological research interview in which the researcher and participant negotiated what the scene would look like beforehand; where the limits of the research interview were agreed and a safeword put in place to guard those limits.

    Imagine a theological research interview which recognises the power of the submissive/research participant, as the one holding the answers the dominant/theologian wants. How would the power of the submissive/research participant shape, allow and restrict the direction of the research interview?

    Imagine a theological research interview where the primary concern of the dominant/theologian was not the meeting of her research needs but the pleasure and satisfaction of the submissive/research participant. What would it mean to put the pleasure and satisfaction of the research participant first, even before the gathering of research data? What might it mean to ensure that there even was pleasure for the submissive/research participant in the course of theological empirical research?

    A crucial part of the dominant role is providing aftercare to the submissive, recognising the intense sensations and emotions the submissive has experienced. What would such aftercare look like in the context of a theological empirical research scene that has potentially stripped the submissive/research participant bare and exposed them intimately to the dominant/theologian? Imagine building aftercare into such a research scene.

    This praxis of consent requires hard work on the part of the dominant/theologian to develop their attunement and empathy to the verbal and non-verbal cues of the submissive/research participant. This praxis of consent requires a shift into the language and attitude of invitation and hospitality in which the needs and pleasure of the other are primary, driving forces such that, in the aftermath, gratitude might flow in both directions. We might consider this mode of conversation as a potential gift to some of the challenging conversations currently taking place within the church. What might it mean to put the needs and pleasure of the other first in conversations around same-sex relationships for example? Or to aim for dialogue in which power dynamics were disrupted so thoroughly that gratitude—and indeed pleasure—might flow in both directions? Years ago, Rowan Williams made the point that the opposite of intolerance was not tolerance but rather hospitality. This is paramount in theological research design, but it is also essential in the lives of Christians in the church.

    Notes
    [1] Marcella Althaus-Reid, Indecent Theology: Theological Perversions in Sex, Gender and Politics (Abingdon and New York: Routledge, 2000), 87.
    [2] BDSM is an acronym for bondage, domination, sado-masochism and refers to a sub-culture in which BDSM is the dominant (pardon the pun) driving force. Whilst often associated with sexual activity, it can be non-sexual in nature. Whilst some people live out BDSM as a lifestyle, often other people participate in BDSM activities for short period of time – these are called ‘scenes’. Scenes will be carefully negotiated and consented to, with clear safe words that can be said to pause, slow down, or stop activities completely. The BDSM community has worked hard to establish clear boundaries and guidelines around its activities. This work has not been helped by the publication of BDSM-inspired popular fiction such as 50 Shades of Grey which disregard much of the careful work around consent that the BDSM community has undertaken. I wouldn’t normally reference a Wikipedia page but this one is excellent!
    [3] Gary W. Taylor and Jane M. Ussher, “Making Sense of S&M: A Discourse Analytic Account,” Sexualities 4, no. 3 (2001): 299.
    [4] Taylor and Ussher, 299.
    [5] Joseph J. Fischel, Screw Consent: A Better Politics of Sexual Justice (Oakland, California: University of California Press, 2019), 37.

  • Lambeth: Colonialism, Power and Pawns

    by the Revd Dr Charlie Bell, Fellow at Girton College Cambridge, and Assistant Curate, St John the Divine, Kennington

     

    It’s fair to say that the Lambeth Conference hasn’t – I think – worked out quite the way the Archbishop wanted it to. For months – years, even – we were told that it would focus on the things we share in common, rather than digging the sexuality hole all over again. Much water has gone under the bridge since 1998, and the facts on the ground show that Lambeth I:10 is no longer a serious statement of how things are within the communion. That ship has sailed.

    Yet there it was – that pernicious and unhelpful 1998 resolution – back in view as the Archbishop released his Calls, for which one could vote yes, or ‘sort of yes’, but not ‘no’. And now the Lambeth Calls team – a seemingly impenetrable (and very male) group unable to answer simple questions like who finalised the calls, or did the Archbishop see them before publication – have had to strike the totally unnecessary and divisive ‘reaffirmation’ of Lambeth I:10 from the drafts. It didn’t have to be this way. Someone made the choice that it should be – and whoever that is (and we may never find out, given the disgraceful lack of transparency) should really take some basic lessons in crisis management and avoidance.

    Of course, we are where we are. We find ourselves in a place where the damage has mostly been done, yet only a naïve Anglican-watcher would believe that the story ends here. We await more manoeuvrings, more angry words and more kicking around of LGBTQI people as the political football they so conveniently and often are for the Church of England.

    Yet out of the ashes of this monumental bin-fire, some good has come. For once, LGBTQI people have heard bishops – yes, really – standing up for them. Strong, prophetic, pro-LGBTQI voices have come from across the pond, but also from provinces outside of the US and Canada. Even in our own Church of England, a number of bishops have also stood up and been counted. This is a most welcome sign, and one which I hope and believe will be reflected once again during the conclusion of LLF. Perhaps this is the turning point. That said, those bishops who chose silence – remember, silence is never a neutral position – have also cemented their place in the history books when this sorry saga is finally over. This was not a time for behind-the-scenes machinations – LGBTQI people, and their tears, need to be seen, acknowledged, loved. Not to even bother sympathising with the pain of LBGTQI people – whatever episcopal theological perspective is held – is inexplicable.

    Yet there have been two quite malign themes that have been flowing through the dialogue from those who oppose LBGTQI liberation. The first, which is quite simply not true, is that young people are drawn to churches with an oppressive view on LGBTQI people and marriage. There is absolutely zero evidence that this is the case, but – as usual – if you say it loudly, robustly and often enough, people start to believe it. The key thing, of course, is that even where these ‘conservative’ churches have more young people in them, that doesn’t account for the millions of kids and young people who don’t go to any church. Are we seriously arguing that they are more likely to attend a church which tells them that their queer friends – or they themselves – shouldn’t get married? That is likely to be about as welcome to them as sticking pins in their eyes. Only an inward-facing church would reserve its rejoicing for those who are already within the tent. Meanwhile, LGBTQI people (and increasingly their allies, friends, relatives) are failed and won’t come within a mile of a church, however good the music or lighting.

    But the second line that has been taken relates to colonialism. This one takes more unpacking but, once it is unpacked, the deeply unchristian and disingenuous ground beneath it begins to reveal itself.

    Noises have been made – and were made, during the recent discussions to nominate more people from around the communion to the CNC – that a western church favouring LBGTQI inclusion should not dictate to the rest of the communion. It has been for this reason – however well intentioned – that nobody (or at least, almost nobody) in the Church of England’s hierarchy appears to have felt able to say anything positive about LGBTQI people or their marriages. There is – and there should be – a real sensitivity to colonialist language and actions from those in the Church of England. Racism and colonialism remain deeply embedded in our church. The problem is that the recent solution at General Synod – strongly supported by the Archbishop of York – will do nothing whatsoever to address this.

    The reality is that the Anglican Communion – or rather, a Communion that claims ‘by right’ that the role of primus inter pares belongs to the Archbishop of Canterbury – is institutionally racist and colonialist. It doesn’t matter how many people you add to the Canterbury CNC (and please note, the point that the new members from the Communion won’t have a majority was trumpeted as good news, a deeply concerning example of white power not quite being given up): so long as the Archbishop of the Province of Canterbury inevitably remains the head (using that term with much caution) of the Communion, we are stuck. England rules the waves. The change was nothing more than deckchairs on the Titanic – not that you would have gathered that from the crowing in the aftermath of the General Synod debate.

    Both LGBTQI people and Anglicans from the Global South are being reduced to pawns in a nasty little English power struggle. The fact is that whilst the Archbishop has an inevitable Communion role, the Church of England has no leadership of its own. Yet what is also true is that whilst England holds the position it does in the Communion, there will always be the risk of colonialism. That’s not about LGBTQI people – it’s about the underlying structures and nature of the Communion itself. It suits those who oppose LBGTQI liberation to focus on the ‘Communion’ role of the Archbishop – but this is nothing whatsoever to do with the lives of ordinary Global South Anglicans – it is all about power. In this worst of both possible worlds, England is silent – and yet holds all the strings.

    TEC, Canada and the rest did indeed make a big stink about what happened with the Lambeth calls – as they should have. This was not because they were forcing their will on the assembly but because they were advocating for their queer disciples against a Call sprung upon them with no notice, and against which they could not vote. Bait and switch. Those who opposed them were welcome to disagree. The issue is that the President of the Lambeth Conference – the person who takes ultimate responsibility – is … the Archbishop of Canterbury. It’s Colonialism 101. It is surely time for that to change – yet so often the English people calling ‘colonialism’ to beat down LBGTQI people are the same as those calling for the Archbishop’s primus role to remain. It is all about power.

    It is now time to call an end to the pitting of LBGTQI Christians against the Global South. We need a root and branch review of how we operate, and to reimagine the Communion for the twenty-first century. We must lay down our claim to power and instead move to a communion built on true equality, solidarity, friendship and companionship. Yes, people may leave – from all directions. But at least it will be built on honesty, and not on the backs of the oppressed.

    Ends, not means, as Kant once said. If we can’t do that as a church, then we cease to be a church at all.

     

     

  • Clericalist Individualism? Power, Abuse and Transformation

    by Ruth Harley, a curate in the Diocese of Oxford, and co-author of “Being Interrupted: Re-imagining The Church’s Mission From The Outside, In” (SCM Press, 2020), whose research interests focus around feminist ecclesiology and questions about how power is understood and used within the church.

    Immersing myself in the transcripts of the IICSA Anglican Hearings as the basis of my MA dissertation has been by turns frustrating, infuriating, terrifying, upsetting and enraging. But it has also been very enlightening. Much here tells us deep and uncomfortable truths about the church: who we are, how we fail and how we handle failure, what and whom we prioritise and at what cost. IICSA’s October 2020 report, at the very least, should be compulsory reading for anyone with any measure of responsibility or authority within the church.

    The primary outcomes from the IICSA process must, of course, be centred around safeguarding, and around the needs and voices of survivors of abuse, far too often side-lined and retraumatised by the church. There is a very real need for repentance in response to IICSA’s findings: for a willingness to confront the ways in which the church has too often been a safer place for abusers than for their victims, and a willingness to invest not only money and resources, but also our time, care and attention into the radical changes which are needed.

    But the impact of the IICSA findings extends far beyond their specific scope. The Anglican Hearings have been an apocalyptic event in the life of the Church of England (and, to a lesser extent, the Church in Wales), both in the sense that they were devastating, and in the literal sense of the term ‘apocalypse’ – that which reveals. IICSA has revealed the devastating extent of abuse in the church. It has revealed some of the systemic and cultural flaws which have led to the church becoming a place where abuse can thrive, where the reputation of the institution and powerful individuals within it are prioritised at the expense of victims and survivors of abuse, with those who report abuse ignored, stigmatised and re-abused by the very people and systems supposed to protect them.

    IICSA has also revealed something about what the church is, and how power is understood and (mis)used within the body of Christ. One of the factors I identified in my research into the ecclesiologies expressed during the Anglican Hearings was something I have termed ‘clericalist individualism’.

    It’s well documented that clericalism is part of the mechanism by which clergy who abuse can go unchallenged; see for example Rosie Harper and Alan Wilson’s To Heal and Not to Hurt and Gilo and Janet Fife’s Letters to a Broken Church. A culture of ‘Father knows best’ is not one in which transparency and mutual accountability can flourish. But, deeply intertwined with that clericalism, there’s a kind of individualism which sees significant information and decision-making – in short, significant power – rest with individuals (often, though not always, ordained) in ways which both render those individuals unaccountable, and obscure or distort the proper nature of the church as an interdependent body, characterised by mutuality. This clericalist individualism is not a problem of ‘the top’: it’s a danger at every ‘level’ of the hierarchical structure, from home groups, to the parish, the diocese, and the national church.

    The apocalyptic revelation of the church’s failings which IICSA provides may not seem like any ground for hope. But we are a church which both preaches and (at its best) lives resurrection: life which emerges out of death and trauma, and meets us on the road in unexpected ways. In revealing the sins which beset the church God is, I believe, doing a new thing, calling us to a new understanding of who we are and what it means to be church.

    And it starts with power. Naming, confronting and repenting of all the ways in which power is used in the church to silence, oppress and abuse. And then daring to believe that another way is possible. Resources within and beyond the church’s traditions can help us with that re-imagining. For over half a century, feminist theologians have been calling the church to renounce hierarchical power – ‘power over’ – and embrace a different kind of power, rooted in mutuality, relationship and solidarity – ‘power with’ and, as laid out in Anna Mercedes’ book of the same title, Power For.[1]

    It is a call which the church has so far largely chosen to ignore and suppress.  But as we confront the endemic nature of abuse within the church, and as we wrestle too with the ways in which oppression (on grounds of race, class, gender, sexuality, disability and more) thrives within the body of Christ, it is a call which has never been more urgent. God, whose way is love and whose work in Jesus Christ is the work of liberation, is calling us, the church, to embrace the revelatory work of the Holy Spirit in our midst, and to step into new ways of understanding how power can and should function in the church, so that we can grow more fully into the body we are called together to be: characterised by mutuality, interdependence, honesty and accountability and – above all – love.

    It would be all too easy to tell ourselves that abuse of power is something that happens ‘over there’ – only within ‘the hierarchy’, or only in churches ‘not like ours’. That is a comforting but dangerous lie. In any culture in which abuse flourishes, an underpinning myth is that “it could never happen here”. It could. It has. It does and it will. And each of us who are members with one another of the body of Christ have a responsibility to do the work which is required to make that body a safe and supportive church where all can flourish.

     

    [1] Letty Russell’s Church in the Round offers a more general feminist model of church based on mutuality and interdependence.