The Afterlife of Christian England, 1944 to the Present by Daniel S

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The Afterlife of Christian England, 1944 to the Present

By Daniel S. Loss

B.A., Swarthmore College, 2004 M.Phil., University of Cambridge, 2005 A.M, Brown University, 2008

A dissertation submitted in partial fulfillment of the requirement of the degree of Doctor of Philosophy in the Department of History at Brown University

Providence, Rhode Island

May 2013

This dissertation by Daniel S. Loss is accepted in its present form by the Department of History as satisfying the dissertation requirement for the degree of Doctor of Philosophy.

Date ______Deborah Cohen, Advisor

Recommended to the Graduate Council

Date ______Maud Mandel, Reader

Date ______Peter Mandler, Reader

Approved by the Graduate Council

Date ______Peter Weber, Dean of the Graduate School

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Curriculum Vitae

Daniel S. Loss was born in Norristown, Pennsylvania on July 18, 1982. He earned a B.A. with high honors in history and linguistics from Swarthmore College in 2004, an M.Phil. in modern European history from the University of Cambridge in 2005, and an A.M. in history from Brown University in 2008. His dissertation research has been supported by grants from the Religious Research Association and the Society for the Scientific Study of Religion. In the summer of 2012, he was a fellow at the Trans-Atlantic Summer Institute in European Studies at the University of Minnesota. In the spring of 2013, he was a Brown-Wheaton Faculty Fellow at Wheaton College in Norton, Massachusetts where he taught a course on religion in modern Europe. Beginning in the autumn of 2013, he will be a lecturer in Harvard University’s History and Literature program.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I would first like to thank the organizations whose generous funding made this dissertation possible: the Society for the Scientific Study of Religion, the Religious

Research Association, the Brown University Graduate School, and the Department of

History at Brown University. A grant from the Trans-Atlantic Summer Institute at the

Center for German & European Studies at the University of Minnesota enabled my participation in an enlightening two-week workshop that gave the chance to look up from my archival materials to consider comparative and social-scientific perspectives. I would also like to acknowledge the archives and libraries that facilitated this research. The staff at the London Metropolitan Archives were especially helpful and always cheerful. The interlibrary loan staff at Brown’s Rockefeller Library undertook the heroic task of tracking down obscure pamphlets from across the globe. I would like to thank Churches

Together in Britain and Ireland for granting permission to examine the archives of the

British Council of Churches. The Board of Deputies of British Jews did likewise for their archives. John Cave generously provided access to the diaries of Richard Blake Brown;

Kate Johns arranged my visits to Trent Park to do so. I am also grateful to the pseudonymous oral history interviewees quoted in chapter 1.

I cannot imagine a more helpful and encouraging dissertation committee. I first met Peter Mandler almost nine years ago when I was a green and unformed historian. He quickly took me under his wing and I have benefited from his encyclopedic knowledge of

British history and his critical eye ever since. This dissertation began as a historiographic essay I wrote my very first semester at Brown for Maud Mandel’s seminar on twentieth- century Europe. Her distillation of the discipline of history into the explanation of

change over time and the careful consideration of historical context has stuck with me ever since and shaped everything I write. Maud’s sympathetic appreciation of the stresses of grad student life assuaged many an anxious moment. Deborah Cohen has been the ideal advisor. Even from far afield, her suggestions and critiques have always been wise and thought-provoking. Throughout the process of researching and writing this dissertation, Deborah has urged me to look to the bigger picture, a process that was occasionally terrifying but always fruitful. If not for Deborah, this dissertation would have been a rather narrow and mundane history of Sunday trading laws. Deborah has the uncanny ability offer exactly what I’ve needed – praise, criticism, or something in between – at every moment. She has, in short, been a model mentor.

A host of scholars have contributed to this dissertation in a multitude of ways. At

Brown, I benefited immensely from the Modern Europe Workshop where I had the good fortune to present work from this project over a period of four years. I would especially like to thank Ethan Pollock for the keen interest he has shown in my work and for recommending Alexei Yurchak’s work at exactly the right moment. Toby Harper read nearly every chapter and offered an array of sensitive critiques that I continue to grapple with. Guy Ortolano generously shared from his apparently exhaustive collection of ephemera related to Milton Keynes. Ben Ansell and Johannes Lindvall introduced me to the possibilities of institutional analysis; Noam Gidron provided further guidance on how it could be useful for my work.

Countless friends have provided much-needed breaks from the PhD grind over the years. Aideen Campbell, Julianne Treacy, Lianna Ishihara, Karthik Tadinada, and Julia

Warring all offered hospitality and lively camaraderie over a series of research trips to

London. Adam Webster and I have, on runs and over board games, discussed sports, politics, books, food, and much else besides. Christopher Thawley has joined me on the

PhD track, though he is more concerned with chameleons than churches. I can always count on him both to commiserate and to celebrate.

I would not be here today without the endless support of my family. My parents have, for as long as I can remember, been unwavering in their encouragement of all my pursuits, academic and otherwise. They laid the groundwork for whatever I have accomplished. My grandfather, Robert Loss, passed away before I finished this dissertation, but the memory of his life of hard work and good cheer has been an inspiration. My in-laws, Ricki Pappo and Caleb Rogers, welcomed me into their family from the very start and turned Lexington into a home-away-from-home.

The world’s two friendliest and fluffiest cats, Nanni and Beppe, have been my constant companions throughout the writing process. Any remaining typos are entirely their fault, though I readily accept responsibility for substantive errors.

More than anyone else, Rebecca Rogers has made this dissertation possible.

Though she has been too busy saving lives to read it, she has heard all of my ideas, good and bad, over the past nine years of our life together. She has sharpened the good ideas and gently urged me to discard the bad ones. From wandering the Heath to trekking across the Lake District to rambling atop the South Downs, she has been there every step of the way. For that, and for so much else, I am eternally grateful.

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Table of Contents

List of Illustrations ix Introduction 1 1 “Soft Establishment” and the Enduring Visibility of Christianity 36 2 The Decline of Denominational Discord and the Anglicization of Christianity 100 3 The Church of England in the Long ‘60s: From via media to tolerant liberalism 155 4 The Triumph of Church Preservation and the Aestheticization of Christianity 199 Epilogue: An Anglican Afterlife 257 Bibliography 269

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ILLUSTRATIONS

FIGURES Figure 1. Religious broadcasting on BBC radio 91 Figure 2. Religious broadcasting on BBC television 92

TABLES Table 1. Result of votes on Anglican-Methodist union in January 1969 138

INTRODUCTION

The language of death and dying suffuses the scholarship on religion in modern

Britain. Recent titles in the field include The Death of Christian Britain, The Passing of

Protestant England, and “Christianity in Britain, R.I.P.”1 Even Christian leaders in

Britain have spoken of Christianity as, if not yet dead, quietly dying on the margins of society. In 1991, the archbishop of Canterbury described the Church of England as “an elderly lady, who mutters away to herself in a corner, ignored most of the time”.2

Evidence of this apparent death is easy to come by. A 2007 survey by a Christian charity found that just one in ten people reported attending church on a weekly basis. A more objective census of church attendance found that, on a given Sunday in 2005, 6.3% of the

English population went to church.3 Popular belief in distinctively Christian doctrines declined steadily in the second half of the twentieth century.4 The percentage of the overall adult population who were church members fell from 26% to 14% between 1900 and 1990.5 In the course of the twentieth century, the number of clergy in Britain dropped 25% from 45,408 to 34,157 even as the overall population of the country nearly

1 Callum G. Brown, The Death of Christian Britain: Understanding Secularisation, 1800-2000, 2nd ed. (London and New York: Routledge, 2009); S.J.D. Green, The Passing of Protestant England: Secularisation and Social Change, C. 1920-1960 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2011); Steve Bruce, “Christianity in Britain, R.I.P.,” Sociology of Religion 62, no. 2 (2001): 191–203; For further consideration of this “death”, see Danièle Hervieu-Léger, “Le Christianisme En Grande-Bretagne: Débats Et Controverses Autour D’une Mort Annoncée,” Archives Des Sciences Sociales Des Religions 46, no. 116 (2001): 31–40. 2 Quoted in Kate Fox, Watching the English: The Hidden Rules of English Behaviour (Hodder & Stoughton Paperbacks, 2005), 354. 3 Jacinta Ashworth and Ian Farthing, Churchgoing in the UK: A Research Report from Tearfund on Church Attendance in the UK (Tearfund, April 2007), 13, 41, http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/shared/bsp/hi/pdfs/03_04_07_tearfundchurch.pdf. 4 Robin Gill, C. Kirk Hadaway, and Penny Long Marler, “Is Religious Belief Declining in Britain?,” Journal for the Scientific Study of Religion 37, no. 3 (September 1998): 507–516. 5 Steve Bruce, “The Truth About Religion in Britain,” Journal for the Scientific Study of Religion 34, no. 4 (December 1995): 420–421.

doubled.6 Based on the available quantitative evidence, the story is clear.7 In the words of the sociologist Steve Bruce, “Britain was once religious, it is now secular”.8 In the course of that transformation, something variously called “Christian Britain”, “Protestant

England”, and even “Christendom” is widely supposed to have died.9

What these seemingly self-evident statistics of decline obscure, however, is how

Christianity has not disappeared and has not slipped into the realm of private spirituality.

The Church of England remains the established church, with twenty-six Anglican bishops sitting in the House of Lords. The internal workings of the church still garner significant public attention. When, in November 2012, the Church of England’s General Synod rejected the introduction of women bishops, the media exploded with commentary (most of it negative). Asked by Conservative MP Tony Baldry whether he shared Baldry’s

“deep disappointment” at the rejection of women bishops, David Cameron pronounced himself “very sad” about the rejection and described the introduction of women bishops as a “key step it needed to take” if the Church of England were to be a “modern Church that is in touch with society as it is today.”10 Going to church around Christmas remains a common pastime, so much so that one commentator complained about non-believing

6 Bruce, “Christianity in Britain, R.I.P.,” 199. 7 For a series of detailed statistical studies of British Christianity, see Robert Currie, Alan Gilbert, and Lee Horsley, Churches and Churchgoers: Patterns of Church Growth in the British Isles Since 1700 (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1977); Peter Brierley, A Century of British Christianity: Historical Statistics 1900-1985 with Projections to 2000 (London: MARC Europe, 1989); Peter Brierley, ed., Prospects for the Nineties: Trends and Tables from the English Church Census (London: MARC Europe, 1991); Peter Brierley, “Christian” England: What the 1989 English Church Census Reveals (London: MARC Europe, 1991); Peter Brierley, The Tide Is Running Out: What the English Church Attendance Survey Reveals (London: Christian Research, 2000); Peter Brierley, Pulling Out of the Nosedive: A Contemporary Picture of Churchgoing ; What the 2005 English Church Census Reveals (London: Christian Research, 2006); Peter Brierley, ed., UK Church Statistics, 2005 - 2015 (Tonbridge: ADBC Publishers, 2011). 8 Bruce, “The Truth About Religion in Britain,” 428. 9 For this final formulation, see Hugh McLeod, The Religious Crisis of the 1960s (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2007), especially ch. 11. 10 “House of Commons Hansard Debates,” UK Parliament, November 21, 2012, col. 578, http://www.publications.parliament.uk/pa/cm201213/cmhansrd/cm121121/debtext/121121-0001.htm.

“Christmas tourists […] treating the experience of church at Christmas as some kind of retro winter theme park.”11 Perhaps most surprising of all was the 2001 census which found that 72% of English respondents identified themselves as Christian.12 They might not often darken the doors of the churches, but the people of England still seem to care about Christianity.

This dissertation is an attempt to explain how this strange state of affairs came about. How did it happen that Christian belief and practice seem to have faded away yet people continue to think of themselves as Christian and have certain expectations about what churches are there for? To be more precise, the Church of England in particular has come to be the focal point for most people’s conceptions of and attitudes towards

Christianity. Thanks to its position as the established church and the declining significance of denominational conflict, the Church of England shed its image as a bastion of middle-class respectability and the “Tory party at prayer” to approach the status it had always claimed for itself: a national church concerned with the welfare of everyone in the nation, whether or not they were committed churchgoers or even believed in God. By the early twenty-first century, this sense of responsibility to the nation extended to safeguarding the rights of non-Christian religious minorities, a development that I trace briefly in the epilogue.

My argument is that, over the course of the second half of the twentieth century,

Christianity went from being a matter of belief and practice and the basis for morality to

11 Rupert Myers, “The Curse of Carol Services: Entertainment for ‘Christmas Tourists’ Who Don’t Believe What They’re Singing,” Telegraph Blogs, December 7, 2012, http://blogs.telegraph.co.uk/news/rupertmyers/100193209/the-curse-of-carol-services-entertainment-for- christmas-tourists-who-dont-believe-what-their-singing/. 12 David Voas and Steve Bruce, “The 2001 Census and Christian Identification in Britain,” Journal of Contemporary Religion 19, no. 1 (2004): 23–28.

being seen as an element of England’s cultural heritage, something to be enjoyed and preserved by believers and non-believers alike. As the core institution of English

Christianity, the Church of England became a screen on which people could project their own ideas of the meaning of Christianity. After some reticence, the Church proved open to this sort of imaginative refashioning and cautiously accepted the new conceptions of

Christianity that helped shore up its position as the established church.

Crucial to this development was the emergence of a distinctively English brand of cultural Christianity. It is impossible to attempt an exhaustive catalogue of the characteristics of this cultural Christianity – its capaciousness and diffuseness is precisely what gives it such a broad base in English culture. But some features that are especially important to the phenomenon are as follows: 1) optional assent to distinctive Christian beliefs; 2) occasional participation in church-based rituals and activities, centered on rites of passage (baptisms, weddings, and funerals) and holidays; 3) lack of interest in distinctively denominational concerns, with the significant exception of a (sometimes vague) interest in the Church of England as a national institution; 4) appreciation of the aesthetic and historical features of Christianity, especially in its Anglican form.

As this list suggests, cultural Christianity in England is inextricably linked to the

Church of England as the established national church. In this respect, English cultural

Christianity has significant overlap with the phenomenon of “belonging without believing” that some scholars have taken to be characteristic of people’s relationship to

Christianity in Scandinavia.13 Until recently, all the Scandinavian countries had Lutheran state churches (all of which, incidentally, are in full communion with the Church of

13 See, for example, A. Aarflot, “Safeguarding the Sacred in Society: The Future Role of the National Church - a Norwegian Perspective,” Law and Justice 153 (2004): 170.

England). Rates of belief and church attendance in Scandinavia are among the lowest in the world. Already by 1968, just 9% of Swedes reported attending church in a typical week.14 The apparent secularity of Scandinavian society led one American sociologist to write an admiring book called Society Without God.15

But church weddings and other Christian rites of passage remain common in

Scandinavia. Membership in the national churches tops 80%, even though membership requires the payment of a church tax that can reach 2% of taxable income.16 This state- facilitated public financing of the churches means that clergy in Scandinavia are effectively civil servants and act as civil registrars. The church tax also pays the salaries of other church employees like musicians – most parishes in Scandinavia have at least one full-time professional musician. As one observer put it, “The cultural aspects are well cared for.”17 In return for this financial support, the people of Scandinavia expect their churches to be there for them when they need them, in times of crisis as well as to mark rites of passage.18 As the established church in England, the Church of England is

14 Lee Sigelman, “Multi-Nation Surveys of Religious Beliefs,” Journal for the Scientific Study of Religion 16, no. 3 (September 1977): 293. 15 Phil Zuckerman, Society Without God: What the Least Religious Nations Can Tell Us About Contentment (New York: New York University Press, 2008). 16 While the Church of Denmark and the Church of Sweden are supported through church taxes (and, in the case of Denmark, additional state subsidies), the Church of Norway receives a direct grant from the government financed through general revenues. In Germany, where a church tax exists even though there is no single state church, the tax ranges from 8% to 9% across different Länder. For a comparative overview of the relationship between church and state in the Nordic countries, see Frank Cranmer, “Church/State Relations in Scandinavia,” in Church and State in 21st Century Britain: The Future of Church Establishment, ed. R.M. Morris (Basingstoke and New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2009), 127–149. 17 Grace Davie, Religion in Modern Europe: A Memory Mutates (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2000), 170; Grace Davie, “Vicarious Religion: A Methodological Challenge,” in Everyday Religion, ed. Nancy T. Ammerman (New York: Oxford University Press, 2007), 25. 18 For further consideration of the place of Christianity in Scandinavian society and culture, see Carl Reinhold Brakenhielm, “Christianity and Swedish Culture: A Case Study,” International Review of Mission LXXXIV, no. 332/333 (1995): 91–105; Andrew Buckser, “Religion and the Supernatural on a Danish Island: Rewards, Compensators, and the Meaning of Religion,” Journal for the Scientific Study of Religion 34, no. 1 (March 1995): 1–16; Andrew Buckser, “Religion, Science, and Secularization Theory on a Danish Island,” Journal for the Scientific Study of Religion 35, no. 4 (December 1996): 432–441; Andrew Buckser,

the focus of a similar sort of expectations, even though the Church does not enjoy the financial security of the Scandinavian national churches.

Sociologists of religion have offered a number of useful concepts that capture some of this phenomenon. Grace Davie has proposed the idea of “vicarious religion” as a way of understanding northern Europeans’ relationship to Christianity and national churches. She defines “vicarious religion” as “the notion of religion performed by an active minority but on behalf of a much larger number, who (implicitly at least) not only understand, but, quite clearly, approve of what the minority is doing.”19 Vicarious religion nicely captures how many Europeans continue to have expectations about what the church is for and what services it will provide to them, though Davie may err in assuming that the people in question necessarily approve of the general workings of the national churches rather than simply using them as they see fit.20

Other critiques of vicarious religion rely on a dubious essentialism about what counts as religion. The sociologists Steve Bruce and David Voas argue that a preference for church weddings, support for church preservation, and “Christmas tourism” is driven by a desire for “a little religious theatre for the holidays” and constitutes a “form of nostalgia, not a desire for someone to be religious in our place.”21 Bruce and Voas’s

“Religion and Spans of Ambiguity on a Danish Island,” Sociology of Religion 58, no. 3 (Autumn 2007): 261–275. 19 Davie, “Vicarious Religion,” 22; The idea of vicarious religion effectively flips Davie’s earlier conception of British religion in terms of “believing without belonging” in which belief in God remained common even if church membership and attendance was uncommon. See Grace Davie, Religion in Britain Since 1945: Believing Without Belonging (Oxford: Blackwell, 1994), chap. 1, 6. 20 For more on this point, see Per D. Smith, “Comment on "What to Do with Davie’s ‘Vicarious Religion’?,” The Religious Studies Project, March 10, 2012, http://www.religiousstudiesproject.com/2012/03/09/amarnath-amarasingam-what-to-do-with- davie%E2%80%99s-%E2%80%98vicarious-religion%E2%80%99/#comment-277. 21 Steve Bruce and David Voas, “Vicarious Religion: An Examination and Critique,” Journal of Contemporary Religion 25, no. 2 (2010): 247–248, 251.

dismissal of this sort of nostalgia and aesthetic experience is based on the assumption that going to church does not count as religion unless that attendance has strictly pietistic motivations. Their insistence on a narrow conception of religion in which nostalgia plays no part runs counter to the work of Danièle Hervieu-Léger which shows the usefulness of thinking about religion precisely as a “chain of memory”.22 If we are interested in tracing the fate of things once recognized as religious, we need to consider phenomena like vicarious religion seriously, not just dismiss them as not good enough to count as real religion.

While Davie sees vicarious religion as a distinctive manifestation of religion in contemporary Europe, other sociologists of religion favor seeing this sort of vague affiliation and identification as merely a phase in a longer process of secularization.

Using the examples of Poland, Northern Ireland, and Sweden, N.J. Demerath argues that they represent a “common syndrome of ‘cultural religion’ by which religion affords a sense of personal identity and continuity with the past even after participation in ritual and belief have lapsed.” In Demerath’s framework, this sense of belonging to a religion even after belief and practice have drifted away is not incompatible with a long-term process of secularization. Instead, it “may represent the penultimate stage of religious secularization – the last loose bond of religious attachment before the ties are let go altogether.”23 David Voas has developed Demerath’s idea that “cultural religion” is a transient phenomenon by arguing that the apparent cross-national diversity in European religion simply reflects the fact that different countries began the process of

22 Danièle Hervieu-Léger, Religion as a Chain of Memory, trans. Simon Lee (Cambridge: Polity Press, 2000). 23 N.J. Demerath, “The Rise of ‘Cultural Religion’ in European Christianity: Learning from Poland, Northern Ireland, and Sweden,” Social Compass 47, no. 1 (March 2000): 127,136, and passim.

secularization at different points in time. “Fuzzy fidelity”, Voas contends, is a transient phenomenon, a “staging post on the road from religious to secular hegemony.”24

While there are similarities between English cultural Christianity and the

“belonging without believing” of Scandinavia (related to the shared experience of an explicitly national church), it is less clear that there is a common sort of “cultural religion” or “fuzzy fidelity” that characterizes all of Europe. Is the cultural religion of

Sweden really the same sort of thing as the cultural religion of Northern Ireland (to take two of Demerath’s examples)? For reasons that I discuss below, I am skeptical of the assumption that secularization and modernization have homogenizing effects that efface national and cultural differences.

For now, I will outline the reasons why cultural Christianity in England should be thought of as a distinctively English phenomenon, as opposed to a British or an even more generic European one. Rather than being the result of a universal process of secularization, cultural Christianity came about in England due to a particular constellation of institutions, circumstances, and developments that existed and took place in England but not elsewhere. Among these distinctive features were: the Church of

England’s theological conception of itself, the relative lack of Catholic-Protestant conflict in recent English history, and the form that the heritage boom of the 1960s and 1970s took in England.

First, the Church of England had a long history of tolerating theological and liturgical diversity within its ranks. Both Catholic and Reformed, the Church of England has long promoted an image of itself as broad church whose very breadth burnished its

24 David Voas, “The Rise and Fall of Fuzzy Fidelity in Europe,” European Sociological Review 25, no. 2 (2009): 166–167.

credentials as the national church. In contrast, the Church of Scotland experienced numerous schisms and mergers throughout its more convoluted institutional history, with the result that its place as the national church and the center of religious life of the nation was subject to greater contestation than the Church of England’s more secure position.25

While Nonconformists challenged the privileges enjoyed by the Church of England, they did not seek to establish themselves as alternative national churches.

Second, the relative lack of sectarian conflict between Catholics and Protestants meant that the sort of ethno-religious conflicts that developed in Northern Ireland and western Scotland were largely absent in England, with the notable exception of

Liverpool. The history of denominational conflict did have an important role to play in the development of cultural Christianity, as chapters 1 and 2 of this dissertation illustrate.

But because the Church of England and the Free Churches reached a détente, especially in the area of education, England avoided the rigid pillarization of religious communities that developed in Northern Ireland and in parts of Scotland.

Third, the growth in popular interest in “heritage” that occurred in the course of the 1960s and 1970s took a different form in England compared to Scotland. While images of Scottish heritage tended to promote a fairly uniform Highland fantasy of lochs,

25 Splinter groups off the Church of Scotland since 1690 have included the Reformed Presbyterian Church of Scotland, the Associate Presbytery (itself split into Burgher and Anti-Burgher factions in 1747), the Relief Church, and the Free Church of Scotland. Various segments of these denominations entered into a series of mergers to create, successively, the United Secession Church, the United Presbyterian Church of Scotland, and the United Free Church of Scotland. In 1929, the Church of Scotland and the Free Church of Scotland reunited. Surviving Presbyterian denominations outside the national church include the Free Presbyterian Church of Scotland, the post-1900 remnant of the Free Church of Scotland, the post-1929 rump of the United Free Church of Scotland, and various splinter groups of these groups. In contrast, the Church of England has, up to this point, suffered no major losses through schism. For an overview of the complicated institutional history of Presbyterianism in Scotland, see Nigel M. de S. Cameron et al., eds., Dictionary of Scottish Church History & Theology (Downers Grove: InterVarsity Press, 1993), 35–37, 183–185, 246–247, 337–340, 354–355, 698–699, 702–703, 838–841.

bagpipes, and tartan kilts, the English heritage boom was more diverse and localized in its interests.26 Much of cultural Christianity, chapter 4 suggests, was based on appreciation for the local and personal experience of Christianity, not least in the appreciation of the diversity of English church architecture, something largely absent in

Scotland due to the widespread destruction of pre-Reformation church buildings by zealous Scottish Calvinists.27

Wales sits somewhat awkwardly in this explanation of the distinctively English nature of cultural Christianity. Though it has no state church (the Church of England in

Wales was disestablished in 1920), the Anglican Church in Wales has taken on some trappings of a national church, especially in the realm of public ritual.28 Long a stronghold of Nonconformity, Wales experienced a disproportionate impact of the collapse of Nonconformity that took place throughout Britain in the course of the twentieth century. But the celebrated tradition of singing in Welsh chapels has links to the aesthetic aspects of English cultural Christianity, so there is something of a family resemblance between the two.

This emphasis on the centrality of the Church of England and how it benefited from the development of cultural Christianity raises the question whether that was its goal all along: did the Church manage its own decline to ensure its survival? There is some truth to this idea. Church leaders were well informed about the decline in church

26 For an exploration of the rich variety of forms of what Ralph Samuel called “memory work” took, see Raphael Samuel, Theatres of Memory: Past and Present in Contemporary Culture (London and New York: Verso, 1994). 27 Diarmaid MacCulloch, The Reformation (New York: Penguin, 2004), 292; Duncan Macmillan, “Iconoclasm,” ed. Duncan Lynch, The Oxford Companion to Scottish History (Oxford and New York: Oxford University Press, 2011), 330. 28 Simon J. Taylor, “Disestablished Establishment: High and Earthed Establishment in the Church in Wales,” Journal of Contemporary Religion 18, no. 2 (2003): 235–237.

attendance and wary of a materialist (in both senses) turn in postwar British culture. As chapter 1 explores, the Church of England (along with other Christian denominations) secured a place for Christianity in the postwar welfare state, albeit at the cost of denominational distinctiveness. Especially in the 1960s, senior figures in the Church like

Michael Ramsey (archbishop of Canterbury from 1961 to 1974) tolerated and in some cases promoted changes that led to the “permissive” society and thereby promoted an image of the church as a progressive, tolerant force in society. This openness to change meant that the Church could remain an object of affection for people who might have turned way if the Church had adopted a more reactionary attitude towards social issues.

This liberalism meant the Church that did not alienate people who may have left behind traditional belief but still had a soft spot for graceful church buildings and the charms of

Anglican liturgy.

But in spite of these apparently successful campaigns to public support for some sort of Christianity, it was not the case that the Church simply read the national mood and acted accordingly to shore up its popularity. If the Church of England were solely an institution dedicated to securing the survival of some sort of vague Christianity by riding the fickle winds of public opinion, its task would be easier: surreptitiously put out surveys to gauge what the people of England wanted from the Church and just do that.

But the Church of England was and is, of course, more than that. Impetus to change, more often than not, came from within the church, from its active and committed membership. As it turned out, what the active members of the Church of England wanted did not always align with what the broader segment of the public that considered themselves members (or, at least, tacit supporters) of the Church sought.

The controversy surrounding new versions of the Bible and the liturgical reform undertaken by the Church after 1960 was a case in point. The 1961 publication of the

New Testament portion New English Bible was followed in the mid-1960s by the introduction of experimental revisions in the Church’s liturgy. These experiments, designed to clarify and bring up to date the archaic language of the Book of Common

Prayer, culminated in the proposed introduction of the Alternative Service Book in the late 1970s.29 The perceived threat to the Book of Common Prayer led to a dramatic protest by believers and non-believers alike. One petition to the Church’s General Synod

– signed by literary luminaries like Kingsley Amis, Beryl Bainbridge, Alan Bennett,

William Golding, Iris Murdoch, Rebecca West, Ted Hughes, John Betjeman, and Philip

Larkin – expressed deep concern about “the policies and tendencies which decree the loss of both the Authorised Version of the English Bible and the Book of Common Prayer” and requested “their continued and loving use in church as part of the mainstream of worship”. To do otherwise would be to commit a “great act of forgetting” that would impoverish the literary education of younger generations.30 David Martin, the sociologist and Anglican priest who was the chief organizer of these protests, emphasized that the support of non-Anglicans was an “impressive tribute to the national character of the

Church of England. The collective poetry of England is more than an ecclesiastical matter.”31 Though protests reached parliament, the Church of England went ahead with

29 Paul A. Welsby, A History of the Church of England, 1945-1980 (London: Oxford University Press, 1984), 151–159, 239–242. 30 David Martin, ed., “A Petition To the Right Reverend Fathers-in-God, the Clergy, and Laity of the General Synod of the Church of England,” PN Review 6, no. 5 (June 1980): 51–56. 31 David Martin, “A Note on the Petitions,” PN Review 6, no. 5 (June 1980): 63.

the proposed changes. The Alternative Service Book has since been replaced by another set of revised services under the name Common Worship.

Underlying this debate over liturgical reform, and a similar debate over redundant churches analyzed in chapter 4, was a question that will remain unresolved as long as the

Church of England’s establishment remains in its current form: who does the Church of

England belong to? Is it the preserve of the committed members who show up every

Sunday, put their money in the collection plate, and elect representatives to the Church’s

General Synod? Or does it belong to everyone in England, as a sort of spiritual counterpart to the state? Parliamentary sovereignty over the Church of England is often seen as a manifestation of the latter view, a guarantee that the Church of England remains responsive to the nation as a whole, not just the small minority who show up every

Sunday.32 It was in the crucible of debates like these, where the plans of committed

Church members ran up against the expectations of the more diffuse body of cultural

Christians, that the peculiarly Anglican afterlife of Christian England was born.

* * *

This preceding discussion suggests that a historical approach sensitive to contingency and local circumstances is necessary to understand the fate of Christianity in twentieth-century Britain. This perspective runs counter to the assumptions underlying secularization theory, the intellectual framework that dominated accounts of religious change for much of the second half of the twentieth century. Drawing on the similarly

32 For expression of this belief, see Parliamentary Debates, House of Commons, vol. 246, 6th Ser., 1994, col. 663–664.

dominant modernization theory of the 1950s, secularization theorists confidently predicted the inevitable and irreversible decline of religion as the corrosive forces of modernity dissolved traditional religious beliefs and marginalized existing religious institutions. According to the orthodox theory, the more modern a society, the less religious that it will be. The precise mechanisms accounting for the process of secularization differ depending on the articulation of the theory, but typical candidates include urbanization, industrialization, rationalization, pluralization, and functional differentiation. Given his later recantation of the theory, the sociologist Peter Berger’s thinking is worth noting. Berger emphasized how exposure to different ways of thinking and living, an experience he viewed as characteristic of modernity, punctured the “sacred canopy” of religion that had enveloped pre-modern societies. In Berger’s framework, the pluralism of modern life is bound to lead to disbelief as the taken-for-granted aspects of religion fade away.33

There are three key problems with this orthodox model of secularization. First, it failed as an instance of predictive social science: the world does not seem to have become less religious. Second, attempts to modify the theory to account for its failings as a predictive model have left it unable to explain the religious decline that does seem to have taken place in Europe. In other words, some sort of secularization has occurred in

Europe, but secularization theory is of little help in explaining it. Finally, by reifying the

33 Peter L. Berger, The Sacred Canopy: Elements of a Sociological Theory of Religion (Garden City, N.Y: Doubleday, 1967), 137–138; For other classic texts of secularization theory, see Thomas Luckmann, The Invisible Religion: The Problem of Religion in Modern Society (New York: Macmillan, 1967); Bryan R. Wilson, Religion in Secular Society: A Sociological Comment (London: Watts, 1966); For later attempts to provide a systematic overview of the the theory, see Roy Wallis and Steve Bruce, “Secularization: The Orthodox Model,” in Religion and Modernization: Sociologists and Historians Debate the Secularization Thesis, ed. Steve Bruce (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1992), 8–30; Olivier Tschannen, “The Secularization Paradigm: A Systematization,” Journal for the Scientific Study of Religion 30, no. 4 (December 1991): 395–415.

categories of “religious” and “secular”, secularization theory is unable to deal with the messy complexity of religious phenomena in the real world. I will consider each of these problems in turn, exploring both critiques of secularization theory and attempts to rescue the concept. I close this section by reiterating the need for historical analysis to adequately explaining religious decline and persistence.

In the 1960s, it was just about plausible to glance around the world and conclude that religion was on its way out. By the 1990s, however, confidence in the inevitability of religious decline was badly shaken. Even leaving aside the persistence of religious conflict in Northern Ireland, the Balkans, and the Middle East, high levels of individual religiosity and the political power of conservative Christians in the United States belied any straightforward relationship between modernization and the declining significance of religion. As Peter Berger noted in 2006, “Today you cannot plausibly maintain that modernity necessarily leads to secularization: it may – and it does in certain parts of the world among certain groups of people – but not necessarily.”34

Some defenders of the secularization paradigm have modified the framework to account for what seem to be insurmountable empirical problems for the theory. In outlining a defense of what he called the “neosecularization paradigm”, the sociologist

David Yamane insists that secularization is fully compatible with continuing high levels of individual belief and practice. Highlighting the centrality of the process of institutional differentiation to the neosecularization framework, Yamane argues that

“Neosecularization theory suggests that while the quantities of individual religious beliefs and behaviors may be high, as in the United States, these are not the relevant

34 Charles T. Mathewes, “An Interview with Peter Berger,” Hedgehog Review 8, no. 1–2 (Spring/Summer 2006): 152.

data.”35 But in emphasizing the specific process of differentiation, neosecularization substitutes definition for explanation. As C. John Sommerville has put it, “we are not saying that differentiation leads to secularization. It is secularization.”36 But if

“secularization” is fully compatible with what has happened to religion in the United

States, it loses its explanatory power for Europe where decline in individual indices of religiosity did occur.

Seeking to explain the apparent divergence in European and American levels of religiosity, the sociologist Rodney Stark (along with a series of collaborators) developed the “supply-side” theory of religion. In Stark’s framework, religious “demand” is taken to be constant – religion, in other words, is a universal human need. Observed differences in religiosity across societies reflect, therefore, not an underlying variation in how religious people are but the degree to which existing religious institutions meet the religious needs of individuals. In a “free market” of religious institutions (as, Stark claims, exists in the United States), churches need to compete with each other for members in order to secure their own well-being. This leads to innovation and increased responsiveness to the demands of potential buyers in the religious market. In contrast, the tendency of European states to “regulate” the religious market through preferential treatment of national churches creates religious monopolies in which dominant churches, with little incentive to respond to market demands, calcify and grow unresponsive. If

35 David Yamane, “Secularization on Trial: In Defense of a Neosecularization Paradigm,” Journal for the Scientific Study of Religion 36, no. 1 (March 1997): 116. 36 C. John Sommerville, “Secular Society/Religious Population: Our Tacit Rules for Using the Term ‘Secularization’,” Journal for the Scientific Study of Religion 37, no. 2 (June 1998): 250.

Europeans seem secular, Stark suggests, it is because European churches are too heavily regulated.37

In contrast to Berger, then, Stark’s supply-side theory of religion predicts that increased pluralism leads to more religion (as religious “firms” compete to meet the demands of the religious market), not less. These opposing hypotheses about the impact of pluralism on religiosity led to a small cottage industry of quantitative studies seeking to document that impact.38 The findings of those studies have been, perhaps predictably, mixed, with one review of the research suggesting that the impact observed in various studies is more a statistical artifact than an actual causal relationship.39

This predilection for quantitative studies that aim to establish the effects of broadly conceived independent variables like “pluralism” on equally broad dependent variables like “religiosity” points towards a second major problem with the secularization framework: its tendency to reify religion as a phenomenon whose boundaries and contours can be determined in advance. This sort of research reflects two of the biases that Philip Gorski and Ateş Altinordi have identified that inflect accounts of

37 Rodney Stark and Laurence R. Iannaccone, “A Supply-Side Reinterpretation of the ‘Secularization’ of Europe,” Journal for the Scientific Study of Religion 33, no. 3 (September 1994): 230–252; For a debate between Stark and Steve Bruce over the applicability of the supply-side framework to Britain, see Bruce, “The Truth About Religion in Britain”; Rodney Stark, Roger Finke, and Laurence R. Iannaccone, “Pluralism and Piety: England and Wales, 1851,” Journal for the Scientific Study of Religion 34, no. 4 (December 1995): 431–444; Rodney Stark and Laurence R. Iannaccone, “Truth? A Reply to Bruce,” Journal for the Scientific Study of Religion 34, no. 4 (December 1995): 516–519; Steve Bruce, “A Novel Reading of Nineteenth-Century Wales: A Reply to Stark, Finke, and Iannaccone,” Journal for the Scientific Study of Religion 34, no. 4 (December 1995): 520–522. 38 Kevin D. Breault, “New Evidence on Religious Pluralism, Urbanism, and Religious Participation,” American Sociological Review 54, no. 6 (December 1989): 1048–1053; Mark Chaves and Philip S. Gorski, “Religious Pluralism and Religious Participation,” Annual Review of Sociology 27 (2001): 261–281; Jonathan Fox and Ephraim Tabory, “Contemporary Evidence Regarding the Impact of State Regulation of Religion on Religious Participation and Belief,” Sociology of Religion 69, no. 3 (Fall 2008): 245–271; Daniel V.A. Olson, “Religious Pluralism and US Church Membership: A Reassessment,” Sociology of Religion 60, no. 2 (Summer 1999): 149–173. 39 David Voas, Alasdair Crockett, and Daniel V.A. Olson, “Religious Pluralism and Participation: Why Previous Research Is Wrong,” American Sociological Review 67, no. 2 (April 2002): 212–230.

secularization, what they call “methodologism” and “pastoralism”. They define methodologism as the tendency to frame questions around data that is easily available and amenable to favored methods. Given the abundance of data related to individuals’ levels of religiosity, quantitative studies have continued to focus on individual religiosity in spite of the insistence of secularization theorists that secularization should be conceived of as a macro-level process, not simply one operating on individuals’ belief and practice. Pastoralism refers to the tendency to use standards used by the churches’ themselves as signs of true religion (assent to orthodox doctrines, regular church attendance, etc.) as the key indicators of underlying religiosity as a sociological phenomenon.40

This focus on measuring “religion” in terms of a rigid set of criteria extends even to the creation of the data used to demonstrate the purported evidence of religion. The

2002 European Social Survey, for instance, explicitly excluded attending church for

“special occasions such as weddings and funerals” in its question on church attendance.

A recent survey conducted by the social research group Ipsos MORI for the Richard

Dawkins Foundation for Reason and Science similarly excluded “special occasions such as weddings, funerals and baptisms or christenings” from counting as legitimate church attendances.41 It is crucial to note here that the data created is not collected in a way that allows for disaggregating “regular” church attendance from attending church for “special occasions” and holidays. Instead, the activity that falls into the latter category is ignored

40 Philip S. Gorski and Ateş Altinordu, “After Secularization?,” Annual Review of Sociology 34 (2008): 65– 66. 41 “ESS Round 1 - 2002,” European Social Survey - ESS DATA, http://ess.nsd.uib.no/ess/round1/; Ipsos MORI, “Religious and Social Attudies of UK Christians in 2011,” February 14, 2012, http://www.ipsos- mori.com/researchpublications/researcharchive/2921/Religious-and-Social-Attitudes-of-UK-Christians-in- 2011.aspx.

completely. In other words, unless church attendance meets a particular, pious standard of why people should attend religious services, it literally doesn’t count. This exclusion means that a considerable amount of social-scientific data on religiosity tells us virtually nothing about the sort of behavior that may very well be the most typical way in which

Europeans’ experience their churches. The tendency of defenders of secularization theory to dismiss evidence of cultural or vicarious religion only exacerbates this tendency.42

More convincing is Jeremy Morris’s recent call to consider a broader conception of the varieties of religious experiences, including those that might be described as secular or insignificant by those committed to a rigid dichotomy between “religious” and

“secular”. As Morris points out, “rituals which theologians and historians consider unimportant, or ‘fading’, or residual, may continue to matter much to their participants.”

Morris outlines a variety of forms that piety might take, including liturgical, customary, mystical, ethical, and sociable.43 Like Morris, I am wary of suggesting that these different forms of “religious” experience could point the way to an essential core of what religion is. The nature of people’s relationship with religion, it seems to me, is an empirical and historical one, not something that can be determined in advance.

42 In a 2007 essay on secularity in Britain, for instance, David Voas and Abby Day argue for an expansive use of the label “secular”, suggesting that “At the end of the day, perhaps, identifying with a religion, believing in the supernatural, or attending religious services should not necessarily disqualify someone from being regarded as basically secular.” See David Voas and Abby Day, “Secularity in Great Britain,” in Secularism and Secularity: Contemporary International Perspectives, ed. Barry A. Kosmin and Ariela Keysar (Hartford: Institute for the Study of Secularism in Society and Culture, 2007), 97; For a more nuanced attempted to make sense of people who seem to fall into a middle ground between “religious” and “secular”, see Ingrid Storm, “Halfway to Heaven: Four Types of Fuzzy Fidelity in Europe,” Journal for the Scientific Study of Religion 48, no. 4 (December 2009): 702–718. 43 Jeremy Morris, “Secularization and Religious Experience: Arguments in the Historiography of Modern British Religion,” Historical Journal 55, no. 1 (2012): 213–214.

The central irony in of historical writing on the fate of religion in modern Britain is that, even though historians are nearly universal in their disavowal of secularization theory, they still tend to cast their accounts of religious change as stories of decline.

Jeffrey Cox has spoken of secularization (stripped of its sociological trappings) as the

“master narrative” of European religious history. What has changed is that Europe is no longer seen as the model that the rest of the world will inevitably follow in turn. The apparent secularization of Europe in the twentieth century is increasingly seen as exceptional in a world in which the religious renewal and resurgence are as likely as decline.44

The evidence for some sort of religious decline in Europe is incontrovertible. But the very fact that decline seems to have been restricted to Europe, however, reinforces the need for detailed historical study of how decline occurred. I am sympathetic, therefore, to Liliane Voyé’s suggestion that, even though “secularization is […] on the societal level still an unquestionable fact in Europe”, the “advanced modern context is modifying the modalities through which secularization manifests itself.”45 Even given the existence of sweeping socioeconomic transformations that might fall under the heading of modernization, the impact of those transformations is necessarily refracted through the particular circumstances of each society. To understand how religious change occurred, we need to dig into individual cases and get our hands dirty without assuming that our

44 Jeffrey Cox, “Provincializing Christendom: The Case of Great Britain,” Church History 75, no. 1 (March 2006): 120–130; Grace Davie, “Is Europe an Exceptional Case?,” Hedgehog Review 8, no. 1–2 (Spring/Summer 2006): 23–34; Peter Berger, Grace Davie, and Effie Fokas, Religious America, Secular Europe? A Theme and Variations (Burlington, VT: Ashgate, 2008). 45 Liliane Voyé, “Secularization in a Context of Advanced Modernity,” Sociology of Religion 60, no. 3 (Autumn 1999): 286.

task is simply to fill in the details of a story whose beginning, contours, and end have already been figured out.

* * *

Historians of religion in modern Britain have been almost unanimous in their rejection of the universalist assumptions of secularization theory. In the process of challenging that framework, they have adopted three main strategies: re-dating the periodization of change in a way that makes it incompatible with the sociological assumptions of secularization theory, proposing alternative drivers of religious change, and contesting the characterization of change solely in terms of decline. Of these three approaches, the first two (often linked) are far more common than the third; the basic narrative of decline, as Cox has noted, has gone largely unchallenged. The basic shifts in historians’ thinking on these questions have been towards dating the change to progressively later dates in the twentieth century and pointing to the primacy of cultural factors in driving change over underlying social or economic transformations. The most influential historian in shaping these historiographic changes has been Callum Brown who, in a series of articles and his 2001 book The Death of Christian Britain, mounted a serious challenge to the gradualist and materialist assumptions of secularization theory.

After briefly sketching out the historical scholarship on religion in modern Britain, I explore Brown’s arguments in greater depth. I argue that Brown’s focus on a single cause of religious decline and his treatment of Christianity as a homogeneous phenomenon is incomplete as a causal explanation and leaves the question of the

enduring significance of Christianity after the 1960s unanswerable. Considering the broader circumstances (including social and intellectual as well as cultural changes) points the way towards a more nuanced account of religious change in which Christian

Britain did not simply die but underwent a series of transformations that created what I call the afterlife of Christian England.

Alan D. Gilbert’s identification of the Industrial Revolution as the key turning point in the history of religion in Britain draws heavily on the sociological model of secularization. In the years before industrialization, Gilbert claims, life in Britain was bleak: infant mortality rates were high, food shortages common, and illness omnipresent.

In an effort to make sense of this world, people turned to religion and the supernatural.

With industrialization came improved living standards, increased lifespans, and institutionalized schemes to improve the human condition like pensions and life insurance. Together, these developments led to a growing public faith in the ability of scientific reasoning to explain and improve the world. This, in turn, decreased the need for religion and other supernatural beliefs.46

As Gilbert admits, the quantitative decline in individual religiosity does not seem to have taken begun until the second half of the nineteenth century. If anything, the nineteenth century saw the significance of religion increase, not decrease: the Oxford

Movement transformed the Anglican Communion and the concurrent revival of post- millenarian evangelicalism shaped the political economy of the British state.47 As Robin

46 Alan D. Gilbert, The Making of Post-Christian Britain: A History of the Secularization of Modern Society (London: Longman, 1980). 47 Stewart J. Brown and Peter B. Nockles, eds., The Oxford Movement: Europe and the Wider World, 1830- 1930 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2012); Boyd Hilton, The Age of Atonement: The Influence of Evangelicalism on Social and Economic Thought, 1795-1865 (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1988).

Gill has noted, the Victorian period witnessed a major boom in church building.48 The precise relationship between missionary work and imperialism relationship is more complex than both critics and apologists of the missionary enterprise are likely to admit, but the presence of Christians abroad played an important role in shaping the British empire.49 Using folklore collections and oral history interviews, Sarah Williams has reconstructed the vibrant working-class community of Southwark in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries as one in which Christian belief was common even if regular church attendance was not.50 If the Industrial Revolution and the associated process of urbanization caused religious decline, they did so with a considerable delay.51

Skeptical of that extended temporal lag between the supposed cause of religious decline and evidence of that decline, historians like Jeffrey Cox and Simon Green sought out causes of decline that more closely matched the periodization of that decline. In a case study of Lambeth, Cox identifies the shifting social function of churches in the late

Victorian period as crucial to the decline in churchgoing in the early twentieth century.

In the final decades of the nineteenth century, churches increasingly focused their resources on the provision of welfare and social services, leading many to view the churches as much as welfare organizations as anything else. When government, both

48 Robin Gill, The “Empty” Church Revisited, 2nd ed., Explorations in Practical, Pastoral, and Empirical Theology (Alderdshot: Ashgate, 2003). 49 Norman Etherington, ed., Missions and Empire (Oxford and New York: Oxford University Press, 2005); Jeffrey Cox, The British Missionary Enterprise Since 1700 (New York and London: Routledge, 2008); Hilary M. Carey, God’s Empire: Religion and Colonialism in the British World, C. 1801-1908 (Cambridge and New York: Cambridge University Press, 2011). 50 S.C. Williams, Religious Belief and Popular Culture in Southwark, C.1880-1939 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1999). 51 For analyses of urbanization skeptical of its inherently secularizing effects, see Owen Chadwick, The Secularization of the European Mind in the Nineteenth Century (Cambridge and New York: Cambridge University Press, 1975), 93–102; Callum G. Brown, “Faith in the City?,” History Today 40, no. 5 (May 1990): 41–47.

local and national, began taking over the provision of these services in the early twentieth century, church members who had been drawn to the churches for their social functions stopped filling the pews as churches once again became more strictly religious organizations.52 Green’s case study of church organization in Yorkshire illustrates how industrialization was fully compatible with persistent and even resurgent religion, pointing to the dramatic growth in new church construction in the late nineteenth century as an example of Christianity’s resilience in the face of industrialization and urbanization.

The subsequent decline in church attendance, Green argues, had more to do with the institutional weakness of the churches in the face of new voluntary organizations such as working men’s clubs than with a crisis of faith brought about by the rise of rationalist worldviews.53 For both of Cox and Green, social and societal changes led to religious decline.

It was this enduringly influential framework of social history that Callum Brown aimed to challenge and replace in The Death of Christian Britain. Brown’s trenchant revisionism centers on three interrelated points. First, Brown disavows the use of statistics related to religious observance as adequate measures of people’s relationship with Christianity. Like Williams, Brown argues that the meanings associated with

Christianity in the broader cultural discourse mattered more than things like church attendance. Brown identifies a phenomenon that he calls “discursive Christianity” that he argues characterized British ideas about religion between 1800 and 1950. Central to this discursive Christianity, according to Brown, was a rigid division of spiritual labor along

52 Jeffrey Cox, The English Churches in a Secular Society: Lambeth, 1870-1930 (New York and Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1982). 53 S.J.D. Green, Religion in the Age of Decline: Organisation and Experience in Industrial Yorkshire, 1870-1920 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1996).

sexual lines, with women universally understood as the carriers of piety for the family and the culture at large. These ideas garnered assent from people who identified themselves as Christian even if they did not count themselves church members.54

Second, Brown argues that the disappearance of discursive Christianity only took place in the 1960s. Evidence of earlier decline in church attendance and other indices of religious participation does not, in Brown’s account, matter because the ideas of discursive Christianity remained influential. The enduring power of the evangelical conversion experience that was an essential element of discursive Christianity was made clear by Billy Graham’s successful revivalist campaigns Britain in the mid-1950s.55 The revival of Christianity in the 1950s belies the image of a society that had been gradually experience religious decline since the late nineteenth century.56 When decline came, according to Brown, it came in the 1960s and it came quickly.

Third, the cause of that decline lay not in impersonal social forces or the changing ideas of intellectuals or theologians but in the cultural tumult of the 1960s. In particular,

Brown argues, it was the mass rebellion of young women against the sexual repression that had suffused discursive Christianity that brought about the rapid secularization of

British society and culture. Ordinary, young, unmarried women brought an end to

Christian Britain when they started having sex and stopped going to church. The feminization of piety that had characterized discursive Christianity since the beginning of

54 Brown, The Death of Christian Britain, chap. 2, 4, 6. 55 Ibid., 5–6, 172. 56 For another account of the religious revival, see Adrian Hastings, A History of English Christianity, 1920-2000, New (4th) ed. (London: SCM Press, 2001), chap. 30–32; For a more skeptical look, see S.J.D. Green, “Was There an English Religious Revival in the 1950s?,” Journal of the United Reformed Church History Society 7, no. 9 (2006): 517–538; Green, The Passing of Protestant England, chap. 7.

the nineteenth century ended up being its downfall, for when women left the churches, their very foundations shook.57

Brown’s focus on the 1960s as a period of decline has transformed the scholarship on religion in twentieth-century Britain. Hugh McLeod, who had previously argued that the second half of the nineteenth century was critical to the secularization of European society and culture, largely embraces Brown’s focus on the 1960s in his 2007 book The

Religious Crisis of the 1960s.58 But while Brown is insistent that little of consequence changed between 1800 and 1950 and that the decline of the 1960s came about solely due to the cultural turmoil of that decade, McLeod incorporates longer term developments and a host of factors that accelerated change in the 1960s, including the impact of affluence, the radicalization of theology, the more general anti-authoritarianism of the period, as well as the sexual revolution that Brown places at the center of his story.59

Simon Green shares McLeod’s rejection of a clean break in the 1960s and focuses instead on the period between 1920 and 1960 as one in which signs of decline were already visible to those who cared to look.60 Even Green’s story of earlier decline, however, seems to leave space for the decisive changes of the 1960s that Brown emphasizes.

Brown’s call to recognize the power of ordinary people to reshape the society around them makes for inspiring reading and seems to fulfill the potential of social history to show that historical change need not originate in the corridors of power, in

Oxbridge common rooms, or in the ineluctable forces of socioeconomic change. But for

57 Brown, The Death of Christian Britain, 175–180, 187–192, 220–228; Callum G. Brown, “Sex, Religion, and the Single Woman C.1950–75: The Importance of a ‘Short’ Sexual Revolution to the English Religious Crisis of the Sixties,” Twentieth Century British History 22, no. 2 (2011): 189–215. 58 Hugh McLeod, Secularisation in Western Europe, 1848-1914 (New York: St. Martin’s Press, 2000). 59 McLeod, The Religious Crisis of the 1960s, 15–29. 60 Green, The Passing of Protestant England, chap. 3, 5, 8.

all the virtues of Brown’s approach, his account of religious change is impoverished by his insistence that nothing transformative happened to British Christianity between 1800 and 1950 and by his disavowal of any causes other than the sudden decision by the youth of the 1960s to challenge the puritanism of discursive Christianity. In fact, some things had already been changing before the 1960s, including in the areas of sexual permissiveness that Brown sees as so critical to the rapid secularization of the 1960s.

This is not to say that popular discontent with puritanism played no role in bringing about the permissive reforms of the 1960s, but Brown is wrong to insist that cultural changes were the only impetus.61 McLeod’s consideration of how the churches themselves played a role in bringing about some of the permissive changes of the 1960s is more convincing both because it helps explain those changes in terms other than the sudden (and rather inexplicable, in Brown’s account) enlightenment of ‘60s youth and because it considers the churches as active participants in the religious life of the nation rather than unchanging bulwarks of puritanism.62

McLeod’s sensitive analysis of the churches and their reaction to the changes of the 1950s and 1960s points to a further weakness in Brown’s approach. Brown’s concept of discursive Christianity enriches our understanding of the cultural significance of

Christianity, but in virtually ignoring what was going on in the churches, Brown mistakes his story – the fate of a particular set of ideas related to Christianity – for the whole story.

We need a history of Christianity that incorporates both Brown’s attentiveness to cultural discourse and Christianity outside the churches and a more institutional perspective that explores what was happening to the churches themselves and how they were responding

61 McLeod, The Religious Crisis of the 1960s, 223–225. 62 Ibid., chap. 10.

to the changes going on around them.63 Brown’s version of discursive Christianity has a tendency to “float” high above the more mundane realities of the interactions between the churches and the broader society. At times in Brown’s account it is not entirely clear who, exactly, believed in discursive Christianity.

The problem with Brown’s sometimes vague treatment of cultural discourse is evident in his use of statistics to support his argument. In the postscript to the second edition of The Death of Christian Britain, Brown reiterates his critique of the use of statistics as an impoverished sop to social science and insists that what really matters is discourse – “discourse is not measured by rises and falls like barometric pressure (or churchgoing changing by percentage points). Discourse is about a dominance, and that dominance is not negated by the shifting patterns of its circulation – only by its end.”64

But how are we to determine whether a discourse remains dominant? In the end, Brown ends up relying on statistics to support his case, closing his chapter on the 1960s with data documenting the churches’ failure to recruit new members.65 These statistics are compelling, but they raise an important question: if what ultimately matters is discourse, why should we consider statistics of decline at all? Given Brown’s earlier comments on the use of statistics (“this social-science method obliterates whole realms of religiosity which cannot be counted”), why should we suddenly find this particular set of statistics convincing?66 This apparent inconsistency points to a weakness in Brown’s method.

Though discourse analysis is an important tool in writing the history of religion, it does not and cannot provide all the answers. At some point we need to move beyond the

63 For more on this point, see Morris, “Secularization and Religious Experience,” 219. 64 Brown, The Death of Christian Britain, 210. 65 Ibid., 189, 191. 66 Ibid., 11.

realm of discourse and consider both social practices and institutional histories: what was actually happening on the ground and in the churches?

For his part, Brown has explicitly disavowed a return to church-based history of religion.67 He is almost gleeful in his decision not to use of church-related sources in The

Death of Christian Britain: “there is hardly an official church source […] consulted in the book; I didn’t use sermons, and I didn’t use church policy church documents.”68 His justification for this absence – that the “Christian discourse of gendered pieties was never formally formulated by the churches” – is unconvincing. If the churches were bastions of sexual conservatism (as Brown insists), then we should pay close attention to what they were saying. Brown’s decision to ignore church sources purports to be an argument for the autonomy of culture discourses, but in reality it just punts on the question of the relationship between “official” and “popular” Christian discourse. It is, I suggest, in the interplay between the two that we can actually observe change taking place.

An example of how this history might be written appears in the essays collected in the 2006 book Redefining Christian Britain. Focusing on the themes of “authenticity”,

“generation”, and “virtue”, the contributors explore a wide range of social and cultural realms in which, contrary to Brown’s claims, Christianity did not seem to die. Given the short length of the essays included in the volume, their arguments tend to be more suggestive than conclusive. The fact that most of the contributors are themselves active and committed Christians might lead them to an overly rosy view of the extent to which

“national identity, and public private morality, have continued to be dominated by

Christian assumptions”. But the editors’ call to move beyond the static categories of

67 Ibid., 211. 68 Ibid., 204.

social science and the monolithic discursive Christianity proposed by Brown to explore the changing contours and meanings of Christianity in postwar Britain is, to my mind, entirely convincing. This dissertation is an attempt to put that ideal into practice.69

* * *

The quarter-century between the end of the Second World War and the early

1970s witnessed major transformations in the social, cultural, and religious life of

England critical to the emergence of cultural Christianity. The most important of these developments were the postwar reconstruction of British society, the cultural shifts that followed the end of austerity and the coming of affluence, and what Hugh McLeod has called the “crisis of the church” in the 1960s and beyond.70 A fourth development, mass immigration from the new Commonwealth, would also have an impact on the place of

Christianity in English life, discussed in the epilogue.

The welfare state created by the wartime and postwar governments established a host of new institutions and settings in which the churches might or might not have gained a foothold. In the areas of education and healthcare, the state guaranteed the presence of Christianity in key institutions of social life: the 1944 Education Act mandated religious education and daily worship in all state-funded schools and the 1946

National Health Service Act made provisions for chaplains in NHS-run hospitals.

Coupled with the already existing chaplaincies in prisons and the military and the BBC’s

69 Jane Garnett et al., eds., Redefining Christian Britain: Post-1945 Perspectives (London: SCM Press, 2007), 289–290. 70 McLeod, The Religious Crisis of the 1960s, chap. 9.

commitment to promoting Christianity, the postwar state ensured that the English people would continue to come across Christianity in their lives, even if they were not regular churchgoers.

The shift in Britain’s population away from the inner core of cities and towards the suburbs and New Towns affected the churches in several important ways. First, the opening up of new housing areas offered opportunities for churches to put ecumenical goodwill into practice through shared church buildings, team ministries, and other local ecumenical projects. Shifting populations also put a considerable strain on the churches as resources had to be moved to meet the presumed religious needs of new suburban communities. This strain was especially challenging for the Church of England. Its comprehensive system of parishes that blanketed the country theoretically meant that it had a church and clergyman serving every community, but the rigidity of the benefice system and the physical “plant” of existing parish church buildings meant that reallocating resources to new population areas was a difficult task. In an attempt to remedy this mis-allocation of resources, a 1964 report commissioned by the Church of

England recommended a heavier hand in the deployment of clergy to ensure better pastoral care to new communities.71 Shifting populations and shrinking congregations in some areas also led to an increasing number of “redundant” churches. What to do with these buildings that were surplus to the churches’ needs proved a sticky problem, especially for the Church of England.

The fate of redundant churches and the eventual introduction of state support for their preservation was dependent on the cultural shifts that took place as affluence

71 Leslie Paul, The Deployment and Payment of the Clergy (Westminster: Church Information Office, 1964), 171–172.

displaced austerity in the course of the 1950s. Tony Judt’s moving remembrance of the early postwar years highlights the drabness and uniformity that characterized the years of austerity:

After the war everything was in short supply. […] Clothes were rationed until 1949, cheap and simple “utility furniture” until 1952, food until 1954. […] To a child, rationing was part of the natural order. […] since the war the rich kept a prudently low profile. There was little evidence in those years of conspicuous consumption. Everyone looked the same and dressed in the same materials: worsted, flannel, or corduroy. People came in modest colors – brown, beige, gray – and lived remarkably similar lives. We schoolchildren accepted uniforms all the more readily because our parents too appeared in sartorial lockstep.72

The affluence and rising living standards of the late 1950s and beyond meant that people could escape the drab grayness of the austerity years through new forms of leisure and cultural expression.73 Especially important to the growing appreciation of country churches as “heritage” was the growth in car ownership. It was in this environment that

John Betjeman’s call to recognize the beauty of Christianity (especially in its Anglican form) proved highly influential, even if his optimism about the people of England returning to their Church would prove unwarranted.

This failure of the churches to stop the decline in church attendance and membership (and, just as importantly, anxieties about decline, whether or not it was actually happening at a given moment) lurked behind many of the churches’ actions in this period. It is easy to overstate the impact of institutional decline and simply see everything that the churches were doing as a reactive attempt to stop the bleeding. But fears that the English people were abandoning Christianity and the churches were

72 Tony Judt, The Memory Chalet (New York: Penguin Books, 2010), 25–26, 29. 73 Peter Mandler, History and National Life (London: Profile Books, 2002), 104.

common enough among church leaders that “decline” should be seen as one of the factors that shaped the actions of the churches in the postwar decades.74 From banding together to make more efficient use of limited resources to revising their liturgy to appeal to modern sensibilities to attempting to sell off church buildings, the churches did not sit idly by as their membership seemed to hemorrhage away.

As it turned out, these attempts to remain relevant proved as likely to alienate the growing number of cultural Christians as they were to fill the pews. Though an increasing number of people left churchgoing behind, they did not want the churches to chase after them. Though active church members might favor changes to update and modernize their churches, the growing number of cultural Christians who continued to see the Church of England as part of their national birthright preferred that the Church continue to offer what they wanted: beautiful church buildings, moving hymns, and traditional rites of passage. By the early twenty-first century, the Church of England had basically accepted the terms of this tacit bargain. In return for vague but sufficient popular support for its continuing establishment, the Church would continue to offer up its services (to “hatch, match, and dispatch”, as the old saw goes) to the people of

England in the forms that they wanted it.

Each chapter of this dissertation tells a part of this story of how cultural

Christianity emerged and gained strength. Chapter 1, “Soft Establishment and the

Enduring Visibility of Christianity”, explores how the state supported a version of non- denominational Christianity in the postwar period. The welfare state may have made the

74 For analysis of the impact of narratives of decline in non-religious contexts, see Jim Tomlinson, The Politics of Decline: Understanding Post-war Britain (Harlow: Longman, 2001); Guy Ortolano, “‘Decline’ as a Weapon in Cultural Politics,” in Penultimate Adventures with Britannia: Personalities, Politics and Culture in Britain, ed. William Roger Louis (London and New York: I.B. Tauris, 2008), 201–214.

churches’ social services increasingly irrelevant, but it also found a place for Christianity on in schools, hospitals, and new housing areas.75 Focusing on religious education and religious broadcasting, I argue that the Christianity promoted in the classroom and on the airwaves was stripped of denominational fervor and intentionally presented in uncontroversial terms. Regular and universal exposure to this “generic” Christianity created space in which new relationships with Christianity could develop.

Chapter 2, “The Decline of Denominational Discord and the Anglicanization of

Christianity”, traces the course of ecumenical efforts in the years following the establishment of the British Council of Churches. While formal efforts at unity failed

(due more to institutional checks on organizational change than lack of will), interdenominational activity flourished at the local level. Thanks to these changes, distinctively denominational concerns became less important and the experience of

Christianity became an increasingly non-denominational one. The chief beneficiary of this shift towards non-denominational Christianity turned out to be the Church of

England. As the national church, it formed the core of ecumenical activity. The non- denominational ecumenism of the postwar period had a decidedly Anglican bent to it.

The third chapter, “The Church of England in the long ‘60s: From via media to tolerant liberalism”, explores how the Church of England shored up that position as the de facto center of Christian life in England. After analyzing the Church of England’s conception of itself as an institution valuing diversity and open to change, I show how the

Church cautiously embraced the permissive turn in British culture in the 1960s and took

75 For an account of how the welfare state displaced the churches in the realms of education, child care, and nursing, see Frank Prochaska, Christianity and Social Service in Modern Britain: The Disinherited Spirit (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2006).

care to ensure that its liberal reputation remained unsullied by association with puritan conservatives like Mary Whitehouse. By changing with the times (and, just as importantly, appearing to change with the times), the Church of England promoted an image of itself compatible with cultural Christianity.

The growing popularity of ideas about the aesthetic value of Christianity is analyzed in chapter 4, “The Triumph of Church Preservation and the Aestheticization of

Christianity”. Using the conflicts over what to do with old church buildings that were expensive to maintain and, in some cases, redundant to the Church of England’s pastoral needs, this chapter argues that the eventual solution of a joint partnership between the

Church of England and the state to preserve churches as part of the nation’s heritage reflected a broader cultural shift in which people came to value Christianity more as precious cultural patrimony than a means of salvation or the foundation of morality.

A short epilogue analyzes the royal wedding of 2011 as an encapsulation of the distinctively Anglican afterlife of Christian England. It then briefly considers the impact of immigration and the increasing presence of non-Christian minorities on the Church of

England’s place in English society and culture and argues that the Church’s establishment has been reimagined crucial to the welfare of “faith” in general – the Church’s distinctive

Christian witness is now consistently downplayed in defenses of establishment. After reflecting on the fragile set of circumstances that has secured the Anglican afterlife of

Christian England, I close by tentatively suggesting how the precarious structure of

Anglican establishment (both formal and informal) might break down and bring an end to another chapter in the history of Christian England.

CHAPTER 1: “SOFT ESTABLISHMENT” AND THE ENDURING VISIBLITY OF CHRISTIANITY

The notion of a state church now seems hopelessly outdated in what is supposed to be our modern, secular world. It is perhaps fitting, then, that England, often seen as the home of quaintly archaic relics, retains an established state church. This sets it apart from the rest of the United Kingdom. Northern Ireland, as such, never had such an arrangement - the Anglican Church of Ireland lost its privileges in the time of Gladstone.

The Church in Wales was disestablished in 1920 after lengthy controversy regarding the fate of Church revenues and holdings.1 Scotland still has a “national church,” the Church of Scotland, but its status as an “established” or “state” church is ambiguous and subject to continuing debate.2 It is only England that still has a state church, as it has had for the better part of five centuries since Henry VIII's break with Rome in 1534.

The significance of the Church of England’s establishment has declined over time. Until the Sacramental Test Act of 1828 and the Roman Catholic Relief Act of

1829, seats in parliament and other government offices were limited to communicant members of the Church of England. Non-Anglicans were first allowed to attend Oxford and Cambridge in the 1850s and further restrictions on non-Anglicans at the ancient universities were removed in 1871, though the law in question continued to require that the Book of Common Prayer be used for daily services at all college chapels.3

Mandatory church rates, the taxes paid to support local parishes and a long-standing

1 P.M.H. Bell, Disestablishment in Ireland and Wales (London: S.P.C.K. for the Church Historical Society, 1969). 2 R.M. Morris, ed., Church and State in 21st Century Britain: The Future of Church Establishment (Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan, 2009), 83–87. 3 Universities Tests Act, 34 & 35 Vict., C. 26, 1871, sec. 6.

irritant to Dissenters, were abolished in 1868. The creation of the Church Assembly in

1919 and its reconstitution in 1970 as the General Synod of the Church of England provided greater freedom to the Church to govern its own affairs, thereby alleviating the anomalous situation of the Church being subject to a Parliament that was no longer exclusively, or even mainly, made up of members of the Church of England.

The hard facts of the Church of England’s establishment have changed little since before the Second World War. The monarch is Supreme Governor of the Church. The rules regarding accession to the throne established in the aftermath of the Revolution of

1688 remain in place: the monarch must be in communion with the Church of England and declare, under oath, a commitment to preserve the Protestant religion (stridently anti-

Catholic elements of the Accession Declaration were removed in 1910). Potential successors to the throne are disqualified on marrying a Roman Catholic.4 Parliament retains the ability to introduce legislation affecting the Church of England, though this ability is, by convention, largely unexercised. Parliamentary sovereignty over the Church is instead exercised through the passage of Church Measures that originate in the General

Synod.5 Twenty-six bishops of the Church of England sit in the House of Lords by virtue of their office, the sole instance of a European parliament having explicit religious representation.6 Acting on the advice of the prime minister, the monarch continues to appoint bishops, deans of cathedrals, and miscellaneous other church offices. In recent practice, the Church’s Crown Nominations Commission has submitted two or more favored candidates to the prime minister who then forwards the preferred candidate to the

4 For a comprehensive and up-to-date overview of the intertwining of the monarchy and the establishment of the Church of England, see Morris, Church and State in 21st Century Britain, 34–40. 5 Ibid., 40–43. 6 Ibid., 44–46.

monarch for appointment.7 Finally, the Church retains certain legatine powers first granted by the pope, the most notable of which is the granting of Lambeth degrees, an academic degree typically conferred as recognition for service to the Church or society.8

In contrast to the state-linked churches in Germany and Scandinavia, which continue to receive direct state support through tax revenue, the Church of England receives no direct grants from the state, instead relying on donations and its own resources to meet its annual budget of approximately £1 billion.9

Focusing solely on the details of the formal establishment of the Church of

England, however, obscures how state support for Christianity after the Second World

War extended far beyond the increasingly narrow boundaries of Anglican establishment.

It is crucial to consider this phenomenon, what I call “soft establishment,” if we are to understand the persistent affinity towards Christianity displayed by much of the English population, churchgoing and otherwise, in the second half of the twentieth century. From

1944 to the present day, the state has mandated and provided financial support for religious education and collective worship in schools. Over time the state has actually increased the funds available to faith schools to the point that religious organizations that run voluntary aided schools are now required to cover only ten percent of capital costs while still retaining the right to provide denominationally distinctive religious instruction.10 In spite of efforts from the 1950s onwards to liberalize existing laws

7 Ibid., 48–57. 8 Ibid., 59. Lambeth degrees are not restricted to members of the Church of England, or even to Christians. The two most recent Chief Rabbis of the United Kingdom, Immanuel Jakobovits and Jonathan Sacks, have received Lambeth degrees. 9 Ibid., chap. 5. 10 For steps in this process, see Education Act, 7 & 8 Eliz. 6, C. 60, 1959, sec. 1(1); Education Act, 1967, C. 60, 1967, sec. 1(1).

surrounding Sunday observance, Sunday trading was not legalized until 1994. Following the pattern set by its first Director-General, John Reith, the British Broadcasting

Corporation remained committed to promoting a form of non-denominational

Christianity through dedicated religious broadcasting and the maintenance of a Sunday

“God slot” protected from secular programming. Through the National Health Service, the state has funded hospital chaplains, the vast majority of them affiliated with Christian denominations. The state has also played a key role in preserving England’s historic churches, both through direct grants and through various schemes to reduce the financial burden of the upkeep of church buildings. These manifestations of the soft establishment of Christianity belie any conception of the postwar British state as essentially secular aside from a few old-fashioned trappings of Anglican establishment.

As R.M. Morris’s recent study of church-state relations points out, many of these benefits were not restricted solely to the Church of England or other Christian groups.11

Several Jewish schools, for example, quickly took advantage of the state aid offered under the 1944 Education Act; there are now state-funded Jewish, Muslim, Sikh, and

Hindu schools in Britain. But theoretical equality under the law did not guarantee that all religious groups benefitted equally or even in proportion to their percentage of the overall population. Christianity was the chief beneficiary of “neutral” state support of religious organizations. This came about both because the churches were key players in crafting the legislation and policies in question and because state aid to religious groups was bound to accrue to organizations with the institutional structures capable of taking advantage of it.

11 Morris, Church and State in 21st Century Britain, 68.

This chapter traces the history of two manifestations of soft establishment, religious education and religious broadcasting, to show how soft establishment meant more than behind-the-scenes state support for Christianity. Education and broadcasting are fruitful areas to explore precisely because of their presumed power in this period. In a new age of mass education and mass media, the classroom and the airwaves were seen as key sites in the formation of character and identity. I make three arguments about the nature and significance of soft establishment. First, soft establishment ensured that exposure to Christianity remained nearly universal. Far from retreating to the realm of occasional rite of passage, Christianity endured as part of English people’s regular lives.

Second, the Christianity experienced through soft establishment was stripped of much of the denominational conflict and stridency that had long characterized the English religious scene. Christianity remained an inescapable element of most people’s lives, but it was a different sort of Christianity than that experienced by their ancestors. Third, the omnipresence and generic nature of Christianity propagated through soft establishment meant that people had greater opportunities to invest Christianity with new meanings far removed from the orthodox teachings of the churches. Soft establishment kept

Christianity alive in England, but it was not necessarily the version of Christianity that the churches preached.

Religious education and the subtle inculcation of Christianity

Christianity has been part of the English educational landscape since the earliest days of organized instruction. From the sixth century onwards, schools associated with

cathedrals and abbeys sprung up to teach Latin to future priests.12 The ancient universities of Oxford and Cambridge had close ties to the medieval church, a fact made clear by the preponderance of colleges with Christian names: Cambridge is blessed with

Christ’s, Corpus Christi, Jesus, Magdalene, St Catharine’s, St John’s, Trinity, and Trinity

Hall - Oxford boasts a similar assortment.13 In the wake of dramatic urbanization in the early nineteenth century there was a growing recognition of the inadequacy of existing educational facilities. An 1816 parliamentary enquiry into the state of education in

London found that 120,000 children had no access to education. The earliest effort to provide a comprehensive system of free elementary schools was initiated by the National

Society for the Promotion of the Education of the Poor in the Principles of the

Established Church. The National Society, founded in 1811, declared in its first annual report its “sole object […] being to communicate to the poor generally […] such knowledge and habits as are sufficient to guide them through life in their proper stations, especially to teach them the doctrine of Religion according to the principles of the

Established Church, and to train them to the performance of their religious duties by an early discipline.”14 Aided by an annual subsidy from the state that began in 1834, the

Church of England had established schools in 90 percent of parishes by the late 1860s.15

This system of Church schools forestalled the development of a state system of primary schools until 1870.

12 John Lawson and Harold Silver, A Social History of Education in England (London: Methuen, 1973), chap. 1–3. 13 The present author, a nice Jewish boy, spent a year at Christ’s College, Cambridge, an experience that planted a seed for this dissertation. 14 Quoted in Henry Burgess, Enterprise in Education: The Story of the Work of the Established Church in the Education of the People Prior to 1870 (London: National Society, SPCK, 1958), 23. 15 Lawson and Silver, A Social History of Education in England, 268–269; Burgess, Enterprise in Education: The Story of the Work of the Established Church in the Education of the People Prior to 1870, 211.

At first glance, the introduction of a system of state schools in the Elementary

Education Act of 1870 appears to fit neatly into a model of secularization in which the state incrementally took over the functions of religious organizations and thereby contributed to the declining social significance of religion. On introducing of the bill in the House of Commons, Liberal education minister W.E. Forster highlighted the inadequacy of existing voluntary efforts at education in a call to establish a greater state presence in the field of education. Extrapolating from a parliamentary report on the state of schools in Liverpool, Manchester, Leeds, and Birmingham, Forster estimated that one and a half million children of school age (six to twelve years) were in areas that lacked schools or were forced to attend “the worst schools, and those least fitted to give a good education to the children of the working classes.”16 To remedy these inadequacies, the

1870 Elementary Education Act established new local school boards. The members of these school boards were elected by local taxpayers, both men and women, thus establishing an early instance of women’s voting rights that predated full women’s suffrage by almost sixty years. These local school boards were empowered to set up new so-called “board schools” (the ancestors of today’s state schools) that would be free of

Church control. Twentieth-century historian and critic of state-funded education E.G.

West identified the 1870 act as the key turning point in the history of state intervention in the British school system, one that laid the foundations for later expansion in the state sector and discouraged further growth in the voluntary sector.17

16 Parliamentary Debates, House of Commons, vol. 199, 3rd Ser., 1870, col. 441. 17 E.G. West, Education and the State: A Study in Political Economy, 3rd ed. (Indianapolis: Liberty Fund, 1994), chap. 10–11.

This view of the 1870 Elementary Education Act as the harbinger of state encroachment and the canary in the coal mine of the secularization of English education must be tempered by several facts regarding the debate surrounding the law and the provisions that it contained. Far from representing a secularist intervention in the education system, the 1870 act was the result of an intense conflict along religious lines between proponents of reform and Church figures that sought the preservation of the status quo. The main organization that lobbied for the educational reform, the National

Education League, drew its support mainly from Liberals and Nonconformists. While the

League favored the expansion of free, compulsory education as a good in its own right, it also rankled under the dominance of Church of England schools in most areas and the imposition of Anglican teaching on impressionable young minds.18 After the bill’s introduction in Parliament, Joseph Chamberlain whipped up considerable Nonconformist opposition to the continued state support for denominational teaching, collecting the signatures of over 5,000 Nonconformist ministers across the country within four days.

Church of England figures, including the prime minister, Gladstone, continued to favor

Anglican teaching as the prerogative of the established church.19

The final form of the 1870 act would prove a disappointment to the National

Education League and the Nonconformist conscience. Voluntary organizations were given a grace period in which they could establish new schools with state funds; if those new schools provided adequate education in the area, no school board would be formed.

This prompted a flurry of new construction of Church schools and the creation of “single-

18 Lawson and Silver, A Social History of Education in England, 294. 19 Peter T. Marsh, Joseph Chamberlain: Entrepreneur in Politics (New Haven and London: Yale University Press, 1994), 43–44.

school areas” in rural areas in which the only school was a Church school. The result was that the children of Nonconformists were subjected to Church of England teaching that became increasingly Anglo-Catholic in the late nineteenth century.20 Even as the

1870 act established the first state-funded schools under government control, it also formalized the parallel system of church and state schools that still survives.

The 1870 act also contained provisions on religious instruction in board schools that would leave a lasting legacy on the content of religious education for decades to come. As a sop to Nonconformists and other opponents of denominational teaching, the so-called Cowper-Temple clause prohibited “catechisms or religious formularies distinctive of any particular denomination” in board schools.21 The law did not establish the requirement of religious education in all schools, likely because it was simply taken for granted that religious instruction of some sort would form part of the curriculum.22

The insistence that any religious teaching that did take place be along non- denominational lines would be crucial to the exposure of generations of students to a

Christianity divorced from the denominational discord that had long characterized the religious scene.

The 1902 Education Act, passed by the Conservative Balfour government, abolished the local school boards whose elections had become pitched battles between supporters of Church schools and Nonconformists and replaced them with education committees linked to local county and borough councils.23 The 1902 law gave the new

20 Marjorie Cruickshank, Church and State in English Education, 1870 to the Present Day (New York: St. Martin’s Press, 1963), 72. 21 Elementary Education Act, 33 & 34 Vict., C. 75, 1870, sec. 14(2). 22 Cruickshank, Church and State in English Education, 1870 to the Present Day, 30. 23 In the first school board elections in Birmingham under the 1870 act, the Liberals badly miscalculated the ideal strategy for the system of cumulative voting, with the effect that the first elected school board was

local education committees greater responsibility for providing financial support to voluntary schools (though the provision and costs of repairing the school buildings remained the responsibility of the sponsoring religious organization). In return for this increased funding to Church schools, the new education committees took control of secular instruction within voluntary schools, with religious instruction along denominational lines left in place.24 This solidified the position of Anglican and Catholic schools, with the predictable effect that Nonconformists chafed at the increased state support for teaching the doctrines of the Church of England and, worse still, the Roman

Catholic Church. At the dawn of the twentieth century, then, state-funded Christian instruction was well-established. The precise form that it took varied from school to school, but it was virtually impossible to escape a steady diet of Christianity in English schools.

These conditions largely remained in place until the Second World War and the dislocations it caused made the need for further expansion in the education system apparent. The wartime evacuation of over three-quarters of a million school children from Britain’s cities to the provinces provided startling evidence of the uneven provision of education throughout the country. The growing wartime consensus around the need for significant reconstruction of the educational system crystallized around the idea that secondary education should be made available to all. Conservative MP R.A. Butler accepted Winston Churchill’s offer of the post of President of the Board of Education and used that position to shepherd the expansion of the educational system into law as the

dominated by Conservatives who made school attendance compulsory and funneled money to Church schools, the only schools existing at the time. Marsh, Joseph Chamberlain, 50. 24 Cruickshank, Church and State in English Education, 1870 to the Present Day, 86.

Education Act of 1944.25 The new Education Act made secondary education free for all and established what came to be known as the “tripartite system” of secondary education, with the “eleven plus” examination administered to all students at the age of eleven to determine what form their secondary education would take: grammar school, secondary technical school, or secondary modern school.26

Given the welter of competing interests, the 1944 Act was no mean achievement.

The National Union of Teachers objected to what they saw as the excessive interference of churches in the field of education, especially the religious requirements for many teaching positions and headships within church schools. As a result, the union sought to secure the professional rights of teachers in the postwar educational settlement, though the vast majority of teachers supported religious education in state-aided schools.27 The

Free Churches, stung by the persistence of 4,000 single-school areas in which the children of Nonconformists were forced to attend Church of England schools, favored the conversion of Anglican schools in single-school areas to state schools and the availability of non-denominational Christian teaching to all students. Seeking support for this change, Methodist minister J. Scott Lidgett suggested to William Temple, the archbishop of Canterbury, that this policy could actually strengthen the “position of the Church of

England Schools throughout the country in all the areas where there is an effective choice of Schools open to the parents.”28 Roman Catholics agreed with Nonconformists about

25 Paul Addison, The Road to 1945: British Politics and the Second World War, Pimlico ed. (London: Pimlico, 1994), 172–174, 237–239. 26 In practice, few secondary technical schools were established, with the result that the eleven-plus exam came to function as a decisive sorting of students into academic and non-academic streams. 27 “Teachers and Religious Education,” March 2, 1944, 2, FR 2043, Mass Observation Archive, University of Sussex. 28 J. Scott Lidgett to William Temple, June 17, 1942, W. Temple 19, ff. 106-108, Lambeth Palace Library.

the importance of parental choice in education but sought a radically different solution.

The 1929 papal encyclical Divini illius Magistri had declared that “the frequenting of non-Catholic schools […] is forbidden for children” and that the motto of Catholic parents should be “Catholic education in Catholic schools for all the Catholic youth.”29

Hewing to this principle and arguing that parental choice in education constituted a matter of justice, Catholic parents and educational organizations pushed for full state funding of Catholic schools. The Church of England was split between those committed to Church schools as the only way of delivering a proper Christian education and those who believed that the financial position of the Church and the rising costs of education had made religious education in state schools an acceptable alternative to a comprehensive system of Church of England schools throughout the country.30 Out of this mass of competing interests came a bill that may not have fully satisfied each group but offered something to all of them. Thanks to Butler’s astute legislative strategy and

Temple’s cooperation, the bill became law in August 1944.31

The compromises embodied in the new Education Act shored up the place of

Christianity in English education which, Simon Green suggests, was Butler’s primary goal all along.32 The settlement of these thorny issues took place on two levels, both of which helped establish Christianity’s privileged position. First, the new law offered new levels of state funding to church-run schools. Church-affiliated schools were offered two

29 Pius XI, Divinis Illius Magistri: Encyclical Letter on Christian Education, 1929, para. 79, 82, http://www.vatican.va/holy_father/pius_xi/encyclicals/documents/hf_p-xi_enc_31121929_divini-illius- magistri_en.html. 30 For a fuller exploration of these competing interests, see Cruickshank, Church and State in English Education, 1870 to the Present Day, 139–144. 31 S.J.D. Green, “The 1944 Education Act: A Church-State Perspective,” Parliamentary History 19, no. 1 (2000): 162–163. 32 Ibid., 163–164.

levels of state funding. In both cases, the state would cover the basic operating costs of the school. “Voluntary controlled” status was offered to schools willing to accept a greater degree of control by the local education authority; with it came complete state funding for the costs of maintaining the physical plant of the school. In return for higher levels of state funding, controlled schools were required to give up more control of their governance. No more than one-third of the board of school governors for controlled schools could be representatives of the religious foundation affiliated with the school (the rest of the school governors were to be appointees of the local education authority).

“Voluntary aided” status provided less money to the school in question but granted it greater freedom. Aided schools were required to cover half the expenses for any alterations or expansions to the school building, though the state would cover all non- capital costs associated with running the school. In addition to securing greater representation of foundation managers among school governors, aided schools retained the right to “prohibit the appointment, without the consent of the [local education] authority, of teachers to be employed for giving secular instruction.”33 In other words, aided schools could choose to hire only teachers of the desired religious faith, even for the teaching of secular subjects. The option of aided status largely met the Catholic demand for control over Catholic schools – Catholic schools were nearly universal in their decision to choose aided status. The Church of England, less committed to religious education along strictly denominational lines, adopted no official policy regarding the choice between aided and controlled status, with the result that, by 1959, approximately three-fifths of Church of England schools had opted for controlled status.34 In 1960, one-

33 Education Act, 7 & 8 Geo. 6, C. 31, 1944, sec. 24(2)(b). 34 Cruickshank, Church and State in English Education, 1870 to the Present Day, 174–175.

fifth of all students in England (and over a quarter of students in primary schools) attended state-supported schools affiliated with the Church of England or the Roman

Catholic Church.35

The second way in which the 1944 Education Act supported the place of

Christianity in the education system was the requirement, for the first time, that religious education take place in all state-supported schools. Section 25 of the act contained two key provisions regarding religious education. First, “the school day in every county school and in every voluntary school shall begin with collective worship on the part of all pupils in attendance at the school.” 36 Second, “religious instruction shall be given in every county school and in every voluntary school.”37 The law went on to specify the nature of that religious worship and instruction, though it had more to say about what religious education could not be rather than what it should be. Implicitly acknowledging decades of complaints by the Free Churches that the children of Nonconformists were subject to Anglican indoctrination in both church and county (i.e. state) schools, the act declared that “collective worship […] shall not, in any county school, be distinctive of any particular religious denomination” and that “the religious instruction given to any pupils in attendance at a county school […] shall be given in accordance with an agreed syllabus adopted for the school or for those pupils and shall not include any catechism or formulary which is distinctive of any particular religious denomination.”38 Collective worship in voluntary controlled schools could continue to be along denominational lines,

35 Ministry of Education, Education in 1960 (London: Her Majesty’s Stationery Office, July 1961), 151. 36 Education Act, 1944, sec. 25(1). 37 Ibid., sec. 25(2). 38 Ibid., sec. 26.

but religious education would “be given in accordance with an agreed syllabus adopted for the school or for those pupils.”39

Voluntary aided schools were granted greater freedom in their provision of religious education. Where controlled schools were required to provide religious instruction through an agreed syllabus, the Education Act required that religious instruction at aided schools “shall be in accordance with any provisions of the trust deed relating to the school, or, where provision for that purpose is not made by such a deed, in accordance with the practice observed in the school before it became a voluntary school.”40 Denominational schools that opted for aided status, then, continued to provide denominational religious instruction, as they always had. Aided schools were also given the ability to dismiss religious education teachers without obtaining permission from the local authority.41 These provisions allowed Catholic schools to provide Catholic teaching by Catholic teachers while still receiving substantial state funding.

In the county schools and voluntary controlled schools that made up the majority of the education sector, religious instruction was to be provided along the lines of the agreed syllabus for each local education authority. The syllabus was to be the product of a conference created specifically for that purpose, with representatives of the Church of

England, other religious denominations present in the area, local teachers’ associations, and the local education authority.42 The agreed syllabus conferences were required to

“seek unanimous agreement” on a syllabus of instruction.43 This provision favored the

39 Ibid., sec. 27(6). 40 Ibid., sec. 28(1). 41 Ibid., sec. 28(2). 42 Ibid., Fifth Schedule, sec. 1–2. 43 Ibid., Fifth Schedule, sec. 5.

production of an unobjectionable syllabus based on the least common denominator that the various constituencies represented on the committee would accept. While this predisposition towards an uncontroversial syllabus was much criticized as failing to communicate the distinctiveness of the religious experience, the compromise embodied in the 1944 Education Act ensured that generations of English schoolchildren would continue to be exposed to some form of Christianity. Though the new law made no mention of “Christianity” anywhere in its 91 pages, the implementation of religious education throughout the country reveals how religious education as Christian education was simply taken for granted, with the aims of religious education understood as the propagation of Christian faith and the instilling of Christianity in the nation’s youth.

The 1947 Surrey syllabus of religious education declared that its aim was “to secure that children attending the schools of the County […] may gain knowledge of the common Christian faith held by their fathers for nearly 2,000 years; may seek for themselves in Christianity principles which give a purpose to life and a guide to all its problems; and may find inspiration, power and courage to work for their own welfare, for that of their fellow-creatures, and for the growth of God’s kingdom.”44 The Middlesex syllabus of 1948 (republished without any changes in 1963) made a similar declaration:

“The first principle […] underlying the following syllabus, is that the primary function of

Christian religious teaching is to show the way in which Christianity offers the right relationship between God and man.”45 The 1954 Sunderland syllabus stated that “The school ought to do its positive best to guide children into Church membership, just as it

44 Surrey County Council Education Committee, Syllabus of Religious Instruction, 1947, 6. 45 The Middlesex County Agreed Syllabus of Religious Instruction (London, 1948), 1.

would guide them into the Continuation School.”46 Through the 1960s, the premise that religious education existed to inculcate Christianity went largely unquestioned.

The content of the early syllabi of religious education make clear how religious education was narrowly conceived of as the propagation of Christianity through the teaching of the bible. The Surrey syllabus of 1947 suggested that “the spirit of the

Syllabus itself gives to the teacher that freedom of method which is necessary to the progressive development of teaching technique,” but the bulk of the syllabus comprised carefully outlined courses from the nursery school through the secondary level. The introduction to the section on teaching students aged 2 to 5 suggested that “The first teaching about God should be of the Heavenly Father, and His love, and of Jesus as our childhood’s pattern and the children’s friend.” The syllabus then presented an outline of

“The Story of Jesus” in which the Nativity is recounted (Luke 1: 26-38; Luke 2: 1-20,

Matthew 2: 1-12) and Jesus is presented as the “Loving Friend” who blessed the children

(Mark 10: 13-16), fed the five thousand (Mark 6: 30-44), and stilled the storm (Mark 4:

35-41).47 The suggested course of work for 15- and 16-year-olds shared the same premise: religious education as the teaching of key themes through bible study. The

“Fifth Course” for secondary school students was divided into three segments: the

Teaching of Jesus, the History of Christendom, and the principles of Prayer and Worship.

The first and third of these leaned heavily on the bible, in some cases doing little more than listing verses that should form the basis of teaching.48 Memorization of verses was also encouraged as a way to “cultivate a love of God’s Truth enshrined in lyrical and

46 Quoted in Free Church Federal Council Education Committee, Religious Education in County Schools (London: Free Church Federal Council, 1976), 6. 47 Surrey County Council Education Committee, Syllabus of Religious Instruction, 9. 48 Ibid., 70–78.

dramatic form in the Old Testament, a real knowledge of the Teaching of our Lord, and its practical application as seen in the Epistles.49 Only in the sixth form (for students above the age of 16) was the systematic exposition of the bible left behind in favor of making the “search for truth” the keynote of religious education. Even then, however, the Surrey syllabus described the goal of religious education as demonstrating that “the truth is that the new light which has come from science and from historical research has made only more clear that in the Bible is proclaimed the Word of God as it is proclaimed nowhere else.”50 The Surrey Education Committee also produced Prayers for Schools, the bulk of which was devoted to prayers on “The Christian Life and Character” and

“Christian Seasons.”51

When the Surrey syllabus was revised sixteen years later, ideas about the purpose of religious education had changed little: the primary aims of the syllabus were copied verbatim from the 1947 syllabus to the 1963 version. The new Surrey syllabus did, however, add some new material about the precise goal of religious education: “In the light of the teaching of Jesus Christ, we shall surely achieve our greatest aim when our pupils become full and practising members of a Christian Church. The fostering of such an ambition in the children […] will help to avoid one of the greatest pitfalls of aimless religious teaching, that of presenting just a set of good rules rather than a way of life lived in fellowship with Our Lord.”52 This addition was in response to an ongoing debate within the education community over the role of religious education in developing

49 Ibid., 79–80. 50 Ibid., 81. 51 Prayers for Schools: A Collection Prepared for the Surrey Education Committee (London: Oxford University Press, n.d.). 52 Surrey County Council Education Committee, Syllabus of Religious Education, 1963, 8.

students’ sense of morality. With anxiety about juvenile delinquency growing in the

1950s and 1960s, some looked to religious education as a way to shore up the moral foundations of the country, especially since children’s attendance at Sunday schools (the presumed cradles of morality) had begun to plummet.53 The Surrey syllabus conference objected to this utilitarian view of religious education and insisted on the importance of instilling Christianity as a good in its own right, not simply as a way to produce better, more moral adults. This continued focus on propagating Christianity was reflected in a revised syllabus that left the Biblical foundation of religious education unchanged.

What did change between the late 1940s and the early 1960s was a new interest in

“educational effectiveness.” No longer was it seen as sufficient to provide teachers with a program of bible verses and assume that exposing students to that content would constitute effective religious education. The 1963 Surrey syllabus suggested that the

“basis of all the work” should remain “straightforward lessons, using narrative and description,” but also recognized the importance of holding students’ attention – “The greatest sin in teaching is to bore.” Teachers were encouraged to supplement their lessons with dramatic performances, visual aids (“Some British Museum postcards are excellent for this purpose”), maps, and arts and crafts. The syllabus summed up its section on teaching methods with a sensible and straightforward admonition: “What do you want your children to learn, understand or remember? Ask yourself that, and you will be halfway towards finding a suitable method.”54

But while the recommended methods of teaching changed, the content remained the same: “Joseph and his brothers” was suggested as suitable for a play and illustrations

53 Currie, Gilbert, and Horsley, Churches and Churchgoers, 167–192. 54 Surrey County Council Education Committee, Syllabus of Religious Education, 11–12.

of bible stories were recommended for younger children. “One simple and effective diagram illustrating the cosmology of the Old Testament is a circle with a horizontal diameter; the diameter labelled The Earth, the upper circumference Heaven, and the lower semi-circle Sheol.” Emphasis on the bible’s centrality in religious education was not limited to the conservative Home Counties atmosphere of Surrey. In 1969, the Inner

London Education Authority (responsible for religious education in the twelve inner boroughs of London between 1965 and 1990) published The Use of the Bible, which declared in its opening that “The Bible is our most essential book in religious education.”

Recognizing that recent educational research had cast new light on children’s development and their educational capabilities, The Use of the Bible encouraged a thematic approach to using the bible in religious education that was sensitive to students’ abilities. Biblical stories like the temptation of Christ were deemed to require abstract thinking to understand fully and so should be held back until the secondary school level.

This more sophisticated view of teaching methods did not, however, alter the basic goal of building “a progressive understanding of the Christian way of life.”55 Nor did the increasing presence of religious minorities in London schools that resulted from postwar immigration cause the Standing Advisory Council on Religious Education to question the basic goal of propagating Christianity, suggesting that “since in many of their countries the best education has often been in the hands of the Christian Church, they are predisposed to accept a similar education in this country.”56

55 Standing Advisory Council on Religious Education, The Use of the Bible (London: Inner Education Authority, 1969), 6, 8. 56 Ibid., 30.

The aim of instilling Christianity meant that, in some cases, non-Christians were prevented from teaching religious education classes, even if they were themselves religious. In 1951, a Jewish teacher, Jane Judelson, wrote to the Education Officer of the

London County Council protesting that the Head Teacher at her school had prevented her from teaching religious education classes on the grounds of her faith. Judelson pointed out that the London Syllabus of Religious Education declared the ultimate aim of religious education was “to foster a comprehensive Way of Life […] summed up in the

Words of Our Lord.” She then highlighted the commandment in Deuteronomy 6:5 that

“Thou shalt love the Lord thy God with all thy heart and with all thy soul and with all thy mind” and Rabbi Hillel’s admonition to love “thy neighbour as thyself” as key elements in the Jewish tradition.57 Together, these commandments constituted the so-called “Great

Commandment” expressed by Jesus in Matthew 22:34-40, Mark 12:28-34, and Luke

10:25-28. Given the evident compatibility of Jewish and Christian ethics, Judelson contended that she should be allowed to teach religious education classes and offered to leave the teaching of the New Testament to another teacher. The London Education

Officer offered sympathy for Judelson’s situation but declined to intervene on her behalf.58 It is impossible to know how widespread the policy of setting aside religious education classes for Christian teachers was, but the London County Council Education

Committee’s acceptance of it reveals the commonplace nature of idea that the goals of religious education required teachers committed to Christianity.

57 The standard English translation of Hillel’s admonition is typically translated into English as “What is hateful to you, do not to your neighbour.” Babylonian Talmud, Shabbat, folio 31a. The phrase “love thy neighbour as thyself” comes from the King James Version. 58 Jane Judelson to J. Brown, September 30, 1951, LCC/EO/PS/02/39, London Metropolitan Archives.

While there is a wealth of material available on the prescribed content of religious education classes, it is much more difficult to assess what actually went on in schools and classrooms in the 1940s, 1950s, and 1960s. Oral history interviews provide a suggestive perspective into the experiences of students. A Jewish woman, Joanne59 (born in the late

1950s), describes how her Jewish-ness set her apart from the normal run of school life.

At her local primary school in south London, she was one of only a handful of Jewish students in a state school that served a socially mixed population. They did Christian prayers at the school and no arrangements were made for non-Christian students so she attended all the Christian services, with the result that she still knows the Lord’s Prayer by heart. “Nobody thought of taking me out. It made me feel a bit uncomfortable, and I always wondered why I didn’t get to be the Virgin Mary in the play. […] So I did feel a bit different.” She also recalls a two-week school trip to Cornwall when she was about eight years old. When Sunday came around, she was brought to church as a matter of course – “It never occurred to anybody not to take me.” She describes the experience in harrowing terms: “I was worried that we might have to kneel down, because I knew that we weren’t meant to do that. […] You know how in the church it sort of tells you what you’re going to read? […] It looked like what the reading was going to be something like

‘We’ll scourge them from the synagogues.’ I sat there very, very anxious about it. In the end I don’t think they did read it. […] But it really freaked me out.” Even in the early

1960s, the assumption that all students would participate in school prayers and attend church on Sundays seems to have been unchallenged.

59 A pseudonym.

Joanne’s academically competitive secondary school displayed greater recognition of religious diversity, but still took for granted Christianity’s place at the core of school life. She and the other Jewish students were withdrawn from morning assemblies “because they did Christian prayers. We would be let in afterwards. […] I used to hate it, at the end of the assembly when you’d be allowed back in […] the headmistress would say, ‘Jewesses, you can come in now.’” Feeling quite strong about her Jewish identity, she never thought of attending the Christian services at her school, but she did have a Jewish friend who “just went to all the Christian stuff and denied being

Jewish. […] She was really trying to fit in.” Jewish students were also withdrawn during religious education classes. All students would be taught the Old Testament and

“morality-type things,” but Jewish students were removed from the classroom during teaching of the New Testament and Christianity.60

The experience of Christianity in school for Christian students seems to have been far less anxiety-inducing. Paul61 was born in the late 1940s. He spent the ages of 10 to

13 as a choral scholar at one of the centuries-old public schools, then went to a co- educational school in London for secondary school. He recalls chapel attendance at the public school as “very compulsory” but also a time he cherished for its musical elements.

Collective worship at his secondary school was less frequent and more cursory, but still a regular part of school life. Religious education classes were focused on the bible and cast a more critical eye than the agreed syllabi probably would have deemed appropriate.

Enough interest in the bible was instilled for the publication of the New English Bible in

60 Interview with the author, 3 March 2011. 61 A pseudonym.

1961 to be “eagerly awaited” by Paul and his fellow students, though they ended up disappointed with its unsatisfactory treatment of the “big questions.”62

A more derisive recollection of the postwar experience of religion in school is expressed in the 1998 satirical novel England, England by Julian Barnes (born in 1946).

The main character, Martha Cochrane, “a clever girl, and therefore not a believer,” took the opportunity of school prayers to offer an alternative version of the Lord’s Prayer:

Alfalfa, who farts in Devon, Bellowed be thy name. They wigwam come. Thy swill be scum In Bath, which is near the Severn. Give us this day our sandwich spread, And give us our bus-passes, As we give those who bus-pass against us, And lead us not into Penn Station, Butter the liver and the weevil. For thine is the wigwam, the flowers and the story, For ever and ever ARE MEN.

After being caught out in her mockery, Martha was forced to lead the school prayers for the rest of the term, “to articulate clearly and to counterfeit an ardent faith.”63 Her teacher remained suspicious of Martha’s blasphemy, but as long as the proper forms were maintained, no further discipline was applied.

This more skeptical view of the effects of religious education and collective worship in schools mirrors the growing sense of disappointment expressed in the 1960s and 1970s as to the failures of the religious provisions of the 1944 Education Act to bring about a revival of Christianity. A report on religious education in schools in

Gainsborough, Lincolnshire conducted in 1969 presented a dire picture of the state of

62 Interview with the author, 28 September 2011. 63 Julian Barnes, England, England (London: Vintage Books, 1998), 12–13.

religious education: “written work consisted mainly of the repetition in one form or another of material […] which was either read from the Bible or some other book, or re- told by the teacher.” Oral work took the form of teachers asking students questions following exposition of a topic, with teachers seeming “to feel that every question, whether doctrinal or moral, had to be answered and to be unaware that the facile answers and superficial solution did little to foster an appreciation of the subject matter.”

Adequate coverage of the biblical material was deemed unlikely given the time constraints and teachers’ “imperfect understanding of the nature, significance and authority of many parts of the Bible”. Collective worship at school was in better shape, with students encouraged to take an active role in the service to produce “an enjoyable occasion for all concerned.” But while the government inspectors abstained from any final judgment of whether Gainsborough schools were achieving the “evangelistic” intent of the agreed syllabus which had been in use for five years, it seems clear that there was little effective conversion or indoctrination taking place.64 Responding to the growing sense that religious education’s proselytizing potential was limited, both the Church of

England and the Free Church Federal Council published reports in the 1970s which concluded that the aims of religious education should be reconsidered in favor of helping students understand religion and religious ways of life (with an emphasis on Christianity) instead of the older goal of creating Christians.65

64 HM Inspectors, A Survey of Religious Education in the First Two Years of Four Secondary Schools in Gainsborough, Lincolnshire (Lindsey), and in the Last Two Years in the Primary Schools Which Serve Them (Department of Education & Science, January 6, 1970), 1–5, ED 272/22, The National Archives. 65 The Fourth R: The Report on the Commission on Religious Education in Schools (London: National Society and SPCK, 1970), 277; Free Church Federal Council Education Committee, Religious Education in County Schools.

This image of state-mandated religious education and school prayers as useless at best and harmful at worst has become something of a consensus among historians of postwar Britain. Angus Calder suggested that “Future historians of the decline of religion may well conclude that the making compulsory of the joyless and perfunctory morning service in schools was all that was needed to consummate the process.”66 Dominic

Sandbrook contends that “the decline of religious instruction in schools meant that children grew up without the religious vocabulary that their parents, whatever their beliefs, had automatically shared.”67 Drawing on Seebohm Rowntree’s English Life and

Leisure of 1951 and a 1954 report on religious education by the Institute of Christian

Education, Simon Green argues that “many of the hopes invested in the 1944 Act were doomed from the outset, not least Temple’s vision of a Christian community sustained by state schools.”68 As an effort to turn students into believing and practicing Christians, the religious requirements of the Butler Act have been deemed a failure.

Evaluations of the effects of religious education have tended, therefore, to focus on whether it was effective, that is, whether it met the goals laid out by the framers of the law and the producers of the agreed syllabi. But as historians we are not restricted to these criteria. Instead, we should consider not just whether religious education and school worship worked as educational professionals hoped they would, but also what they did. Even the most pessimistic accounts of religious instruction and school prayer acknowledged that the basic provisions of the law were followed most of the time in most schools: the vast majority of students said prayers, sang hymns, and read bible stories. In

66 Angus Calder, The People’s War: Britain, 1939-45 (London: Jonathan Cape, 1969), 545. 67 Dominic Sandbrook, White Heat: A History of Britain in the Swinging Sixties (London: Abacus, 2007), 465. 68 Green, The Passing of Protestant England, 240.

all of this, Christianity was taken for granted as the proper subject of religious education.

For non-Christians, both students and teachers, this unquestioned centrality of

Christianity led to feelings of anxiety and exclusion. For the students who had an even nominally Christian background, Christianity in the school was routine and even boring.

To a large extent, this banality was secured, unintentionally, by the very terms of the

1944 Education Act with its emphasis on non-denominational teaching and worship that would be unobjectionable to Anglicans and Free Churchmen alike. A 1963 joint statement from the Church of England and the Free Church Federal Council on religious education recognized that the injunction against denominational teaching had led teachers to feel “anxious that the religious teaching in their schools shall foster a sense of spiritual unity, so they avoid doctrine and limit their teaching to the historical and ethical” and, as a result, present “what amounts to an emasculated kind of religion.”69 Emasculated it may have been, Christianity still formed a regular part of the school experience.

‘BBC Religion’ and the promotion of generic Christianity

In the early postwar years, the educational sphere was seen to extend beyond the schoolroom. In January 1950, the Times Literary Supplement described the British

Broadcasting Corporation as a “pedagogic institution.” Whether it wanted to or not, the

BBC had the responsibility of “disseminating ideas, and therefore of forming or sustaining a culture”. Given that responsibility, the BBC had a choice: would it allow public opinion to drive its programming choices, or would it look at the cultural disintegration that was taking place and “set out to gather the broken pieces together and

69 Central Joint Education Policy Committee, Christian Teaching in Schools: a Common Basis (London: National Society, 1963), 3.

help to form them into something like a coherent culture”? After casting the choice in such stark terms, it is hardly surprising that the TLS writer urged the BBC to adopt the latter course of shaping society for the better. In the case of religion, this meant promoting Christian morality and instilling knowledge of “Christian mythology”.70

The TLS had little to fear, for the BBC took its responsibility as a public broadcaster seriously. From its earliest days under the leadership of John Reith, successively the General Manager, the Managing Director, and the Director-General of the BBC, the Corporation took the promotion of Christianity as part of its mission of informing, educating, and entertaining the British public. Reith, the son of a Scottish

Presbyterian minister who became the Moderator of the United Free Church of Scotland, envisioned the BBC’s role as presenting a “thorough-going, optimistic and manly religion” that would “prevent any decay of Christianity in a nominally Christian country”.71 Early in his tenure at the BBC, Reith sought the advice of the churches on how best to do this. Starting in 1923, the BBC had a religious advisory committee successively called the Sunday Committee, the Religious Advisory Committee, and the

Central Religious Advisory Committee (CRAC). CRAC provided advice to the BBC on religious matters for the remainder of the twentieth century. Though its recommendations were theoretically only advisory, the BBC virtually always put them into practice. CRAC’s minutes and papers, therefore, provide a superb record of the

BBC’s religious broadcasting policy and practices.

70 “Impartiality,” Times Literary Supplement, January 20, 1950. 71 Quoted in Michael Bailey, “‘He Who Has Ears to Hear, Let Him Hear’: Christian Pedagogy and Religious Broadcasting During the Inter-War Period,” Westminster Papers in Communication and Culture 4, no. 1 (2007): 6.

One of the first recommendations from the Sunday Committee in the early 1920s was the “exclusion of all controversial matter from broadcast religious addresses.” In practice this meant the exclusion of speakers, such as Christian Scientists, with dubious

Christian credentials. In 1928, the Postmaster General (responsible for the regulation of broadcasting) removed the general ban on controversy in broadcasting. In spite of this new flexibility, the BBC kept Christianity apart from other topics of potential controversy like party politics. It issued a statement that “The responsibility remains with the BBC to see that nothing is broadcast that is likely to provoke or offend large numbers of their

Christian audience.”72 In 1930 the BBC Board of Governors reaffirmed this decision by resolving that “no matter should be broadcast which might fairly be interpreted as a direct or indirect attack on the Christian religion, this ban to include any statement of reasons for disbelief.”73 This protection granted to Christianity on the airwaves extended to the postwar years. In 1946, the Director-General William Haley admitted that the BBC’s stated commitment to the “search for the truth” might be incompatible with the promotion of Christianity but went on to warn against the dangers of “free thought and free expression” in the context of modern broadcasting, dangers that historical proponents of free expression like Montaigne, Milton, Locke, Hume, and Mill could never have conceived. The pursuit of truth must, Haley argued, be moderated by the need to retain

“the respect of public opinion,” opinion that would be offended by outright attacks on

Christianity.74

72 William Haley, “Religious Broadcasting and Controversy,” November 15, 1946, 1, R34/809/2, BBC Written Archives Centre. 73 “Board Decisions on Religion,” August 15, 1951, R34/809/3, BBC Written Archives Centre. 74 William Haley, “Resumed Discussion on Religious Broadcasting,” November 13, 1951, 7, R51/502, BBC Written Archives Centre.

In 1947, an internal BBC memorandum laid out a possible framework for the gradual introduction of controversy in religious broadcasting. The memo proposed an initial series of programs “outlining great world beliefs or individual affirmations, […] that […] should not exclude Rationalism.” In this initial series, talks “of a purely destructive character should be excluded.” A sequence of round table discussions would follow this initial series and provide the opportunity for direct engagement between adherents of different belief systems. Even in this environment of free expression, “the rules of courtesy and good taste” would still reign supreme – “the BBC will in fact have to impose a censorship in these broadcasts”.75

In spite of this theoretical broadening of the possibilities for controversial religious broadcasting, little change in programming actually took place. Ten years after the new policy, a group of secular humanists in Cambridge submitted a memorandum to the BBC Board of Governors outlining the rebuffs suffered by would-be humanist broadcasters in the previous decade. A proposed talk by the humanist psychologist

Margaret Knight on “Morals Without Religion” had received a response from a BBC official warning that “If you think that religion is just a kind of litter to be cleared away, you will only waste your own and listeners’ time by talking about it.” The novelist E.M.

Forster received a similar reply in response to a proposal for a humanist talk not followed immediately by a Christian response: “what motive could there be but to concert an attack on religion”. The humanists’ memo closed with an expression of “disappointment

75 “Aide Memoire on the BBC’s Policy Towards Controversy in Religious Broadcasting,” January 1, 1947, R6/21/5, BBC Written Archives Centre.

at the feeble and faltering fulfillment of the declared policy” of allowing controversy in religious talks.76

In addition to protecting Christianity from direct attacks, the BBC was also committed to taking active steps to promote it. Innumerable programmatic statements through the years make this clear. The BBC handbook from 1940, for example, described the “aim of religious broadcasting” as identical to “the aim of the Church – to proclaim, in worship and preaching, the Gospel of God in Jesus Christ.”77 Speaking to the British Council of Churches in 1948, William Haley described, almost as an aside,

“the duty of religious broadcasting, of course” as encouraging people to “join in the

Christian faith.”78 In the same year, the Head of Religious Broadcasting, Francis House, offered a succinct description of the goal of religious broadcasting: “To make Britain a more Christian country.”79 This commitment to using the airwaves to promote

Christianity was not restricted to converting Britain – in 1953 the head of the BBC’s

Overseas Service, O.J. Whitley, objected to a talk given by a Buddhist marking the birth of the Buddha. Whitley found the talk to be nothing more than a “fluent and comprehensive puff for Buddhism” and insisted that a “broadcasting service can be the evangelist of only religion. The GOS [General Overseas Service] is committed to

Christianity.”80

76 “Memorandum to the Governors of the British Broadcasting Corporation,” 1958, 2, 3, 6, HUM/3, King’s College (Cambridge) Archive Centre. Knight was, in fact, given the opportunity to present her proposed talks in 1955. The series met with considerable controversy and seems to have led to considerable reticence on the part of the BBC to pursue further talks in the same vein. 77 BBC Handbook (London: British Broadcasting Corporation, 1940), 63. 78 William Haley, Moral Values in Broadcasting (Wembley: British Broadcasting Corporation, 1948), 9. 79 Francis H. House, “Review of the Aims and Achievements of Religious Broadcasting,” September 1, 1948, 7, BCC/7/1/9/3/2, Church of England Record Centre. 80 O.J. Whitley, “Talk by Dr. Malalasekera on Buddhism,” May 28, 1953, R51/467, BBC Written Archives Centre.

Only in the cultural tumult of the 1960s was there a shift in the stated objectives of religious broadcasting. The 1965 BBC handbook, for example, described how religious broadcasting had expanded “beyond the reflection of the faith of Christians and of the life of the churches into the wider field of discussion of belief”.81 This shift reflected the aims the new head of religious broadcasting, Kenneth Lamb. In March

1964, Lamb outlined his plans for his tenure. His first aim was to ensure “that a proper balance was maintained […] between affirmation of the traditional Christian message and exposition of the newer religious insights of our own age”.82 John Robinson’s Honest to

God, published in 1963, had sparked considerable controversy and seemed to represent a serious challenge to popular understandings of ethics, Christianity, and God. Though

Robinson saw his call to re-imagine God as the “ground of our being” rather than a distant power “out there” as the summing up of recent trends in liberal theology, his critics lambasted him as a traitor to Christianity and a denier of God. As liberals within the churches reimagined the significance of Christianity for modern society and culture, the BBC’s religious programming reflected and incorporated the controversies that ensued.

Religious conservatives were quick to criticize this policy of granting undue voice to what they saw as explicit challenges to traditional Christian faith and morality. In

1963, a discussion panel on a recent report on sexuality published by the Society of

Friends generated considerable anxiety among some members of the BBC’s Central

Religious Advisory Committee. John C. Heenan, the Roman Catholic archbishop of

81 BBC Handbook (London: British Broadcasting Corporation, 1965), 66. 82 Central Religious Advisory Committee, “Minutes of the 83rd Meeting,” March 10, 1964, 4, R6/21/9, BBC Written Archives Centre.

Liverpool, did not object to a broadcast discussion of the report, but “found it quite incomprehensible that the BBC should have given its authors free rein in a religious broadcasting space without confronting them with someone who believed in and could speak for the moral principles taught by Christ.” The Anglican bishop of Guildford reported that some teenage girls had “heard the broadcast – or heard of it” and thought that “it had given the green light for extra-marital sexual relations”. Discussion of sexuality was one thing, but allowing such discussion to proceed without firm and clear exposition of the traditional Christian view was unacceptable.83

But while the 1960s saw an increase in “controversial” religious broadcasts, the overwhelming balance of programming remained in a more traditional vein. For all the cultural ferment of the 1960s, plenty of older practices and cultural forms endured, often unchanged, so much so that some observers found the BBC’s presentation of Christianity to be too orthodox. Religious controversy was on the airwaves, but the majority of religious programs (and those which drew the largest audiences) continued to be devoted to “traditional” broadcasts of church services and hymn singing. A critical study conducted by William Temple College at Rugby School in 1963 argued that broadcasts of debates between “progressive” and “traditional” Christians “very often

(unintentionally, it is supposed) present the traditional Christian in a better light.” As a result, the report suggested, the “mainstream religion” broadcast by the BBC was a version of Christianity that was “centred upon the Church” and its traditional rituals.84

83 Central Religious Advisory Committee, “Minutes of the 81st Meeting,” March 12, 1963, 3–4, R6/21/9, BBC Written Archives Centre. 84 William Temple College, Rugby, Mainstream Religion: A Study of the Content of Religious Broadcasting During June, 1963, 1963, 49.

In a period in which church and Sunday school attendance were declining, more and more people were getting their religion from the BBC. To understand the impact of this shift, we need to consider three key elements of the BBC’s religious broadcasting policy: the so-called Sunday “closed period”, the restriction of religious broadcasting to the “historic main stream” of Christianity, and the preference for non-denominational

Christian broadcasts. BBC decisions on these three issues led to a presentation of religion as deserving a regular spot in the broadcasting schedule and restricted to a tightly defined set of churches. The trend towards non-denominational Christian broadcasts effectively minimized denominational differences in worship and presented viewers and listeners with a broad version of Christianity. “BBC religion” kept Christianity highly visible and portrayed it in unobjectionable, even generic terms.

The question of what sort of broadcasting should take place on Sundays provided the impetus for the BBC’s first explicit consideration of religion. On March 19, 1923,

John Reith met with Randall Davidson, the archbishop of Canterbury, to seek his guidance on the place of religion on radio. Two months later, the “Sunday Committee” met for the first time under the chairmanship of the Cyril Garbett, bishop of Southwark and later archbishop of York. The committee also included representatives of the

National Council for Evangelical Free Churches, the English Presbyterian Church, and the Roman Catholic Church. The stated purpose of the committee was to guide the BBC on the selection of Sunday speakers, but it quickly expanded its remit to broader questions of religion and broadcasting.85

85 Kenneth M. Wolfe, The Churches and the British Broadcasting Corporation, 1922-1956: The Politics of Broadcast Religion (London: SCM Press, 1984), 6.

In the early years of the BBC, Sunday programming was primarily religious in nature. Sunday programming began at 9:30 in the morning with a religious service that lasted until 10:45. There was then a gap in programming until 12:30 in the afternoon. A series of “serious music and talks” filled the afternoon schedule. 8:00 in the evening brought another religious service, and the day’s programming ended with a religious

Epilogue. Even the theoretically secular talks during the afternoon were “carefully scrutinised with a view to obviating statements which might be interpreted as disruptive of Christian morality”. Sabbatarian groups like the Lord’s Day Observance Society praised the BBC’s policy as “respecting the quiet and religious character of the British

Sunday”.86

During the 1950s, the Central Religious Advisory Committee approached the issue of Sunday broadcasting from several different angles. On the one hand, it remained wary of broadcasting, religious or otherwise, that might draw people away from attending church services, especially in the evening. In 1953, CRAC expressed its opinion that televised church services at 6:30 on Sunday evenings were “discouraging church- attendance and giving ministers and clergy the impression that religious broadcasts were a rival to the work of the Churches.”87 This concern about the temptations of television extended to Sunday afternoons, the traditional time for Sunday school lessons, as well.

In 1954 CRAC recommended that there should be no television broadcasts before 4:00 on Sunday afternoons to avoid tempting children away from Sunday school.88

86 Bailey, “‘He Who Has Ears to Hear, Let Him Hear’,” 7–8. 87 Central Religious Advisory Committee, “Minutes of the Fifty-ninth Meeting,” March 3, 1953, 2, R6/21/7, BBC Written Archives Centre. 88 Central Religious Advisory Committee, “Minutes of the Sixty-second Meeting,” October 28, 1954, 3, R6/21/7, BBC Written Archives Centre.

In addition to this concern that broadcasting as such was drawing people away from the churches, the BBC also protected the airwaves themselves from undue secular influences. The lasting influence of the Reithian sabbatarian policy continued to be felt on the radio Home Service: variety programs, “modern dance music,” sports bulletins, and controversial material continued to be excluded. The other BBC radio stations (the

Light Programme and the Third Programme) were free of such restrictions, though the

Light Programme did broadcast several religious programs each Sunday, including the very popular People’s Service, which drew 13% of listeners in 1950 and the hymn program Sunday Half Hour, which drew 26.5% of listeners.89

The culmination of these concerns was a new policy announced in 1955 by the

Postmaster General that instituted a formal “closed period” on Sunday evenings. This policy theoretically prohibited television broadcasts between 6:15 and 7:30 on Sunday evenings, but exemptions were granted to religious programs. There was also a mandatory “change of programme” at 7:45 to ensure that evening churchgoers would have the opportunity to return home in time for the evening’s main programs.90 Both the

BBC and the nascent Independent Television Authority took advantage of the new protected period for religious programs with discussion programs like About Religion

(ITV) and Meeting Point (BBC). Songs of Praise, a popular hymn-singing program, would follow in 1961. Though the “God-slot” would meet with considerable derision in

89 Francis H. House, Report to the Board on Religious Broadcasting, October 1951, 11, R34/809/3, BBC Written Archives Centre; Audience figures can be found in Robert Currie, Alan Gilbert, and Lee Horsley, Churches and Churchgoers: Patterns of Church Growth in the British Isles Since 1700 (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1977), 235. 90 Penry Jones, “The Sunday ‘Closed Period’,” February 24, 1969, 1, R6/21/10, BBC Written Archives Centre.

later decades, two-thirds of viewers expressed support for it in a 1961 poll sponsored by the Independent Television Authority, with only 20% opposed to it.91

The Sunday “closed period” remained basically unchanged for two decades. In

1976, after meeting with both the BBC and the Independent Broadcasting Authority, the

Central Religious Advisory Committee issued a series of recommendations regarding religious broadcasting on Sunday evenings. Chief among these proposals was a reduction in the length of the time specifically set aside for religious programs to thirty- five minutes. The expectation that ITV and BBC-1 would continue to devote 70 minutes each Sunday evening to religious programs remained in place; the change did not alter the amount of religious broadcasting but rather granted the television stations greater flexibility in when religious programs would be broadcast. Nevertheless, the thirty-five minute period from 6:40 to 7:15 would remain dedicated to religious broadcasting.92

This shortening of the “closed period” to thirty-five minutes generated a quick reaction from groups committed to preserving the special character of Sunday. Even before the recommendations became public knowledge, the chief press officer at the

Church Information Office wrote to Donald Coggan, the archbishop of Canterbury, complaining about what he saw as the change in policy that would, in his words,

“secularise the period between 6.15 p.m. – 6.55 p.m.” and lead to “a greater erosion of religious programmes on Sunday and greater emphasis on films, comedy shows, etc.”93

The Nationwide Festival of Light, a grassroots conservative movement that protested

91 Religious Programmes on Independent Television, July 1961, 21, ABMS 3/109, Churchill Archives Centre. 92 Central Religious Advisory Committee, “Note on the Joint Meeting of the Committee,” March 10, 1976, 3, R6/222/3, BBC Written Archives Centre. 93 John Miles to Donald Coggan, February 20, 1976, Coggan 28, ff. 67-72, Lambeth Palace Library.

against the permissive turn in British society, offered more a dire warning: “Any religious broadcasting, however outstanding in quality, would succumb to competition with light entertainment in the ratings charts. […] if they are to perform their statutory task of education, […] the broadcasting authorities must agree to protect a Sunday religious period which is free from other pressures.”94

At first glance, the shortening of the closed period could be seen as resulting from a process of commercialization of broadcasting and hastening the secularization of the airwaves. But, as Robert Runcie, the chairman of the Central Religious Advisory

Committee, made clear to Coggan, the decision to alter the closed period had less to do with commercial pressures and more to do with freeing religious broadcasts from the stigma of existing solely due to the protected “God-slot”. Runcie explained that the proposed changes in the broadcasters’ Sunday policies were the product of CRAC, not pressure from the broadcasting authorities. The goal of the new policy was “to get a better placing and opportunity for religious broadcasting to engage with a wider audience”; CRAC had found that the existing Sunday closed period had encouraged the broadcasting authorities simply to “put religion into a Sunday evening slot and take a rest from competitive broadcasting.”95 It would be a mistake, then, to see the reduced “God- slot” solely as something forced upon the churches; committed Christians accepted some form of change and sought to manage that change in a way that would work to their advantage.

94 Nationwide Festival of Light, “The Sunday ‘Closed Period’ in Broadcasting,” March 1976, Coggan 28, f. 85, Lambeth Palace Library. 95 Robert Runcie to Donald Coggan, March 4, 1976, Coggan 28, ff. 82-83, Lambeth Palace Library.

Though the long-term trend in Sunday broadcasting was one of decline, it is important to recognize that the basic principle that some portion of Sunday be dedicated to religion was accepted by the broadcasting authorities for well over half a century. On any given Sunday, listeners and viewers knew that religious programs would be available, and they knew when they would be broadcast. The Sunday “God-slot” did not succeed in its efforts to convert the British people to orthodox Christianity. But its presence was so steady that it became part of the wallpaper – always there in the background, even if seldom remarked upon. Assessing the impact of that quiet presence is a difficult task, but as we attempt to understand the creation and maintenance of religious identity, we should not underestimate the potential effect of seemingly banal and everyday cultural expressions.

It is not enough, of course, to simply point out the existence of religious broadcasts. It is just as crucial to explore the character and content of the BBC’s religious broadcasting. “Christian broadcasting” is a more accurate label for the BBC’s religious output, at least through the 1970s. This elision of “religion” and “Christianity” was frequently taken for granted (as it had been in the 1944 Education Act), but there were occasional admissions that religious broadcasting, as practiced by the BBC, might be more accurately called Christian broadcasting.

The designation of what counted as “Christian” for the purposes of Christian broadcasting was neither straightforward nor uncontested. In March 1931, the Central

Religious Advisory Committee considered requests from Unitarians, Swedenborgians, and other religious minorities for the opportunity to broadcast their services. Working from the assumption that “regular religious services” (as opposed to occasional religious

talks) were reserved for orthodox Christians, CRAC recommended that “representatives of minority bodies which were not definitely Christian, including belief in the divinity of

Christ, should not take part”. This policy excluded Unitarians, Swedenborgians, and other religious minorities, including Muslims (“in view of the conflict between

Mohammedanism and Christianity”) from the airwaves.96 CRAC rejected a similar request from Christian Spiritualists in 1940 on the grounds that Christian Spiritualism fell outside the bounds of the mainstream of historic Christianity in Britain.97

This policy of restricting the broadcast of services to the “main stream of historic

Christianity” was formalized in 1951. Facing increased pressure from excluded religious groups for increased access, the BBC asked CRAC to consider how expanded access could be implemented, if such a policy were executed. CRAC provided an explicit definition of this “main stream”. First, it included the Church of England (and other

Anglican churches in the United Kingdom), the Church of Scotland, the Roman Catholic

Church, and all churches affiliated with the Free Church Federal Council (i.e. the

Methodist Church, the Baptist Union, the Congregational Union, and a handful of smaller

Nonconformist denominations). Second, the mainstream included “members of the

Society of Friends, the Salvation Army, the Plymouth Brethren [a small evangelical denomination] and any other bodies which Christian public opinion has or may recognize as being ‘Christian’.” Finally, “other individuals whose contributions to religious broadcasts as individuals would not be at variance with the primary purposes of offering

Christian worship and teaching the Christian faith” were deemed to be part of the

96 Central Religious Advisory Committee, “Minutes of the Fourteenth Meeting,” March 13, 1931, 2, R6/21/1, BBC Written Archives Centre. 97 Central Religious Advisory Committee, “Minutes of the Thirty-third Meeting,” November 21, 1940, 5, R6/21/3, BBC Written Archives Centre.

mainstream. In practice, this final designation applied to Unitarians, who were otherwise ineligible due to their dubious status as Christians but had sufficient historical relationships to churches in the mainstream to warrant some recognition.98

These definitions out of the way, CRAC declared its opposition to a policy change which would expand the breadth of religious broadcasting outside the mainstream of

Christianity (with occasional Jewish talks allowed due to the “historical relation between

Judaism and Christianity”).99 CRAC offered four justifications for the maintenance of the mainstream policy. First, it declared the policy to be “consistent with the B.B.C.’s general conception of its moral responsibility” and the importance of “giving leadership to the nation in a positive way”. Second, CRAC argued that the policy was a

“recognition of the special position of the Christian tradition in British life.” Beyond a vague claim that “Many of the most fundamental elements in British life” could be found in the “conflicts and tolerances between the denominations” that formed the mainstream, there was no further explication of how this historical claim supported the continuation of existing privileges for the mainstream. Third, the restriction of religious broadcasting to the mainstream Christians denominations met the demand from listeners (many of them non-churchgoers) for “opportunities for Christian worship and instruction.” By reserving the airwaves for the Christian mainstream and prohibiting “controversial attacks held by other churches”, “cross-listening” across denominations was made possible. Expanding access to religious broadcasts would introduce controversy “quite inconsistent with participation in an act of worship” that the audience had come to expect. That the policy

98 Central Religious Advisory Committee, “The Main Stream of Historic Christianity,” March 6, 1951, 4, R6/21/7, BBC Written Archives Centre. 99 Ibid., 1.

itself may have helped generate the supposed demand for non-controversial Christian services was not remarked upon. Finally, the provision of controversial religious broadcasting in the form of occasional talks and debates meant that religious minorities had the right to the airwaves outside the realm of regular religious services, making an expansion in the mainstream policy unnecessary.100

The BBC continued to enforce its policy of restricting religious services to the mainstream of Christianity through the 1950s. In 1953, CRAC received a request from

Seventh Day Adventists for access to the airwaves. The head of religious broadcasting,

Francis House, reported that “Doctrinally they appeared to represent an extreme fundamentalist form of Protestantism […] in spite of their bibliocentricity, […] they were nearer to merely semi-Christian bodies (such as Jehovah’s Witnesses) than to the churches in the main stream of Christianity in this country.” They were, therefore, ineligible to participate in broadcasts of Christian services, though they could participate in religious talks provided they did not attack the beliefs of other Christians.101 A similar request from Christadelphians also met with a negative response. In an internal BBC memo, House explained that Christadelphians, a small group of biblical Unitarians, occupied the “dubious position […] between fully Christian Churches and definitely non-

Christian bodies such as the Jehovah’s Witnesses.” Given their nebulous position with respect to the Christian mainstream, House raised a dilemma regarding the possibility of

Christadelphian services: “either they would be indistinguishable from the Free Churches

– in which case why go to them; or if they were ‘distinctive’ they would be ‘distinctive’

100 Ibid., 2–3. 101 Central Religious Advisory Committee, “Minutes of the Sixtieth Meeting,” October 22, 1953, 4, R6/21/7, BBC Written Archives Centre.

in ways which would be likely to arouse controversy or interfere with joining in worship”.102 Given that the latter course would violate the BBC’s commitment to offering Christian services acceptable to broad audiences, House recommended that the

Christadelphian request be rejected.

Over the years, there was a gradual expansion of the mainstream. In 1963, CRAC widened its definition to cover all the member churches of the World Council of

Churches.103 It is difficult to assess the impact of this shift, but it was likely minimal, possibly involving only the granting of mainstream status to Orthodox churches. Not until the mid-1970s was there an explicit recognition of the possibility that the very nature of the mainstream could change over time. Extending the riverine metaphor,

CRAC argued that the “‘main stream’ […] is continually changing, constantly fed and occasionally diverted by new religious movements.” In spite of this recognition of the changing religious circumstances of Britain, CRAC recommended that the “core of religious broadcasting must continue to be the worship, thought and action” of Britain’s historic denominations.104

It should, perhaps, come as little surprise that a committee whose composition was explicitly restricted to the Christian mainstream showed little interest in expanding that label and thereby diluting its own influence. Aware of this potential criticism,

CRAC’s submission to the Annan committee on broadcasting in 1975 insisted that the mainstream policy did not entail “the provision of propaganda, suitably rationed, from the

102 Francis H. House, “Christadelphians,” November 6, 1953, R34/825, BBC Written Archives Centre. 103 Central Religious Advisory Committee, “Minutes of the 85th Meeting,” March 10, 1965, 5, R6/21/9, BBC Written Archives Centre. 104 BBC Handbook 1976 (British Broadcasting Corporation, n.d.), 18.

major Churches”.105 Leaving aside the charged nature of the word ‘propaganda’, it is difficult to accept CRAC’s argument regarding the impact of the mainstream policy.

Conceived as a commitment to presenting what was seen as the broad center of Britain’s

Christian life, the mainstream policy explicitly excluded churches and denominations that were deemed to be outside that broad center. As a result, the policy reinforced the privileges of the historic churches – especially the Church of England, the Roman

Catholic Church, and the Free Churches. These three “strands” within British

Christianity received the lion’s share of the time allocated to religious broadcasting. In a period when fewer and fewer people were going to church and more and more were

“getting their religion” from radio and television, the typical listener or viewer could be excused from forming the impression that “religion” really meant “Christianity” and that

Christianity was manifested in the rituals and thought of the Church of England, the

Catholic Church, and the Free Churches. The mainstream policy did more than simply reflect the status of the mainstream churches – it also amplified that status and presented an image of religion on the airwaves in which that status was largely unquestioned.

Even in the context of the BBC’s support of British Christianity as the expression of the three “main strands”, it often presented Christianity in such a way that served to undermine the denominational character of Christian worship and thought in favor of a more generic version of Christianity. This tendency towards presenting Christianity in non-denominational terms, like so much else, derived from John Reith’s initial inclinations. Seeing Christianity as a vital moralizing force in society and broadcasting as a promising means of promoting Christianity, Reith was disappointed by the churches’

105 Central Religious Advisory Committee, “Evidence to the Committee on the Future of Broadcasting,” March 1975, 4, HO 245/151, The National Archives.

seeming lack of interest in the new medium of radio and public disagreements over denominational differences. Writing in the Anglican publication St. Martin’s Review in

1930, Reith declared that “I do not find theological doctrine or dogma of much practical significance in the world today.”106

St. Martin’s Review was a fitting location for Reith’s dismissal of theological niceties and denominational discord; the church of St. Martin-in-the-Fields in Trafalgar

Square became the site of the first regular Christian broadcasts on the BBC. The vicar of

St. Martin’s, H.R.L. Sheppard, claimed that “St. Martin’s stands for a diffused rather than a sectional Christianity.” In the aftermath of the First World War, St. Martin’s had gained a reputation of a church ministering to the poor and the homeless, a ministry that required a straightforward, uncluttered Christianity that downplayed denominationalism.

Beginning on 6 January 1924, church services from St. Martin’s were broadcast on the radio on a regular basis.107 Almost from the start, the broadcast services from St.

Martin’s frequently included preaching by Nonconformist preachers, a reflection of the

BBC’s commitment to avoid having its religious programs too strongly associated with any single denomination.108

In 1932, a group of Christian representatives considered St. Martin’s monopoly in broadcast church services and the non-denominational character of those services. The

Roman Catholic priest Father Parker objected to the Protestant nature of the broadcasts and sought a Roman Catholic broadcast (not necessarily every week) to ensure that

Roman Catholics were not “compelled” by the BBC to listen to Protestant services.

106 Quoted in Wolfe, The Churches and the British Broadcasting Corporation, 19. 107 Ibid., 8–9. 108 “St. Martin-in-the-Fields: Extracts from the Minutes of the Religious Advisory Committee,” n.d., R6/21/1, BBC Written Archives Centre.

Representatives of the BBC’s regional religious advisory committees favored more flexibility in regional programming. Proponents of the continuance of the existing system suggested that this latter concern might result from a “subconscious feeling of jealousy towards London”. Addressing the question of the alleged Protestant nature of the St. Martin’s services, its defenders cast them as fulfilling the BBC’s aim of “unity of

Christian feeling.” Rather than catering to adherents of particular denominations, the “St.

Martin’s people had worked out a type of service which was believed to be acceptable to the vast majority of Christian listeners, and to contain nothing that would offend.”109

CRAC recommended that St. Martin’s monopoly on broadcast services remain in place, with the partial exception that regional stations could broadcast alternatives on one

Sunday each month.110

During the Second World War, the non-denominational character of religious broadcasting was maintained in an effort to avoid stirring up domestic controversy at a time when national unity was crucial. The 1940 BBC Handbook also described the broad nature of religious broadcasting as having a positive effect on church unity: “The religious services of all denominations are heard by all; each denomination learns from the others. Listeners feel that they are sharing in a Christian, not merely a denominational service; suspicions and misunderstandings are removed; […] there is a growing sense that, though some differences are great, yet the things we have in common are far greater.”111 This passage captures a key element of wartime religious broadcasts:

109 “Memorandum on Alternatives to St. Martin’s,” March 14, 1932, R6/21/1, BBC Written Archives Centre. 110 Central Religious Advisory Committee, “Minutes of the Seventeenth Meeting,” September 29, 1932, 2, R6/21/1, BBC Written Archives Centre. 111 BBC Handbook, 1940, 66.

though they were not officially non-denominational (“The religious services of all denominations are heard by all”), the BBC’s policy of prohibiting attacks on other

Christian’s beliefs had the effect of minimizing difference, highlighting similarities, and thereby promoting a vision of Christianity as a common faith.

This emphasis on emphasizing Christian co-operation was incorporated into the plans for broadcasts on V-Day. Immediately after the speech by the King or Prime

Minister (expected at 11:00 in the morning), there would be a ten-minute service led by the BBC’s Head of Religious Broadcasting. That evening there would be a half-hour studio service conducted by the archbishop of Canterbury, with the scripture reading done by the Moderator of the Free Church Federal Council. The next Sunday would bring a sermon by the archbishop of Canterbury and a lesson by the Free Church

Moderator.112

This optimism about the positive effects of non-denominational Christian broadcasting did not endure for long after the end of the war, even as the policy largely stayed in place. In January 1946, Rev. Eric Saxon, an organizer of religious broadcasts from northern England, wrote to the BBC’s director of religious broadcasting to share his concern that the BBC’s practices were promoting a form of “BBC religion” divorced from the realities of church life. Saxon quoted extensively from a letter from the rector of Elland in West Yorkshire. The rector feared that the BBC, “so far from creating a special type of evangel […] reflect[s] only too faithfully the defects of us all.” What defined this defective form of religion (and similar non-denominational expressions of

Christianity in the armed forces and the public schools) “was what they did not say rather

112 Central Religious Advisory Committee, “Minutes of Forty-first Meeting,” March 6, 1945, 4, R6/21/4, BBC Written Archives Centre.

than in what they actually did say.” Saxon thought this criticism unfair but offered his own critique of the BBC’s presentation of what he saw as generic, church-less

Christianity. “I do not believe there is such a thing as a Christian ‘in vacuo’, but the problem before us is precisely that most people do think of Christianity as a personal thing”. Being a good Christian, in Saxon’s view, entailed regular participation in the life of a particular local church, whether it be Anglican, Roman Catholic, Methodist, or some other denomination. To encourage this change in the popular conception of Christianity,

Saxon suggested that “we give more space to explaining the actual Church situation in this country” by presenting a series of sermons on “Why I am an Anglican, a Roman, a

Methodist, etc.” followed by a “call to a decision on the part of the listener to make up his mind.”113 No response seems to have been sent to Saxon’s letter, and the BBC’s religious broadcasting department did not act on his proposal.

This persistent policy of presenting a broadly acceptable version of Christianity continued to generate anxiety in the early postwar years, even as policy remained largely unchanged. In discussions leading up to the publication of a new hymn book to be used in BBC broadcasts, the head of religious broadcasting warned that the proposed title, The

BBC Hymn Book could lead to accusations of the dreaded “BBC Religion”.114 In the end, the proposed name was accepted, and the Central Religious Advisory Committee expressed its approval in terms that highlighted the non-denominational nature of the

BBC’s Christian broadcasts: the new hymn book was “catholic enough to enable the

BBC to claim that it is an anthology of the best hymns of all denominations, selected

113 Eric Saxon, “B.B.C. Religion,” January 22, 1946, R34/809/2, BBC Written Archives Centre. 114 Central Religious Advisory Committee, “Minutes of the Forty-fifth Meeting,” October 1, 1946, 3, R6/21/5, BBC Written Archives Centre.

from the point of view of broadcasting, and thus to avoid the contention that it was publishing ‘just another Anglican hymnal’.”115

The difficulty of walking the line between a commitment towards promoting a unified version of Christianity and the fear of watering down Christianity to nothing more than a set of platitudes was encapsulated in a 1954 memo by Francis House, the head of religious broadcasting. On the one hand, House asserted that “Religious broadcasting must of necessity concentrate on those fundamental doctrines of the Faith which are embodied in the creeds and held in common by all churches ‘within the main stream of historic Christianity’; […] actual sectarian controversy should not normally find a place on the air.” On the other hand, House insisted on the “strongly church-rooted and denominational character of religious broadcasting” and pointed to CRAC’s rejection of the recommendation in the Beveridge report on broadcasting that the BBC should broadcast “only the ‘common element in all religions’.”116 House was torn between two competing interests: the BBC generally sought to avoid controversy and appeal to a broad audience; the churches pulled House in the opposite direction – nearly all of them (with the Church of England as a significant exception) favored greater opportunities for distinctive denominational teaching on the airwaves. House does not seem to have seen them in conflict, but it is difficult to see how it would have been possible to reconcile a commitment to the “doctrines […] held in common by all [mainstream] churches” and a

115 Central Religious Advisory Committee, “Minutes of the Forty-sixth Meeting,” March 4, 1947, 3, R6/21/5, BBC Written Archives Centre. 116 House was being slightly disingenuous here. The context of the Beveridge Report’s recommendations make clear that the call for the BBC to broadcast the “common element in all religions” was not as broadminded as the wording suggested, but had more to do with expanding the mainstream policy to incorporate more Christian and quasi-Christian denominations, specifically Unitarians. Report of the Broadcasting Committee, 1949 (London: Her Majesty’s Stationery Office, January 1951), para. 252.

willingness to allow distinctive denominational viewpoints. Successive sentences in

House’s memo declared that “there was no ban on the inclusion of certain aspects of

Catholic doctrine because they might provoke antagonism” and that “the ban on controversial attacks on positions held by other denominations applied to Roman

Catholics and all other religious bodies.”117 From the perspective of the Catholic Church

(and some other churches), it was precisely the differences from (and presumed superiority over) other denominations that the BBC’s policy restricted. There is no easy way of assessing whether the BBC’s religious broadcasts in this period were objectively non-denominational or if they provided opportunities for distinctive denominational teaching. But to the extent that denomination-based criticism of “BBC religion” was common, it is possible to conclude that the BBC’s broadcasts were perceived as presenting Christianity as a generic religion that could easily be shared by all.

An alternative to the BBC’s predilection for non-denominational Christianity came to the fore with the introduction of commercial television in the mid-1950s.

Bowing to the pressure of the churches, the Independent Television Authority and ABC

Television adopted policies that led to religious broadcasts of a more obviously denominational character. ABC Television developed a training scheme for would-be religious broadcasters and devised separate courses for Anglicans, Free Churchmen, and

Catholics. CRAC discussion of this training program revealed a division in opinion across denominations. Most Anglican representatives preferred non-denominational training, while Catholics and Free Churchmen tended to favor training along denominational lines. The Presbyterian representative, Kenneth Slack, and the Roman

117 Francis H. House, “Denominational Teaching in Religious Broadcasts,” July 22, 1954, 2, R34/809/3, BBC Written Archives Centre.

Catholic representative, Monsignor G.A. Tomlinson, both presented arguments in favor of separate courses as a way of bringing out the characteristic features of each denomination in later broadcasts. This preference reflected a desire to maintain the distinctiveness of their respective traditions in the face of a non-denominational

Christianity that often ended up appearing Anglican in fact if not in name. In the end,

CRAC reached a compromise in which it accepted an initial round of training along denominational lines but recommended inter-denominational training courses in the future.118

At the same CRAC meeting, there was also a discussion of the BBC’s religious programs as compared to those broadcast on commercial television. The Anglican bishop of Birmingham, Leonard Wilson, pointed out that “BBC programmes appeared to be conceived more in terms of general Christian truth while on the ITA side the approach was rather on denominational lines.” The Congregationalist John Marsh agreed with this assessment of the ITA’s programming but did not see it as a bad thing – “With all respect to the Ecumenical Movement, it was the experience of his own denomination, and perhaps of others, that it could express itself most powerfully and effectively in the context of its own tradition.” John Heenan, the Roman Catholic archbishop of Liverpool, expressed sympathy for this claim, arguing that the churches were unlikely to draw in non-practicing Christians “by presenting a watered-down version of their beliefs”. The iconoclastic Mervyn Stockwood, soon to be bishop of Southwark, broke ranks with other

Anglicans by suggesting that non-churchgoers’ “interest was more likely to be aroused by

118 Central Religious Advisory Committee, “Minutes of the 73rd Meeting,” March 3, 1959, 3–4, R6/21/8, BBC Written Archives Centre.

denominational force than by ecumenical dilutions.”119 Where commercial television seemed to be offering opportunities for experimentation and free denominational expression, the BBC, true to its self-presentation as a national (i.e. not sectional) broadcaster, continued to present Christian broadcasts of a basically non-denominational character.

In its submission to the Pilkington committee on broadcasting in 1960, the Church of England Radio and Television Council gave its support to the BBC’s non- denominational Christianity. It warned that the competition in broadcasting that followed the introduction of commercial television brought with it attempts “by any denomination to use the opportunities given to it for proselytizing or for criticism of the faith and practice of other denominations.” There was no need for the special arrangements like the establishment of radio or television stations linked to particular denominations, since

“It is within the character of the Church of England that the faith she teaches and upholds should embrace and permeate the whole life of the country, and not any particular section.”120 In this conception of the religious landscape of Britain, the BBC, as a national institution and a pillar of the establishment, could co-operate closely with the

Church of England without promoting religious sectionalism.

Other submissions to the Pilkington committee, from across the Christian spectrum, were more skeptical of the BBC’s propagation of a sort of soft, non- denominational Anglicanism. John Heenan complained of the BBC’s “tendency […] to make everything so undenominational as to be utterly convincing to intelligent people”.

119 Ibid., 4. 120 Church of England Radio and Television Council, “Representations to the Pilkington Committee on the Future of Broadcasting,” December 1960, 6, HO 244/443, The National Archives.

This tendency, Heenan argued, made it “almost impossible nowadays ever to give the

Christian doctrine.” The few opportunities for explicit teaching of doctrine were largely restricted to early morning broadcasts at the “moment when a man is just rubbing the sleep out of his eyes”. In Heenan’s view, more frequent teaching of doctrine on Sunday evenings would be far better.121 This concern with the non-denominational nature of

BBC Christianity was also expressed by evangelical groups. Gilbert W. Kirby, the

General Secretary of the Evangelical Alliance, wrote to the Pilkington Committee to share the Evangelical Alliance’s recommendation that “private non-political broadcasting” be introduced as a remedy to the problem that the “truly evangelical position does not get adequate representation on the BBC programmes” due to the BBC’s exclusion of evangelical Free Churches that were unaffiliated with the major denominations.122

The issue of denominational broadcasting largely died down during the 1960s as greater cooperation between the churches and efforts at church unity displaced older denominational rivalries. As a result the non-denominational nature of the BBC’s religious broadcasting went largely unchallenged until the “Annan report” on the future of broadcasting in the mid-1970s. Members of the Labour party had been pushing for a high-level inquiry into the state of broadcasting since the late 1960s as a way of challenging what they saw as the lack of accountability within the broadcasting system.

The Labour Home Secretary Roy Jenkins appointed a committee chaired by Noel Annan

121 “Minutes of Meeting Held with Roman Catholic Representatives,” September 20, 1961, 2, HO 244/364, The National Archives. 122 Gilbert W. Kirby, “Religious Broadcasting,” March 1961, HO 244/620, The National Archives.

to fulfill this purpose in 1974.123 The Annan report criticized much of contemporary religious broadcasting as serving up a “sort of homogenised religious mash, in which the sentimental and the weakly reassuring obscure the real discipline and duties of the religious life”. This problem emerged due to an attempt to meet all the expectations of religious broadcasting in one “one generalised output” meant to appeal as broad an audience as possible. Better, in the Annan committee’s eyes, to devote different sort of programs to meet different needs.124

The charge of “homogenised religious mash” was taken up in a special meeting of

CRAC convened after the publication of the Annan report. Sir Frederick Catherwood, an influential member of the Evangelical Alliance, argued that a similar complaint had been coming out of the evangelical community for some time. He argued that “What most adherents of a faith wanted […] was the presentation of what they believed, undiluted by the apologetics of rationalism” and urged CRAC to push for more religious programming in the vein of proclamation and “firm statement of belief” that the BBC had failed to provide.125 The BBC’s head of religious broadcasting, John Lang, came to the defense of the BBC’s religious broadcasting, insisting that he did not see anything in contemporary religious broadcasts that could be described as “homogenised mash,” though he did admit that there were programs, like the Daily Service (radio) and Songs of Praise (television), which “were not based on the liturgical tradition of any Christian denomination.”126 Lang

123 Des Freedman, “What Use Is a Public Inquiry? Labour and the 1977 Annan Committee on the Future of Broadcasting,” Media, Culture and Society 23, no. 2 (March 2001): 195–211. 124 Report on the Committee on the Future of Broadcasting (London: Her Majesty’s Stationery Office, March 1977), para. 20.15. 125 Central Religious Advisory Committee, “Note on a Special Meeting,” October 4, 1977, 3, R6/222/3, BBC Written Archives Centre. 126 Ibid., 4.

may have been protesting too much, for it was precisely programs like these (especially

Songs of Praise, which regularly drew five million viewers each week during the 1970s) that drew the largest audiences.

This “generic” Christianity remained a stable fixture on the BBC airwaves in the second half of the twentieth century. As the charts below reveal, while the proportion of overall broadcasting dedicated to religion declined gradually, the actual volume of religious broadcasting changed little. Leaving aside the bump in airtime that came with

John Paul II’s visit to Britain in 1982, between 380 and 464 hours were devoted to religious broadcasting on BBC radio stations in every year between 1950 and 1989. The amount of religious broadcasting on television in the period peaked in the 1987-1988 broadcasting year.127

127 The data for these charts was compiled from BBC annual reports and handbooks between 1950 and 1990.

600 3.5%

3.0% 500

2.5% 400

2.0% 300 1.5%

200 1.0%

100 0.5%

0 0.0%

Annual religious output (hours) Religious output as % of total output

Figure 1. Religious broadcasting on BBC radio

200 4.5%

180 4.0%

160 3.5% 140 3.0% 120 2.5% 100 2.0% 80 1.5% 60 1.0% 40

20 0.5%

0 0.0%

Religious output as % of total output Annual religious output (hours)

Figure 2. Religious broadcasting on BBC television

Religious broadcasting, then, was a stable presence on the British airwaves. The declining percentage of total airtime devoted to religious programs resulted from the expansion of non-religious broadcasts, not a decline in the amount of religious programming – the amount of religious broadcasting on the radio actually increased from the late 1960s to the late 1970s. To be sure, the expansion of non-religious broadcasting meant that viewers and listeners had more choices, and this greater freedom undoubtedly reduced the size of the audience for religious programs. But religious broadcasting did not go away, and even those who were not regular viewers or listeners could display

considerable affection for religious broadcasts, especially when they were seen to be endangered. The BBC annual report for 1986 reported that the diffuse popular support for ‘traditional’ religious programs inspired “expressions of protest from people who never listen to or watch them but feel that one of the essential decencies of British life is being eroded” whenever changes were proposed.128

John Reith’s vision of the BBC as an evangelizing force, then, cast a long shadow on the development of religious broadcasting. Reith would, no doubt, have deemed the

BBC’s efforts to re-Christianize Britain and secure its moral foundations a failure.

Already in the early 1960s, he was dismayed the emergence of what would come to be known as the permissive society. But if religious broadcasting failed to achieve Reith’s objectives, its implementation through the 1970s basically reflected his vision of public broadcasting in a Christian country: keeping Sunday special, propagating Christianity, and minimizing sectional and denominational difference. As a new pillar of the establishment, the BBC went a long way in keeping Christianity a regular part of the

British people’s lives.

Conclusion

In recent years, historians have come to see secularization, at least in part, as a result of the failure to socialize young people into the rituals, practices, and thought of

Christian life. If people no longer go to Sunday school or church, this way of thinking goes, they were no longer being socialized to think of themselves as Christian or their society as a Christian one. Hugh McLeod has pointed to how the postwar decline in

128 BBC Annual Report and Handbook 1986 (British Broadcasting Corporation, n.d.), 30.

Sunday school attendance and new ideas about parenting that encouraged giving children more choices led to less exposure to Christian belief and practice.129 Simon Green has similarly highlighted how increased Sunday leisure opportunities in the 1950s drew would-be Sunday school students away from “what had once been effective recruitment agencies for the churches”.130

McLeod and Green are surely right in their assumption that decreased opportunities for socialization would, over time, lead to fewer people identifying with

Christianity. But they err in thinking that Christian socialization could only take place in churches and through para-church organizations like Sunday schools. The schools and the airwaves could also prove effective forms of socialization – one could even argue that, as television viewership exploded in the postwar era, schools and television broadcasts became prime sites of socialization. To be sure, the sort of Christianity propagated in religious education classes, school prayers, and BBC religious programs was different from the doctrinal and practice-based Christianity promoted by the churches themselves. But if we are interested in the fate of Christianity as a cultural phenomenon, and not solely the course of church history, we should consider the ways in which Christianity remained a highly visible (and audible) presence in British society and culture.

At times, the spheres of education and broadcasting combined to present

Christianity to a captive audience of school children. Beginning in the 1930s, the BBC broadcast regular religious talks intended for schools. Starting in the fall term of 1940, the BBC broadcast a “special service of worship suitable for schools” each Friday

129 McLeod, The Religious Crisis of the 1960s, 202–207. 130 Green, The Passing of Protestant England, 260–262.

morning from 9:05 to 9:25. The stated aims of worship were “to link together thousands of children every week in a corporate act of worship and prayer”. Services typically featured orchestral music as an introduction, two familiar hymns, readings from the bible, and a reading of the Lord’s Prayer.131 In the winter of 1942-3, religious broadcasts to schools began including a “dramatic interlude” based on “the Sayings of Our Lord.”

Teachers around the country reported that services broadcast to schools were “the most popular of all [school] broadcasts […] and that children take part with great reverence.”

During the war, roughly one million schoolchildren across Britain were listening to the

BBC’s religious services.132 The number of schools tuning into the BBC’s religious services rose steadily from 12,493 in the 1941-2 school year to 18,466 in the 1948-49 year.”133 A survey conducted by the Schools Broadcasting Council in 1951 found that nearly one million students (the majority of them in primary school) were regular or occasional listeners to the broadcast religious services.134 Together, schools and the BBC were ensuring that regular exposure to Christianity endured and potential for Christian socialization continued.

Assessing the impact of that exposure is a far more difficult task. It only takes us so far to recognize that the state and quasi-state institutions like the BBC actively promoted a form of non-denominational Christianity. We also need to explore how people responded, consciously or otherwise, to this regular exposure to generic

Christianity. One possible analytic framework is the idea of “banal nationalism”

131 J.W. Welch, “B.B.C. Morning Service for Schools,” n.d., R6/21/3, BBC Written Archives Centre. 132 Central Religious Advisory Committee, “Progress Report: 1st October 1942 to 28th February 1943,” February 1943, 2, R6/21/4, BBC Written Archives Centre. 133 Report of the Broadcasting Committee, 1949, January 1951, Appendix H, 307. 134 Wolfe, The Churches and the British Broadcasting Corporation, 261.

proposed by the social psychologist Michael Billig. Billig has argued that seemingly mundane phenomena like the Pledge of Allegiance (in the United States), the sports pages in newspapers, and the rhetoric of politicians all reinforce the sense that the nation is a natural part of life. In Billig’s account, the creation and maintenance of affinity for the nation goes well beyond explicit moments of national celebration. Instead, “national identity is a routine way of thinking and listening; it is a form of life, which habitually closes the front door, and seals the borders.”135 If we look for “flaggings” of Christianity in postwar English society and culture, they appear much more common than is often supposed. Christianity was present in virtually all schools – not the Christianity of sophisticated theology or committed practice but simply as part of the fabric of the typical school day. Christianity also garnered a privileged and stable position on television and radio. The presence of Christian chaplains in prisons, hospitals, and the military reinforced the idea that Christianity formed part of the structure of national and local institutions. That these flaggings of Christianity sometimes excluded outsiders

(e.g. the withdrawal of Jewish students from religious education classes) only served to reinforce the idea that, in the normal run of things, most people were members of a group called “Christian.”

But while Billig’s recognition of the effects of mundane experience can help us understand why so many people continued to think of themselves as Christians, it does not provide much assistance in teasing out the meanings that they attributed to

Christianity. Here, the work of the anthropologist Alexei Yurchak on the late Soviet

Union offers intriguing insights on how to interpret the significance of the “flaggings” of

135 Michael Billig, Banal Nationalism (London: Sage, 1995), 109 and passim.

Christianity. Probing the apparent paradox that people in the Soviet Union saw the

Soviet system as immutable and permanent yet quickly came to be unsurprised by its rapid demise, Yurchak analyzes late socialism as an “authoritative discourse” with a clearly defined “script” that everyone knew and enacted on a regular basis. The frequent and ritualized participation in the institutions of Soviet life made the literal meanings of those rituals less significant and, at the same time, generated the possibility that people could invest those performances with their own meaning. In the terminology of the philosopher of language J.L. Austin, these acts became less constantive and more performative. Participation in these hyper-normalized rituals, Yurchak argues, enabled

“creative productions of ‘normal life’ that went beyond, though not necessarily in opposition to, those that these rituals and texts described.”136

Yurchak’s model cannot be imported wholesale to the context of postwar Britain

– the existence of a state-enforced “authoritative discourse” in the Soviet Union has no direct parallel in Britain. But there was a set of rituals that formed part of the normal run of life. Reciting school prayers, reading the Bible in school, and watching or listening to the occasional Christian broadcast on the BBC was a regular part of many people’s lives.

To decline to participate in these rituals would be to set oneself apart from the community at large. But because participation was more or less taken for granted, there was little to no effort to enforce or instill particular meanings associated with the rituals.

In England, England, the Julian Barnes novel discussed above, as long as Martha

Cochrane agrees to say the words of the Lord’s Prayer correctly, her internal state of

136 Alexei Yurchak, Everything Was Forever, Until It Was No More: The Last Soviet Generation (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2006), 287–288 and passim; I would like to thank Ethan Pollock for bringing this argument to my attention.

mind or personal attitudes towards Christianity were irrelevant. The very normality of

Christianity, and the way it was presented as an unobjectionable and non-denominational feature of national life, made it possible for people to see something of themselves in

Christianity without assuming that identification meant anything in particular.

Christianity could act almost as a placeholder, an element of identity on which people could project new meanings and emotions.

For many people, of course, Christianity continued to be associated with a particular set of beliefs and practices. But the very diffuseness of Christianity in postwar

England meant that it could take on a whole host of other meanings. Two unlikely twenty-first century examples provide support for the multivalent nature of Christianity.

Richard Dawkins, perhaps the most vocal of the New Atheists, has described himself as a

“cultural Christian.” Responding to claims that British secularists were undermining the celebration of Christmas and other Christmas traditions, Dawkins insisted that “I’m not one of those who wants to stop Christian traditions. […] I like singing carols along with everybody else. I’m not one of those who wants to purge our society of our Christian history.”137 In a 2012 debate with the archbishop of Canterbury, Dawkins admitted that he had, to his surprise, noticed that he was singing a hymn in the shower earlier that day.138 “Cultural Christianity” has proven fully compatible with acerbic critiques of

Christian belief.

Dawkins’s fellow New Atheist Christopher Hitchens opened his 2007 book God is Not Great with an anecdote from his schooldays. Born in 1949, Hitchens went to

137 “Dawkins: I’m a Cultural Christian,” BBC News, December 10, 2007, http://newsvote.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/uk_news/politics/7136682.stm. 138 “Rowan Williams and Richard Dawkins in Oxford Argument,” BBC News, February 23, 2012, http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/education-17140107.

primary school near Dartmoor, in southwestern England. His teacher there, Mrs. Jean

Watts, “a good, sincere, simple woman of stable and decent faith” was responsible for both nature and scripture lessons. During scripture lessons, students would be given a printed slip of paper entitled “Search the Scriptures,” that provided a single verse from the bible. Students were then responsible for finding the verse, retelling the story, and discuss the moral. The young Hitchens excelled at the exercise, and frequently came

“top” in scripture class. “It was my first introduction to practical and textual criticism. I would read all the chapters that led up to the verse, and all the ones that followed it, to be sure that I had got the ‘point’ of the original clue. I can still do this, greatly to the annoyance of some of my enemies, and still have respect for those whose style is sometimes dismissed as ‘merely’ Talmudic, or Koranic, or ‘fundamentalist.’ This is good and necessary mental and literary training.” It was only when Mrs. Watts, “Seeking ambitiously to fuse her two roles as nature instructor and Bible teacher,” described the wonders of nature as due to the power and generosity of God that the scales fell from

Hitchens’s eyes and he began to see the insuperable problems with belief in God.139

Hitchens would likely have rejected being called any sort of Christian, though he did admit that his “particular atheism is a Protestant atheism.”140 But his continuing appreciation for the exegetical skills developed through his childhood scripture lessons and for the cultural products of Christianity offers a hint into how we might understand the flexible and fluid meanings of Christianity when experienced as a mundane, even

139 Christopher Hitchens, God Is Not Great: How Religion Poisons Everything (New York: Twelve, 2007), 1–2. 140 Ibid., 11; For an attempt to claim Hitchens for Christianity, see Ross Douthat, “The Believer’s Atheist,” The New York Times, December 17, 2011, http://www.nytimes.com/2011/12/18/opinion/sunday/douthat- the-believers-atheist.html.

banal, part of everyday life. Hitchens rejected the theological tenets of Christianity (and, indeed, of all other theisms). But he continued to insist on his appreciation for the aesthetic and experiential aspects of Christianity, writing both of “the splendid liturgy of the King James Bible and the Cranmer prayer book” and the fact that “If I went back to

Devon, where Mrs. Watts has her unvisited tomb, I would surely find myself sitting quietly at the back of some old Celtic or Saxon church.”141

The significance of soft establishment, then, lies in the very banality of the

Christianity that it promoted. A key element of what Grace Davie has called vicarious religion is its diffuseness and fluidity. As Davie has put it, “you cannot count vicarious religion”.142 Part of the explanation for the development of that flexible and capacious relationship with Christianity lies in the soft establishment of the postwar period. Thanks to developments like state-mandated religious education and the BBC’s commitment to promoting mainstream Christianity, the English people were regularly exposed to a form of generic, unobjectionable, Christianity. The normality of that exposure meant that, to a novel degree, the people of England could make of Christianity what they liked.

141 Hitchens, God Is Not Great, 11–12. 142 Davie, “Vicarious Religion,” 27.

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CHAPTER 2: THE DECLINE OF DENOMINATIONAL DISCORD AND THE ANGLICIZATION OF CHRISTIANITY

The fruits of a half-century of ecumenical activity in England can be seen in two churches, one old and one new. The old church, the Anglican parish church of St.

Andrew in the postcard-pretty village of Alfriston in East Sussex, was built in the 14th century and stands next to a bend in the meandering River Cuckmere. The new one,

Christ the Cornerstone, could hardly have a more different setting. Dedicated in 1992,

Christ the Cornerstone sits, surrounded by parking lots, in the city center of the archetypal New Town, Milton Keynes. Between them, St. Andrew’s and Christ the

Cornerstone encapsulate the most important developments that arose out of the growth of interdenominational cooperation in the second half of the twentieth century. Even as national efforts at formal union of churches floundered, instances of local ecumenical activity like Christ the Cornerstone and St. Andrew’s blossomed.

Christ the Cornerstone is the more obvious exemplar of the success of local ecumenism. The new church was dedicated by the Queen in March 1992. The Queen’s role as the Supreme Governor of the Church of England might suggest that this would be a decidedly Anglican affair. But the new place of worship represented something new in

English Christianity. For the first time, the Church of England, the Roman Catholic

Church, the Methodist Church, the Baptist Union, and the United Reformed Church would share a city-center church built for that purpose. The opening service was appropriately ecumenical in nature, with representatives of the participating denominations dedicating different parts of the church. It also represented the first time

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in four centuries that a Roman Catholic cardinal preached before the reigning monarch.1

The dedication of the new building was the culmination of a process that had begun two decades before. In 1967, the bishop of Oxford invited representatives of the major

Christian denominations to discuss potential areas of cooperation in the newly-designated town of Milton Keynes. In 1979, the Christian communities of Milton Keynes established a Local Ecumenical Partnership with a service at the heart of the town’s indoor shopping center. Plans to share a new church building were established in 1988 and ground was broken in 1990.2

This new church in Milton Keynes encapsulated several trends in interdenominational relations in England after the Second World War. First, it represented a novel degree of cooperation between denominations that had long distrusted each other; the inclusion of Roman Catholics was especially striking. Second, as a local endeavor, the shared church reflected how the ecumenical successes of the second half of the twentieth century overwhelmingly took place at the local level, far from the corridors of power and the official organizations of the ecumenical movement.

Third, Christ the Cornerstone’s status as a new church in a New Town shows how the changing conditions of British society encouraged new forms of interdenominational cooperation.

To see the ecumenical nature of St. Andrew’s in Alfriston requires looking closer.

At first glance, it seems a quintessential medieval village church, the very picture of the

1 Tom Hunter and Frank Preece, The Church of Christ the Cornerstone (Much Wenlock: RJL Smith & Associates, 2002), 1; “Ecumenical History in Making,” The Catholic Herald, March 13, 1992, 1. 2 “History,” The Church of Christ the Cornerstone: Central Milton Keynes, accessed November 22, 2012, https://sites.google.com/site/churchofchristthecornerstonemk/the-history-and-backgroud-of-cornerstone; Hunter and Preece, The Church of Christ the Cornerstone, 2–3.

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immemorial Anglican dominance of the countryside. But examining this seemingly timeless image more close reveals changes that took place more recently than the 14th- century architecture would suggest. Throughout the nineteenth and twentieth centuries,

Alfriston had two active churches: St. Andrew’s and a Nonconformist chapel. Alfriston’s

Nonconformist community was Congregationalist in outlook throughout most of the nineteenth and twentieth centuries. In 1972, it joined in the creation of the United

Reformed Church. But by 2008, “it became clear that the United Reformed Church [in

Alfriston] was so small that the responsibility of discrete witness was becoming burdensome.” The pressures of decline led to the closure of the church in 2009.3

Members of the United Reformed Church in Alfriston have, however, found a new home.

Pinned to the noticeboard in the Anglican parish church is a “Declaration of Ecumenical

Welcome and Commitment”. Following the closure of the United Reformed Church chapel, the congregation of St. Andrew’s invited “members of Alfriston United Reformed

Church, and indeed any other Christians in Alfriston, to be as fully part of our life and fellowship as they are able.” That invitation included shared ministry, mission, worship, pastoral care, and communion. The congregation of St. Andrew’s also undertook “to include this ecumenical declaration as an integral part of the parish profile.”4

Like Milton Keynes, then, Alfriston witnessed the coming together of multiple

Christian congregations in a single church building. Unlike the equal partnership of

Christ the Cornerstone, however, the new ecumenical community at St. Andrew’s represented a different sort of arrangement. In effect, the Anglican congregation in

Alfriston absorbed the shrinking United Reformed Church community of the village.

3 General Assembly, Book of Reports (United Reformed Church, 2010), 198. 4 Photograph of this declaration, taken on 16 October 2011, in the author’s possession.

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Though the congregation of St. Andrew’s vowed to “incorporate the riches of worship of other traditions as appropriate”, there was no suggestion that St. Andrew’s would become anything other than what had long been: a parish church of the Church of England. The decline of the United Reformed Church in Alfriston meant that the Church of England became the only game in town.

Together, Christ the Cornerstone, Milton Keynes, and St. Andrew’s, Alfriston, embody the history of ecumenical activity in England in the second half of the twentieth century. The fact that Christ the Cornerstone is shared by five different denominations reveals how, in spite of the optimism of the 1960s, efforts at formal unity almost always ended in failure. In spite of this failure at the highest levels, however, the historic churches of England established closer ties than ever before, with shared churches, shared ministries, and shared communion in many localities. The impetus for that cooperation had multiple origins. In Milton Keynes it represented a response to the opportunities and challenges offered by the creation of a New Town. In Alfriston, it reflected a less hopeful story of religious decline. In the end, however, the result was largely the same.

An inattentive visitor to many towns and villages could be excused for thinking that there was, in fact, a single community of Christians. In the case of Alfriston, they would be right. More often than not, when churches came together in local ecumenical partnerships, it was with the Church of England at its core. The decline of denominational conflict and the growth of ecumenical activity had the ironic outcome of disproportionately benefiting one denomination, the Church of England, which increasingly stood for Christianity in general.

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This represented a far dramatic shift from the situation of the early twentieth century when denominational conflict and distrust were the order of the day. In addition to theological disagreements, England’s denominational landscape was heavily shaped by social difference. Members of the middle class were disproportionately members of the

Church of England, with the affluent south of England more Anglican as a result. The

Free Churches drew their strength (already on the numerical decline by the Second World

War) from working-class mining, textile, and agricultural communities. The English

Catholic community was heterogeneous, ranging from old recusant families to communities of Irish immigrants centered in Liverpool.5 Richard Hoggart’s description of his working-class youth in Leeds captures the social and ethnic divisions encapsulated in England’s Christian denominations. Most of Hoggart’s neighbors attended one of the

Nonconformist chapels in the area. Irish immigrants congregated in “one or two contiguous streets” and were seen to be “under the thumbs of their priests”. A small minority of local residents went to the Anglican parish church: “they were C. of E. as habitually as they were deferential Tory voters; they assumed that some people were our natural rulers, that the Church of England was indeed the Tory Party at prayer.”6

Through the first half of the twentieth century, the churches of England were divided by class, location, theology, liturgy, and ethnic background. The 1942 founding of the

British Council of Churches notwithstanding, mid-century England did not appear an especially fertile ground for progress in interdenominational relations.

5 Ross McKibbin, Classes and Cultures: England, 1918-1951 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1998), 272–288. 6 Richard Hoggart, The Way We Live Now (London: Chatto & Windus, 1995), 4–5; Richard Hoggart, A Local Habitation: Life and Times, Volume I: 1918-1940 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1989), 132.

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How, then, from this unpromising start did interdenominational cooperation and joint action by the churches come to be the order of the day by the end of the twentieth century? How did cases like the Christ the Cornerstone in Milton Keynes and St.

Andrew’s in Alfriston come about? In seeking answers to these questions, it is crucial to recognize that the history of ecumenism in postwar England was not one of unalloyed success. In spite of nearly constant efforts over three decades, the cause of church unity could point to just one major success: the coming together of the Congregational Church in England and the Presbyterian Church of England as the United Reformed Church.

Endless reports and pamphlets on Anglican-Methodist reconciliation came to nothing.

When the British Council of Churches re-constituted itself as Council of Churches for

Britain and Ireland in 1990, the churches were only marginally closer to formal unity than they had been fifty years before. A comprehensive analysis of ecumenism in the second half of the twentieth century, therefore, has to grapple with a puzzle: why did the goal of church unity fall by the wayside, in spite of the hopes of many, even as ecumenical activity flourished at the local level?

The existing scholarship on ecumenism offers little in the way of an explanation for this puzzle. Sociological and historical scholarship on ecumenism has focused on two main areas: the social origins of ecumenism and the institutional manifestations of ecumenism in church mergers.7 This focus on ecumenism as an institutional-level response to broad sociological forces is a legacy of H. Richard Niebuhr’s 1929 classic

The Social Sources of Denominationalism. Niebuhr conceptualized denominations as

7 For a recent attempt to systematize the relationship between the two, see Mark Chaves and John R. Sutton, “Organizational Consolidation in American Protestant Denominations, 1890-1990,” Journal for the Scientific Study of Religion 43, no. 1 (March 2004): 51–66.

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“sociological groups whose principle of differentiation is to be sought in their conformity to the order of social classes”. Niebuhr explained the multitude of denominations in the

United States as a reflection of varied patterns of immigration that had produced persistent and institutionalized ethnic communities. This social differentiation along ethnic lines produced and sustained America’s endless diversity of denominations.8

Writing thirty years after Niebuhr, Robert Lee maintained Niebuhr’s causal framework but argued that the reduction of social differences had contributed to a new flurry of ecumenical activity and novel forms of church unity.9 Seeking to link ecumenical activity to the process of secularization, scholars of British religion have argued that efforts at church unity in England were a response to institutional weakness and the declining social significance of religion. In the words of the sociologist Bryan

Wilson, “ecumenicalism, event at its most successful is not in itself a revival of religion

[…]. It is the turning in on itself of institutionalized religion, as its hold on the wider social order has diminished. The healing of divisions is something which restores the morale of churchmen […] in a period when the external influence of the Church is declining”.10 The historian Robert Currie’s study of English Methodism suggests that the perceived need to band together in the face of numerical decline played an important role in the 1932 merger of Wesleyans, Primitive Methodists, and United Methodists as the

Methodist Church in Great Britain.11 The basic thrust of this scholarship is that, as

8 H. Richard Niebuhr, The Social Sources of Denominationalism (New York: Henry Holt and Company, 1929), chap. 1, 8 and passim. 9 Robert Lee, The Social Sources of Church Unity: An Interpretation of Unitive Movements in American Protestantism (New York and Nashville: Abingdon Press, 1960). 10 Wilson, Religion in Secular Society, 175–176. 11 Robert Currie, Methodism Divided: A Study in the Sociology of Ecumenicalism (London: Faber and Faber, 1968), 314–316 and passim.

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changing social conditions led to institutional decline, the affected churches seek unity in an effort to rationalize their bureaucracies and better compete for potential adherents in the religious market.12

This focus on church mergers as the main manifestation of the ecumenical impulse and sociological factors as the foundation to ecumenism is, to a large degree, a reflection of disciplinary interests and concerns. As the theologian Peter Staples has noted, sociologists and social historians have focused on the social underpinnings of ecumenical activity and left the theology to the theologians.13 But sociologists of ecumenism have gone further to suggest that the theological trappings of the ecumenical movement, at least in the United States, were more epiphenomenal than anything else.

Peter Berger, for instance, points to the fact that interdenominational cooperation on practical grounds preceded the importation of ecumenical ideas from Europe.14

The problem with this sociologically-minded scholarship on ecumenism is that it is inattentive to the full range of the forms that ecumenism took and the intellectual roots of interdenominational activity. Generalized from the case of English Methodism,

Currie’s argument suggests that the institutional decline of the churches would lead to further church mergers as the churches mounted the levees to combat the rising tide of secular society. The problem for Currie’s analysis is that this did not happen. The churches of England underwent significant numerical decline after the 1960s, but only one major merger took place: the historic denominations of England remain alive, if not

12 See Peter L. Berger, “A Market Model for the Analysis of Ecumencity,” Social Research 30, no. 1 (Spring 1963): 77–93. Berger’s analysis extends beyond church mergers to attempt to explain other forms of inter-church comity. 13 Peter Staples, “Towards an Explanation of Ecumenism,” Modern Theology 5, no. 1 (1988): 38. 14 Berger, “A Market Model for the Analysis of Ecumencity,” 80–81.

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well.15 This is not to say that ecumenical activity died with failed efforts at church unity.

In order to understand the legacy of ecumenical ideas, it is crucial to consider the wide range of forms that ecumenism took, from the sharing of buildings to cooperative ministry to joint action on social issues. In order to do this, we need to explore the nitty- gritty of how the churches interacted at both the national and the local level. This sort of fine-grained analysis is not possible when formal church unity is taken as the primary marker of ecumenical activity.

The causes of ecumenical activity were more diverse and complex than the sociological accounts of Lee, Wilson, and Currie allow. Explanations of ecumenism that focus exclusively on material concerns minimize the significance of ecumenists’ own claims about their motivations. Just as common as appeals to administrative rationality were exhortations that the formal structures of the church should reflect the universal church of believers. Divisions within the church were regularly described as a “scandal” which required committed action from the churches. To be sure, Berger insisted that his analysis “in no way questions the subjective sincerity of those actors […] who interpret their actions in theological terms that have nothing to do with” material or administrative concerns.16 But in relegating that sincerity and theological commitment to the realm of epiphenomena, sociological analyses leave unexamined how, precisely, material concerns are translated into non-materialist ideas and whether those ideas have any autonomy from the material circumstances from which they arose. Without the idea of ecumenism

15 It is significant that Currie’s analysis of Methodism was published in 1968, perhaps the high tide of hopes for Anglican-Methodist reunion. Those hopes were dashed in by the Church of England’s rejection of reunion in 1969 and 1972. 16 Berger, “A Market Model for the Analysis of Ecumencity,” 92.

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already in place, the interdenominational activity that occurred would have been unimaginable.

What is needed, then, is an analysis of postwar ecumenical activity that acknowledges successes as well as failures, material as well as intellectual (and cultural, theological, etc.) causes. This chapter explores how and why repeated attempts at church unity failed even as interdenominational cooperation at the local level became common.

First, it describes the denominational landscape of England and the hesitance of church leaders to pursue interdenominational activity. It then considers the global origins and the growing popularity of ecumenical ideas as well as the persistence of theological commitments that contributed to opposition to ecumenism. After considering how the reconstruction and remaking of British society in the aftermath of the Second World War offered opportunities for the churches to put the ecumenical ideal into practice, the chapter turns to the question of the failure of church unity. In analyzing the process by which proposed church mergers failed, I argue that the decision-making structures of the churches in question played a decisive role in whether churches would come together.

When the institutional barriers to unity were significant, opponents of church unity could derail unity efforts over the wishes of the majority. This institutional analysis also casts light on the flourishing of local ecumenical projects. When churches came together at the local level, theological issues were less likely to be sources of conflict and the national denominations had considerably less oversight and veto power. In short, the ecumenical impulse met with greatest success when institutional barriers to interdenominational action were low. The chapter closes by suggesting that the Church of England’s stature as the national church was burnished by the decline of denominational rancor.

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The English denominational landscape

This was a far cry from the situation fifty years earlier. In 1958, Kenneth Slack, a

Presbyterian minister and general secretary of the British Council of Churches, warned a

Swiss pastor visiting the United Kingdom of the confusing diversity of Christianity in

Britain: England had an established church with bishops; Scotland a national church without bishops. The Free Churches (Methodist, Baptist, Congregational, etc.) were represented throughout England, but “North of the Border there are many areas where the

Church of Scotland has hardly anyone to seek unity with!” On visiting Wales the Swiss minister would “enter a country that has seen a Church disestablished in living memory and where many Christians don’t find English the natural language for their worship.” In spite of the Swiss pastor’s initial bewilderment, he came back to weeks later to report that

“the half had not been told!”17

Efforts to reduce this bewildering diversity of British churches had been going on since before the Second World War. In 1929, the Church of Scotland merged with the

United Free Church of Scotland (itself the result of a union between the United

Presbyterian Church of Scotland and the Free Church of Scotland in 1900). In 1932, the three major Methodist denominations (the Primitive Methodist Church, the Wesleyan

Methodist Church, and the United Methodist Church (itself the result of the union of the

United Methodist Free Churches, the Bible Christian Church, and the Methodist New

Connexion in 1907) came together as the Methodist Church in Great Britain.18 The

17 Kenneth Slack, “Growing Together Nationally,” August 5, 1958, 1, BCC/7/1/9/3/4, Church of England Record Centre. 18 Currie, Methodism Divided, chap. 7–8.

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interwar period had seen further attempts to bring denominations into closer unity: tripartite negotiations between Baptists, Congregationalists, and Presbyterians; more limited talks between Congregationalists and Presbyterians; attempts to regularize the relationship between the Church of England, the Church of Scotland, and their denominational brethren north and south of the border (the Episcopal Church in Scotland and the Presbyterians in England, respectively); negotiations between the Church of

England and the Moravian church. None of these resulted in the union of any churches.19

Conflict and controversy continued to characterize the relationship between the major Christian denominations up to and beyond the Second World War. As discussed in the previous chapter, broadcasting and education were hotly contested for their presumed influence on the hearts and minds of the British public. Though its primary commitment was to high-quality religious programs, the religious broadcasting department of the BBC kept close tabs on the number of programs allotted to each denomination throughout the

1930s and 1940s. The BBC regularly fielded complaints from across the Christian spectrum that the balance was inappropriate, with the provision for Roman Catholics alternately seen as excessive or inadequate.20 Free Church anxieties about single-school areas in which the children of Free Church parents were forced to attend Anglican schools persisted into the 1950s.21

Skepticism about cooperation with other denominations suffused the main

Christian denominations through the Second World War and into the 1950s. Geoffrey

19 Free Church Union: The Present Position (London: Free Church Federal Council, 1961). 20 See, for example, Geoffrey Fisher to Frederick Cockin, April 19, 1954, Fisher 135, f. 363, Lambeth Palace Library; Central Religious Advisory Committee, “Minutes of the Fifty-fifth Meeting,” June 19, 1951, 2, R6/21/7, BBC Written Archives Centre. 21 Free Church Federal Council, Annual Report: 1951 (London, n.d.), 8.

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Fisher, the archbishop of Canterbury from 1945 to 1961, looked askance at any sense of shared mission with either the Roman Catholic Church or the Free Churches. In 1951, upon being informed that Trinity College, Cambridge sought to lease the church of St.

Michael’s to the university’s Roman Catholic Association, Fisher insisted to that “I should resist to the death handing over any of our churches which had become redundant to the Roman Catholics.”22 Writing to the new chairman of the BBC’s Central Religious

Advisory Committee in 1958, Fisher warned that “Rome always takes any advantage it can get.”23 In a 1948 sermon in Cambridge, Fisher established what would turn out to be a formidable barrier to unity between the Church of England and the Free Churches.

Before the Church of England could enter into full communion with the Free Churches,

Fisher suggested, the Free Churches would have to bring a form of episcopacy into their governance, thereby challenging a long-held precept in Free Church ecclesiology. Fisher offered no suggestions about the compromises that the Church of England might be willing to undertake to secure intercommunion or church unity.24

For their part, the Free Churches were also skeptical of any scheme of union with the Church of England that left the Anglican establishment untouched. A commission appointed by the Free Church Federal Council in 1950 pointed out what it saw as the insurmountable problem of parliamentary sovereignty over the leadership and liturgy of the Church of England. The 1927-8 controversy over the revision of the Book of

Common Prayer in which parliament rejected the revisions proposed by the Church of

22 Geoffrey Fisher to Edward Wynn, December 20, 1951, Fisher 81, f. 128, Lambeth Palace Library. The nave of the church that prompted Fisher’s comment is now the Michaelhouse Cafe in Cambridge. The chancel remains consecrated. 23 Geoffrey Fisher to William Greer, March 28, 1958, Fisher 200, f. 127, Lambeth Palace Library. 24 A.E.J. Rawlinson and Nathaniel Micklem, Church Relations in England (London: SPCK, 1950), 5–12.

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England highlighted the problem: “There is no question that the Prayer Book needs revising. But the scandal is not really that Parliament rejected a Proposal for its revision; the scandal is that it should have been necessary to ask its permission at all.” The growing presence of non-Christians in parliament heightened the issue: “To Free

Churchmen it is axiomatically wrong that those appointing spiritual leaders may profess any religion or none.”25 Free Church opposition to Roman Catholicism was also alive and well. In its 1947-8 annual report, the Free Church Federal Council “deplore[d] marriages between Protestants and Roman Catholics” on the grounds that the spiritual disunity brought about by such a union would “mar the peace and happiness of the home” and that the Catholic insistence that children of “mixed marriages” be raised as Catholics would deprive “a Protestant husband or wife of his or her spiritual liberty, which is the lawful right of British citizens.”26 A decade later the Free Church Federal Council published a pamphlet on education that recapitulated age-old anxieties about the Roman

Catholic Church: “it must be remembered that the individual member of the R.C. church is by no means a free agent. Indeed, he is enslaved by the regulations of the Church. He has no real liberty of action regarding choice of schools, for behind the parent is the priest. […] the ultimate object of the [Catholic] hierarchy is to reject all education facilities provided by the State, and to keep the rising generation of their adherents under their own ecclesiastical discipline.”27

25 The Free Churches and the State (London: Free Church Federal Council, 1953), 59–60; For an overview of the Prayer Book controversy, see John Maiden, National Religion and the Prayer Book Controversy, 1927-1928 (Woodbridge: Boydell Press, 2009). 26 Free Church Federal Council, Annual Report: 1947-1948 (London, n.d.), 8. 27 W.J. Rowland, Roman Catholics and Their Schools: Can Their Claims Be Justified? (London: Free Church Federal Council, 1957), 6–7.

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Roman Catholics were similarly wary of ecumenical activity in the early postwar years. A series of letters to the Times in 1949 exemplified this hesitance and the longstanding belief in the Roman Catholic Church’s monopoly on Christian truth. One correspondent wrote that “The Catholic Church, while freely admitting the good faith and good works of other Christian bodies, cannot compromise her divine foundation.”28 The

Roman Catholic bishop of Brentwood likened Catholics’ attitudes towards articles of faith to arithmetic teachers’ view of multiplication tables: “To make concessions on them means chaos”.29 These remarks reflected the judgments of the Roman Catholic hierarchy.

In 1950, the Holy Office of the Roman Catholic Church issued detailed instructions to its bishops on exactly how Roman Catholics should engage with the burgeoning ecumenical movement. The Guardian reported these instructions as defining “with extreme firmness the limits on joint discussions about faith and morals” and insisting that the infallibility of the Roman Catholic Church “does not allow of its adherents in any circumstances descending from the position of teachers to that of learners.” The Holy Office’s instructions then offered detailed conditions under which joint meetings between

Catholics and non-Catholics could take place. Chief among these were supervision of meetings by bishops and the importance of avoiding the appearance of being indifferent on doctrinal issues as a means of promoting unity.30 Roman Catholic hesitance about ecumenical activity came from the very top of the Catholic hierarchy and left little space for Catholics on the ground to maneuver or participate in the ecumenical movement. It

28 Cyril S. Carter, “Catholicism To-day,” The Times, November 3, 1949, 5. 29 George Andrew Beck, “The Churches and Cooperation: A Roman Catholic View,” The Times, November 15, 1949, 5. 30 Francesco Marchetti Selvaggiani, “Instructio Ad Locorum Ordinarios: <>,” Acta Apostolicae Sedis 42 (1950): 142–147; “Rome and Unity: Terms of Working with Protestants,” The Guardian, February 28, 1950.

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was in this unpromising soil that supporters of interdenominational activity had to till and toil.

The popularity and international origins of ecumenical ideas

The ecumenical cause received a significant boost from the endorsement of the most popular Christian writer of the twentieth century. In Mere Christianity, C.S. Lewis urged readers to seek common ground with other Christians. Lewis’s goal in Mere

Christianity (first broadcast as a series of radio talks in the early 1940s and subsequently published in 1952) was to lay out arguments in favor of what he saw as the core tenets of

Christianity. He insisted that this “mere” Christianity was not enough on its own and urged new Christians to seek out the denomination that seemed to present the truth.

“Mere” Christianity, Lewis suggested “is more like a hall out of which doors open into several rooms. […] it is in the rooms, not in the hall, that there are fires and chairs and meals.”31

This encouragement to find true Christianity in the life of a particular denomination notwithstanding, Lewis was also insistent that denominational conflict was to be avoided. Extending the metaphor of rooms off of a central hallway, he admonished

Christians to “be kind to those who have chosen different doors and to those who are still in the hall. If they are wrong they need your prayers all the more; and if they are your enemies, then you are under orders to pray for them. That is one of the rules common to the whole house.”32 Lewis aimed to put this into practice in Mere Christianity by studiously avoiding controversial topics like the Virgin Birth and the precise mechanism

31 C.S. Lewis, Mere Christianity, Revised ed. (New York: Touchstone, 1996), 11. 32 Ibid., 12.

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of salvation. Far more important was the shared belief of Christians that “there is one

God and that Jesus Christ is His only Son.”33 Focusing on the common core of

Christianity, Lewis suggested, would show that Christianity was “divided from all non-

Christian beliefs by a chasm to which the worst divisions inside Christendom are not really comparable”, thus demonstrating “why we ought to be reunited.”34 Lewis also seems to have put this indifference to strong denominational loyalties into practice. In writing Mere Christianity he sought comments from Christians of a variety of denominations and reported that they all agreed on the essentials of his message.35

Responding to the tendency of some churches to claim Lewis as “one of us”, his stepson

Douglas Gresham reported that “whilst he [Lewis] preferred to attend the local Anglican church, this was more a matter of convenience than of conviction.”36 In a 1939 letter,

Lewis expressed his vision for church unity based on shared experience: “the immediate task is vigorous cooperation on the basis of what even now is common – combined, of course, with full admission of the differences. An experienced unity on some things might then prove the prelude to a confessional unity on all things”.37

Tracing Lewis’s exact influence on later ecumenical developments is difficult, but his work gave a popular and respectable presentation of the ideal of church unity.

Lewis’s vision of unity in diversity was shared by many in the churches. In 1953, for example, the moderator of the Free Church Federal Council described “our divisions, whether between the Free Churches themselves or between the Free Churches and the

33 Ibid., 6. 34 Ibid., 8. 35 Ibid. 36 Douglas Gresham, Lenten Lands (London: Collins, 1989), x. 37 Quoted in Walter Hooper, C.S. Lewis: A Companion & Guide (San Francisco: Harper San Francisco, 1996), 554–555.

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Church of England” as a “grave handicap” and longed “for the day when a united Church in this land will incorporate in a glorious unified variety all the truths for which we stand and all the treasures of life and devotion that God has given us in our separation.”38

The origins of Lewis’s optimistic vision for a unified church lay not in Britain but on the global and imperial stage. The World Missionary Conference that took place in

Edinburgh in June 1910 is typically seen as the birthplace of the modern ecumenical movement. One of the chief concerns of the conference was to demonstrate how the continuing divisions within Christianity were hampering missionary efforts around the world. In addition to urging greater practical cooperation of Christian missionaries on the ground, the conference also represented a new forum in which a wide breadth of denominations came together for the first time. Though the conference did not address the question of formal union of the churches, the closing address by John R. Mott described the delegates “from different nations and races and communions” as recognizing their “oneness in Christ”. At the core of the missionary vision propagated at

Edinburgh was cooperation rather than unity.39 The idea that disunity hampered the missionary endeavor continued after the Second World War. In 1947, the archbishop of

York wrote that “The spectacle of Christians separated from one another in the midst of a vast non-Christian population is a grave hindrance to the spread of Christianity. The

Hindu and the Moslem contrast the unity of their religion with the divisions of criticism.”40

38 Hugh Martin, The Free Churches Today (London: Free Church Federal Council, 1953), 3–4. 39 Kenneth Scott Latourette, “Ecumenical Bearings of the Missionary Movement and the International Missionary Council,” in A History of the Ecumenical Movement, ed. Ruth Rouse and Stephen Charles Neill, vol. 1, 3rd ed. (Geneva: World Council of Churches, 1986), 351–402. 40 Cyril Garbett, The Claims of the Church of England (London: Hodder and Stoughton, 1947), 250.

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Given these international roots, it is hardly surprising that efforts at church unity took place throughout the world, sometimes successfully. In 1925, following parliamentary debate and the passage of the United Church Act, Methodists,

Congregationalists, and Presbyterians in Canada came together as the United Church of

Canada.41 Trickier for the Church of England was the 1947 creation of the Church of

South India through the union of Anglicans, Methodists, and the South India United

Church.42 The merger did not go unnoticed in the metropole. The new church raised new questions for English denominations as they struggled to determine their relationship to each other. If the Church of England entered into communion with the Church of South

India and the Methodist Church in Great Britain did the same, would this mean that the

Church of England was effectively in communion with the Methodist Church?

In 1950, the Convocation of Canterbury in the Church of England considered the

Church of England’s relationship with the new Indian church. Its chief recommendations were that “limited intercommunion” between the two churches be recognized but that full recognition of the nascent episcopate of the Church of South India be postponed for five years to enable further discussions. In practice, limited intercommunion meant that there could be some interchange between the Church of England and the Church of South India in the spheres of preaching and sacraments. Clergy of the Church of South India could be invited to preach in Anglican churches, former Anglicans in South India would be

41 C.T. McIntire, “Unity Among Many: The Formation of the United Church of Canada, 1899-1930,” in The United Church of Canada: A History, ed. Don Schweitzer (Wilfred Laurier University Press, 2012), 3– 37. 42 For accounts of the history of the Church of South India written soon after its creation, see A.E.J. Rawlinson, The Church of South India (London: Hodder and Stoughton, 1951), chap. 2; Bengt Sundkler, Church of South India: The Movement Towards Union, 1900-1947 (London: Lutterworth Press, 1954).

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allowed to take communion in the Church of England, and Anglicans could receive communion in the Church of South India.43

Advances in church unity in the former empire had a direct impact on efforts at unity in England. Lesslie Newbiggin, successively a minister in the Church of Scotland, a bishop in the Church of South India, and the moderator of the United Reformed

Church, brought his ecumenical commitment and experience from India first to Geneva, then to England where he played an important role in negotiations aimed at church unity.44 The theological puzzles raised by church unions taking place around the world brought to the fore issues of ministry and intercommunion that would continue to challenge proponents of unity even as they provided optimists with examples that union was possible.

The global roots of ecumenism can also be seen in the successive meetings of the

Faith and Order and Life and Work sections of the World Council of Churches. Most influential on interdenominational relations in England was the third meeting of the

World Conference on Faith and Order. Held in Lund, Sweden, in August 1952, it established a key principle that would guide ecumenical efforts throughout the second half of the twentieth century. The so-called “Lund Principle” was initially posed as a question rather than an affirmation: “Should not our Churches ask themselves whether they are showing sufficient eagerness to enter into conversation with other Churches, and whether they should not act together in all matters except those in which deep differences

43 “Unity of the Churches: Relations with South India,” The Times, May 25, 1950, 3; Rawlinson, The Church of South India, 90–91. 44 Martin Conway, “Newbigin, (James Edward) Lesslie (1909-1988),” Oxford Dictionary of National Biography (Oxford University Press, 2004), http://www.oxforddnb.com/view/article/69282.

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of conviction compel them to act separately?”45 This call to make interdenominational cooperation the norm rather than the exception was quickly embraced by virtually all denominations and formed a core principle of relations between the churches after the

Lund conference. By setting the bar for separate denominational activity high (only in those areas in which “deep differences of conviction” led the churches to act separately), the Lund principle led the churches to consider exactly what such deep differences of conviction might be and led many to embrace joint action in spite of theological differences. The Lund Principle rapidly became part of the intellectual furniture of ecumenists: references to it abound in post-1952 descriptions of ecumenical activity.46

This tendency towards cooperation in the absence of objections of conscience would prove especially fruitful at the local level where matters of theological conviction seemed less pressing.

These increasingly popular ecumenical ideas reached the Roman Catholic Church as well, where the Second Vatican Council marked a significant departure from earlier

Catholic proclamations about relationships with other Christians. Where once the

Catholic Church had taught that Protestants were heretics and prohibited its priests from participating in public events with Protestant clergy, the 1964 decree Unitatis

Redintegratio recognized Protestants as “separated brethren” in Christ. In contrast to the instruction from the Holy Office less than fifteen years before that prohibited Catholics

45 Oliver S. Tomkins, ed., The Third World Conference on Faith and Order (London: SCM Press, 1953), 16. 46 See, for example, Local Councils of Churches Today (London: British Council of Churches, 1971), 11; David Blatherwick, Adventures in Unity: An Introduction to Areas of Ecumenical Experiment, Shared Churches and Other United Ventures in the Local Church (London: British Council of Churches, 1974), 13; Local Church Unity: Guidelines for Local Ecumenical Projects and Sponsoring Bodies (London: British Council of Churches, 1985), 5; Robin Baker, Milton Keynes Is Different: The Story of the Ecumenical Movement in Milton Keynes 1967-2005 (Much Wenlock: RJL Smith & Associates, 2005), 12.

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from “descending from the position of teachers to that of learners”, Catholics were now encouraged to “get to know the outlook of our separate brethren” and join in prayers for unity.47 The Roman Catholic hierarchy in England and Wales took this change to heart.

In 1968, it granted permission to Roman Catholics to take a “fuller part” in the local ecumenical projects that were cropping up around the country.48

Theological barriers to church unity

Though the weight of opinion favored moving towards greater cooperation and, eventually, union, there were always skeptical voices as well. This skepticism was most often cast in theological terms. The Baptist attorney J.G. Le Quesne, for example, admitted the desirability of a United Free Church but asked whether such a church could

“be had without the sacrifice of something even more important.” Pointing to the early

Dissenters’ resistance to the seventeenth-century Acts of Uniformity, Le Quesne suggested that there was, in fact, something more important than organizational unity:

“obedience to God”. Participating in any form of church unity that denied what a believer believed to be the will of God would represent a grave mistake. In Le Quesne’s case, this hinged on the question of baptism:

I am a Baptist. I believe the practice of believer’s baptism to be essential to Christian obedience. I do not question the sincerity of my paedobaptist brethren […] but I believe that the baptism of infants to be inconsistent with the teaching of Christ and subversive of the true nature of the church. Believing that, I cannot belong to any church which practices infant baptism. If a United Free Church would permit the baptism of infants, I

47 “Unitatis Redintegratio,” November 21, 1964, http://www.vatican.va/archive/hist_councils/ii_vatican_council/documents/vat- ii_decree_19641121_unitatis-redintegratio_en.html. 48 “More Study on Unity Problems,” The Catholic Herald, February 16, 1968, 10.

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could not enter it. Were I to do so, I should be identified with what I believe to be disobedience to God’s Word.49

Geoffrey Fisher, archbishop of Canterbury from 1945 to 1961, expressed a similarly insistent position on the nature of priesthood, presbytery, and episcopate. Writing about the proposed service of reconciliation that would inaugurate Anglican-Methodist reunion,

Fisher claimed that the ambiguity of the service of reconciliation meant that he could not

“for reasons of clear thinking and conscience” take part in a “service which has at its heart contradictory conceptions about the point from which the presbyters start and the point to which they arrive.”50 To be sure, Fisher’s claims about the ambiguous nature of the service of reconciliation lacked the vim and vigor of Le Quesne’s proclamations on believer’s baptism. But Fisher’s insistence on absolute clarity in the nature of the priesthood and episcopate would prove an obstacle as the Church of England and

Methodists moved closer towards reconciliation.

The Free Churches chafed under Fisher’s assumption that any Free Church union with the Church of England would require the introduction of the historic episcopate into the governance and polity of the Free Churches. By the early 1950s, the Free Churches had largely accepted the principle of some sort of leadership or oversight, whether by bishops, moderators, superintendents, or district chairmen. But the Anglican insistence on the historic episcopate, an unbroken chain of bishops stretching back to the apostles, remained a sticking point. Accepting this principle as a condition of unity would mean

49 J.G. Le Quesne, “Union: The Case for Caution,” Free Church Chronicle, January 1957, 18–19. 50 Geoffrey Fisher, Covenant and Reconciliation: A Critical Examination of the First Report of the English Standing Conference on “Covenating for Union” and of the Interim Statement of the Anglican-Methodist Unity Commission Entitled “Towards Reconciliation by Archbishop Lord Fisher of Lambeth” (London: Mowbray, 1967), 9–15.

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that Free Church clergy would have to be re-ordained by Anglican bishops in order for their ministry to be accepted as valid. As S. Maurice Watts, Congregationalist minister and moderator of the Free Church Federal Council in 1952, understood the Anglican position, “for the kind of union that is contemplated […], I have truly to become an

Anglican priest”, and implicitly confess that “my former ministry of the Word and the

Sacraments was not fully valid”.51

Though the general intellectual and theological trend of the postwar period was towards greater cooperation between the churches, major theological barriers remained to the formal unity of the churches. A 1961 article in the Christian magazine Time and Tide outlined three such issues in which the “strong and independent” convictions of Free

Church members prevented an easy resolution to the problem of division within the universal church: church polity (should the governance of the church be centralized or should local congregations retain autonomy?), ordination (what sort of authority did the act of ordination entail?), and baptism (what forms of baptism were valid?).52

Disagreement on these issues come up again and again as churches sought sufficient ground for unity. Even as ecumenical ideas flourished, the path to church unity had significant theological obstacles.

Postwar reconstruction and new ecumenical opportunities

The ecumenical activity that emerged in the aftermath of the Second World War was shaped and even determined by the changing material conditions in English society.

51 S. Maurice Watts, Free Church Relations (London: Free Church Federal Council, 1952), 7; Free Church Federal Council, Annual Report (London, 1952), 4. 52 Quoted in Free Church Union, 13.

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Influenced by the ideas of cooperation and the ideal of unity expressed at ecumenical conferences around the world, the churches of England looked to changes in British society, especially population shifts to New Towns and suburban areas, as opportunities for greater cooperation and coordination. This call for cooperation was first conceptualized as church members pondered the reconstruction of towns and cities after the ravages of the war. Even before the war had ended, the churches of England were already considering how to reconstruct Christian life in war-damaged areas. The

Methodist minister J. Scott Lidgett urged the Free Churches to undertake “careful joint surveys” in war-ravaged areas to determine the “most suitable religious accommodation for the neighbourhoods” with “a view to avoid over-lapping”.53 At this early stage this sort of cooperation was only envisioned as taking place amongst the Free Churches, but the Church of England and the Roman Catholic Church would later be brought into plans of this sort.

The conditions of postwar society generated new opportunities for interdenominational activity that simply did not exist before the war. The creation of

New Towns as a solution to housing shortages and overcrowding prompted the major denominations to consider the possibility of cooperation, rather than competition, in the new population centers.54 The plans for some new population centers included only one site for a church, all but forcing the denominations to reach an understanding or

53 Free Church Federal Council, Annual Report: 1942-1943 (London, n.d.), 6. 54 For a consideration of postwar urban planning and attempts to manage growing populations (including an early monorail alternative to what became Milton Keynes), see Guy Ortolano, “Planning the Urban Future in 1960s Britain,” The Historical Journal 54, no. 2 (2011): 477–507.

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compromise.55 In 1952, the moderator of the Free Church Federal Council, S. Maurice

Watts, made the ecumenical potential of these new population centers explicit. While accepting that new churches would be built by particular denominations, Watts urged the new congregations to “welcome […] all Free Church people” and thereby bring together the “peculiar treasure” of each denomination. “Whatever they may be called these churches will in fact be united free churches.”56 Watts admitted that this growing cooperation had more to do with “economic necessity” than “spiritual compulsion”. In contrast to the nineteenth century when the rival Free Church denominations had erected multiple chapels in areas experiencing population booms, Watts hoped that the

“economic stringency” of the postwar period would prevent the Free Churches from repeating the “folly” of unnecessarily duplicating the expenses and hard work of building new churches.57 In 1956, the Free Church Federal Council formally recommended that any new Free Church congregations in the new population centers should welcome all

Free Church people in the area through mutual recognition of churchmanship, freedom to transfer membership, shared communion, and acknowledgment of the clergy of other

Free Church denominations as “ministers of the Word and Sacraments”.58

Within a decade of this call to greater Free Church cooperation, ecumenical activity in New Towns had proceeded further than almost anyone had anticipated. A new organization, the New Town Ministers’ Association (NTMA), had sprung up and

55 David Hawtin and Roger Paul, “The Origin and Development of Local Ecumenical Partnerships (LEPS): Telling the Story,” October 18, 2011, para. 5, http://www.churchofengland.org/media/1344960/telling%20the%20story%2018%2011%202011.pdf. 56 Free Church Federal Council, Annual Report, 1952, 2. 57 Watts, Free Church Relations, 14–15; For a consideration of the consequences of the Victorian church- building boom, see Gill, The “Empty” Church Revisited. 58 Free Church Federal Council, Annual Report (London, 1956), 6.

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recommended further ecumenical coordination through designated areas of ecumenical experiment, team ministries, the appointment of clergy open to cooperation with other denominations, and a commitment to sharing buildings rather than duplicating new construction. In 1970, the NTMA sought to formalize the connections between New

Towns and ecumenical activity by urging the Church of England to formally designate all

New Towns as Areas of Ecumenical Experiment, thereby facilitating the creation of a national register of local ecumenical activity.59

As one of the later New Towns, Milton Keynes would prove to be one of the most inclusive ecumenical efforts. Responding to the call to unity that had taken place at the

Faith and Order conference in Nottingham in 1964, an Inter-Church Committee on ecumenical activity in Milton Keynes met for the first time in March 1967, less than two months after the Labour government of Harold Wilson designated Milton Keynes as a

New Town.60 A joint working party of the churches prepared plans that were then incorporated into the two-volume “Master Plan” for Milton Keynes published in 1970.

These plans included a city-center church (what was to become Christ the Cornerstone), a joint ministry, and ecumenical chaplaincies in schools and colleges. As the population of

Milton Keynes grew throughout the 1970s, new clergy were incorporated into existing ecumenical structures and focused their efforts on education and community work rather than strict geographical responsibilities. In the mid-1980s, the ecumenical officer for the

Milton Keynes Christian Council described his work as “the most exciting job in local ecumenism in Britain”.61

59 R.M.C. Jeffery, Ecumenical Experiments: A Handbook (London: British Council of Churches, 1971), 2. 60 Baker, Milton Keynes Is Different, 10–12. 61 Ibid., 14–15, 17.

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New universities also offered novel opportunities for interdenominational cooperation and experimentation. The Chaplaincy Centre at the University of Lancaster, the first set up along ecumenical lines, brought the chaplaincy efforts of the Free

Churches, the Church of England, and the Roman Catholic Church under one roof (albeit with separate chapels for Catholics on one side and Anglicans and Free Churchmen on the other). Liturgical experiments included a “synchrocelebration” of the Eucharist in the

Anglican and Catholic chapels at the same moment, after which Anglicans and Catholics would come together in the concourse of the building.62 As one of the new post-Robbins

Report “plate-glass universities,” Lancaster represented a chance to start anew without the constraints of the established structures of denominationalism that existed at older universities. By the mid-1970s, this sort of ecumenical experimentation in universities had become so common that the British Council of Churches published a guide on ecumenical chaplaincy buildings at new universities.63

What the postwar decades offered, then, was a host of new contexts in which the churches of Britain, energized by the ideal of church unity, could put those ideas into practice. The state’s commitment to remaking British society in the aftermath of war did not so much whitewash older denominational conflict as offer blank slates on which new stories of interdenominational cooperation could be written.

Generic Christianity on the airwaves and in the classrooms

62 F.C. Price, “Unity in Action on the Campus at Lancaster,” The Catholic Herald, August 20, 1971, 3. 63 Ecumenical Chaplaincy Buildings in Higher Education: Notes for Guidance of Those Involved in Building Projects (London: British Council of Churches, 1974).

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As discussed in chapter 1, the BBC’s religious broadcasting policy and state- mandated religious education encouraged the English people to think of themselves as

Christians. The sort of Christianity they promoted was not, however, necessarily that endorsed by the churches themselves. In many cases, it probably went even beyond C.S.

Lewis’s conception of “mere” Christianity to present Christianity more as an element of a shared national heritage than a fully-fledged set of beliefs and practices. In the process of propagating that image of Christianity, the BBC and schools across the country consistently minimized denominational differences.

From its earliest days, the BBC had prohibited Christian speakers from making

“controversial attacks […] on other interpretations of Christianity”.64 At a 1930 meeting of the BBC’s Central Religious Advisory Committee, for example, the committee agreed that the Roman Catholic “Prayer for England” which beseeched the Virgin Mary to bring about the return of England to the Roman Catholic fold should no longer be broadcast.65

In the early days of religious broadcasting, the effect of this policy was often the restriction of apparently peculiar features of Roman Catholicism, but it also extended to excluding smaller denominations that might challenge the consensus reached by the mainstream denominations.

The BBC trumpeted its role in creating a sort of non-denominational national

Christianity. Listener reports for the 1944 radio series Man’s Dilemma and God’s

Answer provided evidence for this claim of the ecumenical impact of the BBC’s religious policy. “There were some naïve expressions of astonishment of finding acceptable

64 Francis H. House, “The Development of Religious Broadcasting over the Past 29 Years,” October 1951, R6/21/7, BBC Written Archives Centre. 65 Central Religious Advisory Committee, “Minutes of the Thirteenth Meeting,” October 17, 1930, 1, R6/21/1, BBC Written Archives Centre.

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addresses coming from a church for which hostility had always been entertained.” While some listeners saw the commitment to denominational cooperation in the program as inhibiting preachers of their “accustomed drive”, most listeners expressed “thankfulness that enough agreement had been achieved to present a united front to the world.”66

Another listener praised the series as a manifestation of the “deep underlying unity which is greater than any differences” between the churches.67

The BBC’s commitment to promoting the cause of church unity was also manifest in its treatment of smaller Christian sects. In 1947, the Wesleyan Reform Union (a small

Methodist denomination that remained outside the Methodist union of 1932) requested a special broadcast commemorating its centenary. In an internal memorandum, a member of the BBC’s religious broadcasting department wrote that the Wesleyan Reform Union

“are obviously quite unimportant from the general Church point of view” and suggested that “it would be a pity further to emphasise the disunity of the Church by giving prominence to this insignificant sect”.68

The introduction of televised religious broadcasts posed a new challenge for the

BBC as it sought to avoid denominationalism. As the BBC considered televising a

Christmas service for the first time in 1949, the head of religious broadcasting, Francis

House, warned that televised church services would come across as more distinctively denominational than their radio counterparts. The very nature of television would

66 BBC Listener Research Department, “‘Man’s Dilemma and God’s Answer’: A Listener Research Report,” July 24, 1944, 2, BCC/7/1/9/3/2, Church of England Record Centre. 67 Listener Research Department, “‘MAN’S DILEMMA AND GOD’S ANSWER’: Spring, 1944 Reactions of Listeners to a Series of Sunday Religious Addresses,” January 20, 1944, 2, REDCLIFFE-MAUD 3/175, LSE Archives. 68 Kenneth Grayston, “Centenary of the Wesleyan Reform Union,” January 29, 1947, R34/825, BBC Written Archives Centre.

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highlight denominational differences: “what is seen on the screen will continually emphasise the fact that the service is Anglican, Free Church, or Roman Catholic”. Free

Church services posed the additional problem of not offering much in the way of visual interest.69

A 1963 report on religious broadcasting authored by William Temple College found the BBC’s commitment to bringing about mutual understanding between denominations to be a mixed blessing. On the one hand, “religious broadcasting enables

Christians to discover more about others’ way of worship”. On the other hand, the report warned, “the better understanding to which such discovery leads is not necessarily a deep or full one. In stressing what Christians have in common, religious broadcasting may also be glossing over genuine difference.” The BBC’s prohibition on attacks on other denominations meant that its religious broadcasts could obscure the fact that “there are profound theological differences between the Church of Rome and the other western churches, not merely difference of ceremonial.”70 To the “fringers” and “outsiders” in the audience who were not well-versed in England’s denominational landscape, the report suggested, “it must often seem that unity has been accomplished already.” This seemingly united church had the following characteristics: “Its head is the Pope, for whom all its members pray. Its services are held in the Anglican Parish Church. […] It sings the great hymns of Charles Wesley […]. It is proud of the achievements of the

Church of Scotland’s Iona community […]. In short, only the Congregationalists and

Baptists need fear that they may be left behind by the current; Anglicans, Methodists,

69 Francis H. House, “Notes on Possible Televising of Christmas Day Service,” August 17, 1949, R34/830/2, BBC Written Archives Centre; Francis H. House, “Television: Christmas Day Parade Service from Royal Chelsea Hospital,” January 4, 1950, R34/809/2, BBC Written Archives Centre. 70 William Temple College, Rugby, Mainstream Religion, 45.

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Presbyterians and Roman Catholics are all being carried along together in the main stream of British religion.”71

This line of criticism - that religious broadcasting presented a version of

Christianity stripped of its fervor - was also leveled at religious education in the postwar period. As discussed in chapter 1, the religious education provisions of the 1944

Education Act required (for the first time) religious instruction and religious worship in all state-funded schools. Religious education thus served as an area of collaboration between Christian denominations even before the 1944 Education Act was enacted. In

June 1942, the Joint Conference of Anglicans and Free Churchmen resolved that “in order to meet the widespread demand from many of those engaged in teaching and youth work for authoritative guidance from the Churches as to the content of the Christian

Faith”, the Conference should approach the archbishop of Canterbury and the moderator of the Free Church Federal Council to help produce a statement of those shared beliefs.72

The 1944 Education Act contributed to the decline of denominational discord in two ways. First, it formalized the sort of collaboration envisioned by the Joint

Conference of Anglicans and Free Churchmen. The law required each local education authority to establish a committee to select or publish an agreed syllabus of religious instruction. These committees had to include representatives of the Church of England and of “other such religious denominations as, in the opinion of the authority, ought, having regard to the circumstances of the area, to be represented.”73 In practice, these syllabus committees brought together representatives of the Free Churches, the Church of

71 Ibid. Pope John XXIII died during the month being studied (June 1963), thus accounting for the apparent primacy of the Roman Catholic Church in “BBC religion”. 72 Alfred L. Woodard to William Temple, June 11, 1942, W. Temple 19, f. 101, Lambeth Palace Library. 73 Education Act, 7 & 8 Geo. 6, C. 31, 1944, Fifth Schedule, sec. 1-2.

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England, and (from the 1960s onwards) the Roman Catholic Church. In addition to these syllabus committees, most local education authorities set up standing advisory councils on religious education. The 1944 Education Act, therefore, established new forums in which representatives of different churches met and sought common ground on how best to present Christianity in schools – in short, interdenominational cooperation enforced and institutionalized by the state.

Second, the religious education provided under the 1944 Education Act offered students a version of Christianity stripped of denominationalism. The law stipulated that religious instruction and worship in state schools and in voluntary controlled schools (in which the state provided the vast majority of funds to church-affiliated schools) not “be distinctive of any particular religious denomination” nor include “any catechism or formulary which is distinctive of any particular religious denomination.”74 A 1946 book on religious education by the headmistress of a girls grammar school saw these provisions of the law as an opportunity to “work for unity in the Church of Christ” as a way of counter-acting the “Denominationalism [that] is still a great weakness in the

Church of Christ”.75 By the early 1960s, the Free Churches had embraced the potential of the religious education under the 1944 and 1959 Education Acts to promote cooperation and understanding between the Free Churches and the Church of England. Even as it continued to affirm that its preferred outcome would be a single system of state schools that did not provide state subsidies to denominational schools, the Free Church Federal

Council recognized the importance of “united Christian action” in the field of religious

74 Ibid., sec. 26. 75 G.A. Richards, The Teaching of Christian Doctrine: A Scheme for Secondary Schools and Training Colleges, Etc. (Wallington, Surrey: The Religious Education Press, 1946), 44, 46.

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education. As a result, “much that was formerly a matter of controversy” had “become instead a matter of prayerful discussion.”76 A 1963 joint statement by the Free Church

Federal Council, the Church of England’s Board of Education and the Church in Wales’s

Council of Education declared that “in the historic creeds there exists a body of faith which is common to all the churches, and it is this which we consider could probably be taught in schools.”77 The religious education envisioned by the joint commission had a clear goal: Christianity was the important thing – denominational affiliation did not particularly matter.

The Failure of Church Unity

By the mid-1960s, then, the prospects for church unity seemed bright. Support for the idea was widespread, ranging from popularizers of Christianity like C.S. Lewis to church members from a wide range of denominations. The reconstruction of British society after the Second World War had provided ample opportunities for the divided denominations to work together and learn from each other. Forty years of religious broadcasting and twenty years of religious education had promoted a non-denominational version of Christianity in which common ground was highlighted and denominational distinctiveness was played down or even banned. Hopes for unity found their most optimistic expression at the Faith and Order conference held in Nottingham in 1964. In a resolution passed on 18 September, the conference declared:

United in our urgent desire for One Church Renewed for Mission, this conference invited the member churches of the British Council of

76 Free Church Federal Council, Annual Report and Directory (London, 1961), 6, 13. 77 Central Joint Education Policy Committee, Christian Teaching in Schools, 3; The joint statement also received the approval of the archbishop of Canterbury. See Michael Ramsey to Robert Stopford, December 6, 1962, Ramsey 16, f. 342, Lambeth Palace Library.

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Churches, in appropriate groupings such as nations, to covenant together to work and pray for the inauguration of union by a date agreed among them.

We dare to hope that this date should not be later than Easter Day, 1980. We believe that we should offer obedience to God in a commitment as decisive as this.

We urge that negotiations between particular churches already in hand be seen as steps towards this goal.78

What had been a vague hope was now a concrete call to action: the churches of Britain should seek unity. What’s more, that unity should be achieved by Easter 1980, just sixteen years from the date of the resolution.

These optimistic hopes would dashed just five years later. They were struck another blow in 1972, then repeatedly throughout the late 1970s and early 1980s. Twenty years after the Nottingham Faith and Order Conference, attempts at union were abandoned. The cause of formal church unity appeared dead, and little in the succeeding thirty years has revived the effort.

To understand the failure of church unity in the face of such optimism and such apparently favorable conditions, we need to consider, in detail, the various attempts at unity that were advanced in the wake of Nottingham. In particular, we need to examine the precise conditions under which church unity could be achieved. The institutionalized decision-making processes of the various churches would play a vital role in determining whether schemes of unity and covenant would succeed. The presence of multiple veto points in a scheme of union provided sufficient opportunities for concerted opponents of unity to exert decisive influence, even over the wishes of much larger majorities that

78 Unity Begins at Home: A Report from the First British Conference on Faith and Order, Nottingham, 1964 (London: SCM Press, 1964), 43.

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favored unity. Only when institutional barriers to union were low and decision-making processes straightforward could union be achieved.

The difficulties of church union were illustrated in the failure of successive attempts at Anglican-Methodist unity. Conversations between the two denominations began in the late 1950s. From the earliest days of negotiations, commentators raised the necessity of bishops, the validity of existing ordinations, and admission to communion as likely sticking points.79 An interim report published in 1958 highlighted areas of agreement but also rejected any mechanism of uniting the churches that would maintain two separate ministries, one episcopally ordained and the other not.80 A further report on

Anglican-Methodist relations, published in 1963, recommended a multi-stage process by which the Church of England and the Methodist Church would unite. Under the proposed process, new Methodist ministers would be ordained by bishops in the apostolic succession (albeit in a form of ordination left deliberately ambiguous), thus bringing historic episcopacy into the Methodist Church. After this shared ministry had been established, further negotiations to establish full unity would proceed. Though some

Methodists objected to the report as placing too much emphasis on tradition and not enough on scripture, the Methodist Conference and the Church of England approved plans to develop a service of reconciliation that would mark the coming together of the

Anglican and Methodist ministries.81

79 “Bishop and Elder: The Historic Succession,” The Times, March 13, 1956, 13. 80 Conversations Between the Church of England and the Methodist Church: An Interim Statement (London: S.P.C.K., 1958); A. Raymond George, “Anglican/Methodist Relations in England During the Period 1950-1982: A Personal Reflection,” 1982, 1–2, MA 9841, box 22, Methodist Archives and Research Centre. 81 Conversations Between the Church of England and the Methodist Church: A Report to the Archbishops of Canterbury and York and the Conference of the Methodist Church (Westminster: Church Information Office, 1963); George, “Anglican/Methodist Relations in England During the Period 1950-1982: A Personal Reflection,” 3.

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When the proposed service of reconciliation came up for approval by the

Methodist Conference and the Church of England Church Assembly in 1969, Methodist votes in favor exceeded the 75% required for moving forward. In the Church of England, only 69% of voters voted in favor, falling 22 votes short of the required 75%.82 A further attempt in the Church of England to ratify the service of reconciliation followed in 1972 and once again failed.83 Objections to the service of reconciliation and ensuing merger with the Methodists came from two opposing camps within the Church of England.

Anglican evangelicals believed that simple recognition of the validity of Methodist ministry would be sufficient. Anything that appeared to be a de novo ordination would suggest that the prior ministry of Methodists was invalid and thereby deny the workings of the Holy Spirit.84 On the other end of the Anglican spectrum, Anglo-Catholics found the service of reconciliation inadequate in its provisions to bring all Methodist ministers under the leadership of the historic episcopate and feared that reunion with the

Methodists would endanger possible union with the Roman Catholic Church in the future.85 Though the Broad middle of the Church of England embraced reunion with the

Methodists, the theological commitments of evangelicals and Anglo-Catholics spelled the

82 “Church Unity Rejected by Anglicans,” The Times, July 9, 1969, 1; For an overview of the unsuccessful efforts of Michael Ramsey, the archbishop of Canterbury, to achieve reunion, see Owen Chadwick, Michael Ramsey: A Life (Oxford, 1990), 333–346. 83 Basil Gingell, “Primate Prays for Miracle but Unity Plan Fails,” The Times, May 4, 1972, 4. 84 That the Methodists themselves accepted the service as adequately recognizing their prior ministry seems to have been beside the point. 85 For further examples of this sort of ecumenical irony, see Alan W. Black, “Ironies of Ecumenism,” Ecumenical Review 45, no. 4 (1993): 469–481; Some Anglicans also objected to reunion with the Methodists on aesthetic grounds. The eccentric Anglican clergyman and sometime prison chaplain Richard Blake Brown complained that “The Methodists, for ill-advised reasons of their own, left the historic OLD Church of this country (with all its glorious cathedrals) and built hundreds of HIDEOUS brick chapels, and put their ministers into abysmal black gowns, casting a melancholy shadow over hitherto Merry England!” See Richard Blake Brown, July 24, 1967, Diary vol. 16, Richard Blake Brown papers.

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end of the scheme, even as the archbishop of Canterbury and an overwhelming majority of Anglican bishops supported it.

Just as important as the existence and strength of these beliefs, however, were the structures of authority and decision-making that effectively granted opponents of reunion

– a minority within the Church of England – a veto on the process. In a sense, then, the crucial turning point in the process came in January 1969 when the decision was made that the Church of England would only move forward if the overall votes in favor in the

Church Assembly exceeded seventy-five per cent and a two-thirds majority was achieved in each of the four houses (the houses of bishops and clergy in both the Convocations of

Canterbury and of York).86 In other words, while the Methodist Conference had a simple up-or-down vote on the question of union, the Church of England Church Assembly undertook four separate votes as well as counting the combined tally of each of the four votes. An overview of the voting figures for each group reveals the high barriers.

Table 1. Result of votes on Anglican-Methodist union in January 1969

Body Yes No % in Sufficient for

Votes Votes Favor passage?

Methodist Conference 524 153 77% Yes

Convocation of Canterbury, 27 2 93% Yes Upper House

Convocation of Canterbury, 154 77 67% Yes Lower House

86 “Church Unity to Rest on 75 Pc Vote,” The Times, January 15, 1969, 3.

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Convocation of York, Upper 11 3 79% Yes House

Convocation of York, Lower 71 34 68% Yes House

Combined Church of England 263 116 69% No87 votes

In order for the scheme of Anglican-Methodist union to move forward, proponents of unity had to win six different votes. By contrast, opponents of union had only to win one to block the merger. This they achieved not through defeating the measure in any of the houses of the Church Assembly but by marshalling 31% of total votes spread over the

Church Assembly as a whole. Though an overwhelming majority of bishops in the

Church of England supported the scheme, the multiple veto points in the process offered sufficient opportunities for opponents of unity to defeat it.88

The same year that saw the final defeat of Anglican-Methodist union also witnessed the major success story of postwar efforts at church unity. On 5 October 1972, the Congregational Church in England and Wales and the Presbyterian Church in

England joined together to form the United Reformed Church. Further mergers with

87 Voting figures from “Church Unity Rejected by Anglicans,” 1. 88 Something similar occurred on the question of women bishops in the Church of England in November 2012. In this case, a two-thirds majority in each house of the General Synod was required to approve the measure allowing women to become bishops. Even after both the outgoing and incoming archbishops of Canterbury expressed support for the introduction of women bishops, the measure failed by six votes in the House of Laity, even as the bishops expressed overwhelming support for the measure (43-5) and almost 80% of total votes in the General Synod were in favor.

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other small denominations would follow: in 1981 the United Reformed Church incorporated the Churches of Christ and in 2000 the Scottish Congregational Union.89

The creation of the United Reformed Church offers a useful counterpoint to the failure of Anglican-Methodist reconciliation. The union of Congregationalists and

Presbyterians was eased by the relative similarity of the two parent churches: neither had a fixed form of liturgy, both highlighted the importance of sermons in worship, both practiced infant baptism, and both saw the Lord’s Supper as “signs of Jesus feeding his people with his spiritual gifts”. The new United Reformed Church would require changes in some practices (e.g. laymen presiding over the Lord’s Supper would be novel for former Presbyterians) and governance (increasing centralization along Presbyterian lines). But these compromises were not issues of strong conviction for most

Presbyterians or Congregationalists.90

Union between the Presbyterians and Congregationalists was further facilitated by the comparatively low institutional barriers to the merger. This was especially true on the

Presbyterian side. Once the Presbyterian General Assembly approved the merger in

1971, all Presbyterian congregations would automatically accede to the United Reformed

Church unless a three-quarters majority of the congregation rejected entry. Reflecting the greater historical independence of Congregationalism (and, indeed, the very name of the denomination), each Congregational congregation was given the choice of whether to

89 Kenneth Slack, The United Reformed Church (Exeter: Religious Education Press, 1978); “About Us,” United Reformed Church, http://www.urc.org.uk/about-us.html. 90 There is, to be sure, a bit of question-begging here. Why the issue of presbyters reached the level of conscience for Geoffrey Fisher but the question of lay preachers presiding over of communion did not for Presbyterians is far from self-evident. But, as the next paragraph suggests, even more important than the theological commitments of proponents and opponents of union were the decision-making structures in which those commitments had room to operate.

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enter into the new church.91 In both cases, the barriers to union were relatively low.

Thanks to these low institutional barriers and the similarities between Presbyterian and

Congregational theology and worship, the prospects of the scheme failing were minimal and union proceeded smoothly, albeit with the “loss” of approximately 300

Congregational churches who chose not to enter the new church.92 While the rejection of union by these 300 congregations was hardly trivial, it had minimal impact on the formal creation of the United Reformed Church. In contrast to Anglican-Methodist reconciliation, where potential vetoes abounded, the merger of the Presbyterians and

Congregationalists after negotiations were complete was virtually a fait accompli.

Fresh on the heels of its own birth, the United Reformed Church invited the other major Christian denominations to meet to discuss further steps towards unity. A one-day meeting of representatives of the main Free Churches, the Church of England, and the

Roman Catholic Church was held in London in September 1973. A new organization, the Churches’ Unity Commission, emerged from this meeting. The participation of the

Roman Catholic Church in this new organization represented a major turning point in the history of ecumenical relations in England.93

Further meetings of the Churches’ Unity Commission took place over the next few years. In 1976, the Churches’ Unity Commission published “ten propositions” for the consideration of the churches. The first three propositions expressed support for a

91 Basil Gingell, “Proposal for United Reformed Church Going to Assemblies,” The Times, November 10, 1970, 2. 92 For a contemporary rejection of “unity” in favor of “federation” as the way forward from the perspective of post-URC Congregationalism, see Margaret Wedgwood Benn, “Time to Consider Federal Concept as an Answer?,” The Catholic Herald, August 31, 1973, 4. 93 “Success Claimed for First Conference of All English Churches,” The Catholic Herald, September 28, 1973, 1.

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covenant of churches working together at the national and local level to achieve “visible unity in life and mission”. Propositions four, five, and six proved more controversial.

Proposition four called for mutual recognition of members of other covenanted denominations as “true members of the Body of Christ” and for welcoming them “to

Holy Communion without condition”. The fifth proposition expressed support for a mutually acceptable rite of initiation into the church. Proposition six called for the recognition of the “ordained ministries of the other covenanting Churches, as true ministries of word and sacraments in the Holy Catholic Church” and the introduction of a common rite of ordination that would “properly incorporate the episcopal, presbyteral and lay roles in ordination.” The remaining propositions returned to the realm of abstract principles of freedom of conscience and commitment to continued conversations.94

The participating churches all expressed support for the more abstract principles contained in the ten propositions. The propositions regarding ministry and communion, however, generated unease among almost all the major denominations. The Church of

England (following Geoffrey Fisher’s admonitions from two decades earlier) continued to emphasize the importance of the historic episcopate to any unified church. Presaging future conflicts over women as Anglican priests, the Church of England also insisted that ongoing discussions about mutual recognition of ministry would “in no way prejudge the admissibility and acceptability of women to the ordained ministry of the Church of

England.” The Methodist Church cautiously accepted the propositions for a covenant but hedged its bets by insisting that it would only move forward if the Church of England did so as well. The Baptist Union expressed skepticism about the integrity of proposition 5

94 Churches’ Unity Commission, Visible Unity: Ten Propositions (London, 1976), 1–2.

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and reported a negative reaction among Baptists to the possible introduction of bishops.

The United Reformed Church made a point of insisting that mutual recognition of ministry would include equal recognition of both men and women as ministers. The

Congregational Federation (the rump of post-URC Congregationalism) thought that the recommendations would create new divisions. The Roman Catholic Church expressed support for the general principle of visible unity but rejected propositions four, five, and six – those dealing with intercommunion, initiation, and ordination – since Catholics “are and would be unable to give full recognition to the ministries of other participating

Churches”. The Moravian Church was alone in accepting all ten propositions without conditions.95

These widely divergent responses to the propositions for a covenant offered by the Churches’ Unity Commission meant that negotiations ultimately failed. In spite of the optimism for shared communion by 1980 expressed at Nottingham in 1964, communion (to say nothing of full organic unity) was not to be. Further talks in the late

1970s and early 1980s led to a potential covenant between the Church of England, the

Methodist Church, the United Reformed Church, and the Moravian Church. Leading up to the vote in the Church of England’s General Synod, both the United Reformed Church and the Methodist Church approved the covenant, with almost 80% of the Methodist

Conference voting in favor. A two-thirds majority in each house of Church of England

General Synod (bishops, clergy, and laity) would be required for the Church of England to move forward. As in 1969, the clergy proved to be the sticking point: only 62% of the clergy voted in favor. That over three-quarters of bishops voted to enter the covenant and

95 Churches’ Unity Commission, Final Report on the Churches’ Response to the Ten Propositions, 1978.

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68% of laity voted in favor was immaterial. Without the approval of all three houses, the

General Synod rejected the covenant. With that failure, prospects of the covenant died.96

1984 was the first time in almost forty years that there were no ongoing high-level unity negotiations taking place between major English denominations. Some within the

Free Churches placed blame for this apparent failure squarely on the shoulders of the

Church of England: Anglicans were seen to “only render lip service to Ecumenism, and when the real decisions have to be faced, withdraw into the ancient and privileged

‘Establishment’ position”.97 But the most common feeling was one of sadness and even despair. A. Raymond George, former moderator of the Free Church Federal Council, wrote of the failed covenant as an “abysmal failure” and a “sad ending to the story” of inter-church relations.98 The Moderator and Secretary of the United Reformed Church struck a similar note: “The sorrow is that we have attempted a way to reconciliation and we have failed.”99

To understand these failures, we need to look to both theological and institutional factors. Theological commitments were authentic and proved too much for many church members. Baptists really did care about believer’s baptism. Anglicans really did understand the historic episcopate as a mark of a true church. What proved decisive in determining the fate of efforts at formal church unity was the decision-making processes through which those theological commitments were filtered. When union required few

96 Clifford Longley, “Methodists Agree to Covenant,” The Times, June 29, 1982, 3; Clifford Longley, “Clergy Veto Church Unity,” The Times, July 8, 1982, 1. 97 Consultative Committee on Local Ecumenical Projects in England, “A Pattern for Local Ecumenism,” February 1984, 1, MA 9841, box 19, Methodist Archives and Research Centre. 98 George, “Anglican/Methodist Relations in England During the Period 1950-1982: A Personal Reflection,” 7. 99 “URC Still Clings to Unity Vision,” The Catholic Herald, July 23, 1982, 3.

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votes and theological differences were minimal (as in the case of the United Reformed

Church), church union succeeded. When, however, veto points multiplied, the likelihood of unity decreased dramatically. Anglican-Methodist reconciliation failed because its success required significant majorities in six different votes. Covenants between multiple churches faced similar obstacles. Much as the majority of Christians might seek out unity, as rational as such union might be in the face of changing social conditions and numerical decline, the complicated institutional structures of the churches, especially the

Church of England, placed a powerful check on formal unity.

The Flourishing of Ecumenism at the Local Level

The juxtaposition of the failure of church unity and the course of ecumenical activity at the local level is striking. Even as repeated schemes of reconciliation ground to a halt in the complicated organizational framework of the Church of England, cooperation between churches in local endeavors expanded rapidly. In contrast to the apparently insurmountable obstacles to formal unity, the looseness and informality of interactions between Christians on the ground meant that local ecumenical activity flourished.

Even before the Faith and Order conference at Lund in 1952, people were conceptualizing ecumenism in terms of shared action rather than formal efforts at union.

In 1949, L. John Collins, the chairman of the political action group Christian Action, warned that “[d]octrinal and moral obstacles which separate the denominations must not be allowed to hinder” ecumenical activity. Seeking organic unity on doctrinal issues would only risk further divisiveness. If Catholics and Protestants could learn to trust

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each other, they could enter into a “spiritually powerful fellowship in Christian for common action”.100

At the Faith and Order Conference held in Nottingham in 1964, the Lund

Principle that the churches should “act together in all matters except those in which deep differences of conviction compel them to act separately” was the order of the day, making an appearance in many sections of the conference.101 Seeking to put this principle into practice, the Nottingham conference recommended local experiments in shared worship, shared church buildings, ecumenical study conferences, joint efforts in the areas of youth work, publishing, lay training, and “concern for and service to the whole life of the local and wider community.”102 Committed to this principle of working in tandem with other churches as often and as broadly as possible, many in the Free

Churches sought to extend their ecumenical activity beyond the Free Church community and explore joint efforts with Anglicans.103

In spite of this new enthusiasm for cooperation at the local level, some impediments remained in place. Until the late 1960s, for example, it was technically illegal for Free Church ministers to conduct worship in Anglican parish churches. In spite of the legal issues, some cases of church sharing were already taking place in new population centers where competing churches in one area seemed inappropriate. Seeking to remedy this situation, the Church of England appointed a commission to consider the sharing of churches in 1965.104 Though the commission considered some theological

100 L. John Collins, “Catholicism To-Day: Christian Action’s Aims,” The Times, November 12, 1949, 5. 101 Unity Begins at Home, 51, 65, 72, 78. 102 Ibid., 76, 78–79. 103 The Future of the Free Church Federal Council: Report, Discussions and Recommendations (London: Free Church Federal Council, 1965), 7. 104 Alan Jackson, “Anglicans to Clear the Way for Church Sharing,” The Catholic Herald, June 11, 1965, 1.

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issues, the primary barriers to church-sharing were legal ones, especially the restrictions placed on consecrated Anglican churches. The commission also raised the prospect of shared churches creating, de facto, yet another denomination, the “Oecumenical Church”

– an unintended outcome that no one would prefer. In spite of these reservations, the commission declared that the presence of many churches in an area could lead newcomers’ impression to be “Is Christ divided?” One solution that emerged was the decision to dedicate, rather than consecrate, new Anglican parish churches. This difference in status meant the legal problems of consecration were avoided and enabled easier sharing of church buildings. This solution proved popular in many new population centers.105

The legal obstacles to church-sharing were largely removed by the 1969 Sharing of Church Buildings Act, which enabled the Church of England to enter into formal agreements to share churches. Even before these restrictions were removed, there were instances of church-sharing throughout the country: in 1966, at least sixteen cases existed, with forty more under consideration.106 These technically illegal ecumenical experiments demonstrated the strength of impulse towards cooperation at the local level.

After the removal of barriers, the number of shared church buildings exploded. In 1974 there were several dozen shared church buildings throughout England.107 Ten years later, in 1984, that figure reached 338.108

105 Sharing of Churches: Being the Report of a Commission Appointed by the Archbishops of Canterbury and York. (London: Church Information Office, 1966); Parliamentary Debates, House of Lords, vol. 292, 5th Series, 1968, col. 24. 106 Sharing of Churches, 4. 107 Blatherwick, Adventures in Unity, 6–13. 108 Consultative Committee on Local Ecumenical Projects in England, “A Pattern for Local Ecumenism,” 9.

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This dramatic expansion of church-sharing exemplified a broader boom in ecumenical activity at the local level. In 1973, this burgeoning local ecumenism prompted the creation of the Consultative Committee for Local Ecumenical Projects in

England (CCLEPE). The chief issues that the new organization considered were the sharing of churches, mutual recognition of ministers, liturgical experiments, and the relationships between national bodies and local activity.109 In 1975, CCLEPE published a report that recommended a change in the terminology and conceptualization of local ecumenism. Six years earlier, the British Council of Churches had thought of local ecumenical activity in terms of “areas of ecumenical experiment”. Some of these experiments had run for several years and become ingrained in the life of the local

Christian community. As a result, CCLEPE recommended that “ecumenical experiments” be re-conceptualized under the more general (and permanent-sounding) umbrella of “local ecumenical projects”.110

The 1975 CCLEPE report justified local ecumenical projects as expressions of the unity of all Christians, even in the face of persistent denominational divisions – such projects “reveal what is possible where goodwill exists without the formal union of national Churches”.111 The report devoted considerable space to the establishment of sponsoring bodies that had the confidence of national denominations.112 This close attention paid to ensuring oversight and regulation of ecumenical activity at the local level suggests that such activity was getting out “in front” of the denominations

109 Guidelines for Local Ecumenical Projects (Consultative Committee for Local Ecumenical Projects in England, 1975), 3–4. 110 Ibid., 6. 111 Ibid., 7. 112 Ibid., para. 15–22.

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themselves in the extent of their joint action, going further than the official structures would allow. Ecumenism at the local level took on a life of its own, beyond the cautious

“talks about talks” that the denominations had cautiously endorsed in the form of the

Churches’ Unity Commission. In January 1976, the Catholic Herald embraced the pursuit of ecumenical cooperation at the local level. “Ecumenism”, it wrote, “is for everyone”, not simply the “top brass” of denominations.113 This declaration got it backwards: there was even more going on at the local level than at the national level.

As discussed above, much of this local ecumenical activity took place in New

Towns and other developing population centers. The ecumenical center in the New

Town of Skelmersdale (near Liverpool) was the site of shared worship of a united congregation of Anglicans, Methodists, Baptists, and members of the United Reformed

Church. The participation of Baptists meant that both infant and believers’ baptism took place in the same church. Confirmed members of the local church became “members of all four Churches, choosing a denomination” only if they left Skelmersdale. This flexibility in doctrine and practice illustrates the potential for experimentation that existed at the local level. In Thamesmead, a new housing estate in east London inaugurated in the late 1960s, a joint ministry team of clergy from the Church of England, Methodist

Church, Roman Catholic Church, and United Reformed Church collaborated in providing pastoral care to the nascent community.114

These last two examples are telling, for it was in certain areas, like the Anglican dioceses of Liverpool and Southwark, that ecumenical activity was given the greatest

113 “Ecumenism at Local Level,” The Catholic Herald, January 16, 1976, 4. 114 “Local Ecumenical Development: Report of a Working Party Appointed by the House of Bishops and the Board for Mission and Unity of the General Synod of the Church of England,” 1984, 3–4, MA 9841, box 19, Methodist Archives and Research Centre.

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opportunity to develop. This openness to local ecumenical activity reflected the interests and commitments of the Anglican bishops in each area. David Sheppard, bishop of

Liverpool from 1975 to 1997 (and a former Test cricketer), famously worked with the

Roman Catholic archbishop of Liverpool, Derek Worlock, to bring about the end of sectarian conflict between Protestants and Catholics that had long engulfed Liverpool.115

In 1985, Sheppard and Worlock entered a covenant (joined by representatives of the

United Reformed Church, the Baptist Union, the Methodist Church, and the Salvation

Army) marked by a joint service. Prayers took place at both the Roman Catholic and the

Anglican cathedrals in Liverpool, connected by a mile-long procession along Hope

Street.116 The partnership between Sheppard and Worlock was immortalized in a sculpture at the midpoint between the two cathedrals.117

Before his translation to Liverpool, Sheppard had served as the suffragan bishop of Woolwich in the diocese of Southwark where he worked under Mervyn Stockwood.

Bishop of Southwark from 1959 to 1980, Stockwood was one of the most innovative bishops in the Church of England in the second half of the twentieth century. Stockwood encouraged a wide range of experiments in his diocese. Soon after his consecration as bishop of Southwark, in 1959, Stockwood spoke favorably about “exchanges between

Anglican and Free Church preachers” and expressed hope that “every opportunity of collaboration would be taken at the lower-parish-levels.”118 In 1964, Stockwood

115 Frank Neal, Sectarian Violence: The Liverpool Experience, 1819-1914: An Aspect of Anglo-Irish History (Manchester, U.K: Manchester University Press, 1988); P.J. Waller, Democracy and Sectarianism: A Political and Social History of Liverpool, 1868-1939 (Liverpool: Liverpool University Press, 1981). 116 Louis Jebb, “Hope Street Spells Unity,” The Catholic Herald, May 31, 1985, 3. 117 For Sheppard and Worlock’s accounts of their joint work, see David Sheppard and Derek Worlock, Better Together (London: Hodder & Stoughton, 1988); David Sheppard and Derek Worlock, With Hope in Our Hearts (London: Hodder & Stoughton, 1994). 118 “Bishop Calls for Collaboration,” The Times, June 23, 1959, 6.

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approved the appointment of a Methodist minister to the ministry team at the Anglican parish church in Woolwich, east London. The Methodist minister embraced the opportunity – “I am convinced that denominational differences are irrelevant to the modern situation”. The rector of Woolwich, Nicolas Storey, was optimistic about interdenominational cooperation, likening the “walls of denominational differences” to the walls of Jericho that would crumble with a “few more powerful blows.”119 The projects of the ecumenical team ministry in Thamesmead included welcoming new residents to the local Christian community and specialist ministers whose remit covered the whole town.120

Joint hymn-singing services were a popular manifestation of the ecumenical ideal at the local level. This was especially true when the BBC television program Songs of

Praise came to town and offered the community fifteen minutes of fame. The producer of the program described the task of coordinating hundreds of participants from different congregations as “In ecumenical terms a weekly minor miracle!”121 By the 1980s, it had become common wisdom that the shared tradition of English hymns represented a triumph of ecumenism. In a review of the New Oxford Book of Christian Verse, J.M.

Cameron wrote that “the work of Ecumenism is already completed in the English tradition of devotional poems and hymns” – Martin Luther’s “Ein’ feste Burg” had been incorporated into Catholic liturgy and hymns by Aquinas had appeared in Presbyterian hymnbooks.122 Kenneth Greet, the secretary of the Methodist Conference, made a similar observation in 1984: “you’ve got to be an ecumenist if you sing hymns. Take the

119 “Whitefriars Chronicle,” The Catholic Herald, August 21, 1964, 5. 120 “Joint ‘Team Ministry’ Plan for New Town,” The Catholic Herald, December 27, 1968, 2. 121 Songs of Praise (Basingstoke: Marshall Morgan and Scott, 1984), 12. 122 J.M. Cameron, “Devoutly Distinguished,” Times Literary Supplement, November 27, 1981, 1385.

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Methodist hymnbook […]: you will find hymns by Anglicans, Baptists, Roman

Catholics, the lot. So the hymnbook is one of the most ecumenical documents you can think of.”123

These varied examples illustrate how, if we shift our eyes away from the national stage to the local level, we see a dramatic expansion in the number of ecumenical experiments, many of which went well beyond what the national leadership of each denomination would have felt comfortable with. Because local ecumenical projects tended to avoid difficult theological issues and were typically pursued in response to particular pragmatic concerns, they ended up being more successful that national efforts at unity. This flourishing of ecumenical activity at the local level meant that, for many people, the experience of Christianity ceased to be tightly bound to a particular denominational identity. Pointing to how interdenominational cooperation at the local level could thrive even in areas of with long histories of sectarianism, David Sheppard and Derek Worlock described how “[o]nce that initial coming together has taken place, local needs soon show the clergy an increasing number of opportunities for joint action.

Such sharing of concern leads naturally and without fear to the sharing of prayer.

Already people have largely forgotten how total was the segregation, if not alienation, until relatively recently.” A covenant between churches in Kirkby, an overspill estate for

Liverpool, “showed that there were still some who remembered, but had no wish to go back.”124 This local ecumenical activity succeeded because it provided an outlet for the ecumenical impulse that was largely immune from the theological commitments and institutional constraints that limited the cause of church unity.

123 Songs of Praise, 122. 124 Sheppard and Worlock, With Hope in Our Hearts, 15–16.

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Conclusion

In 1990, the churches of Britain reached a new stage in interdenominational cooperation when the British Council of Churches re-constituted itself as Council of

Churches for Britain and Ireland (it re-named itself Churches Together in Britain and

Ireland in 1999). This was not just a matter of re-branding. The British Council of

Churches had long been seen as little more than a talking shop in which “working-parties on every conceivable subject […] produced reports that were ‘sent to the churches’ who duly shelved them. To this day they are still gathering dust.”125 The new organization was envisioned as an instrument through which the churches would act rather than a separate ecumenical organization. The Council of Churches for Britain and Ireland

(CCBI) was also innovative in its membership. While the British Council of Churches had excluded the Roman Catholic Church and black-led Pentecostal churches, the new organization incorporated them and a host of other Christian denominations.126 Today, the membership of Churches Together in Britain and Ireland includes almost forty denominations.127 This reformulation of the national structures of ecumenical activity in

Britain reflects the puzzle explored throughout this chapter. Though by the end of the twentieth century interest and participation in interdenominational cooperation stretched across the Christian spectrum, the prospect of formal unity of the churches seemed a

125 “Christians Who Put One Foot in Front of the Other,” The Catholic Herald, July 26, 1991, 9. 126 Colin Davey, The Story of the BCC (London: British Council of Churches, 1990), 12–13, www.ctbi.org.uk/pdf_view.php?id=100Sh; “Linking up from Below Upwards,” The Catholic Herald, January 27, 1989, 3. 127 “Member Churches - Alphabetical,” Churches Together in Britain and Ireland, accessed December 7, 2012, http://www.ctbi.org.uk/ACBA/227.

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distant goal– the recognition of the churches in Britain seemed to acknowledge the unlikelihood of union even as joint action had become common.

But at the local level, Christianity had taken on more of a non-denominational character, especially in smaller communities in which there might be only one church left. To the extent, then, that people continued to have contact with Christianity, it often was in contexts in which a sort of non-denominational Christianity was increasingly common. On the airwaves, in the schools, and in communities across England, interdenominational cooperation and joint activity meant that it was increasingly possible to associate with Christianity without committing to the beliefs and practices of a particular denomination. Just as some skeptical observers had feared, a sort of generic

Christianity had emerged in England by the end of the twentieth century.

The emergence of this generic Christianity was not, however, a symmetrical or equal process – not all denominations “gave up” the same amount as they moved in an ecumenical direction. In particular, the ecumenical turn in English Christianity inaugurated a feedback cycle in which the Free Churches turned to ecumenical activity on theological and administrative grounds only for that activity to lead some to question the distinctive witness of the Free Churches. If the Free Churches were cooperating with the Church of England on nearly everything, what was the point of the Free Churches?

That loss of distinctiveness, coupled with the dramatic numerical decline experienced by the Free Churches, led the Free Church Federal Council to periodically re-consider its own existence.128 A working party set up in the mid-1980s found that the successful

128 The Future of the Free Church Federal Council: Report, Discussions and Recommendations; The Future of the Free Church Federal Council (London: Free Church Federal Council, 1985), 2; For evidence of the decline of the Free Churches, see Currie, Gilbert, and Horsley, Churches and Churchgoers, 161–166; For a consideration of the causes of Free Church decline, see McKibbin, Classes and Cultures, 281–285.

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implementation of the Lund Principle in many areas meant that a considerable amount of activity took place through the British Council of Churches rather than the Free Church

Federal Council. Meetings of Free Church councils at both the national and local levels had, in many cases, become pro forma, with little actual business to discuss. In 2007, the

Baptist minister Keith Clements cast this trend as the dark underbelly of post-1960 ecumenical activity. While it was, Clements admitted, “absolutely right that at the local level from the 1960s Free Church councils largely subsumed themselves under the more inclusive councils of churches”, those broader organizations had come to be little more than stalking horses for the Roman Catholic Church and (especially) the Church of

England.129

It was, therefore, the Church of England that turned out to be the chief beneficiary of the decline of denominational discord in the second half of the twentieth century. If leaders of the Church of England had successfully steered the Church towards formal unity with other churches, its claims to being a comprehensive national church might have been even stronger. As it turned out, however, the disappearance of denominational controversy and the dramatic decline of the Free Churches proved enough to secure the position of the Church of England at the center of England’s religious life. The next chapter explores how the leadership of the Church sought to retain that position through the tumultuous years of the 1960s.

129 Keith Clements, “What Has Happened to the Free Churches?,” Ekklesia, March 15, 2007, http://www.ekklesia.co.uk/node/4837.

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CHAPTER 3: THE CHURCH OF ENGLAND IN THE LONG ‘60s: FROM VIA MEDIA TO TOLERANT LIBERALISM

Optimistic calls for church unity were not the only instance of interdenominational cooperation in the 1960s and 1970s. In addition to these liberal ecumenical efforts, there were campaigns led by conservative Christians to defend the traditional biblical teachings of Christianity and the established moral norms of British society. In the ecclesiastical sphere, Martyn Lloyd-Jones encouraged evangelicals to abandon their denominational affiliations and join together in evangelical fellowship.1

The Catholic writer Arnold Lunn had a broader impact in mind when he chastised the liberal ecumenical movement for its “concessions” to modern society and its promotion of an “innocuous” form of Christianity. Lunn called for a different sort of ecumenical activity, one centered on a “militant alliance of Christians who are prepared not only to defend Christianity but to attack the materialism, overt or camouflaged, which is gradually undermining what is left of Christian faith and morals in this country.”2 An approximation of that militant alliance came to fruition in the campaigns of puritan enthusiasts like the Lord’s Day Observance Society, the Nationwide Festival of Light, and the National Viewers’ and Listeners’ Association that loudly resisted what they saw as the moral degradation of British society.

1 Andrew Atherstone, “The Keele Congress of 1967: A Paradigm Shift in Anglican Evangelical Attitudes,” Journal of Anglican Studies 9, no. 2 (2011): 197; John Brencher, Martyn Lloyd-Jones (1899-1981) and Twentieth-century Evangelicalism (Carlise and Waynesboro: Paternoster Press, 2002), 92–101; Christopher Catherwood, Martyn Lloyd-Jones: A Family Portrait (Eastbourne: Kingsway Publications, 1995), chap. 8; Iain H. Murray, David Martyn Lloyd-Jones: The Fight of Faith, 1939-1981 (Edinburgh and Carlisle: Banner of Truth Trust, 1990), chap. 25. 2 Arnold Lunn, “Ecumenism: Need for a Militant Alliance,” The Catholic Herald, June 11, 1971.

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The founder of this last organization, Mary Whitehouse, was emblematic of this cross-denominational reaction against the “permissive society” that had come into existence in the 1960s. Whitehouse was a West Midlands schoolteacher who first came to prominence in the early 1960s when she almost single-handedly created the Clean-Up

TV campaign to fight back against what she viewed as the blasphemy and pornography that was coming to dominate the British airwaves. Casting herself as an ordinary mother,

Whitehouse accused the liberal leadership of the British Broadcasting Corporation

(especially its Director-General Hugh Greene) of betraying their responsibility and feeding the British people a steady diet of smut.3 Indefatigable in her efforts, Whitehouse became a focal point in a series of campaigns set on preserving the Christian foundations of British society – in addition to Clean-Up TV and the National Viewers’ and Listeners’

Association, she became involved with the Nationwide Festival of Light and the Save

Religious Education campaigns of the 1970s.

By the time that Whitehouse began seeking the support of the Church of England in earnest, she had already gained a reputation for old-fashioned prudery and puritanism.

Well aware of that reputation, senior figures within the Church of England repeatedly sought to distance themselves and the Church from her. Time and again, Anglican bishops and staff members at Lambeth Palace studiously avoided giving Whitehouse- backed campaigns anything like the Church seal of approval that she and similar campaigners sought. Even in cases when the archbishop of Canterbury was sympathetic to Whitehouse’s objectives, administrators at Lambeth Palace took careful action to ensure that it did not appear that the Church endorsed Whitehouse. Conservative

3 Amy Whipple, “‘Ordinary People’: The Cultural Origins of Popular Thatcherism in Britain, 1964-1979” (PhD dissertation, Northwestern University, 2004), chap. 2.

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campaigners like Whitehouse and Malcolm Muggeridge did not miss the Church’s apparent hesitance to throw its hat into the cultural fray and repeatedly complained that the Church was failing to use its privileged position to unashamedly proclaim the gospel and defend traditional Christian morality.

The factors underlying this reluctance on the part of the Church of England are the subject of this chapter. It is a complex story, but a key part of it is that the Church was wary of casting its lot with Whitehouse lest it be branded a reactionary force and therefore undeserving of establishment. As permissiveness became the order of the day, the Church (always mindful of the fact that its position was ultimately based on parliamentary approval of its status) sought to distance itself from figures widely seen as moral scolds and to present itself as a cautiously progressive force in British society.

But casting the Church’s distancing of itself from puritan enthusiasts solely in terms of self-interest underestimates the extent to which opinion within the Church, especially among its leadership, had shifted away from the moral certainties of

Whitehouse and the Nationwide Festival of Light. A reading of the Church’s actions as simply reacting to a permissive turn in British culture misjudges the chronology of permissiveness and misses how the Church actually played an important role in bringing about much of the legislation that brought about the so-called permissive society. In some cases, as in the decriminalization of homosexual activity and the abolition of capital punishment, opinion within the Church was far “ahead” of popular feeling towards liberalization. In other words, it was not just a matter of Church leaders distancing the

Church from puritan enthusiasts for the sake of public relations. Senior Anglicans and

Church organizations like the Moral Welfare Council had actually played a role in

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bringing about some of the changes that so upset Whitehouse and her allies. Together, these stories of cautious progressivism and wary handling of puritan enthusiasts help explain how and why the Church of England came to be seen as a tolerant, broadminded

(sometimes to the point of being muddle-headed) force in English society – old-fashioned to be sure, but very far from reactionary.

The remainder of this chapter is divided into three sections. The first considers the centuries-old notion of the Church of England as the via media between Catholic and

Reformed Christianity and how that idea laid the foundation for the Church’s liberal turn in the 1960s. The second section explores the role that the Church of England played in bringing about the permissive society. The third section analyzes how senior figures within the Church carefully tended the Church’s public image and sought to avoid having it become entangled with campaigns and ideas outside the mainstream of public opinion.

The chapter concludes by suggesting that these two stories about the Church of England in the long 1960s help explain how the Church came to be seen as both tolerant and old- fashioned – something only the most strident secularists and ardent traditionalists could object to. The Church’s public profile, therefore, proved acceptable to the consumption- oriented middle classes that continued to grow in the 1950s and 1960s. As rising standards of living and new housing patterns broke down older working-class communities, the moral certainties of Nonconformity also slipped away. The Church of

England’s progressivism, partly principled and partly pragmatic, allowed it to secure the tacit support of both the expanding middle class of the postwar period and the working class that had long been more tolerant of extra-marital sex.

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The via media and the Anglican tradition of tolerance

Ideas of the Church of England as a moderate institution have a long history.

Conceptions of the Church as the via media or middle way between the Roman Catholic

Church and Reformed versions of Christianity stretch back to the earliest documents of

Anglicanism. The Thirty-Nine Articles of Religion, formulated in the 1560s and officially promulgated in 1571, were produced to establish the distinctiveness of the

Church of England in the tumultuous Christian landscape of the sixteenth century, not as a complete statement of Christian faith. In the words of one scholar of Anglicanism,

“their purpose is to make clear the position of a Church which sets before itself the aim of being Catholic, avoiding on the one hand the late medieval traditions of Rome, and on the other the excesses of the Anabaptists.”4 An early twentieth-century historian of the

Church of England praised Thomas Cranmer’s “soft touch” on the Articles: “the brevity of statement and the avoidance of controversy is to be admired.”5 The Anglo-Catholic

Labour MP Tom Driberg was more critical and accused the framers of the Thirty-Nine

Articles of being “perhaps a little disingenuous” in their careful construction of

“innumerable phrases […] which are susceptible of two interpretations, one in a more

Protestant and one in a more Catholic sense.”6

More important than the historical roots of the Church of England’s tendency towards compromise and moderation was the fact that this image of the Church continued

4 Stephen Neill, Anglicanism, Revised ed. (London and Oxford: Mowbrays, 1977), 81; For a recent consideration of Neill’s work, see W.L. Sachs, “Stephen Neill’s Anglicanism: An Anglican Classic,” Journal of Anglican Studies 5, no. 2 (December 2007): 149–162; For a detailed analysis of how the Articles walked this fine line, see Henry Chadwick, “Tradition, Fathers, and Councils,” in The Study of Anglicanism, ed. Stephen Sykes and John Booty (London and Philadelphia: SPCK and Fortress Press, 1988), 97–103. 5 Richard Watson Dixon, History of the Church of England from the Abolition of the Roman Jurisdiction, vol. 3, 3rd ed. (London: Henry Frowde, 1902), 520. 6 Parliamentary Debates, House of Commons, vol. 669, 5th ser., 1962, col. 793.

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to earn the assent of key Anglican figures in the aftermath of the Second World War. As the growth of ecumenical activity raised the possibility of formal church unity, the late

1940s and early 1950s witnessed a burst of writing about the Church of England’s distinctive claims and contributions to English life.7 The most notable of these statements came from Cyril Garbett in his 1947 book The Claims of the Church of

England. Son of a country vicar and successively bishop of Southwark (1919-1932) and

Winchester (1932-1942), Garbett was enthroned as archbishop of York in 1942 and remained in the position until his death in 1955. By the late 1940s Garbett had been a priest for almost fifty years and a bishop for nearly thirty. After the unexpected death of

William Temple in 1944, Garbett was a frontrunner to succeed Temple as archbishop of

Canterbury but demurred due to his advanced age.8 Garbett was, therefore, the grand old man of the Church of England. Garbett’s claims on behalf of the Church are illuminating not so much as an accurate description of the Church of England’s role in society, but as a window into how senior figures within the Church viewed it.

Garbett presented the Church of England as comprehensive, reasonable, and

(perhaps above all else) tolerant. Garbett summed up these characteristics in the opening pages of the book:

[I]t is the historic Catholic Church of this land, rejecting the claims of the Pope, and appealing to Scripture and the teaching of the ancient fathers for the justification of its faith: in doctrine and worship it is scriptural, catholic and reasonable. It has toleration and comprehensiveness, a

7 Garbett, The Claims of the Church of England; Cyril Garbett, The Church of England Today, 1953; A. E. J Rawlinson and Charles Smyth, The Genius of the Church of England: Two Lectures Given at the Archbishop of York’s Clergy School, July, 1945 (London: S.P.C.K., 1947); Alwyn Terrell Petre Williams, The Anglican Tradition in the Life of England (London: SCM Press, 1947); For a Free Church attempt to do the same, see Henry Townsend, The Claims of the Free Churches (London: Hodder and Stoughton, 1949). 8 Matthew Grimley, “Garbett, Cyril Forster,” Oxford Dictionary of National Biography (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2011), http://www.oxforddnb.com/view/article/33320; Welsby, A History of the Church of England, 1945-1980, 6.

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consistent appeal to sound learning, and a combination of authority and freedom which are not possessed to such a high degree by any other Church in Christendom.9

In asserting the “comprehensive” nature of the Church of England (i.e. both Catholic and

Reformed), Garbett followed in the footsteps of the sixteenth-century theologians

Richard Hooker and John Jewel who defended the Church of England against critics on both the ecclesiastical right and left who respectively saw the Church as a traitor to historic Christianity or hewing too close to the idolatry and superstition of Rome.10 In asserting the Church of England’s Catholic credentials, Garbett emphasized the Church’s continuity with the ancient church, its acceptance of the “three great Catholic Creeds, the

Apostles, the Nicene and the Athanasian”, and other “distinguishing marks of the

Catholic Church”. On the Reformed side of the ledger, Garbett highlighted “four permanent boons of incalculable value” that resulted from the Reformation: freedom from Roman oversight, freedom of individual conscience, commitment to the study of

Scripture, and “openness and simplicity in its services”.11

This dual nature of the Church of England – Catholic and Reformed – accounted for its wide diversity of practice and belief. Garbett cast acceptance of this diversity

(which he admitted had not always been forthcoming from Church authorities) as one of the treasures of the Church. Whereas the Roman Catholic Church insisted on its own infallibility and the unchanging nature of its doctrine, the Church of England was open to theological innovation – “Its leading theologians have welcomed what is true in modern thought”. As a result, it was a special mark of the Church of England that it could “prove

9 Garbett, The Claims of the Church of England, 7. 10 Neill, Anglicanism, 120–121. 11 Garbett, The Claims of the Church of England, 14–22.

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to the world that Catholicism can be progressive, to witness that Christianity has no fear of new discoveries”.12 Only through adopting a tolerant stance towards novel ideas and practices could the Church achieve this aim. The Church of England’s apparent broadmindedness allowed Garbett to become boastful: “It is to-day the most liberal- minded Church in the world; perhaps we might dare say it is the most charitable of all

Churches”.13 In a 1962 parliamentary debate, the Conservative MP Peter Kirk praised the

“secret” of the Church of England as its comprehensiveness and its commitment to

“keeping the mean and tolerance within itself and tolerance outside itself”. A self- described Anglo-Catholic, Kirk counted himself “happy that I live in a Low Church diocese and a Low Church parish and can worship just as happily there as in All Saints,

Margaret Street [a center of Anglo-Catholic worship in London]”.14

This theological breadth and tolerance was matched, in Garbett’s view, by the

Church of England’s ability and commitment to provide spiritual succor to everyone in the nation – “The whole country is mapped out into parishes, in each of which there is one or more of the clergy ready to conduct divine service and to give religious help to their parishioners. The parish church is intended for all who care to come within it, its bell rings to call all to prayer and praise, its doors are open so that all may enter who care to do so.” In Garbett’s estimation, this extensive geographic coverage justified the

Church of England’s claim that it “far more fully than other religious body makes spiritual provision for the people of the nation.”15 Echoing the sentiments of the

12 Ibid., 25–26. 13 Ibid., 28; This tolerance does not seem to have extended to Garbett’s own leadership. He was a harsh disciplinarian towards clergy under his charge who “once refused to license a curate because he had arrived three minutes late.” See Grimley, “Garbett, Cyril Forster.” 14 Parliamentary Debates, House of Commons, 1962, vol. 669, col. 783. 15 Garbett, The Claims of the Church of England, 188.

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Beveridge Report, Garbett spoke of the Church of England as providing “spiritual benefits to its laity from the cradle to the grave.”16 Under the theory of church and state articulated by Richard Hooker in the sixteenth century, these benefits would have been available to all: “there is not any man of the Church of England but the same man is also a member of the Commonwealth: nor any man a member of the Commonwealth which is not also of the Church of England.”17

Though Hooker’s dictum was no longer true by the twentieth century, the presumption that the people of England were entitled to the services of the Church endured both in law and in popular imagination.18 John Betjeman’s popular 1974 television program A Passion for Churches drew special attention to the daily prayers offered by Anglican clergymen. As images alternated between a Norfolk village and a vicar reading morning prayers in an otherwise empty church, Betjeman intoned: “At his ordination every Anglican priest promises to say morning and evening prayer daily. The vicar of Florden has rung the bell for Mattins each day for the past eleven years. It doesn’t matter that there’s no one there. It doesn’t matter when they do not come. The villagers know the parson is praying for them in their church.”19

The significance of these ideas of the Church of England as comprehensive and open-minded was threefold. First, the image of the Church of England as a spiritual equivalent to the materialist welfare state – offering benefits to all – was enshrined in the

16 Ibid., 160. 17 Richard Hooker, The Works of That Learned and Judicious Divine Mr. Richard Hooker, ed. John Keble, vol. 3, 7th ed. (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1888), 330. 18 In a 1962 House of Commons debate on parliamentary sovereignty of the Church of England, the sponsor of the motion, John E. Maginnis, quoted this passage from Hooker to establish the Church’s status as the national church. See Parliamentary Debates, House of Commons, 1962, vol. 669, col. 756. 19 A Passion for Churches (BBC-2, December 7, 1974), http://www.eafa.org.uk/catalogue/1270.

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Church’s legal position as the state church, subject to parliamentary sovereignty. As a result, the Church of England’s autonomy was held in check by a body whose interests did not always coincide with its own. These facts of establishment acted as a moderating force on the Church’s actions and public positions, both because the Church risked losing its legal status if it alienated public feeling and because it was sometimes subject to pressure from the government of the day. Second, the Anglican reputation for theological openness meant that a space was available for those who sought to challenge long-established doctrinal principles and moral precepts. That theological liberalism had its limits, as some of those modernist mavericks would find out. But it also meant that the Church of England played an important role in bringing about the legislative and cultural changes that constituted the permissive society. Third, the even-headed tolerance praised by Garbett created an almost visceral distaste for campaigners like Mary

Whitehouse who had a narrower vision of what a moral society looked like than traditional Anglican tolerance would allow.

The Church of England and the permissive society

In a chapter entitled “To-morrow” in which he laid out his vision for the future of the Church of England, Garbett outlined out a justification for changes in the moral teachings of the Church. As with other theological issues, Garbett had to walk a fine line between traditionalists and liberals. He understood the Church to have a “two-fold duty – to insist uncompromisingly on the binding nature of the traditional moral values and on the condemnation of their breach, and at the same time to apply and relate them to the special circumstances of our time.” While the essence of Christian morality did not

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change, applications of that morality were bound to differ in different circumstances:

“precepts originally given to small rural communities” might no longer be relevant to the

“changed circumstances of an international and industrial society.” Quoting the sociologist Karl Mannheim, Garbett argued that “There is an obligation on the Christian to be conservative in so far as the essence of Christian experience of life goes, and, on the other hand, to be very progressive as far as the understanding of changes in the modern world are concerned.” Garbett’s suggestions for how this translation of timeless morality into modern contexts should happen were modest: improved training of parochial clergy and continuing education to keep them up-to-date on the latest theological developments.20 More important than these proposals was the underlying principle that

Garbett laid out: the Church of England could and should modify its moral teachings to fit the particular conditions of modern society.

That Garbett wrote these words in 1947, well before the moral tumult of the

1960s, belies the idea that the liberalization of the Church of England’s moral teachings came only in reaction to the challenges offered by the radical individualists of the 1960s.

The Anglican bishop John Robinson is often credited with popularizing the idea of situational ethics in his controversial 1963 book Honest to God in which Robinson advanced the idea that there was “nothing prescribed – except love.” Robinson went on to argue that “nothing can of itself always be labelled as ‘wrong’.” Even acts like premarital sex or divorce were not “wrong or sinful in themselves” because the “only intrinsic evil is lack of love”.21 Garbett would almost certainly have rejected Robinson’s claims that divorce and extramarital sex could be moral acts. But Robinson’s insistence

20 Garbett, The Claims of the Church of England, 287–288. 21 John A. T Robinson, Honest to God (London: SCM Press, 1963), 116–118.

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that moral acts required judgment and attention to the situation at hand was not so far from Garbett’s principle that moral precepts be applied to the “special circumstances of our time”. A shared Anglican tolerance for progressive theology linked Garbett and

Robinson’s claims.

This openness to new understandings of traditional moral teachings created the space in which Anglican figures would play an important role in bringing about the legislative reforms that created the “permissive” (or, in the words of Labour Home

Secretary Roy Jenkins, “civilized”) society. Arthur Marwick has identified five key areas that embodied permissiveness: the suspension and eventual abolition of capital punishment; the legalization of abortion; the availability, through the National Health

Service, of contraceptives; the decriminalization of homosexuality; and the liberalization of divorce laws.22 In each case, the Church of England helped shape these changes – sometimes of its own accord and sometimes because it was forced into action. As far back as 1972, the sociologist Oliver McGregor identified the Church of England as the

“putative father of ‘the permissive society’”.23 The Church’s cautiously progressive positions on controversial issues of the 1960s cannot be reduced to either a reactive attempt to keep up with the times or an altruistic recognition of the need for reform to improve the condition of society. Instead, the Church’s shifting ideas on issues like homosexuality, contraception, and divorce resulted from the interaction of popular and political pressures for reform, changes in Anglican social thought, and the Church of

England’s position as the established church.

22 Arthur Marwick, The Sixties: Cultural Revolution in Britain, France, Italy, and the United States, C. 1958 - C. 1974 (Oxford and New York: Oxford University Press, 1998), 265. 23 O.R. McGregor, “Equality, Sexual Values and Permissive Legislation: The English Experience,” Journal of Social Policy 1, no. 1 (January 1972): 56.

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In Callum Brown’s accounts of religious decline in the 1960s, the most important force underlying the liberalization of society was not the liberal turn in Christian thought but popular discontent with the puritanism imposed by conservative Christianity. In

Brown’s words: “while liberal Christians sought reform, […] the liberal challenge to conservative Christian pillarisation and to puritanical Christian culture would not have succeeded but for the external popular challenge. […] the sixties religious crisis […] was an outside assault on Christianity as a whole for the wrongs perpetrated by its conservative wing upon the personal liberty of the people.”24 In other words, the apparent liberalization in Christian thought on social issues was merely a sideshow to the main event: the popular challenge to puritanism. By arguing for an “early” revolution in sexual behavior that began around 1960, Brown has contended that the political and religious liberalism of the 1960s was an attempt by politicians and churches to “keep pace with a heterosexual revolution induced in no small measure by the single woman and her crisis of faith.”25

The problem with Brown’s interpretation of the liberal turn in English

Christianity is that in his focus on changes in popular culture and behavior, he pays too little attention to the timing and circumstances underlying the transformations in

Christian moral thinking. Even if he is right that the sexual revolution began in 1960,

Brown’s explanatory framework is unable to explain how or why some Christian thinkers had already begun challenging moral norms about contraception and the decriminalization of homosexuality. More fruitful would be a recognition that changes

24 Callum G. Brown, “What Was the Religious Crisis of the 1960s?,” Journal of Religious History 34, no. 4 (December 2010): 478. 25 Brown, “Sex, Religion, and the Single Woman,” 215 and passim.

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both in sexual behavior and ideas about sexual relations had already been taking place since the First World War. In contrast to the liberal, progressive story of permissiveness told by Marwick and Brown, historians like Claire Langhamer and Frank Mort have challenged narratives that focus solely on the rebellious youth of the 1960s. Langhamer highlights how anxiety about the seemingly widespread incidence of adultery in the

1950s helped pave the way for the later reform of the divorce law.26 Mort’s richly textured account of London in the 1950s suggests that the roots of the permissive society stretched back to the late nineteenth century. While Mort concurs with Brown’s dismissal of experts and the intelligentsia as the driving force behind the changes of the

1960s, he suggests that the agents of change were not ordinary people but the “upper- class leaders of London’s fashionable society”.27 In taking a populist perspective on how permissiveness came about, Brown effaces the complexity of both sociocultural change and the churches’ responses to the sexual uncertainty of the 1950s and 1960s.

Hugh McLeod adopts this more gradualist and long-term perspective to understanding changing ideas about morality by pointing out that many of the permissive reforms of the 1960s had their origins in the 1930s. For McLeod, the liberalization of the churches was a major factor in bringing about the legislative changes of the 1960s, not least because the “reforms were enacted by middle-aged and elderly legislators, who firmly rejected the only demand coming from the youth and counter-cultures, namely the legalization of marijuana.” In contrast to the lack of political power held by rebellious youth, the Church of England retained political power both formally (through the

26 Claire Langhamer, “Sexual Politics in Mid Twentieth-Century Britain: Adultery in Post-war England,” History Workshop Journal no. 62 (2006): 87–115. 27 Frank Mort, Capital Affairs: London and the Making of the Permissive Society (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2010), 4–6.

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presence of bishops in the House of Lords) and informally (through communication between the government and Lambeth Palace).28

McLeod rightly points out that, though we have come to see the permissive reforms of the 1960s as a single package, churches did not adopt a single position in which they universally supported or rejected all of the proposed reforms.29 Instead, churches considered each issue on an individual basis, though it is possible to trace some common principles across different issues. Tracing the origins and influence of changing ideas of morality within the Church of England requires sensitivity to the context in which each issue came to the fore and how legislative reforms were brought about.

Broadly speaking, the positions adopted by liberal reformers within the Church of

England fit into the framework of “situational ethics” in two senses: first, in the usual sense of the term, i.e. the Church accepted the principle that the morality of some acts was dependent on the situation and circumstances in which those acts took place; second, the liberalization of the Church’s ethical teachings can be seen as a response to the situation in which it found itself, namely the shifting moral terrain of British society and culture in the 1950s 1960s.

Critical to the Church’s evolving position on state enforcement of moral norms was anxiety about how the growing welfare state might impinge on the private sphere of individual action where, it was believed, the churches’ influence should take precedence over the brute force of the state.30 As early as 1947, Cyril Garbett had warned that “With

28 McLeod, The Religious Crisis of the 1960s, 219–221, 231–233; For a discussion of the churches’ positions on moral issues in the interwar period, see G.I.T. Machin, Churches and Social Issues in Twentieth-Century Britain (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1998), chap. 3. 29 McLeod, The Religious Crisis of the 1960s, 220–221. 30 Matthew Grimley, “Law, Morality and Secularisation: The Church of England and the Wolfenden Report, 1954-1967,” The Journal of Ecclesiastical History 60, no. 4 (October 2009): 730–731.

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the Industrial Revolution and the creation of the Totalitarian State new moral problems have arisen.”31 In a 1952 speech to the Free Church Federal Council, the Swiss theologian Emil Brunner warned that “Every step towards a collectivist society inevitably tends towards a decrease of the sense of responsibility, towards shifting responsibility from the individual person towards the collectivity, the State.”32 Committed to defending the private sphere from colonization by the state, influential figures within the Church grew increasingly skeptical of the state’s role as a moral enforcer.

The key organization through which the Church of England influenced legislation and public debate on moral issues was its Moral Welfare Council (reconstituted as the

Board for Social Responsibility in 1958).33 As it sought to develop new perspectives on social and moral questions, the Moral Welfare Council drew heavily on the work of experts in medicine and social science.34 The Moral Welfare Council’s openness to shifting moral precepts was captured in the introduction to its 1959 report on family planning and contraception. “We account it an axiom that the Church […] has a duty, under the Holy Spirit, to study the local situation and so to order its teaching and pastoral ministry and organization that it can perceive and do the will of God in that situation.”35

This language of matching the Church’s teaching to the “local situation” echoed the claims of Cyril Garbett twelve years before. From the mid-1950s until the late 1960s, the

Moral Welfare Council and the Board for Social Responsibility published a raft of reports

31 Garbett, The Claims of the Church of England, 287–288. 32 Emil Brunner, The Church and the New Social Order (London: SCM Press, 1952), 16. 33 Paul A. Welsby, How the Church of England Works: Its Structure and Procedure (London: SPCK, 1960), 127. 34 Jane Lewis and Patrick Wallis, “Fault, Breakdown and the Church of England’s Involvement in the 1969 Divorce Reform,” Twentieth Century British History 11 (2000): 316. 35 The Family in Contemporary Society (London: S.P.C.K., 1959), 2.

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on homosexuality, divorce, suicide, capital punishment, contraception, artificial insemination, sterilization, abortion, illegitimacy, and euthanasia.36

Church opinion was markedly more progressive than public opinion on two issues later seen as part of the emergence of the permissive society: the abolition of capital punishment and the decriminalization of homosexual acts. In spite of enduring popular support for the death penalty, senior Anglicans were almost uniform in their opposition by the middle of the twentieth century. In the 1930s, both William Temple and Cyril

Garbett called for the abolition of capital punishment.37 In his maiden speech in the

House of Lords in 1956, Michael Ramsey argued that “the State, by taking life as a penalty for murder, is not contributing to the sense in the public of the sanctity of life as much as it would be doing if it refrained from taking life as a penalty for murder.”38 As parliamentary support for abolition slowly grew in the early 1960s, the Economist suggested that “The effect of the opinion of the Anglican Church on the views of

Conservative backbenchers, although a force that moves slowly and sometimes mysteriously, can be surprisingly decisive.”39 When suspension and abolition of the

36 The Problem of Homosexuality: An Interim Report by a Group of Anglican Clergy and Doctors (London: Church Information Board, 1954); Sexual Offenders and Social Punishment (Westminster: Church Information Board, 1956); Quentin Edwards, What Is Unlawful: Does Innocence Begin Where Crime Ends (Westminster: Church Information Office, 1959); Marriage, Divorce, and the Royal Commission (Westminster: Church Information Board, 1956); Ought Suicide to Be a Crime? A Discussion of Suicide, Attempted Suicide and the Law (London: Church Information Office, 1959); Punishment (London: Church Information Office, 1963); The Family in Contemporary Society; Geoffrey Fisher, Artificial Insemination by Donor: Two Contributions to a Christian Judgment (London: Church Information Office, 1959); Abortion: An Ethical Discussion (Westminster: Church Information Office, 1965); Fatherless by Law? The Law and Welfare of Children Designated Illegitimate (London: Church Information Office, 1966); Decisions About Life and Death: A Problem in Modern Medicine (London: Church Information Office, 1965). 37 William Temple, The Death Penalty (London: National Council for the Abolition of the Death Penalty, 1935); Cyril Garbett, The Death Penalty (London: National Council for the Abolition of the Death Penalty, 1935). 38 Parliamentary Debates, House of Lords, vol. 198, 5th Ser., 1956, col. 597. 39 Quoted in Chadwick, Michael Ramsey: A Life, 159.

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death penalty came in 1965 and 1969 respectively, Anglican bishops in the House of

Lords voted overwhelmingly in favor.40

Even more striking was the role played by the Church of England in the decriminalization of homosexual acts. As with the death penalty, the Church was, in historian Matthew Grimley’s estimation, “well in advance of public opinion” on the issue of decriminalization.41 Grimley also argues that a 1954 Moral Welfare Council report on homosexuality contributed to the decision to include homosexuality in the remit of the

Wolfenden Committee, initially envisioned solely as an enquiry into prostitution.42

Speaking in favor of a high-level commission on homosexuality, the Labour MP

Desmond Donnelly found it “quite unusual for the law to interfere in what is essentially a moral issue” and pointed to the Moral Welfare Council’s “wise, sane and sober pamphlet” on the topic to support this claim.43 Lord Ritchie similarly pointed to the fact that “considerable sections of Church opinion favour some reexamination of the law” as a justification for an inquiry into homosexuality.44

In its 1956 submission to the Wolfenden enquiry, the Moral Welfare Council suggested that the issues of crime and sin be separated: that homosexual acts were sinful did not mean that the state should punish them as crimes – “it is not the function of the state and the law to constitute themselves the guardians of private morality, […] to deal with sin as such belongs to the province of the Church”.45 The Wolfenden report accepted this principle of a sphere of private morality that should be free of interference

40 McLeod, The Religious Crisis of the 1960s, 222. 41 Grimley, “Law, Morality and Secularisation,” 727. 42 Ibid., 727–728. 43 Parliamentary Debates, House of Commons, vol. 526, 5th Ser., 1954, col. 1748. 44 Parliamentary Debates, House of Lords, vol. 187, 5th Ser., 1954, col. 758. 45 Quoted in Grimley, “Law, Morality and Secularisation,” 730.

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by the state when it recommended that “homosexual behaviour between consenting adults in private should no longer be a criminal offence.”46 When the decriminalization came in the form of the 1967 Sexual Offences Act, it followed this recommendation.47

Speaking in favor of decriminalization, Michael Ramsey declared that, in supporting the law, he did not seek to “condone the wrongness of the acts, but to put them in the realm of private moral responsibility.”48 Without the (sometimes tenuous) support of the

Church of England for reforming the law, decriminalization might have been delayed. In

Scotland, where the Church of Scotland opposed the recommendations of the Wolfenden

Report, decriminalization did not take place until 1980.49

To be sure, the Church of England Moral Welfare Council did not invent the idea of a private sphere of morality that should be free of state coercion. John Stuart Mill famously outlined this idea in On Liberty in 1859.50 Mill’s arguments in favor of individual freedom provoked a response from the jurist James Fitzjames Stephen, who rejected Mill’s assumption that individuals’ existence and actions could be separated from their place in human society. Stephen contended that “The strong metaphor that we are all members one of another is little more than the expression of a fact. A man would no more be a man if he was alone in the world than a hand would be a hand without the rest of the body.”51 The Wolfenden report prompted a renewal of this debate over the

46 Report of the Committee of the Committee on Homosexual Offences and Prostitution (London: Her Majesty’s Stationery Office, September 1957), para. 62; For an account that stresses the churches’ influence in shaping this recommendation, see McGregor, “Equality, Sexual Values and Permissive Legislation,” 54. 47 Sexual Offences Act, 1967, C. 60, 1967, sec. 1. 48 Parliamentary Debates, House of Lords, vol. 266, 5th Series, 1965, col. 80–84. 49 Grimley, “Law, Morality and Secularisation,” 732. 50 John Stuart Mill, “On Liberty” with “The Subjection of Women” and “Chapters on Socialism,” ed. Stefan Collini (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1989), 80–84. 51 James Fitzjames Stephen, Liberty, Equality, Fraternity, 2nd ed. (London: H. Elder & Co., 1874), 140– 141.

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role of the state in enforcing morality in an exchange between the jurist Patrick Devlin and the philosopher H.L.A. Hart. Devlin supported the right of the state to enforce morality even when it came to apparently private acts on the grounds that immoral activity posed a threat to social stability. Hart adopted Mill’s defense of a private sphere that should be kept free from the intervention of the state.52 The Moral Welfare Council’s endorsement of the Mill’s position regarding the existence of a private sphere of morality presaged Hart’s later and fuller explication of the idea. The point, then, is not that

Anglican thinkers created the ideas that led to the decriminalization of homosexual acts.

Instead, the work of the Moral Welfare Council shows how figures in Church of England played an important role in popularizing and legitimating the ideas underlying the change in the law.

Increasingly liberal views on contraception within the Church of England also predated the sexual revolution of the 1960s. As early as 1930, the Lambeth Conference had cautiously endorsed the use of artificial means of contraception by married couples in a limited set of circumstances.53 The archbishop of Canterbury, Cosmo Gordon Long, admitted that this approval had come about “in the presence of a great and growing change, almost revolution, in the customs of married life throughout the whole world.”54

In 1958, the Lambeth Conference went further by approving a resolution that declared the use of contraceptives by married couples to be an issue of individual conscience, not subject to the moral strictures of the Church.55 Hugh McLeod and G.I.T. Machin have

52 Patrick Devlin, The Enforcement of Morals (London: Oxford University Press, 1965), 1–25; H.L.A. Hart, Law, Liberty and Morality (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1963). 53 Lambeth Conference, The Life and Witness of the Christian Community - Marriage and Sex, Resolution 15, 1930, http://www.lambethconference.org/resolutions/1930/1930-15.cfm. 54 Machin, Churches and Social Issues in Twentieth-Century Britain, 87, 92. 55 Ibid., 152.

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highlighted how this shift reflected a recognition of the value of sexual intercourse

(within marriage) outside of its procreative function.56

Just as important as these shifting views of sex was the global problem of population control. Significantly, the Lambeth Conference was not a strictly Church of

England affair. As an assembly of bishops from throughout the worldwide Anglican

Communion, the Lambeth Conference was sensitive to the issue of over-population. The report prepared by the Moral Welfare Council in advance of the 1958 Lambeth

Conference included an extensive discussion of over-population and case studies of India, the West Indies, and Africa and highlighted the need for effective family planning.57 The resolution endorsing the conscientious use of contraception by married couples declared that “Such responsible parenthood, built on obedience to all the duties of marriage, requires a wise stewardship of the resources and abilities of the family as well as a thoughtful consideration of the varying population needs and problems of society and the claims of future generations.”58

When the provision of contraception by the National Health Service came up for debate in parliament, the Church of England did nothing to oppose it. Under the proposed 1967 National Health Service (Family Planning) Act, local authorities would be granted the authority to provide birth control.59 Speaking in favor of the 1967 bill, the bishop of Chester (the only bishop to participate in the Lords debate on the bill) pointed

56 McLeod, The Religious Crisis of the 1960s, 233; Machin, Churches and Social Issues in Twentieth- Century Britain, 152. 57 The Family in Contemporary Society, 49–89, 220–229. 58 Lambeth Conference, The Life and Witness of the Christian Community - Marriage and Sex. 59 Initially, local authorities were under no obligation to provide contraceptive services for free - “sex on the rates” as its critics described it. But by 1969, 170 out of 175 local authorities were providing contraceptives under the 1967 Act. Hera Cook, The Long Sexual Revolution: English Women, Sex, and Contraception, 1800-1975 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2004), 302–303; Parliamentary Debates, House of Commons, vol. 784, 5th ser., 1969, col. 30–31.

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to the 1958 Lambeth Conference resolution and suggested that “as a result of this Bill the moral issue about which many of us care deeply will be enhanced.” Though he admitted that the proposed law could be interpreted as “adding still further justification for sexual license or as the giving of Parliamentary approval to unrestricted sexual intercourse”, he placed his trust in the fact that the new law would encourage men and women to go to

“skilled and trained persons, who have no ulterior motives” rather than “commercial sources”.60

While the Church of England encouraged or tacitly accepted legislative change in the realms of capital punishment, homosexuality, and contraception, its attitude towards reform in divorce was more reactive and ambivalent. In 1963, the Labour MP Leo Abse introduced the Matrimonial Causes and Reconciliation Bill as a private member’s bill.

Abse’s proposed legislation would have added two grounds for divorce to the existing law: two years of desertion and seven years of separation. Though the Church of

England was taken by surprise, it quickly organized a campaign against the bill and succeeded in defeating it. The Church rejected the principle of seven years of separation as grounds for divorce as an acknowledgment of the idea that marriage could be ended through mutual consent. The idea of divorce as a result of mutual consent represented a serious challenge to the Christian principle of marriage as a lifelong bond, not simply a contract that its participants could agree to dissolve.61

Three years later, a group appointed by the archbishop of Canterbury published a report, Putting Asunder, on possible reforms of the law on divorce. Though the group

60 Parliamentary Debates, House of Lords, vol. 283, 5th Ser., 1967, col. 160–162. 61 Lewis and Wallis, “Fault, Breakdown and the Church of England’s Involvement in the 1969 Divorce Reform,” 311–313.

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continued to reject the principle of divorce by mutual consent, it recommended a new legal procedure for divorce that could recognize a lengthy separation as a justification for divorce.62 To reconcile these two principles, the report recommended the replacement of the older concept of “matrimonial offence” as the grounds for divorce by the idea of

“breakdown of marriage”. Under this proposal, a husband and wife were not seen as able to determine whether such breakdown had occurred. Instead, the report envisioned a divorce court which would dissolve “the marriage if, and only if, having regard to the interests of society as well as those immediately affected by its decision, it judged it wrong to maintain the legal existence of a relationship that was beyond all probably of existing again in fact.”63 Under this system, a lengthy period of separation would be seen as evidence of a breakdown of marriage that the court would consider rather than an automatic ground for divorce.

Soon after the publication of Putting Asunder, the Law Commission published its own set of recommendations about how to reform the law on divorce. The Law

Commission accepted the idea that the principle of breakdown should replace that of matrimonial offence but rejected as “procedurally impracticable” the Church’s proposal that all potential divorces be subjected to a judicial inquest to determine whether, in fact, the marriage had broken down.64 The 1969 Divorce Reform Act which resulted from a lengthy legislative process a few years later represented an awkward compromise between these two reports. The principle of breakdown was instituted as the sole ground for divorce, as Putting Asunder had sought. But, contrary to the recommendations in

62 Putting Asunder: A Divorce Law for Contemporary Society (London: S.P.C.K., 1966), para. 48, 82. 63 Ibid., para. 55. 64 The Law Commission, Reform of the Grounds of Divorce: The Field of Choice (London: Her Majesty’s Stationery Office, November 1966), para. 120(5).

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Putting Asunder that each marriage be subjected to the close scrutiny of a court to determine whether it had, in fact, broken down, the new law instituted separation for two years (if both parties agreed) or five years (if there was disagreement) as sufficient evidence that breakdown had occurred.65 Though this compromise left many Anglicans

(including Michael Ramsey) discontented, the Church of England accepted the reforms.

The question emerges, therefore, of why the Church of England went along with changes in the law surrounding divorce that it had so vociferously objected to just six years before when it defeated Leo Abse’s earlier bill. The explanation lies in the political circumstances of the early 1960s and in the fact that its status as the established church brought it a special status with respect to the registration of marriages. In 1963, with a general election looming, the Conservative Party sought to prevent divorce reform from becoming a political issue which might sink its electoral prospects. If the Church of

England were to come out in favor of some sort of reform, the Conservative Party could point to both its modernizing credentials and the imprimatur of the Church, thereby appealing to both progressive and traditionalist voters. Figures from the cabinet and civil service played important roles in selecting the membership of the group that would write

Putting Asunder. The political desirability of reform placed tight constraints on the group and determined the general shape of its recommendations.66

In spite of the apparently crude political circumstances that led to Putting

Asunder, the Church of England accepted the reforms that resulted because they incorporated the principle of marital breakdown. The likely alternative – divorce by

65 Lewis and Wallis, “Fault, Breakdown and the Church of England’s Involvement in the 1969 Divorce Reform,” 327. 66 Ibid., 314, 321–322.

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mutual consent – would directly challenge the Church’s conception of marriage as a lifelong bond and therefore make the Church’s position on marriage incompatible with the new form of civil marriage. The compromise inherent in the 1969 Divorce Reform

Act “allowed the church to assert that marriage was unchanged by the reforms” and “to go on treating Christian and civil marriage as compatible.”67 In other words, the Church tacitly accepted the principle of “mutual consent” as grounds for divorce as long as those forbidden words were left unspoken.

Though the Church of England accepted the reforms of the 1969 Divorce Reform

Act, it continued to insist that Christian marriage was a lifelong bond – the remarriage in church of divorced individuals whose ex-spouses were still living remained prohibited without a special license. As archbishop of Canterbury, Michael Ramsey consistently refused such requests. But in a characteristically tolerant move, Ramsey was open to blessing couples that had undertaken civil weddings.68 The Church’s openness on this issue received wide publicity in 1975 when 18 million viewers of the ATV soap opera

Crossroads saw Meg Richardson and Hugh Mortimer marry in the Birmingham Registry

Office then receive a blessing in an elaborate Anglican ceremony in Birmingham cathedral.69 Conservatives in the Church of England were aghast. A parish priest in

Cornwall complained that the “unseemly” presentation of a service of blessing for two divorced people kneeling on the altar of an Anglican cathedral that included the nuptial blessing from the Book of Common Prayer and took place on the altar of an Anglican cathedral “completely undermined what most of us in the C of E are trying to teach about

67 Ibid., 329, 332. 68 Chadwick, Michael Ramsey: A Life, 153. 69 “John Bentley,” The Guardian, August 18, 2009, http://www.guardian.co.uk/culture/2009/aug/18/john- bentley-obituary.

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Christian marriage.”70 The bishop of Birmingham defended the use of the cathedral for the blessing on the grounds that the program included a conversation between the characters and the “clergyman” who officiated at the blessing which made clear that the

Church of England did not allow remarriage. Though he admitted that the “actual form of the ‘service’ was slightly more elaborate than that which I have authorised for use in this diocese”, the bishop felt that the “matter has done more good than harm, in giving wide publicity to the fact that the Church includes in its compassion those who by their marriage history are excluded from the opportunity of a church wedding service.”71

The Crossroads wedding encapsulated the liberalism of the Church of England in the aftermath of the 1960s. On the one hand, the Church continued to express fidelity to its long-held precepts and teachings: the Church still taught that marriage was a lifelong bond and that homosexual acts were sinful. On the other hand, these principles did not preclude welcoming those who did not quite live up to the Church’s discipline. Writing about gay people in 1978, Donald Coggan argued that “Some males and some females are ‘born that way’ and cannot, therefore, be condemned. And if we regard this as abnormal or defective there is an even stronger reason why the Church should grant them the full benefit of its fellowship.”72 Not everyone was happy about this liberalism – conservatives flooded Lambeth Palace with letters complaining about how the Church had abandoned its historic doctrines and teachings. One correspondent, writing from a village outside of Manchester, asked, “Do you not think that the Church of England has betrayed Christianity, by turning a blind eye to easy divorce, abortion, contraception,

70 Patrick Howlett to Donald Coggan, April 4, 1975, Coggan 6, f. 144, Lambeth Palace Library. 71 Laurence Brown to Douglas Cleverley Ford, April 23, 1975, Coggan 6, f. 147, Lambeth Palace Library. 72 Donald Coggan to Raymond Johnston, November 10, 1978, Coggan 67, ff. 364-365, Lambeth Palace Library.

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homosexuality and maybe, in the future, to euthanasia?”73 But while conservatives were discontented, the Church’s cautious progressivism had created a new image of the

Church as fully compatible with modern society.

The avoidance of controversy and the quest for the middle ground

Though the Church of England embraced a broadly liberal position on many issues of the day, proclaiming that liberalism too loudly had its consequences, as Michael

Ramsey learned to his chagrin in 1965. As the white-supremacist government of Ian

Smith contemplated unilateral independence for Rhodesia from the United Kingdom on lines that would preserve white rule, the British Council of Churches passed a resolution declaring that the British government should withhold acceptance of Rhodesian independence if it did not come with political rights for Africans. Speaking to the British

Council of Churches at its meeting in Aberdeen in October 1965, Ramsey went further:

“if the British government thought it practicable to use force for the protection of the rights of the majority of the Rhodesian people, then I think that as Christians we have to say that it will be right to use force to that end.”74 Ramsey’s remarks sparked a firestorm of criticism. The Daily Express depicted Ramsey as a smiling pilot of a bomber festooned with scalloped Gothic arches and carrying a bomb labeled “filled with explosive sermons.”75 Criticism of Ramsey ranged from supporters of the Smith-led

Rhodesian Front to pacifists like the Methodist leader Donald Soper. One protester spray-painted “PEACE” on the altar of Canterbury cathedral and Ramsey was given

73 W.J. McGregor to Michael Ramsey, June 18, 1973, Ramsey 259, ff. 133-134, Lambeth Palace Library. 74 Quoted in Chadwick, Michael Ramsey: A Life, 245. 75 Daily Express, 28 October 1965.

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police protection during services at the cathedral. The criticism of Quintin Hogg, a devoted Christian, was especially stinging. Hogg pointed to the blunders of Ramsey,

Fisher, John Robinson, and Mervyn Stockwood as exhibits for why the current system of choosing bishops should be replaced by a system of elections and fixed terms. Hogg’s article was accompanied by a cartoon of Britannia brought to her knees by the excited proclamations of Fisher, Robinson, Stockwood, and Ramsey.76

Ramsey seems to have been surprised by the vehemence of the criticism that his remarks generated - the meetings of the British Council of Churches, especially when held far from London, rarely merited much press coverage.77 But when the archbishop of

Canterbury said something controversial, the press was almost guaranteed to jump on the story and milk it for all it was worth. One of Ramsey’s biographers has suggested that it was the remoteness of the British Council of Churches meeting that led to the slip-up – far from Lambeth Palace and his public-relations-minded staff, Ramsey erred by sharing his views too candidly.78 This assessment mirrored the opinion of the Anglican prison chaplain Richard Blake Brown, who recorded in his diary that “Ramsey has made a serious ass of himself, and put himself crazily in the wrong by asserting so confidently his private views (in public), which he will no doubt now have to try to water down as best he can.”79

Brown’s remarks captured the crux of the problem: by speaking his private views too forthrightly, Ramsey had failed to properly manage the public image of the Church of

England as a moderate force in the political sphere. Banal disapprovals of Smith’s

76 Chadwick, Michael Ramsey: A Life, 245–247. 77 Ibid., 245. 78 Michael De-la -Noy, Michael Ramsey: A Portrait (London: Collins, 1990), 184. 79 Richard Blake Brown, October 28, 1965, Diary vol. 9, Richard Blake Brown papers.

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actions were one thing. Appearing to call for military action against a white population still widely seen as British was something else entirely. Brown’s suggestion that Ramsey would have to “water down” his opinions in order to save face is equally telling and suggestive of a characteristic Anglican response: when charged with extremism, best to tack to the center.

This need to present the position of the Church of England as moderate and reasonable was almost a structural requirement of the archbishop of Canterbury’s position as the public face of the Church. What the archbishop of Canterbury said was news, whether or not he wanted it to be – a misstep was bound to generate controversy.

Archbishops of Canterbury had long recognized this fact. William Temple was a case in point. Temple has acquired a reputation as a prophetic voice, above the fray of mundane politicking.80 But Temple was a shrewd political operator and knew how to get things done without alienating key constituencies. R.A. Butler’s memoirs attest to Temple’s political astuteness. Temple’s cooperation with Butler was instrumental to the passage of the 1944 Education Act.81 In a 1942 letter to the Methodist leader J. Scott Lidgett on his recent speech on religious education to the Church-affiliated National Society for

Promoting Religious Education, Temple wrote that his speech was aimed at “carry[ing] the bulk of the National Society with me as far as might seem possible” and thereby

“avoid the formation of a Church Schools Emergency League.”82 Temple knew that his

80 Welsby, A History of the Church of England, 1945-1980, 5–6; Adrian Hastings, “Temple, William (1881-1944),” Oxford Dictionary of National Biography (Oxford: Oxford University Press, May 2012), http://www.oxforddnb.com/view/article/36454. 81 R.A. Butler, The Art of the Possible: The Memoirs of Lord Butler (London: Hamish Hamilton, 1971), 102–104; Green, “The 1944 Education Act.” 82 William Temple to J. Scott Lidgett, June 18, 1942, W. Temple 19, f. 109, Lambeth Palace Library.

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remarks had the potential to spark a public controversy and chose his words carefully to avoid a furor.

This tendency towards managing the Church’s public image by avoiding entanglement with positions outside the mainstream was typical of senior figures in the

Church of England throughout the second half of the twentieth century. In the early

1950s, Geoffrey Fisher and Cyril Garbett plotted how to take action against the potential relaxation of restrictions on Sunday employment and sport. Fisher warned against the

Church of England recommending a royal commission on Sunday work on the grounds that any public discussion of the laws on Sunday observance “would be very thorny and invite controversy and why should we be the people to invite in the controversy.”83

Garbett wanted to take some action against the introduction of professional rugby league games on Sundays but was “quite sure that any association with” the enthusiastically sabbatarian Lord’s Day Observance Society “would be quite fatal to any action we might take.”84

Fisher took heed of this advice when the Imperial Alliance for the Defence of

Sunday and the Lord’s Day Observance Society approached him with complaints about

Prince Philip’s Sunday polo-playing. When the Lord’s Day Observance Society requested that Fisher present the Queen with a petition that she no longer attend Philip’s

Sunday polo matches, Fisher replied that “any steps I can take must be taken entirely privately, confidentially and personally: for that reason I should not find myself able to

83 Geoffrey Fisher to Cyril Garbett, May 24, 1951, Fisher 91, f. 274, Lambeth Palace Library. 84 Cyril Garbett to Geoffrey Fisher, May 4, 1950, Fisher 77, f. 345, Lambeth Palace Library; Fisher agreed that professional sport on Sundays should be resisted but joked that the question of rugby league was Garbett’s concern rather than his own since the “Rugby League (professional Rugby) is, I think, entirely confined to the North of England.” See Geoffrey Fisher to Cyril Garbett, May 6, 1950, Fisher 77, f. 346, Lambeth Palace Library.

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present any Petition or address promoted by the Lord’s Day Observance Society. If the

Society wishes to take action it must take it itself.”85 Fisher was true to his word – when, after several years of complaints, Fisher finally took action, it was through a private letter to Philip in which he carefully distanced himself from sabbatarians who were “fighting a lost battle and only embarrass those who try to form a wise Christian judgment.”.86

Philip’s defense that he always attended church, refrained from shooting, hunting, and fishing on Sunday, and required physical exercise to “relax and refresh myself” seems to have satisfied Fisher, who took no further action.87 Even when agreeing with the aims of groups like the Lord’s Day Observance Society, then, senior Church figures sought to avoid public association with them.

This penchant for keeping extremists at arm’s length came to the fore during the

1960s and 1970s when the introduction of permissive legislation and shifting standards in broadcasting and film inspired the reaction of moral campaigners like Mary Whitehouse and the Nationwide Festival of Light. As archbishop of Canterbury from 1961 until

1974, Michael Ramsey received a flood of correspondence and requests from campaigners urging the Church of England to fight back against the sexualization of

British society. Though Mary Whitehouse first came to prominence in 1964, she sent only a handful of letters to Lambeth Palace in the 1960s. The Church of England’s primary engagement with Whitehouse did not take place until the early 1970s when she

85 Geoffrey Fisher to Harold Legerton, July 14, 1954, Fisher 149, ff. 49, Lambeth Palace Library. 86 Geoffrey Fisher to Philip, Duke of Edinburgh, September 9, 1955, Fisher 163, ff. 183-184, Lambeth Palace Library; Geoffrey Fisher, “On Sunday Observance,” September 1955, Fisher 163, ff. 185-188, Lambeth Palace Library. 87 Philip, Duke of Edinburgh to Geoffrey Fisher, September 27, 1955, Fisher 163, ff. 189-192, Lambeth Palace Library; Geoffrey Fisher to Philip, Duke of Edinburgh, October 3, 1955, Fisher 163, f. 193, Lambeth Palace Library.

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became closely involved with the Nationwide Festival of Light. But before the Church faced the challenge of managing Whitehouse in the 1970s, it had to deal with another schoolteacher from the West Midlands: Miss D.C. Howlett.

Howlett never achieved the fame or notoriety of Whitehouse, but she seems to have been just as energetic. After the Labour government proposed a new Education Act in 1967, the National Secular Society and British Humanist Association sought to use the opportunity to revise or even eliminate the religious education requirements that had been in place since the 1944 Education Act. In response to this apparent danger, Howlett pushed for the Christian Education Movement to defend religious education against the secularist threat. When the Christian Education Movement seemed unwilling to take action, Howlett took matters into her own hands and formed the National Association for

Teachers of Religious Knowledge (NATORK), whose aims were to “defend the existing arrangements for Religious Education” and thereby “maintain the true religion of this country and its ancient faith in Jesus Christ”. NATORK’s meetings, apparently always led by Howlett, took on the feeling of an evangelical revival: one account described a meeting where “rousing sermons were delivered, stirring hymns sung and the Salvation

Army Band going it fortissimo”.88

This enthusiasm and apparently rigid commitment to the precise terms of the 1944

Education Act did little to endear Howlett or her campaign to the religious education establishment. As a commission on religious education headed by the bishop of Durham began soliciting evidence, A.G. Wedderspoon of the Christian Education Movement

88 Stephen G. Parker, Rob Freathy, and Jonathan Doney, “The English Movement for Christian Education and Its Journals, C.1920 to 1970,” in Institutionalization and Profile of RE: Selected European Case Studies, ed. B. Schroeder (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, n.d.). I would like to thank the authors for sharing this article prior to its publication.

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wrote to the commission warning them of Howlett’s activities. Wedderspoon described

Howlett as having a “fixation that there is a secularist plot to oust Religious Education from the schools” and described how Howlett had lobbied MPs and even petitioned the

Queen to act as President of her organization. Wedderspoon thought it important to point out that the Christian Education Movement had formally dissociated itself from

Howlett’s campaign.89

Rebuffed by the Christian Education Movement and other parts of the religious education establishment, Howlett directed her efforts towards Lambeth Palace by asking

Michael Ramsey for his permission to circulate a NATORK petition to Anglican bishops.

Ramsey offered a lukewarm reply, simply thanking Howlett for her letter and assuring her of his “great concern about this matter”. Not to be deterred, Howlett interpreted

Ramsey’s expression of good will as permission to circulate her petition. Forced by

Howlett’s persistence to spell out his position more explicitly, Ramsey insisted that “My letter was not intended to be an approval of your organisation. […] I must tell you that neither my last letter nor this brings you any encouragement to circularise Bishops or incumbents with a view to signing your petition.” Further correspondence from Howlett led Ramsey to decide that he would not risk encouraging Howlett with a reply.90

This response from Ramsey was in line with the advice offered by the Church of

England’s Board of Education which described NATORK’s “rigid commitment to the precise terms of the 1944 Act” as “quite ludicrous” and recommended that “nothing

89 A.G. Wedderspoon to F.H. Hilliard, November 6, 1967, NS/7/8/1/5, Church of England Record Centre. 90 D.C. Howlett to Michael Ramsey, July 20, 1968, Ramsey 132, f. 191, Lambeth Palace Library; Michael Ramsey to D.C. Howlett, July 23, 1968, Ramsey 132, f. 200, Lambeth Palace Library; D.C. Howlett to Michael Ramsey, “Religious Education in County Schools,” July 24, 1968, Ramsey 132, f. 205, Lambeth Palace Library; Michael Ramsey to D.C. Howlett, July 26, 1968, Ramsey 132, f. 206, Lambeth Palace Library.

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would be done which might suggest to its supporters that the Church of England was giving its blessing.”91 Robert Holtby of the Board of Education made his rationale for this strategy explicit:

If it is thought by people in general that the Church of England is being rigid and advocating strict adherence to the Provisions of 1944, this, it seems to me, will be a gift to the vociferous minority group who wish to have R.E. abolished altogether. I feel that the sympathy of the broad mass of people in the middle might be extended to the opposition if it were thought that the Church of England was digging in its heels.92 Holtby also pointed out that, as a matter of policy, strict adherence to the 1944 provisions was undesirable – changing educational circumstances had created a need for greater flexibility in religious education.93 The Church of England had, therefore, two good reasons to keep Howlett at bay. First, her ideas and commitments were outdated.

Second, the Church of England risked being tarred with the same brush and losing its privileged place in the educational system if it was seen to support her campaign.

Appealing to the “broad mass of the people of the middle” was, in other words, both good policy and good politics.

Religious education came to the fore again in the mid-1970s when a group of secular humanists sought a revision of the Education Act to remove the religious education requirements. A group of supporters of religious education (including, almost inevitably, Mary Whitehouse) created the Save Religious Education campaign and wrote to Donald Coggan seeking his support and a “sentence or two” that the campaign could quote. In spite of the fact that Coggan had the “deepest anxieties” about religious education, his assistant Hugh Whitworth was “very hesitant” about giving the campaign a

91 Robert Holtby to Robert Beloe, July 23, 1968, Ramsey 132, ff. 201-202, Lambeth Palace Library. 92 Robert Holtby to Robert Beloe, “NATORK,” November 19, 1968, Ramsey 132, ff. 215, Lambeth Palace Library. 93 Robert Holtby to Robert Beloe, November 12, 1968, Ramsey 132, ff. 213, Lambeth Palace Library.

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Lambeth-Palace-approved slogan and sought the advice of Robert Holtby about how to respond. Whitworth and Holtby crafted a statement that blandly affirmed Coggan’s

“deep and continuing concern for Religious Education” and pointed out that the Church’s

Board of Education had expressed support for the continuing presence of religious education and worship in any revision of the Education Act. Holtby recommended a cautious approach even though he was “entirely in agreement with everything”

Whitehouse said about the danger to religious education. Holtby’s caution was a result of the possibility that offering public support to a campaign linked to Whitehouse would be

“associated in too many people’s mind with a rather puritanical outlook”.94 In this case, the image of the Church of England trumped policy concerns – better to risk losing state- mandated religious education than to risk casting the Church as a puritanical force in society.

This objective of avoiding the taint of puritanism was most evident in the

Church’s treatment of the Nationwide Festival of Light. The campaign got its start in

1970 when Peter Hill, an Australian missionary, returned to Britain after several years abroad and found himself shocked by the sexualization of British culture that had taken place while he was gone. Determined to fight back against these changes, Hill envisioned a mass protest rally “taking a stand for righteousness”. Hill’s movement quickly gained the support of Christians throughout Britain – the campaign had over 100 regional coordinators within a year of its inception. The Nationwide Festival of Light also secured the endorsement of public figures like the journalist Malcolm Muggeridge

94 Charles Oxley to Donald Coggan, “Religious Education,” January 15, 1976, Coggan 31, f. 231, Lambeth Palace Library; Hugh Whitworth to Robert Holtby, January 26, 1976, Coggan 31, f. 232, Lambeth Palace Library; Hugh Whitworth to Charles Oxley, February 3, 1976, Coggan 31, f. 235, Lambeth Palace Library; Robert Holtby to Donald Coggan, February 12, 1976, Coggan 31, f. 238, Lambeth Palace Library.

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and the already famous Mary Whitehouse. Their support raised the profile of the campaign and offered it a degree of credibility.95

That credibility did not, however, guarantee the support of the Church of England.

In the summer of 1971, the Nationwide Festival of Light approached the authorities of

Canterbury cathedral about holding a service there with the Malcolm Muggeridge as the speaker. Michael Ramsey observed the bureaucratic niceties that guaranteed the autonomy of the cathedral chapter but made clear his opposition to the Nationwide

Festival of Light. In a letter to the dean of Canterbury, Ramsey wrote that “I have not associated myself with this movement and would not give any encouragement to others to do so.” His message to the cathedral chapter agent was even clearer: “I have not felt it right to associate myself with this particular movement, and while it is not for me to seek to influence the decision of the Dean and Chapter it would be a relief to me to know that there was not going to be a function in the Cathedral in connection with the movement.”

Cathedral authorities took the hint and refused the request for a service.96

Organizers of the Nationwide Festival of Light also sought Ramsey’s attendance at (or, at the very least, his blessing for) rallies held at Westminster Central Hall and

Trafalgar Square in September 1971. Ramsey refused both requests, though he did send a prayer to be used at the Trafalgar Square rally.97 Ramsey’s reticence did not go unnoticed. One correspondent, a Mrs. Amis from Paddock Wood in Kent, complained that though Ramsey was willing to “speak out unambiguously enough in South Africa

95 Amy C. Whipple, “Speaking for Whom? The 1971 Festival of Light and the Search for the ‘Silent Majority’,” Contemporary British History 24, no. 3 (September 2010): 322. 96 Michael Ramsey to Ian White-Thomson, August 3, 1971, Ramsey 202, f. 18, Lambeth Palace Library; Michael Ramsey to P.J. Norris, August 3, 1971, Ramsey 202, f. 19, Lambeth Palace Library; P.J. Norris to Michael Ramsey, August 13, 1971, Ramsey 202, f. 20, Lambeth Palace Library. 97 Chadwick, Michael Ramsey: A Life, 162–163.

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about apartheid without having spent time there”, he exercised “extreme caution” in

England by failing to offer full-throated support to the Nationwide Festival of Light. She reminded Ramsey that “you are the head of the Church and there are still millions of all ages who look to you for guidance.” In response to these criticisms, Ramsey’s assistant

Hugh Whitworth pointed out that Ramsey had sent a message to be read at the Trafalgar

Square rally and that Ramsey made “Christian moral standards” a regular topic in his writing and talks to young people. Unconvinced by this defense, Amis admitted that

Ramsey had “sent a message of the ‘Best wishes from the Archbishop’ kind” but insisted that “the damage from his refusal to give his blessing to the festival beforehand […] had already been done.” She went on to say that “I don’t think the Archbishop really realises how much criticism there is of his refusal to take sides in controversial issues. All disputes have two sides but there is a balance one side or the other and this Pilate way of washing his hands […] generates a great deal of bewilderment and some anger among members of his flock.”98 Another letter-writer complained of Ramsey’s “ostrich-like nature” and suggested, “Maybe you haven’t the time to spare for this Festival as you’re too busy giving your support to some left-wing atheistic rally elsewhere.”99

Ramsey sought to answer these criticisms in a letter to Malcolm Muggeridge.

Ramsey began by attempting to allay Muggeridge’s concerns about his disapproval by pointing out that Ramsey had sent the Nationwide Festival of Light materials “which might have been helpful to them”. He then turned to his reservations about the campaign,

98 M.W. Amis to Michael Ramsey, December 13, 1971, Ramsey 233, f. 96, Lambeth Palace Library; Hugh Whitworth to M.W. Amis, December 20, 1971, Ramsey 233, f. 98, Lambeth Palace Library; M.W. Amis to Hugh Whitworth, December 23, 1971, Ramsey 233, f. 99, Lambeth Palace Library. 99 F.R. Perrin to Michael Ramsey, August 30, 1971, Ramsey 202, f. 23, Lambeth Palace Library.

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chief among them its revivalist style and the danger of self-righteousness.100 John Hough, an Anglican sympathetic to the Nationwide Festival of Light’s efforts to resist the

“commercialisation of sex”, had described a Festival rally as a “Billy Graham type evangelistic meeting with hymns, choruses, preaching, and personal testimonies.” As a result, Hough suggested, the campaign had “little or nothing to offer either in the form of guidance or invitations to cooperate to Christians who do not consider themselves as belonging to the conservative evangelical tradition”.101 As an Anglo-Catholic, Ramsey shared this concern about the “Billy Graham technique of evangelism” which “while it helps some alienates others.” Ramsey’s own preference was for efforts that conveyed

Christianity in “unspectacular” ways that steered clear of the danger of self-righteousness that intense “spiritual and ethical movements” like the Nationwide Festival of Light risked.102

Ramsey’s letter to Muggeridge also contained another justification for his apparent reticence: his inability to speak on behalf of the entire Church of England. “I

[…] avoid giving my name where it might be used to suggest that there is an official backing from my Church where that is not the case.”103 There was some truth to this – as a tremendously complex organization with multiple layers of governance and a complicated internal structure, the Church of England could rarely express its opinion through a single voice.104 But, as Ramsey’s comments about Rhodesia indicated,

100 Michael Ramsey to Malcolm Muggeridge, September 30, 1971, Ramsey 202, ff. 55-56, Lambeth Palace Library. 101 John Hough, “The Festival of Light: a Confidential Memo to Bishop Sansbury,” September 11, 1971, Ramsey 202, ff. 34-36, Lambeth Palace Library. 102 Ramsey to Muggeridge, September 30, 1971. 103 Ibid. 104 For a description of some of this complexity, see Welsby, How the Church of England Works, passim.

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Ramsey’s lack of formal authority as the voice of the Church did not always preclude him from making strong moral claims not just for the Church of England but for

Christians generally.

More than a principled statement of humility about his status within the Church of

England, then, Ramsey’s justification was part of a larger strategy in which senior figures within the Church used the Church’s complexity to deflect the enthusiasm of campaigners “down” into the institutional machinery of the Church. As a result of this effort to direct the energies of conservative campaigners away from the public eye, the archbishop of Canterbury, as the public face of the Church, could remain free from unwanted associations of puritanism. When the chairman of the executive committee of the Nationwide Festival of Light sought a meeting between Festival representatives and

Ramsey, Ramsey’s assistant Hugh Whitworth recommended that the Nationwide Festival of Light contact the Church’s Board for Social Responsibility as the appropriate body to work with.105

An even more striking instance of this strategy was put into play in early 1972 when Mary Whitehouse accused the Church of doing nothing to stem the rising tide of pornography in Britain. Whitworth pointed out that senior Church figures had “drawn attention to the present dangers and affirmed what are the Christian insights in the field” and suggested that Whitehouse consult of the Board for Social Responsibility’s 1970 pamphlet Obscene Publications – Law and Practice. Pressed again by Whitehouse for a public display of support from the archbishop of Canterbury, Whitworth reiterated

105 Hugh Whitworth to Orde Dobbie, October 12, 1971, Ramsey 202, ff. 63-64, Lambeth Palace Library.

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Ramsey’s belief that “public gestures” were not always the most effective means and again urged Whitehouse to work in tandem with the Board for Social Responsibility.106

Whitehouse followed this advice but failed to secure the public support of the

Board for her petition. In explaining that decision, the bishop of Leicester, Ronald

Williams, suggested that the Board “represent[ed] too much of a cross-section of opinion to make it practicable for them to lend their support to any Petition of this kind. They would be divided, and any support they gave would be half-hearted.” He recommended that Whitehouse advertise in religious newspapers and seek the support of like-minded individuals.107 It is difficult to assess whether Williams was genuinely sympathetic to

Whitehouse’s campaign or whether he, like Ramsey, was using the institutional complexity of the Church as an excuse for the Board for Social Responsibility’s reticence. But the effect was the same no matter what his motivations – by directing

Whitehouse’s efforts towards securing the support of private individuals, Williams denied her campaign the imprimatur of the Church of England and thereby protected the

Church from potentially damaging associations.

These careful efforts to protect the image of the Church of England as moderate and liberal represented a shift from an earlier period in which the Church was more concerned about protecting its image as a defender of traditional orthodoxies. Both

Geoffrey Fisher and Michael Ramsey had occasion to publicly criticize modernist theologians. For Fisher, the most notable offender was Ernest Barnes, bishop of

106 Hugh Whitworth to Mary Whitehouse, February 22, 1972, Ramsey 233, ff. 117-118, Lambeth Palace Library; Hugh Whitworth to Mary Whitehouse, March 7, 1972, Ramsey 233, f. 124, Lambeth Palace Library. 107 Ronald Williams to Mary Whitehouse, April 13, 1972, Ramsey 233, ff. 133-134, Lambeth Palace Library.

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Birmingham from 1924 until 1953. A talented mathematician and a committed pacifist, he became known for his “gorilla sermons” in which he outlined a Darwinian view of the biological descent of humans and for his rejection of the doctrine of the real presence of

Jesus in the eucharist.108 In 1947, Barnes published The Rise of Christianity in which he denied the reality of miracles and questioned the resurrection. Faced with a bishop who appeared to deny core tenets of Christian doctrine, Fisher had a choice between ignoring

Barnes’s book and taking a public stand against it. Confronted by a sizable number of bishops who wanted to censure Barnes for heresy, Fisher opted for the latter course.

Speaking to the Convocation of Canterbury, Fisher described Barnes’s views as incompatible with the teachings of the Church and suggested that “If his views were mine, I should not feel that I could still hold Episcopal office in the Church.” Following

Fisher’s remarks, no further disciplinary action was taken against Barnes.109

Michael Ramsey faced a similar controversy sixteen years later when John

Robinson, bishop of Woolwich, published Honest to God. Robinson’s call to move beyond older conceptions of God provoked a firestorm of criticism sparked by a headline in the Observer that had Robinson proclaiming “Our image of God must go”.

Robinson’s book provoked a flurry of publications in response, some of them critical but others wondering what all the fuss was about.110 Ramsey’s criticism of Robinson was

108 A.E.J. Rawlinson, “Barnes, Ernest William (1874-1953),” Oxford Dictionary of National Biography (Oxford University Press, 2004), http://www.oxforddnb.com/view/article/30601. 109 David Hein, Geoffrey Fisher: Archbishop of Canterbury, 1945-1961 (Eugene: Pickwick Publications, 2007), 49–52; Welsby, A History of the Church of England, 1945-1980, 53–56. 110 David Edwards, ed., The Honest to God Debate: Some Reactions to the Book “Honest to God” (London: SCM Press, 1963); O. Fielding Clarke, For Christ’s Sake: A Reply to the Bishop of Woolwich’s Book Honest to God and a Positive Continuation of the Discussion, 2nd ed. (Wallington: Religious Education Press, 1963); John M. Morrison, Honesty and God (Edinburgh: Saint Andrew Press, 1966); David A. Pailin, A New Theology? Some Comments on Honest to God (London: Epworth Press, 1964); Patience Strong, God’s in His Heaven (London: F. Muller, 1964); J.I. Packer, Keep Yourselves from Idols

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balanced with cautious praise, but the criticism was harsh – in a television interview he insisted that Robinson was “utterly wrong and misleading to denounce the imagery of

God held by Christian men, women and children: imagery that they have got from Jesus himself, the image of God the Father in heaven”.111 Ramsey would later look back on his initial reaction with distaste and thought he had been unduly harsh towards Robinson.112

One of Ramsey’s biographers has suggested that Ramsey’s response - “the facile, conservative reflexes of a public figure trying to steady a rocking boat” - was as much a reflection of his position as archbishop of Canterbury as his own beliefs – “it is not too fanciful to imagine that ‘Professor Michael Ramsey’ might well have leapt to John

Robinson’s defence” in a way that ‘Michael Cantuar’ never could.113

This image of Ramsey as a “public figure trying to steady a rocking boat” captures a crucial fact about the Church’s preference for avoiding controversy: much more so than other Christian denominations, the Church of England could not afford to ignore the winds of change or the rolling waves on which it found itself. Its longstanding reputation for inclusive tolerance notwithstanding, the Church had an image to uphold.

That image was transformed in the long 1960s from a bastion of theological and moral traditionalism to a liberal and tolerant fixture of the post-permissive society. By the early

1970s, the Church of England had committed itself to an image of broad inclusiveness, an image that ironically required keeping conservative puritanism at arm’s length.

(London: Church Book Room Press, 1963); Erik Routley, The Man for Others: An Important Contribution to the Discussions Inspired by the Book Honest to God (New York: Oxford University Press, 1964). 111 Quoted in Chadwick, Michael Ramsey: A Life, 371. 112 Ibid., 372. 113 De-la -Noy, Michael Ramsey, 197.

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Conclusion

In a 2010 episode of EastEnders, the young Nigerian Mercy Olubunmi, uneasy about the judgmental Christianity preached at her Pentecostal church, approached Albert

Square’s resident Anglican, Dot Branning, to ask about her church. “Does your vicar go on about hell and punishment all the time?” Dot’s response perfectly captured the

Church of England’s reputation for tolerant liberalism – “No dear, the Church of England don’t believe in fire and brimstone, not no more. In fact, I don’t know quite what it does believe in. I mean, it’s all about caring for the Third World and homosexuals.”114 In the words of the anthropologist Kate Fox, the Church of England has come to be seen as

“notoriously woolly-minded, tolerant to a fault and amiably non-prescriptive.” To put down “C of E” on a form is to identify with a “kind of apathetic, fence-sitting, middling sort of religion for the spiritually ‘neutral’.”115

The Church of England has long seen itself as a “middling” church in the theological sense of representing the via media between Catholicism and Reformed

Protestantism. But this more generalized version of tolerance and broadmindedness is a result of the dramatic changes of the long 1960s. The Church did not simply react to those changes – it played an instrumental role in bringing many of them about. Once the trend towards increased personal freedoms and liberalism was clear, the Church carefully managed its public image to ensure that it did not appear to be out-of-step with the times.

In that respect, it succeeded – its cautious progressivism made it unobjectionable to the broad middle of English society and secured, at least for the time being, popular acceptance of its privileged position as the established church.

114 Jennie Darnell, EastEnders (BBC One, July 27, 2010), http://www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/b00t7cxj. 115 Fox, Watching the English, 354.

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Still, a question remains. Being unobjectionable is a long way from inspiring affinity or even nominal adherence. To complete Dot’s response to Mercy about the

Church of England, “I’m used to it, you see. It’s a comfort to me.” How did Christianity in its Anglican form become a comfort? Why did people continue to feel affection for the Church of England? To answer these questions, it is necessary to explore the emerging popularity of the Anglican parish church as a treasured part of England’s national heritage. At the precise moment that the Church had to look forward and modernize its positions on moral issues, popular sentiment forced it to look backwards in time and preserve its architectural heritage.

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CHAPTER 4: THE TRIUMPH OF CHURCH PRESERVATION AND THE AESTHETICIZATION OF CHRISTIANITY

By the end of the twentieth century, it had become conventional to think of

England’s parish churches as akin to public museums: full of art and open to all for free

(with donations recommended, of course). This view of churches as museums found rich expression in Simon Jenkins’s popular 1999 guide to England’s historic churches,

England’s Thousand Best Churches. Updating the guidebook tradition popularized by

John Betjeman in the middle of the twentieth century, Jenkins wrote:

These churches were and still are glorious. I regard them as a dispersed gallery of vernacular art, especially that of the Middle Ages, without equal anywhere in the world. This book is intended as a catalogue of that gallery. I have lost count of the number of church guides which assert, ‘This building is not a museum, it is a place of worship’. I disagree. A church is a museum, and should be proud of the fact. […] An English church […] is the stage on which the pageant of community has been played out for a millennium. The Church of England is the true Museum of England, and its buildings should be the more treasured as result.1

Public appreciation of Christianity’s aesthetic pleasures is not restricted to admiring England’s stock of historic churches. The audience for the Sunday evening hymn program Songs of Praise has fallen off considerably from its 1970s peak of ten million viewers each week, but it remains, in the words of the BBC, a “national karaoke” that remains widely known enough to be gently mocked in comedian Ronnie Corbett’s

2010 Christmas special. The recent 400th anniversary of the King James Bible was accompanied by innumerable accolades directed at its literary qualities and the rich

1 Simon Jenkins, England’s Thousand Best Churches (New York and London: Allen Lane, 1999), viii, ix.

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inheritance it left to English-speakers around the world.2 The celebration of the King

James Bible culminated in the education secretary sending out a copy to every school in the country.3 Popular attitudes towards Anglican liturgy emphasize the beauty of Thomas

Cranmer’s prose in the Book of Common Prayer, with modern updates criticized as a betrayal of the Church of England’s aesthetic heritage.

Today, this sort of expression of aesthetic admiration for the trappings of English

Christianity is basically unobjectionable. The Times Literary Supplement’s reviewer of

Jenkins’s church guide took issue with what he saw as Jenkins’s presumptuous claim to have catalogued England’s best churches, but his critique took place within the very terms that Jenkins set: what are England’s most beautiful church buildings? The assumption that the value of churches lies in their beauty went unchallenged.4 In the early twenty-first century, attempts to change the appearance of churches to make them more user-friendly have generated public outcry. Plans to remove pews in favor of portable folding chairs (thereby making the space more flexible) have caused protests across the country, with one defender of the pews claiming that the plan was a “tragedy.”

The battle over pews was dramatized in BBC Radio 4’s popular soap opera The Archers when the villagers of Ambridge staved off the hapless vicar’s attempt to modernize the church. In an online poll, 61% of listeners objected to the vicar’s plan to remove the pews.5 By the end of the twentieth century, the idea that the aesthetics of English

2 For expression of these sentiments from a potentially surprising source, see Richard Dawkins, The God Delusion (New York: Houghton Mifflin, 2006), 383–386. 3 Jeevan Vasagar, “Michael Gove to Send Copy of King James Bible to All English Schools,” The Guardian, November 25, 2011, http://www.guardian.co.uk/politics/2011/nov/25/michael-gove-king-james- bible. 4 Andor Gomme, “Chasing Steeples,” Times Literary Supplement, November 26, 1999. 5“Parishes at War over Plans to Rip Out Pews,” The Guardian, March 16, 2008, http://www.guardian.co.u k/world/2008/mar/16/religion.anglicanism; I would like to thank Kit Kowol for bringing this Archers plotli ne to my attention.

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Christianity were a valuable part of England’s cultural patrimony had become conventional wisdom.

But it was not always so. As this chapter will show, it was only in the second half of the twentieth century, especially in the 1960s and 1970s, that aesthetic visions of

Christianity displaced older relationships with Christianity based on belief and practice.

This chapter focuses on the problem of what to do with church buildings. Changing attitudes towards hymns and liturgy were primarily discursive in nature, with few tangible or concrete manifestations. Defending traditional liturgy and hymns on aesthetic grounds cost little. By contrast, the practical problems of preserving or demolishing churches meant that substantial sums of money were at play. The hard reality that taking care of churches was an expensive endeavor led to the development of well-organized interest groups both in favor and opposed to a systematic program of church preservation and a series of commissions dedicated to solving the problem of what to do with churches. The correspondence, reports, and records generated by those interest groups and commissions form the basis for this chapter.

As Peter Mandler has shown for the country home, popular discourse about the timeless appeal and inherent stability of England’s church buildings obscures the rich and varied history of attitudes towards the fabric of England’s Christian heritage.6 Today it is commonplace to speak of graceful church architecture reflecting an ineffable, timeless

Englishness, secured by England’s political stability and reflecting shifts in artistic taste through the centuries. While the triumph of the preservationists may now seem uncontroversial and unsurprising, advocates of preservation met with repeated failures in

6 Peter Mandler, The Fall and Rise of the Stately Home (New Haven: Yale Univesity Press, 1997).

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the early postwar period. This chapter explains how that shift took place. First, I present a brief historical overview of attitudes towards church buildings and frames the essential conflict over churches as taking place between preservationists and pastoralists, with the former favoring the preservation of historic churches at virtually any cost and the latter emphasizing continuing ecclesiastical utility as the key criterion in deciding the fate of churches. The remainder of the chapter is devoted to tracing the transformation of preservationism from a minority pursuit to a principle endorsed both by the Church of

England and the state. I highlight the work of the poet John Betjeman as critical to this shift. As the century’s most popular poet and a regular broadcaster on both television and radio, Betjeman played a key role in shaping popular opinion in favor of the preservation of churches on aesthetic grounds. The confluence of the Church’s increasing inability to pay for the upkeep of buildings and the growing public interest in preservation led the way to a reconceptualization of church buildings as part of the national heritage deserving of state protection.

Prewar attitudes to church buildings and the problem of preservation

To be sure, appreciation of the architectural merits of churches did not begin after the Second World War. In the 1830s and 1840s, the Oxford and Cambridge movements looked to church architecture, “ecclesiology” in the parlance of the day, as a means of promoting Christian revival. Through its journal The Ecclesiologist, the Cambridge

Camden Society laid down detailed strictures on the precise forms of Gothic architecture

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that a church should embody in order to encourage true Christian piety.7 The proponents of the Gothic Revival in English architecture explicitly linked their aesthetic judgments to their theological commitments. By contrast, this sort of connection between aesthetics and theology was largely absent from post-Second World War preservationism.

In the late nineteenth century, appreciation for church architecture on non- theological grounds did emerge in the nascent preservationist movement. The Society for the Protection of Ancient Buildings (SPAB), founded by William Morris and others in

1877, is typically given pride of place in the history of conservation. In its early years,

SPAB focused its efforts, largely unsuccessful, on fighting what it saw as the needless

“restoration” of historic church fabrics.8 But while SPAB is now often seen as the key progenitor of the preservation movement, its profile and effectiveness through the early twentieth century were limited: its membership was just 443 in 1910 and its campaigns were deemed “faddist” and “extremist”.9 Expressions of support for the preservation of churches on aesthetic grounds was also found in the “churches for art’s sake” movement associated with the Century Guild of Artists. The poetry of Arthur Symons, Lionel

Johnson, and Ernest Dowson defended churches in the City of London as “outposts of beauty in an environment that naturally tends towards materialism and ugliness.” In the account of the literary scholar Matthew Bradley, T.S. Eliot’s complaint about the Church of England’s plans to pull down nineteen City churches that “give to the business quarter

7 Kenneth Clark, The Gothic Revival: An Essay in the History of Taste (London: Constable & Co., 1928), 192–227; James F. White, The Cambridge Movement: The Ecclesiologists and the Gothic Revival (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1979). 8 Chris Miele, “The First Conservation Militants: William Morris and the Society for the Protection of Ancient Buildings,” in Preserving the Past: The Rise of Heritage in Modern Britain, ed. Michael Hunter (Stroud: Alan Sutton, 1996), 17–37; E.P. Thompson, William Morris: Romantic to Revolutionary (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1988), 226–231. 9 Peter Mandler, “Against ‘Englishness’: English Culture and the Limits to Rural Nostalgia, 1850-1940,” Transactions of the Royal Historical Society 7, Sixth Series (1997): 169.

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of London a beauty which its hideous banks and commercial houses have not quite defaced” represented a “late echo” of this late Victorian defense of church buildings on aesthetic grounds.10

But while late Victorian aestheticism can be seen as an antecedent of the later popularization of aesthetic views of churches, more telling is the fact that the Century

Guild and other aesthetes only succeeded in reaching a limited audience. Not until the postwar era did such visions of church buildings gain a broader constituency and decisively influence the policy of the Church and the state. The novelty of the postwar preservationist movement was two-fold. First, unlike the architectural judgments promoted by the Oxford and Cambridge movements, its ultimate commitments were more purely aesthetic rather than theological. Second, in contrast to the aestheticism of

SPAB and the Century Guild, preservationism in the 1960s and 1970s was genuinely popular, so much so that the state entered into a long-term arrangement with the Church of England to help maintain England’s historic churches.

Before the Second World War, then, the preservation of historic churches was a minority pursuit that garnered little support from the Church of England or the state.

When parliament debated the Ancient Monuments Consolidation and Amendment Bill in

1912 and 1913, Lord Curzon pointed out that the proposed law would exempt churches and cathedrals from the protections guaranteed to historic secular buildings.

Imaginatively linking together the literary and religious heritage of England, Curzon suggested that “for all I know it might be in the power of the vicar and church-wardens of

10 Matthew Bradley, “Sinful Cities and Ecclesiastical Excuses: The ‘Churches for Art’s Sake’ Movement from the Century Guild to Eliot,” The Yearbook of English Studies 37, no. 1 (2007): 193–208, doi:10.2307/20479286.

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Stratford-on-Avon to take down the monument of Shakespeare.” The bishop of Bangor and the archbishop of Canterbury, Randall Davidson, leapt to the defense of the Church’s preservationist credentials by pointing out that alterations to church fabrics could only be undertaken with a “faculty” approval at the diocesan level.11 In a later debate, Curzon downplayed the protections offered by the faculty procedure and insisted that he could

“give instances in which, under the full grant of a faculty, atrocities have been committed within the last twenty years which would almost make one’s hair stand on end, at any rate the hair of a sensitive archaeologian like myself.”12 Curzon’s final disclaimer was telling.

The fact that he failed in securing protection of churches reveals how the rest of parliament did not share his antiquarian inclinations. Davidson insisted that the Church was “prepared to give […] the fullest possible consideration” of to the criticisms made by preservationists but continued to believe that “the authority which at present controls these matters [i.e. the Church] is the authority which can best control them in the years to come.”13 Davidson’s words were taken as a pledge that the Church of England was both willing and able to preserve its architectural holdings. The ensuing law exempted churches from the protections guaranteed to secular buildings.

Davidson’s apparent guarantee notwithstanding, the proponents of church preservation had little sway within the Church of England, and the state displayed virtually no interest in providing the funds necessary to repair and maintain the huge stock of historic churches. Existing preservation societies were, as John Betjeman described them in 1936, “unfortunately associated with crankiness”.14 According to

11 Parliamentary Debates, House of Lords, vol. 11, 5th Ser., 1912, col. 880–882, 893–894. 12 Parliamentary Debates, House of Lords, vol. 14, 5th Ser., 1913, col. 308. 13 Ibid., 14:793–794. 14 John Betjeman, Tennis Whites and Teacakes, ed. Stephen Games (London: John Murray, 2007), 327.

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Betjeman, this public distaste for preservation continued into the early postwar period. In

First and Last Loves, his 1952 collection of architectural essays, he admitted it was a

“foolish man who in a letter to a paper or at a local council meeting or in Parliament dares to plead for something because it is good to look at or well made. He is [seen as] not merely a conservative: he is a crank.”15

In the immediate aftermath of the war, historic churches were more a burden to the Church of England than a treasure, at least to fiscally-minded dioceses and the newly- formed Church Commissioners. The parallel with historic stately homes is instructive.

The aristocratic owners of country homes sought get out from under the burden of death duties and maintenance costs of large homes they no longer needed.16 The Church of

England was similarly eager to dump the buildings it no longer saw as essential to its pastoral mission. In contrast to the provision of state aid for stately homes established in the 1953 Historic Buildings and Ancient Monuments Act (memorably dubbed by the press as allowing “dukes on the dole”), state subsidies for churches would not come until the late 1960s in the form of the Redundant Churches Fund.17

The “problem” of what to do with England’s historic churches emerged from the confluence of several developments. First, local parishes were faced with the challenge of maintaining church fabrics whose preservation was becoming more and more expensive. How were parochial church councils, legally responsible for the upkeep of their church since the 1920s, going to keep paying the bills?18 Second, individual dioceses and the Church of England as a whole had to grapple with the question of what

15 Ibid., 337. 16 Mandler, The Fall and Rise of the Stately Home, 316–319. 17 Ibid., 347–349. 18 The Preservation of Our Churches (Westminster: Church Information Board, 1952), 58–59.

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to do with so-called “redundant churches”, that is those churches no longer needed for regular worship. While these questions of the cost of preservation and the fate of redundant churches were theoretically distinct, in practice they were intimately related.

What counted as a “redundant church” was far from a straightforward matter, with the very question of whether the local parish could afford its upkeep a key factor in the consideration of redundancy. The problem of redundancy was further exacerbated by the dramatic population movement out of the countryside and core urban areas into suburbs and New Towns.

The case of the parish of Duxford in Cambridgeshire illustrates how the question of maintenance costs and redundancy were inextricably linked. Duxford, a village ten miles south of Cambridge, had two medieval churches: St. John’s and St. Peter’s. The parishes of St. John’s and St. Peter’s were united in 1874, with the result that the new parish now had two church buildings just a few hundred yards apart.19 By the 1940s, the parish had focused its attention on the church of St. Peter’s, with the result that St. John’s had fallen into a state of disrepair. Faced with the expense of maintaining two separate church buildings and with the financial liability for any accidents that might occur in the increasingly unsafe St. John’s, the parochial church council of Duxford sought to demolish St. John’s. Local antiquarian interests protested the proposed demolition but did not produce any funds to assist in its preservation. The diocese of Ely likewise declined to offer financial assistance because they could “spend £1,000 more profitably on evangelism than on patching up an unwanted church.”20 Negotiations to offer the

19 A.P.M. Wright, ed., “Parishes: Duxford,” in A History of the County of Cambridge and the Isle of Ely, vol. 6, Victoria County History, 1978, 201–220. 20 Kenneth Macmorran to Edward Wynn, July 14, 1947, Fisher 25, ff. 68-69, Lambeth Palace Library.

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church of St. John’s to the Ministry of Works for preservation stalled out and it was only in 1979 that St. John’s was formally declared redundant. While the situation of a small village being responsible for the maintenance of two medieval churches was unusual, the more general problem of balancing the pastoral needs of the parish with a desire to preserve the local church became increasingly pressing in the aftermath of the war.

This conflict between pastoralism and preservationism structured debates over the fate of churches for at least thirty years after the Second World War. Pastoralists saw church buildings as places for the Church of England to fulfill its central mission of the cure of souls. Preservationists saw value in church buildings that extended beyond their immediate pastoral use. As long as church pews were full and parishes could afford the maintenance, there was no inherent conflict; both preservationists and pastoralists favored keeping such churches open and well-maintained. But when the Church of

England, for a wide range of reasons, began to feel the financial strain of such a large stock of buildings to maintain, the interests of preservationists and pastoralists diverged.

Preservationists insisted that churches be maintained at almost any cost. From the perspective of the preservationist, the demolition of a medieval church was a tragedy. It was this ideal that ended up triumphant.

The problem of war-damaged churches

The Second World War brought the lurking tension between pastoralism and preservationism to the fore. First, the damage caused by German bombing raised the question of what should be done with churches damaged or destroyed during the war.

Should funds be dedicated to restoring churches to their former condition? Or should

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money instead be directed towards meeting the spiritual and material needs of the local population, a population that might have moved to other districts as a result of wartime displacement and postwar urban planning? Second, the war enforced a period of neglect as materials were directed away from building maintenance and towards the war effort.

Repairs that would have cost little if done quickly mushroomed into major projects requiring significant funding. The backlog of repairs caused by the war posed a major challenge for many parochial church councils.

Under the 1943 War Damage Act, the government agreed to compensate land- and building-owners for repairs made necessary by damage suffered during the war.

Thanks to the lobbying of the Churches Main Committee, a cross-denominational organization representing the major Christian denominations in secular matters, church buildings were eligible for this compensation. The law stipulated that repairs and replacements be “plain” or “plain substitutes” for the pre-existing building as a means of keeping down costs. The Churches Main Committee suggested that this statutory preference for plainness need not mean that all decoration be avoided. Instead, they recommended that the state allow funds be used to ensure that repairs should be

“replacement in the former materials (e.g., stone for stone and brick for brick” to ensure that the “new plain work harmonise with the old.” Stained glass in east or other principal windows should be replaced. The War Damage Commission accepted these recommendations and thereby offered the state’s support for the principle that churches’ value came, in part, from their visual appearance.21

21 Churches Main Committee, The Churches and War Damage (Westminster: Church Assembly, 1944), 6– 7, 12.

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But while the Churches Main Committee secured state funding for technically superfluous repairs, it also insisted that restoring the status quo ante was not the only goal. Instead, it recommended that denominations be allowed to use the reimbursements for war-damaged churches to build new churches in other areas. The War Damage

Commission also accepted this recommendation, thereby giving denominations considerable leeway in determining whether they would use the funds in question for architectural preservation or ensuring adequate pastoral care in a given area, even if the latter course meant demolishing or selling off an existing church building. In other words, the War Damage Commission acquiesced in the denominations’ aim of securing state funds to use largely as they saw fit, as long as it involved the repair or construction of a church building somewhere.22 Both pastoral and aesthetic concerns were recognized as legitimate in the use of government funds for postwar church reconstruction.

This possibility of using funds from the War Damage Commission for the construction of new, more pastorally useful churches raised the possibility that architecturally and historically significant church buildings would be lost. Writing to the archbishop of Canterbury in May 1947, Cyril Fox, the president of the Society of

Antiquaries of London, warned that such demolition would represent an abdication of the

Church of England’s 1913 pledge to “protect its architectural inheritance”. Fox recommended that the Church take steps to formalize and require the consultation of experts (like the Society of Antiquaries) before any church building be pulled down,

“otherwise the Country may experience irreparable loss.”23

22 Ibid., 9–10. 23 Cyril Fox to Geoffrey Fisher, May 29, 1947, Fisher 25, ff. 53-54, Lambeth Palace Library.

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Demolition of war-damaged churches was no idle possibility. In Bristol, churches damaged during the war included St. Peter’s, St. Mary-le-Port, the Temple Church, St.

Augustine’s, and St. Andrew’s Clifton. The diocese of Bristol proposed to sell the damaged sites and combine the proceeds with funds from the War Damage Commission to build churches in new developments on the outskirts of Bristol. All of these churches had been listed under the 1947 Town and Country Planning Act, with the Royal Fine Art

Commission recommending that St. Peter’s, St. Mary-le-Port and the Temple Church be preserved from demolition, with the towers of St. Peter’s and St. Mary-le-Port deemed

“particularly important because the view of these from the river is said to be an important feature of Bristol.”24 The fate of these churches was the subject of a meeting held in

Bristol in February 1950. Arguing for the diocese’s right to demolish the churches, the bishop of Bristol insisted that “It would seem intolerable and morally unjustifiable if the

Church were required to use, for maintaining ruins, funds which should provide the spiritual needs of the population.”25 The diocese’s plans for demolition dovetailed with the city’s own plans, with one of Bristol’s aldermen suggesting that the required preservation of these churches on aesthetic grounds would impinge on the city’s ability to re-develop its districts as it saw fit.

In response to this apparent agreement between diocesan and civic authorities, the

Royal Fine Art Commission’s representative at the meeting, Geoffrey Webb, argued that the Royal Fine Art Commission “had in mind not only historic associations and

24 C.S. Amsden to N. Digney, “Bristol City Churches,” January 24, 1950, WORK 14/2350, The National Archives. 25 Churches Main Committee, “Preservation of Ruins of War Damaged Churches as Buildings of Special Architectural or Other Interest, Effect on War Damage Payments and Other Consequences,” February 16, 1950, 2, HLG 103/114, The National Archives.

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architectural merit but also the view of the tower on the skyline” – a view, the bishop of

Malmesbury pointed out, that did not exist before the bombing and would probably not exist after the planned urban reconstruction.26 The consensus at the meeting coalesced in favor of the demolition of the churches on pastoral and planning grounds – the preservationist position expressed by Webb was received skeptically by everyone else present, and the meeting concluded with an agreement that the diocese’s reorganization plans (which would almost certainly include demolition and sale of the site) could proceed.27 In the end, following further activity from preservationist groups, St. Peter’s,

St. Mary-le-Port, and the Temple Church were preserved as ruins (with the Temple

Church entering the guardianship of the Ministry of Works). St. Andrew’s and St.

Augustine’s were pulled down in 1956 and 1962, respectively.28

The fact that some of these churches ended up being preserved (albeit as ruins) might suggest that the principle that churches should be preserved was well-established by the mid-1950s. But the survival of these churches was the exception rather than the rule. If we rely solely on those cases that produced substantial archival material due to letter-writing campaigns and public meetings, we miss out on the far more common outcome of attempts at pastoral reorganization in urban areas: demolition and sale of the

26 Ibid., 5. 27 Ibid., 6. 28 “Church of St. Peter, Bristol,” Images of England, accessed August 1, 2012, http://www.imagesofengland.org.uk/details/default.aspx?id=380175; “Tower of Church of St Mary Le Port,” Images of England, accessed August 1, 2012, http://www.imagesofengland.org.uk/details/default.aspx?pid=2&id=379770; “History and Research: Temple Church,” English Heritage, accessed August 1, 2012, http://www.english- heritage.org.uk/daysout/properties/temple-church/history-and-research/; “Church of St Andrew, Clifton, Bristol,” Church Crawler, September 22, 2001, http://www.churchcrawler.pwp.blueyonder.co.uk/clftand.htm; “Church of St Augustine-the-Less, City, Bristol,” Church Crawler, October 30, 2005, http://www.churchcrawler.pwp.blueyonder.co.uk/bristol4/augless.htm.

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church site to realize the value of the property. Bristol alone saw at least twenty-four churches of various denominations torn down in the thirty years following the Second

World War.29 The survival of substantial archival material related to particular churches can, therefore, can mislead us, for it was only when there was major activity in favor of preservation that we have much of an archival record. More often than not, plans to demolish churches brought little outcry.

More telling than the precise fate of these Bristol churches, then, was the attitudes expressed by most of the people at the February 1950 meeting on war-damaged Bristol churches: church buildings could be disposed of in order to facilitate the Church’s real mission and to work in co-operation with civic authorities to re-develop urban areas.

Preservationists may have had their successes in saving individual churches from demolition, but as of the early 1950s they had done little to convince Church figures, the state, or the general public of the basic principle that churches deserved preservation on aesthetic grounds.

The cost of maintenance and the public’s indifference

Preservationists had similarly limited success when it came to dealing with the second major problem exacerbated by the war: the rising costs of maintenance caused by a decade of forced neglect. Calling attention to the problem of deteriorating churches, a new organization, the Friends of Ancient English Churches (FAEC), constituted itself in the autumn of 1949 with plans to launch an appeal (with the ultimate goal of raising

29 Marcus Binney and Peter Burman, Chapels and Churches: Who Cares? (British Tourist Authority, 1977), 241.

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£2,000,000) the following Easter.30 The Friends of Ancient English Churches related the problem of churches in disrepair to broad changes in the social order. FAEC’s charter opened by declaring that the “serious deterioration in the fabric of our ancient English

Churches – of which no less than 9,000 are medieval – and the passing of the Old Order, whose benefactions largely preserved our priceless architectural inheritance until the beginning of the Second World War” necessitated the creation of a new organization to raise and disburse funds to aid in the preservation of historic churches.31

This nostalgic view of England’s historic churches was central to FAEC’s fundraising efforts. An early letter to potential donors admitted that “Your great- grandfather would have raised his eyebrows had he received a letter like this!” But, the letter warned, “as the rising tide of social change threatens to submerge the older order,” the local squire was no longer able to maintain the parish church as he once could.

Churches were falling into disrepair, with some towers falling to the ground for want of comparatively inexpensive preventative maintenance. FAEC urged would-be donors,

“perhaps remembering an old Church where you sang in the Choir, or heard your

Wedding Bells, or stood at the Font with your first-born” to send in donations to aid with the important “first-aid” work that would keep England’s parish churches standing. The appeal to rural nostalgia also extended to FAEC’s stationery: a colorful depiction of a medieval church tower, surrounded by a churchyard, with a picturesque village in the background.32 Minus the nostalgia for the squirearchy, this sort of appeal largely fits late twentieth- and early twenty-first-century conceptions of the importance of church

30 Friends of Ancient English Churches, September 29, 1949, Fisher 57, ff. 105-107, Lambeth Palace Library. 31 Friends of Ancient English Churches, An Announcement, 1950, 3–4. 32 Kirkland Bridge, February 1950, Fisher 72, f. 68, Lambeth Palace Library.

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buildings: for many people, church buildings continue to be sites for rites of passage, and the centrality of the parish church to postcard views of villages is so commonplace as to become a guidebook cliché.

But, far from mobilizing a deep English love for churches into effective action, the Friends of Ancient English Churches proved a failure. Within a year of FAEC’s foundation, the archbishop of Canterbury, who had somewhat reluctantly agreed to be a patron, was writing to the organization’s trustees to express concern over the use of a professional fundraiser who had seemingly accomplished nothing.33 Within another two years, FAEC had largely ceased its activities. To be sure, some of its failure can be attributed to the poor organizational skills of its founders. But more importantly, there simply did not seem to be much public interest in donating money for the repair of churches.

Private financial support for the preservation of churches was largely restricted to a single organization. The Pilgrim Trust, founded in 1930 by the American philanthropist Edward Harkness, devoted roughly half of its grants to funding preservation projects (the remaining funds supported research on poverty and other social ills). In the 1930s and 1940s, the Pilgrim Trust gave over £200,000 in grants to parish churches and cathedrals for preservation projects, making it the most generous organization dedicated to the preservation of England’s historic architecture. This status as the chief benefactor of parish churches also meant that the Pilgrim Trust was flooded with applications for grants from individual churches, an administrative burden that the

Trust found increasingly untenable.

33 Geoffrey Fisher to Trustees of the Friends of Ancient English Churches, September 26, 1950, Fisher 72, ff. 93-95, Lambeth Palace Library.

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In 1951, Lord Kilmaine, the chairman of the Pilgrim Trust, approached Geoffrey

Fisher, the archbishop of Canterbury, to urge the Church of England to adopt a more systematic solution to maintaining its churches (and thereby lessen the workload of the

Pilgrim Trust). The extent of accumulated disrepair, Kilmaine warned, was such that the

Pilgrim Trust had “enough material here for a publicity campaign that would make the flesh creep and create a national scandal!” He urged, therefore, that the Church get its house in order and make a commitment to dealing with the problems of disrepair and regular maintenance. If the Church of England did not deal with the problem, Kilmaine suggested, there were plenty of preservationist societies that were eager to embark on a campaign to save England’s churches that might both embarrass the Church and promote goals incompatible with those of the Church.34 To give its warning teeth, the Pilgrim

Trust suspended its program of grants to parish churches until the Church of England formulated a “comprehensive long-term plan for financing the maintenance and repair of its historic churches.”35

Bowing to pressure from the Pilgrim Trust and other preservationists, the Church

Assembly (the Church of England’s legislative body) appointed a commission to make recommendations on “the problems concerned with the repair of churches and with the proposals for securing their regular inspection.”36 One of the preservationists who had pushed for the commission, Ivor Bulmer-Thomas, was appointed its chair. Bulmer-

Thomas, who was to be a driving force behind church preservation efforts for the next quarter-century, was a former Labour MP who had crossed to the floor to the

34 John Browne to Geoffrey Fisher, March 8, 1951, Fisher 81, ff. 12-15, Lambeth Palace Library. 35 “The Pilgrim Trust,” The Times, May 18, 1951. 36 The Preservation of Our Churches, 11.

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Conservative Party in the late 1940s. He had an insatiable appetite for work and correspondence, with the result that letters from him can be found in virtually every collection of papers related to church preservation in the second half of the twentieth century.

In its report, The Preservation of Our Churches, the commission relayed the

Society for the Protection of Ancient Building’s finding that “the society faces time and time again the saddening sight of blocked water heads and downpipes, cracked and missing tiles and slates, etc., vegetation in the gutters, dry areas overgrown, all combining to produce damp in the walls and floors and penetration of wet through the roof, with the consequent disastrous effect upon the fabric.”37 It was precisely this sort of information that Kilmaine had warned Fisher about, for it gave the impression that the Church of

England was either unwilling or unable to take care of its own buildings.

The commission, perhaps unsurprisingly, downplayed outright negligence as a major cause of disrepair, offering an array of factors that had led to the current state of affairs. One was the fact that many churches were, simply put, old – and getting older.

The Victorian boom in church-building was, by this point, roughly a century old, and these buildings would soon require expensive maintenance. The commission also pointed to the “changing balance of town and country” as another key factor – as more and more people moved from country villages to large towns and cities, the base of parishioners whose donations had once maintained the parish church was drying up. The decline of the country parson and the emergence of town-bred vicars who lacked “the countryman’s instinct for knowing what needs to be done and the countryman’s

37 Ibid., 16.

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resourcefulness in doing it himself” was another consequence of the shift from rural to urban life. The postwar increase in personal taxation rates further exacerbated the problem, with the “sustained high level of taxation” making it “impossible for those who have hitherto borne the main burden of repairing the fabrics to continue to do so.” Most important of all, the commission insisted, was the fact that war and the accompanying scarcity of labor and raw supplies meant that many churches had gone the better part of a decade without regular repairs – a recipe for disaster for any old building.38

This combination of factors had contributed to a projected shortfall of £4 million needed for church repairs over the next ten years, above and beyond what the parishes themselves could provide. The commission calculated this figure based on a survey distributed to 104 archdeacons throughout England, with the results suggesting that roughly one-quarter of England’s parish churches stood “in need of structural repair at present”. In addition to the sum of £4 million over the next ten years to catch up with the existing backlog of repairs, the commission estimated that a further £750,000 would be needed each year for run-of-the-mill maintenance and repairs.39

In evaluating possible sources of this substantial sum, the commission first considered the possibility of state aid, a solution favored by the Pilgrim Trust, the

Georgian Group, and the Society of Antiquaries. After dismissing state ownership of church buildings (the French solution instituted in 1905), the commission argued that state support could take the form of grants similar to those recommended in the Gowers

Report for repairs of stately homes that went beyond the capabilities of the building’s

38 Ibid., 17–21. 39 Ibid., 23–28.

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owners.40 If such assistance was given to help preserve a church, it “would not be qua church but qua historic building” – “it is not to be thought that Christian England would make for the house of God a less worthy provision than it is prepared to make for the houses of private persons.” Though it found such a possibility promising, the commission warned that “there is today a too prevalent tendency to look to the State to solve all the problems of life, individual and corporate. The Church should set an example in trying to manage her own affairs without recourse to the State.”41

The commission recommended that, instead of seeking state support, a new organization be set up to establish a national appeal for the necessary funds and then distribute those funds in block grants to dioceses who would then pass the funds on to individual churches. This new organization, the Historic Churches Preservation Trust

(HCPT), would also have county affiliates, with the “county, rather than the dioceses” preferred because it was “more suitable for attracting those who are not habitual churchgoers but are well-disposed towards the cause of church fabrics.”42 This mismatch

– grants going to Anglican dioceses but local affiliates set up on county rather than diocesan lines – revealed a degree of uncertainty as to precisely which churches would be eligible for grants from the HCPT. Was it to be a strictly Anglican organization, or would Nonconformist and Roman Catholic churches also receive grants?

The HCPT was soon established and began its appeal with a service at St. Martin- in-the-Fields on December 1, 1952.43 Bulmer-Thomas, who had chaired the commission

40 Mandler, The Fall and Rise of the Stately Home, 341–345. 41 The Preservation of Our Churches, 29–43. 42 Ibid., 49–54. 43 Historic Churches Preservation Trust, “Appeal for Parish Churches,” Press release, December 2, 1952, 1, LMA/4450/C/03/079, London Metropolitan Archives.

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recommending the creation of the HCPT, was installed as its secretary and the chairman of its executive committee. Patronage came from the highest level: Prince Philip was its

President and the Queen its Patron. The archbishops of Canterbury and York were joint chairmen of the trustees. Trustees had been selected with an eye towards political, social, and religious balance; Clement Attlee was invited as a representative of the Labour Party and Kilmaine recommended securing the membership of a trade unionist and a representative of the Free Churches in order to promote the idea that the “parish church is something which belongs to the whole community and not merely worshippers in the

Church of England”.44 In an effort to secure non-Anglican support, Fisher ensured that all historic churches were, in principle, eligible for grants from the HCPT. In practice, the vast majority of funds would be funneled towards the preservation of Anglican churches. Writing of eligible Nonconformist churches, Fisher minimized their significance: “there are hardly half a dozen of them [deserving of aid], and though the gesture is right it will not put very much burden on the Fund.”45

In its early years, the HCPT sought donations from the public by describing

England’s churches as architectural treasures. Its first annual report emphasized that the

HCPT’s artistic tastes were broad: “In age the churches helped range from Saxon times to the Victorian era, and every style in the development of English architecture will be found among them. […] The Trustees do not regard it as their duty to favour any one age or style, but to help hand down all that has been found pleasing in the past.”46 The HCPT also sought to highlight parish churches as the chief repositories of local history. In a

44 John Browne to Geoffrey Fisher, June 30, 1952, Fisher 102, f. 12, Lambeth Palace Library. 45 Geoffrey Fisher to John Browne, November 19, 1952, LMA/4450/C/03/079, London Metropolitan Archives. 46 Historic Churches Preservation Trust, First Annual Report and Accounts, 1953.

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1953 appeal in Punch for contributions to the HCPT, John Betjeman emphasized this local importance. “These buildings are the history of the people of the parish. […] no country in the world has such a rich variety of old churches as England”, a variety,

Betjeman implied, that came about due to the varied local circumstances in which parish churches were built.47 The HCPT’s 1962 report linked architectural features with local settings by pointing out how parish churches “harmonize with their surroundings. […]

Stone obtainable in the immediate neighborhood of the site was used wherever possible”

– limestone in Oxfordshire and Dorset, rag in Kent, granite in Cornwall, chalk in

Wiltshire, and flint in East Anglia. With homes and churches in a given locality made of similar material, churches fit perfectly into the local landscape.48 To lose them would be to irreversibly damage that landscape.

In spite of this appeal and the HCPT’s illustrious patronage, the HCPT proved a failure when it came to raising and disbursing funds. In its first ten years, it raised just

£662,000 of the £4 million deemed necessary. It was not until the 1980s, over thirty years after its formation, that the HCPT achieved its goal of raising £4 million, by which point inflation had made a mockery of the figure. The HCPT’s 1957 report warned that

“Admiration for these ancient and beautiful structures will not alone ensure their preservation; they are national treasures and […] their upkeep should be a national responsibility.” Fundraising figures suggest that the general public did not agree.

Donations were far from generous. After a flurry of activity in the HCPT’s first two years, the Trust’s income would peak (in real terms) in 1968 when its donations and

47 John Betjeman, Betjeman on Faith: An Anthology of His Religious Prose, ed. Kevin J. Gardner (London: SPCK, 2011), 10. 48 Historic Churches Preservation Trust, Annual Report, 1962, 3.

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subscriptions amounted to £111,797 (£69,444 in 1953 pounds).49 There may have been latent public support for church preservation in the 1950s, but it did not manifest itself in actual support of the main national organization dedicated to the project. In a 1960 letter, the HCPT’s secretary admitted as much, writing that “our appeal can never become a popular one,” but suggested that there was “in this country a small minority who are prepared to give and give again towards the cost of preserving” churches.50 This “small minority” was proving inadequate to the task.

The debate over redundant churches

The HCPT’s failure to achieve its fundraising goals was just one of the problems it faced in the 1950s. More significant was a question left unresolved in the 1952 report on church preservation: what would the Church of England do with the churches that it found “redundant” to its core pastoral mission? This was a problem of both rural and urban areas. A Church-sponsored report from the mid-1960s evocatively described

“decayed downtown centres” as the site of “many historic old churches from which the raison d’ être has departed, like old hulks silted up in a bay from which the sea has receded.”51 For many in the Church, the answer to this question was simple: dispose of the buildings in a way that would benefit the parish and diocese.

In practical terms, this typically meant combining multiple parishes into a single benefice and demolishing one or more of the parish churches made redundant by the

49 These figures are taken from the HCPT’s annual reports and accounts. Inflation is calculated using the Bank of England’s inflation calculator, available at http://www.bankofengland.co.uk/education/Pages/inflation/calculator/index1.aspx 50 “Estimates of the Cost of Putting Churches into Repair,” February 8, 1960, 1–2, WORK 14/2268, The National Archives. 51 Paul, The Deployment and Payment of the Clergy, 43.

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union of parishes. Both common and statutory law prevented the diocese from selling property containing a consecrated church, so demolition was a necessary step in selling potentially valuable sites for other uses.52 The proposed demolition of Holy Trinity in

Leeds was one of the most celebrated instances of this process, which many preservationists saw as the Church’s aesthetically tone-deaf profit-seeking. In July 1954, the Ripon Diocesan Pastoral Committee declared that “there is no future for the parish of

Holy Trinity as a sole cure” and the “demolition of the Church and sale of the site is essential.” Plans to re-develop Leeds would lead to population movement away from the old urban core to the suburban periphery, with the result that the population of the parish of Holy Trinity was expected to drop from 1,025 in 1949 to just 475 in 1971. Demolition of Holy Trinity and the sale of its site “could not possibly affect the spiritual welfare of the area” (there were two other parish churches within a quarter-mile) and would enable the construction of “churches in the outer areas of the city where the population is now housed in large housing estates.” The value of the site, running to six figures, was considerable. The committee admitted that such demolition would be “regretted” since

Holy Trinity was a distinctive example of Georgian architecture in Leeds but insisted that

“questions of architectural merit alone ought not to be allowed to outweigh the spiritual needs of the people to-day in other places.”53 The proposed demolition produced a “flood of protests” from antiquarian groups like the Georgian Group, the Royal Fine Art

Commission, and the Council for British Archaeology, and the church was eventually

52 Report of the Archbishops’ Commission on Redundant Churches, 1958-1960 (London: SPCK, 1960), 73–76. 53 Ripon Diocesan Pastoral Committee, “A Report,” July 29, 1954, HLG 103/114, The National Archives.

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preserved.54 Rural churches, lacking valuable sites that could be used for other purposes, were less likely to be threatened with imminent demolition. But, as with the case of St.

John’s in Duxford, if a church were in such a bad state of disrepair that it could prove dangerous, demolition was considered as a possible solution.

Since the cost of repair and maintenance was one of the key factors to be considered as dioceses pondered redundancy, the policy of the HCPT regarding grants to churches that might be declared redundant became increasingly contentious. From the earliest days of the HCPT, there had been disagreements regarding this policy. Ivor

Bulmer-Thomas, the secretary of the HCPT and in charge of its day-to-day operations, interpreted his remit broadly and sought to use the funds of the organization to save all churches of architectural or historic value, even if the diocese was considering demolishing the church in question. If, Bulmer-Thomas reasoned, a grant from the

HCPT could bring the church into good repair, the expenses that had contributed towards possible redundancy would be mitigated and the church could be saved. Geoffrey Fisher, as archbishop of Canterbury one of the chairmen of the trustees of the HCPT, strenuously objected to what he saw as Bulmer-Thomas’s meddling with the autonomy of the Church of England.

This simmering conflict came to a boil in 1956, a scant three years after the founding of the HCPT. A letter from Walter H. Godfrey (architect, antiquarian, and member of the HCPT’s executive committee) to the Pilgrim Trust laid out the problem:

“recently the Archbishop has been very annoyed that help has been offered to churches which he personally would like to demolish.” With “a large section of the Church […]

54 “Disused Churches: Demolition,” September 17, 1954, 2, WORK 14/2351, The National Archives; G.R. Armstrong, “Holy Trinity Church, Leeds,” n.d., WORK 14/2351, The National Archives.

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quite philistine” and represented among the trustees of the HCPT, Fisher sought to remove Bulmer-Thomas from his post and reconstitute the executive committee along lines more pliable to the pastoral needs of the Church. As chairman of the trustees,

Fisher had called a meeting for mid-July to thrash out the issues and, if all went according to his plan, oust Bulmer-Thomas.55

At the July meeting, Bulmer-Thomas fought against his ouster by placing the blame for the conflict squarely on the shoulders of Fisher. “It was in the summer of 1954 that he sharply criticized my efforts to save Holy Trinity, Leeds, and St. Mary’s,

Sandwich. […] I have since been attacked for persuading the diocesan authorities to agree to the preservation of Burham Old Church in the diocese of Rochester and St.

Mary-at-Quay in the diocese of St. Edmundsbury and Ipswich, both churches of great architectural historic interest.” By contrast to Fisher’s acceptance of the demolition of historic churches, Bulmer-Thomas declared that the “Church of England has a moral obligation, as enjoying the endowments that go with establishment, to maintain the historic churches in the land,” an obligation that it was failing to fulfill.56 Bulmer-

Thomas’s defense failed to convince the trustees and he was removed from his post.

The reconstituted HCPT replied with a rejoinder to Bulmer-Thomas’s claims. In a statement to the Times a few days later, the HCPT argued that Bulmer-Thomas’s vision for the trust, that it had a “duty to preserve every church, whether or not it is needed for worship or its preservation desired by the ecclesiastical authorities”, represented a departure from the original purpose of the organization.57 For the rest of July, the gloves

55 Walter H. Godfrey to John Browne, May 19, 1956, LMA/4450/C/03/079, London Metropolitan Archives. 56 “Church Preservation Trust Difference on Policy,” The Times, July 14, 1956. 57 “Policy Dispute on Churches,” The Times, July 16, 1956.

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stayed off. In a July 23 letter to the Times, Bulmer-Thomas shared his “sorrowful but considered view” that “under present conditions in the Church of England no body dominated by persons subject to ecclesiastical discipline can be regarded as a satisfactory safeguard against the destruction of historic churches.”58 Fisher wrote to Kilmaine that

Bulmer-Thomas’s aim of saving every church threatened with demolition would turn the

HCPT into “an amenity society, there to protest, publicise, and fight for redundant

Churches. That has never been our function. We are to collect money and help churches as far as we can.”59 After a few months of calm, matters boiled over at the November

1956 meeting of the Church Assembly. Likening himself to Thomas à Becket, Bulmer-

Thomas declared that “I once told the [Church] Assembly that I should never throw my hand in, nor have I done so; the cards were snatched from my hand while your Grace [i.e.

Fisher] held a pistol to my face and the Dean of Gloucester plunged his dagger in my back. So be it. I must have been very troublesome in the eyes of your Grace, and the lament must often have been raised at Lambeth, ‘Will no one rid me of this turbulent layman?’”60 After this bout of intemperance, the HCPT’s annual report dealt with

Bulmer-Thomas’s removal rather quietly: “A difference of opinion about the interpretation of the Trust Deed as defining the purposes for which grants could be made came to a head in 1956 and led in July to the dissolution of the original Executive

Committee and the appointment of a new Committee.”61

Peering through the smoke generated by the conflict between Bulmer-Thomas and

Fisher, it is important to recognize the basic outcome: the pastoralists had defeated the

58 Ivor Bulmer-Thomas, “Preserving Churches,” The Times, July 23, 1956. 59 Geoffrey Fisher to John Browne, July 26, 1956, LMA/4450/C/03/079, London Metropolitan Archives. 60 “Preserving Historic Churches,” The Times, November 16, 1956. 61 Historic Churches Preservation Trust, Fourth Report and Accounts, 1956.

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preservationists, and the HCPT would no longer interfere in dioceses’ decision-making process. This was not the hollow victory of a Church cabal running against public opinion. While there were those who supported Bulmer-Thomas’s preservationist position, pastoralists continued to emphasize the importance the Church’s independence in dealing with its buildings. In a letter to the Times, G.H. Perman, the vicar of Ealing in west London, insisted that the Church of England must use its resources to tend to the nation’s spiritual needs, not preserve redundant churches as museum pieces, a task

Perman described as “a useless sacrifice, and a waste of valuable assets and manpower.”

Emphasizing the “museum aspect” of churches, Perman insisted, “misses the essence of the very nature of the Church.” At a time when the “spiritual needs of our new centres of population which are still […] evolving a soul, and an ultimate basis for life, cry to heaven for spiritual vision rather than for the antiquarian’s approach”. Whenever the needs of ministry and preservation came into conflict, Perman concluded, ministry must win out.62

At the root of this controversy was a fundamental disagreement about the purpose and function of England’s parish churches. Bulmer-Thomas insisted that the churches had architectural and aesthetic value that trumped any practical concerns about their status as active places of worship. Fisher, perhaps the most administratively-minded archbishop of Canterbury of the twentieth century, saw church buildings as places of worship, as the site of the Church’s pastoral mission. As such, their care was the responsibility of the incumbent, parish, and diocese. Any aesthetic charms that they had represented added value, but it was extraneous to their core purpose.

62 G.H. Perman, “Preserving Churches,” The Times, July 17, 1956.

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1956, then, represented a nadir for preservationists like Bulmer-Thomas. After successfully convincing the Church of England that the problem of maintenance and regular repair required a systematic approach and a national organization, Bulmer-

Thomas overreached by presuming to dictate to the Church precisely which churches (i.e. all of them, in Bulmer-Thomas’s opinion) were worthy of preservation. For his efforts

Bulmer-Thomas was rewarded with a sojourn into the wilderness, where he founded a new organization, tellingly called the Friends of Friendless Churches (FFC), which purchased churches that had been declared redundant and were in danger of demolition.63

Without the imprimatur of the Church, the FFC’s efforts were necessarily limited.64

Between Bulmer-Thomas’s ouster and the HCPT’s lackluster fundraising efforts, the prospects of widespread church preservation were far from rosy. The Church had rejected the principle that all its churches should be maintained as architectural monuments and the general public had shown little interest in helping to pay for the maintenance of those churches that the Church did deem necessary.

John Betjeman and the aesthetic appreciation of churches

The crucial intervention in changing public attitudes towards churches came from

John Betjeman. The most popular British poet of the twentieth century, Betjeman was described as early as 1947 as “something of a cult in England”.65 The 1958 publication of his Collected Poems was the “publishing phenomenon” of the year, with almost a

63 Friends of Friendless Churches, Constitution, 1957. 64 Today the FFC owns and maintains roughly forty churches, virtually all of them in rural settings, across England and Wales. 65 Northrop Frye, “The Betjeman Brand,” Poetry 71, no. 3 (December 1, 1947): 162.

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thousand copies a day being sold in the weeks following its release.66 His 1960 autobiography in verse, Summoned by Bells did just as well, selling over 50,000 copies in the first two weeks of publication.67 Summoned by Bells also prompted a review in the

Times Literary Supplement that captured his unique success in becoming a genuinely popular poet. “Where his fellow poets sell in the two figures, he sells well into the five.

Where they are known only in a small coterie of the elect, he is a national figure.” In a period when “poets and […] poetry have been more widely separated from the general life of the nation than before”, Betjeman remained known among the general public “as if he was a private friend”.68 In addition to his poetry, his regular appearances on radio and television (his daughter estimated that he appeared on the radio 735 times, and on television on almost 500 occasions) ensured his visibility well beyond regular readers of poetry.69 Tracing Betjeman’s direct influence on the attitudes of the English public is difficult, but his popularity and virtual omnipresence helps address one of the problems of cultural history posed by Peter Mandler, namely the importance of assessing the

“throw” of a given text - its “significance in wider discursive fields” and its “distribution and reception”.70 As one of the most popular figures of the twentieth century, the distribution of Betjeman’s works had the potential to shape how people understood

English architecture. The fact that both the Church of England and the state came to embrace policies sympathetic with his own vision of churches suggests that that potential was fulfilled.

66 Bevis Hillier, John Betjeman: New Fame, New Love (London: John Murray, 2002), 605. 67 Bevis Hillier, Betjeman: The Bonus of Laughter (London: John Murray, 2004), 113. 68 Christopher Hollis, “Knowing Mr. Betjeman,” Times Literary Supplement, December 2, 1960. 69 John Betjeman, Letters, ed. Candida Lycett Green, vol. 1 (London: Methuen, 1994), xi. 70 Peter Mandler, “The Problem with Cultural History,” Cultural and Social History 1 (2004): 96–97.

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It has become something of a commonplace that Betjeman taught the English to love Victorian architecture. In a 1970 review of a new edition of Betjeman’s 1933 book

Ghastly Good Taste, Peter E. Clarke wrote of the strangeness of reading such strident defenses of buildings now universally accepted as deserving of praise – “if the preacher’s voice now sounds somewhat muted, that is because most readers will long ago have been converted to his views, which in 1933 were held by very few.” Thanks to Betjeman,

“new generations […] have learnt that looking at buildings and the pursuit of architecture can be enormous fun.”71 Writing in 1981, Sean Medcalf argued that Betjeman helped bring about an end to a “very dark age […] for parish churches”.72 This sort of claim attributes considerable cultural power to a single figure, a poet at that. But Betjeman was so omnipresent that this story of directing the English psyche towards appreciating

Victorian train stations and medieval churches is just about plausible. Everyone in

England knew Betjeman, and everyone could probably conjure up a verse or two

(friendly bombs and Slough, perhaps) if pressed.

Betjeman’s popularity notwithstanding, the emergence of popular support for preservationism is a more complex story than Betjeman simply demonstrating his own love of churches in such a compelling way that the English people fell in line. He had been talking up the charms of churches since the 1930s, but it was only in the late 1950s and the early 1960s that his idiosyncratic brand of church appreciation gained a foothold in the popular consciousness. What had changed in the interim was that a broader segment of the middle class now had the means to pursue the “church-crawling” that

Betjeman so lovingly encouraged. The government’s commitment to full employment

71 Peter E. Clarke, “Betjeman in the Beginning,” Times Literary Supplement, February 19, 1971. 72 Stephen Medcalf, “To the Sound of Bells,” Times Literary Supplement, March 27, 1981.

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and Britain’s booming economy meant that average weekly earnings rose from £7 10s in

1950 to over £18 by 1964. Even more important to the development of church tourism as a leisure activity was the fact that the number of cars doubled from two and half million to five million between 1952 and 1959.73 An economic analysis of the membership of the

National Trust, the British preservationist group par excellence, found that increased education, income, and mobility all correlated with higher levels of membership.74 The hundreds of thousands of exurban retirees and commuters who moved to rural areas after the Second World War may also have helped the movement for church preservation take off as they sought to rescue the local character of the countryside that they had recently made their own.75 In short, the affluence of the late 1950s and early 1960s created a new audience for Betjeman’s romantic preservationism.

At first blush, Betjeman might seem an odd sort of preservationist, at least if the preservationist impulse is seen as contradictory to the Church’s pastoral mission. After a youthful foray into Quaker-ism, Betjeman spent the rest of his life as a committed

Anglican, albeit one with frequent moments of doubt. In a broadcast on CBS in 1953,

Betjeman admitted that the credal statement “I believe in God the Father Almighty,

Maker of Heaven and Earth, and in Jesus Christ His only begotten Son our Lord” was something “I find […] very hard to believe.” What strengthened his often weak belief was the feeling that Christianity brought meaning to the world – without it “I think I would want to cut my throat or rush off and indulge myself in every physical excess of

73 P. F. Clarke, Hope and Glory: Britain, 1900-2000 (Penguin, 2004), 254–255. 74 John Hudson, “The Economics of the National Trust: A Demand Curve for a History Club,” Scottish Journal of Political Economy 36, no. 1 (February 1989): 19–35. 75 Mark Clapson, “Cities, Suburbs, Countryside,” in A Companion to Contemporary Britain 1939-2000, ed. Paul Addison and Harriet Jones (Malden: Blackwell Publishing, 2005), 69.

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which my body is capable.”76 In spite of his regular crises of faith (or perhaps because of them), Betjeman’s Christianity was not non-denominational. He was an Anglican through and through and yearned for the day that the English people would return to the glories of the Church of England, what he viewed as the true English manifestation of the

Catholic Church.77

Betjeman’s great achievement when it came to churches was how he connected the aims and ideals of the preservationists and the pastoralists. Careful examination of churches, he insisted, could lead “church crawlers” to the Christian faith. For Betjeman, the aesthetic experience of churches was the first step on the path to appreciating churches as places of spiritual succor, with authentic religious experience to follow. For

Betjeman visual appreciation of churches was not the end, but the beginning.78 In a 1948 radio talk, he described how he learned his faith “from church-crawling. Indeed, it was through looking at churches that I came to believe in the reason why churches were built and why […] they still survive and continue to grow and prosper.”79

Betjeman wrote about churches almost continually. Each published collection of his verse offered a new handful of poems devoted to the pleasures of churches, each with a telling eye for detail. What Betjeman offered readers in his verse was the experience of being in a church and looking around. In other words, he couched his aesthetic appreciation of churches in terms of embodied experience, a far cry from the detached descriptions favored by the antiquarian guidebooks of the first half of the twentieth

76 Betjeman, Tennis Whites and Teacakes, 439. 77 For more on Betjeman’s Anglicanism, see Kevin J. Gardner, “Anglicanism and the Poetry of John Betjeman,” Christianity and Literature 53, no. 3 (Spring 2004): 361–383. 78 Peter J. Lowe, “The Church as a Building and the Church as a Community in the Work of John Betjeman,” Christianity and Literature 57, no. 4 (Summer 2008): 559–581. 79 Betjeman, Betjeman on Faith, 85.

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century. If Nikolaus Pevsner, Betjeman’s great rival in the mid-century guidebook game, is to be believed, Betjeman really did fall upon his knees when entering a church, a fact that Pevsner found tremendously embarrassing.80 It was this depiction of embodied experience that set Betjeman apart from other writers on church architecture and helped popularize appreciation of churches for their beauty. To pastoralists, Betjeman’s view of churches offered a vision of the pastoral usefulness of churches based not on the efficient use of the Church’s limited resources but rather on the power of architecture as a witness to faith. To preservationists, Betjeman was a champion of the beauty of churches, and one that could communicate the experience of that beauty to believers and non-believers alike.

Betjeman’s delight in the visual pleasure provided by churches can be found in virtually everything he wrote on the subject. An article on “The Lighting of Candles” in the Country Churchman in July 1953 is a case in point. Bemoaning the lack of candle-lit churches in England, he pointed to King’s College Chapel, Cambridge as the “supreme example”.

I know of no more wonderful sight than to enter the chapel on an autumn evening when the time of Evensong synchronises with the end of day. The colours of the great stained-glass windows that line the walls fade away, the huge stone-vaulted roof disappears in the misty darkness and warm and golden around us glow the candles, burnishing the white surplices of the choir. As the darkness grows the candles seem to burn bright until dimly discerned high above us may be seen the vaulted roof, looking even more intricate and impressive than it does by daylight.

80 Susie Harries, Nikolaus Pevsner: The Life (London: Chatto & Windus, 2011), 542.

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Elaborating on his objection to excessive electrical lighting, he pointed out that the

“object of most electricians is to eliminate shadows”, while the “whole point of an old church is that it must be full of shadows.”81

For while Betjeman often highlighted the importance of beauty as a force for evangelization, he was also happy to revel in the aesthetic pleasure of churches as a good in its own right. In a 1949 article in Leader Magazine on “Church-crawling”, he began by stating that there are “three ways of looking at a church – as a place of worship, as a historical record, as architecture. No church of the thousands I have visited has been wholly ‘devoid of interest’ as the guide books say. This is because they can be considered places of worship.” This prosaic disclaimer out of the way, he then spent the rest of the essay offering guidance as to how novice church crawlers could learn, as

Betjeman had learned, to take great pleasure in visiting churches. He was keen to emphasize that such “pleasure derived from practice.” In his earlier days, Betjeman had thought that “everything old was beautiful”, but he believed himself to have developed a keener eye for beauty in its own right, seeking out churches that fulfilled the Vitruvian triumvirate of “firmnesse, commodity and delight”. The intensely visual nature of

Betjeman’s method of exploring churches was encapsulated in his suggested tools for successful church-crawling: “(1) a notebook in which you can sketch and make remarks;

(2) opera and field glasses for viewing roofs and stained glass; (3) a one-inch map; (4) most important, an unprejudiced eye.”82

The evident pleasure that Betjeman took from visiting churches prompted his friend Evelyn Waugh to accuse him of embracing Christianity solely for aesthetic

81 Betjeman, Tennis Whites and Teacakes, 368, 370. 82 Betjeman, Betjeman on Faith, 48–55.

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reasons. In a May 1947 letter, Waugh wrote, “One deep root of error is that you regard religion as the source of pleasurable emotions & sensations and ask the question ‘Am I not getting just as much out of the Church of England as I should from Catholicism?’

The question should be ‘What am I giving to God?’”83 Stung by this criticism, Betjeman admitted that, as an undergraduate he had indeed looked to Christianity as a source of pleasure, but that his regular attendance at the parish church in Farnborough brought little joy. Instead, he went out of a sense of responsibility instilled by his faith – to “desert this wounded and neglected church would be to betray Our Lord.”84

That Betjeman’s faith went beyond mere pleasure may well be true. What matters is that Betjeman had to defend himself against the charge in the first place. A committed

Roman Catholic himself, Waugh, had an ulterior motive in pushing Betjeman towards

Roman Catholicism. But Waugh was astute in his observation that Betjeman’s poetry and prose did seem to have more to say about the appreciation of beauty than deep, internal faith.

To be sure, in some of his writing on church buildings, Betjeman was intent on specifying the connection between faith and architecture. In a 1951 essay in the Times

Literary Supplement, he declared that the “key” to church buildings was “the faith of the builders.” Victorian churchmen and architects did not focus on style for its own sake, but rather “wanted buildings as practical as possible for teaching the uninstructed the two chief sacraments of the Church of England”, baptism and communion. Nineteenth- century churches were distinctive, therefore, in their emphasis on the baptismal font and

83 Evelyn Waugh, The Letters of Evelyn Waugh, ed. Mark Amory (New Haven and New York: Ticknor & Fields, 1980), 249–250. 84 Betjeman, Letters, 1:411–412.

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the high altar.85 But the sheer pleasure that Betjeman took in churches as buildings came through so strongly in his writings that non-churchgoers and even non-believers could be swayed by his call to see the beauty in churches.

His 1952 “Verses turned in aid of a Public Subscription towards the restoration of the Church of St. Katherine, Chiselhampton, Oxon” is a case in point. Though it contained the stanza “The penitent in faith draw near / And kneeling here below / Partake the Heavenly Banquet spread / Of Sacramental Wine and Bread / And JESUS’ presence know”, the rest of the poem is filled with the sights and sounds of a country church that could be enjoyed and appreciated by all:

Across the wet November night The church is bright with candlelight And waiting Evensong. A single bell with plaintive strokes Pleads louder than the stirring oaks The leafless lanes along.

[…]

How warm the many candles shine On Samuel Dowbiggin’s design […] How gracefully their shadow falls On bold pilasters down the walls And on the pulpit high.

85 John Betjeman, “A Century of Church-Building,” Times Literary Supplement, April 27, 1951.

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Turning to the matter at hand, the poem ends by asking “And must that plaintive bell in vain / Plead loud along the dripping lane? / And must the building fall?” and offering an answer: “Not while we love the Church and live / And of our charity will give / Our much, our more, our all.”86 The appeal for the church raised £3,000 and extensive repairs were completed.87 With the right promoter, the public could be convinced to donate to keep England’s beautiful churches standing.

The problem for the preservationists was that Betjeman could not simply go up and down the country writing a poem for each church in danger of ruin or demolition.88

Isolated successes in saving churches in Chiselhampton, Sandwich, and Leeds notwithstanding, the blow of Bulmer-Thomas’s removal from the HCPT meant the actual strength and popularity of preservationism were at a low ebb.

It was in this context that the Collins Guide to English Parish Churches, edited and with an introduction by Betjeman, was published in 1958. Tellingly dedicated to the

“memory of St. Agnes’, Kennington, 1877; Christ Church Salford, 1830, fine churches of unfashionable date demolished since the war”, the Collins Guide opened with a statement of purpose from Betjeman: “It had long bothered my friend Mr. John Piper and me that there was no selective list of English parish churches, judging the buildings by their atmosphere and aesthetic merit.” Church guidebooks abounded, but Betjeman found them too “concerned […] with the search for style or with particular details which

86 John Betjeman, Collected Poems, ed. Andrew Motion, 1st American ed. (New York: Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 2006), 149–151. 87 Mary Lobel, ed., “Parishes: Chislehampton,” in A History of the County of Oxford, vol. 7, Victoria County History, 1962, 5–16. 88 Nor was Betjeman a preservationist miracle-worker. While he was instrumental in the preservation of St. Pancras Station in London, all that remains of Betjeman’s beloved arch outside Euston Station is a pub named the Doric Arch just east of the station.

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interested their authors such as brasses, bells or church plate or woodwork.” What was missing, and what the Collins Guide aimed to provide, was an “aesthetic and atmospheric assessment of English and Manx parish churches” that would be genuinely useful to church-crawlers and not get bogged down in excessive detail of interest only to antiquarians.89

Betjeman’s introduction to the Collins Guide moved away from the arid antiquarianism he detested by writing about the experience of visiting churches in the collective first person. Scattered throughout the essay were phrases like, “The church whose southern side we are approaching” and “As we sit in a back pew of the nave with the rest of the congregation”. The sensation of visiting and seeing an imaginary church was further heightened by the careful progression from churchyard, to porch, to pew, and as a rhetorical device to present elements of the church’s exterior interior. This progression through the church was accompanied by a progression through time as

Betjeman guided the reader through the centuries. What emerged was a deeply personal account of the history of church architecture in which readers were taught to look for themselves and find beauty where they would, always gently guided by Betjeman’s own aesthetic preferences.

The Collins Guide was a popular addition to the Betjeman canon - it was republished as a revised edition in 1959 and a pocket edition (split into two volumes) in

1968, then re-issued in 1980 and 1993. The most recent update was re-titled as Sir John

Betjeman’s Guide to English Parish Churches, thereby putting the Betjeman brand front and center. In his 1958 review of the Collins Guide, Bulmer-Thomas singled out

89 John Betjeman, ed., Collins Guide to English Parish Churches, Including the Isle of Man. (London: Collins, 1958), 13–15.

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Betjeman’s prefatory essay for special praise. Describing it as “pure gold”, Bulmer-

Thomas pointed to Betjeman’s ability to pile up details in such a way that “we feel we were there ourselves; and not only in 1860 but in Georgian times, in the fifteenth century, and before the Conquest. For all periods Mr. Betjeman is a sure and kindly interpreter.”90

Bulmer-Thomas was, of course, hardly an impartial observer. He was a kindred spirit to

Betjeman when it came to churches – both saw beauty in the infinite variety of church architecture that English history had inspired, and both saw the preservation of that beauty as an important goal. Along with his Collected Poems and Summoned by Bells, the Collins Guide brought Betjeman’s skillful evocation of the pleasures of churches to a wider audience than ever before.

Bringing the church and state together

The seeds of a shift towards greater public appreciation for the beauty of churches had, therefore, been sown when, in 1958, the archbishops of Canterbury and York appointed an archbishops’ commission (the ecclesiastical equivalent of a royal commission) to resolve the problem of redundant churches. Sensitive to Bulmer-

Thomas’s continued attacks on the Church of England for its destruction of England’s architectural heritage and seeking a more streamlined process for disposing of redundant churches, Fisher appointed the career civil servant Edward Bridges as chairman of the

Archbishops’ Commission. Successively cabinet secretary and head of the civil service,

Bridges was seen as a competent and impartial observer who would be able to clear away the mass of complicated ecclesiastical law and procedures to find a solution that would

90 Ivor Bulmer-Thomas, “Signposts to the Parish Church,” Times Literary Supplement, November 7, 1958.

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satisfy both preservationists and pastoralists. At an informal meeting that took place before the Archbishops’ Commission was officially set up, Bridges outlined four issues that the Archbishops’ Commission would need to address: 1) working out a single procedure for determining the fate of redundant churches; 2) determining which body could provide the “specialist advice required”; 3) conducting a survey of redundant churches in the country; and 4) finding a “source of funds for assuring the preservation of redundant churches that were agreed to be of outstanding value.”91

Before proceeding to these questions, the Archbishops’ Commission had to determine exactly what counted as a redundant church. A brief from the Ministry of

Housing and Local Government highlighted the ambiguity of the label “redundant church”. The jumbled collection of legal mechanisms by which a church might be declared redundant or simply treated as redundant meant that the determination of whether a given church was redundant depended on the precise criteria used. A working definition of redundancy could be found in the 1951 Union of Benefices (Disused

Churches) Measure: a redundant church was one which had “ceased to be used or is no longer required for purposes of divine service.” But the question of whether a church was required for divine service was a “matter of opinion”, and a frequently contested one at that.92 Under the existing system, churches could be declared redundant under three separate procedures: one involving a series of Union of Benefices measures from 1923 to

1952 and the 1949 Pastoral Reorganisation Measure; another utilizing a series of

Reorganisation Areas measures passed from 1944 to 1954; and the final taking place

91 “Redundant Churches,” July 15, 1958, 4, HLG 103/101, The National Archives. 92 Archbishops’ Commission on Redundant Churches, February 1959, 1–2, HLG 103/101, The National Archives.

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under the “faculty jurisdiction” in which the consistory court of the diocese could declare a church redundant and thereby dispose of it. The faculty procedure enraged preservationists – it did nothing to guarantee that the historic or architectural merit of a given church be considered before being demolished.93

Those submitting evidence to the Archbishops’ Commission largely fell into the pastoralist and preservationist camps. On the pastoralist side, the bishops of Bath and

Wells, Peterborough, and Durham emphasized that the number of redundant churches would continue to grow, especially in rural areas, as the population of villages continued to decline and access to cars made going to church in a nearby village much easier than it would have been even fifty years before. The union of parishes would encourage

“worshippers to join reasonably-sized congregations rather than to shiver in empty churches.”94 B.S. Watkins, the ecclesiastical secretary to the Lord Chancellor (who was patron to 500 benefices), wrote to the Archbishops’ Commission on the importance of declaring some churches redundant. He too emphasized the depth of the problem in rural areas where de-population had left many rural parish churches with small communities incapable of both supporting the village parson and preserving the local church. The break-up of “village community spirit” and the “dearth of good leadership” made the provision of high-quality clergy in rural areas all the more important, but that was impossible when money that might be used to recruit clergymen was “wasted on the maintenance of redundant churches”. While Watkins said nothing about the possible

93 Report of the Archbishops’ Commission on Redundant Churches, 1958-1960, 22–25. 94 Archbishops’ Commission on Redundant Churches, “Minutes of 9th Meeting,” November 9, 1959, 2, WORK 14/2963, The National Archives.

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demolition of redundant churches, he insisted that “propaganda will be needed to overcome the opposition to closing redundant churches”.95

For their part, the preservationists who submitted evidence to the Archbishops’

Commission were skeptical of the very notion of redundant churches. John Betjeman opened his evidence by declaring that “I do not think there is such a thing as a redundant church.” Rather romantically, he suggested that if the people of England returned to the

Church of England, “there would not be enough churches.” He went on to argue that “the architectural merit of a building should be the deciding factor as to its fate and not money or pastoral considerations. I think this because architecture is a witness to our faith and to civilization, going on after we are dead.”96 Ivor Bulmer-Thomas, who contributed to three separate submissions to the Archbishops’ Commission (those of the Friends of

Friendless Churches and the Ancient Monuments Society in addition to his submission as a private individual), argued that the Church of England should not retain the sole responsibility for determining whether a church was redundant and urged the

Archbishops’ Commission to “remind the ecclesiastical authorities of the responsibilities which they possess for the ancient churches of the land”.97

Far more important than their immediate pastoral usefulness, the preservationists insisted, was the aesthetic interest and pleasure provided by churches. The Society for the Protection of Ancient Buildings pointed out that the “ruins of the great Abbey churches which have stood since the reign of Henry VIII” and “quite a number of parish

95 B.S. Watkins, “Memorandum by the Lord Chancellor’s Secretary for Ecclesiastical Patronage,” n.d., WORK 14/2959, The National Archives. 96 John Betjeman, “Memorandum,” June 1959, 1, 4, WORK 14/2960, The National Archives. 97 “Evidence Submitted by the Ancient Monuments Society,” January 1959, 1, WORK 14/2960, The National Archives.

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churches” which had become ruins remained a “source of interest to very many people”.

The judgment of the future might prove more friendly to ancient churches than the present focus towards “usefulness” allowed: “Just as the great ruined Abbey churches have had to wait several centuries before a more sympathetic generation attempted their upkeep, so it may be that churches will have to wait until better times and changing circumstances make it possible to bring them into use again.”98 The National Trust emphasized parish churches’ contribution to the landscape of rural England, where “in many parts of this country” they “dominate and provide focal points which give the ordinary English agricultural landscape its particular charm and character.”99 Betjeman emphasized the aesthetic value of churches even above their historic associations: “no church which is beautiful, whatever its date, should be destroyed or even turned into a furniture store which is sometimes proposed.” Betjeman’s emphasis on preserving the beauty of England’s churches extended to the composition of the body he envisioned making the decisions on the fate of churches. “I do not think it is a necessity for these artists to be Church of England. A sensitive agnostic is more useful in this work than a prejudiced amateur financier in Holy Orders.”100

The arguments of the preservationists convinced the Archbishops’ Commission, which accepted the principle that “the historic churches of England are […] rightly regarded […] as part of the national heritage.” The Archbishops’ Commission declared that the “decision whether a church of historic interest should be retained or demolished should not therefore be taken without the fullest consultation with representatives of

98 Society for the Protection of Ancient Buildings, “Memorandum,” May 14, 1959, 3–4, WORK 14/2959, The National Archives. 99 J.F.W. Rathbone, “Memorandum,” n.d., WORK 14/2960, The National Archives. 100 Betjeman, “Memorandum,” 1, 3.

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those organizations in our national life which have a special concern with and possess expert knowledge of our architectural treasures and traditions.”101 In order to put that principle into practice, the Archbishops’ Commission recommended that a new body, the

Advisory Board for Redundant Churches, be established which diocesan pastoral organizations would be required to consult before any church was declared redundant and demolished. The Archbishops’ Commission also recommended the establishment of the

Redundant Churches Fund (RCF) in which churches deemed worthy of preservation on architectural or historic grounds would be vested and protected from demolition. The

RCF would act as a safety net for architecturally interesting churches which the diocese had deemed redundant and for which no suitable alternative use could be found.102 The

Archbishops’ Commission estimated that 790 churches were or would become redundant in the next twenty years, of which the RCF might be given the responsibility for 300 to

400.103

In addition to its acceptance of the principle that churches had aesthetic value distinct from their pastoral usefulness, the Archbishops’ Commission’s recommendation regarding the financing of the RCF represented a turning point in the history of church preservation in England. Even after accepting that the Church of England had significant financial burdens in the areas of clergy training and salaries, the building of new churches, and charitable works, the Archbishops’ Commission recommended that the

Church of England contribute to the continuing upkeep of the church buildings that it no longer thought necessary. Disavowal of that responsibility would cast the Church in an

101 Report of the Archbishops’ Commission on Redundant Churches, 1958-1960, 37–38. 102 Ibid., 64–67. 103 Ibid., 69.

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unfavorable light, not least in the eyes of “the many public-spirited persons, not necessarily members of the Church of England, whose contributions have for years played no small part in the maintenance of ecclesiastical buildings of beauty”. Refusing to contribute to the maintenance of redundant churches would also make impossible

Church oversight over the treatment of church buildings that it might one day wish to re- claim.104

The Archbishops’ Commission did not, however, envision leaving the fate of redundant churches solely dependent on the size of the Church of England’s bank account. By recognizing the importance of churches to “not merely the Church but the nation as a whole”, the Archbishops’ Commission also recommended that the state make a financial contribution to the RCF to aid the preservation of redundant churches. The

Archbishops’ Commission’s report left the precise balance of funds to be provided by the

Church of England and the state as a matter to be negotiated between the two.105

Given that the Archbishops’ Commission’s terms of reference said nothing about state involvement in the preservation of churches, the recommendation that the state contribute to the maintenance of redundant churches was a major shift from existing practice. To be sure, as the Archbishops’ Commission’s report noted, the state had taken an interest in the preservation of historic buildings since the 1913 Ancient Monuments

Consolidation and Amendment Act granted the state the power to protect buildings at risk of ruin or demolition. The 1953 Historic Buildings and Ancient Monuments Act went further by allowing the Ministry of Works to make grants for the repair and maintenance of buildings “of outstanding historic or architectural interest”. In both cases, however,

104 Ibid., 54–56. 105 Ibid., 37, 58–60.

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churches were virtually excluded from the state’s preservationist apparatus. The 1913 act specifically excluded any “ecclesiastical building which is for the time being used for ecclesiastical purposes” (the so-called “ecclesiastical exemption”). With just a handful of exceptions, the government declined to use the powers of the 1953 law to pay for the maintenance or repair of churches, due, in part, to the Church of England’s wariness about giving up its autonomy in return for state funds.106 What the Archbishops’

Commission envisioned, then, was a major change in state policy. Where once the state had left the care of church buildings to the Church of England, it would (or so the

Archbishops’ Commission hoped) now make systematic grants to help with the preservation of England’s ecclesiastical heritage. In other words, this change would represent a fundamental re-imagining of the state’s conception of church buildings. No longer to be considered exclusively as places of worship, the state would now commit to preserving England’s churches as part of a larger program of preserving the nation’s architectural and aesthetic heritage.

The Church Assembly quickly accepted the recommendations of the

Archbishops’ Commission and set up a commission to negotiate with the state to establish the balance of contributions between Church and state to the new Redundant

Churches Fund.107 Just five years after the Church of England had ousted Ivor Bulmer-

Thomas for his desire to preserve potentially redundant churches, the Church was now committing itself to a long-term financial arrangement to do just that. To be sure, the precise circumstances had changed. Rather than having the independence of its dioceses in their pastoral considerations compromised by Bulmer-Thomas, seen by some as a

106 Ibid., 88–89. 107 “Saving Redundant Historic Churches,” The Times, July 7, 1961.

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preservationist zealot, the Archbishops’ Commission’s recommendations would formalize the influence of preservationist groups while still leaving open the possibility of redundancy and demolition. The prospect of state aid also sweetened the pill of devoting Church funds to redundant churches – no longer would the Church be exclusively responsible for the costs of preserving churches. Both these changes reflected a larger shift within the public discourse on churches and an increasing recognition that historic churches deserved consideration as aesthetic objects, not just as places of worship.

The Redundant Churches Fund and the triumph of preservationism

Discussions over the level of state aid began in March 1961, even before the

Church Assembly had officially approved the recommendations of the Archbishops’

Commission. After the almost ritualistic warning from a Treasury representative that

“we could not take it for granted that the Treasury was prepared to envisage any

Government contribution whatever”, he went on to say that the Treasury might implement an annual grant matching the contributions of the Church of England itself, thereby “restrain[ing] the Church from making unreasonable demands and […] encourag[ing] them to be diligent in seeking public subscriptions.”108 Negotiations proceeded over the next three years. By 1964, the Church and the various relevant ministries had agreed that the Church of England and the state would each contribute

108 A.W. Cunliffe, “Redundant Churches Report,” March 24, 1961, HLG 126/688, The National Archives.

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£200,000 over a period of five years to the new Redundant Churches Fund. This agreement was first announced in the House of Commons in June 1964.109

The legislation required to set up the new Advisory Board for Redundant

Churches and the Redundant Churches Fund was not enacted for several more years.

Under the Pastoral Measure of 1968 and the Redundant Churches and other Religious

Buildings Act of 1969, churches declared redundant could be vested in the newly-created

Redundant Churches Fund. The RCF would receive equal grants from the Church

Commissioners and the Ministry of Housing and Local Government. One-third of the proceeds of sales of sites of redundant churches that would be demolished (i.e. not deemed worthy of preservation) would also go to the new organization.110 On May 7,

1971, the Redundant Churches Fund took into custody its first church: the 12th-century parish church of St. Peter in Edlington, Yorkshire. Churches in Devon, Portland,

Cheshire, and Wiltshire would soon follow.111

Throughout the 1960s, John Betjeman had continued to speak lovingly of

England’s churches. This work reached its culmination in his 1974 BBC documentary A

Passion for Churches. It opened with the image Betjeman rowing on the River Bure with a church tower in the distance. “I think it was the outline of that church tower, of

Belaugh, against the sky, that gave me a passion for churches. So that every church I’ve been past since I’ve wanted to stop and look in.” Betjeman then highlighted the visual appeal of churches with the couplet: “What you be, you wide East Anglian sky / Without

109 “Redundant Churches of Historic or Architectural Interest,” April 17, 1964, T 218/638, The National Archives; “£200,000 Offer to Aid Disused Churches,” The Daily Telegraph, June 23, 1964. 110 Pastoral Measure, 1968, No. 1, 1968; Redundant Churches and Other Religious Buildings Act, 1969 C. 22, 1969. 111 Redundant Churches Fund, Third Annual Report and Accounts (London: Faith Press, 1971), 3.

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church towers to recognise you by?” In the rest of the program, Betjeman traveled around to parish churches across the Diocese of Norwich, highlighting aesthetic triumphs and artistic oddities alike, all the while promoting the image of the Church of England as the rightful spiritual home for the English people. By emphasizing the broad nature of the Church of England (“The Anglican church has got a bit of everything – it’s very tolerant, and that is part of its strength”), Betjeman presented his passion for churches in a way that could be enjoyed by all but the most militant atheist.112 Osbert Lancaster went so far as to say that A Passion for Churches and Betjeman’s other television programs, even when not in formal verse, legitimized the post of Poet Laureate in the late twentieth century.113 Dennis Potter wrote a complimentary review, in Betjemanian verse, for the

New Statesman. A Passion for Churches was tremendously popular – thanks to popular demand, it was re-broadcast soon after its initial showing.114

While Betjeman’s aesthetic vision of churches continued to gain popularity, the

Redundant Churches Fund and the principles it represented continued to be contested.

The new mechanisms for preservation provided by the 1968 Pastoral Measure and the

1969 Redundant Churches and Other Religious Buildings Act did not mean that the demolition of churches ceased. Preservationists continued to accuse the Church of

England of being too hasty in its decisions to pull down its historic churches, a critique that found full expression in a 1977 exhibition at the Victoria and Albert Museum put on by the new organization SAVE Britain’s Heritage. Entitled Change and Decay: The

Future of Our Churches, the exhibition was modeled on the earlier V&A exhibition The

112 [CSL STYLE ERROR: reference with no printed form.]. 113 Osbert Lancaster, “The Laureate in Vision,” Times Literary Supplement, December 6, 1974. 114 Hillier, Betjeman: The Bonus of Laughter, 425–426.

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Destruction of the Country House, 1875-1975 which had struck an elegiac tone in its

“Hall of Lost Houses” and haunting narration listing the country homes that the nation had lost.115 The exhibition catalogue for Change and Decay admitted that “Unlike country houses there is no appalling roll call of the departed”, but then went on to bemoan the demolition of 153 Anglican churches since the creation of the RCF. Just as troubling was the loss of Nonconformist chapels, which had no protection under the provisions governing the RCF – since 1940, at least 400 Nonconformist chapels “either listed or of listable quality” had been demolished.116

But while preservationists continued to clamor for greater attention to be paid to

England’s architectural heritage, some within the Church of England continued to object to Church funds being used to repair un-needed churches when the money would be better spent pursuing the Church’s core mission of evangelization. The RCF came under heavy criticism at the 1977 meeting of the Church’s General Synod. One representative at the General Synod, H.S. Cranfield, complained of the “enormous sum of £21,000” being spent on the tower of St. Andrew’s, Covehithe, a Suffolk village of just thirty people. Cranfield argued that “the way in which money has been squandered on this building […] has done more damage to the missionary and evangelistic work of the church than any other single act of folly recorded in East Anglia.” Rev. J.R.C. Webb asked why £49,000 in Church funds had been used to preserve a redundant church in

115 For information on the earlier V&A exhibition, see Mandler, The Fall and Rise of the Stately Home, 403–404. 116 Marcus Binney and Peter Burman, eds., Change and Decay: The Future of Our Churches (London: Studio Vista, 1977), 8, 27.

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Sandwich while “devoted congregations” received no assistance for the repairs they undertook to maintain buildings needed for active worship.117

In response to these alternating calls for the Church to do either more or less when it came to preserving churches, the Church Commissioners mounted an exhibition, “The

Challenge of Redundant Churches – A Measure of Success” to “show some of the more positive aspects of redundancy and some of the ways in which redundant churches […] can, with sensitive and imaginative adaptation, find new uses, sometimes meeting new needs.”118 The exhibition, held over four days early in 1978, offered statistics on the fate of churches declared redundant. Of the 562 churches declared redundant in the first nine years of the operation of the 1968 Pastoral Measure, 253 (45%) were put into alternative use, 121 (22%) were vested in the RCF, 5 were taken into guardianship by the

Department of the Environment, and 183 (32%) were demolished, of which 30 were listed buildings. The most common alternative uses were “civic, cultural or community purposes,” transformation into residential units, and use by other Christian denominations. Attentive to the criticism of those who were skeptical of preserving redundant churches, the exhibit highlighted how the sale of redundant churches had brought in £851,000 to the “living church” in the previous three and a half years.119

The point is not, therefore, that churches became universally seen as exemplars of the very best of the English architectural tradition. Sizable minorities (especially within the Church of England) continued to see preservation as a fool’s errand, a distraction from the Church’s core mission. And there were undoubtedly many people who did not

117 General Synod, “Proceedings,” November 1977, f. 423. 118 Betty Ridley to Alma Birk, December 19, 1977, HLG 126/2187, The National Archives. 119 Church Commissioners, “A Measure of Success: The Challenge of Redundant Churches,” 1978, HLG 126/2187, The National Archives.

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have much of an opinion either way on the question of church preservation. Rather, it is crucial to recognize that, by the end of the 1970s, the Church of England and the state had dramatically changed their policies regarding the preservation of church buildings from what they had been just thirty years before. Through the mid-1950s, the Church of

England had, in the eyes of its preservationist critics, blithely accepted individual diocese’s decisions to demolish and retain churches as they saw fit. As for the state, even after the 1953 Historic Buildings and Ancient Monuments Act empowered the Ministry of Works to provide grants to help repair historic buildings, it declined to do so for churches on the grounds that churches, as active places of worship, fell into a different category from the stately homes deserving of state aid. Following the creation of the

Redundant Churches Fund, both the Church and the state were making annual grants to help maintain churches that, by definition, were “redundant”. In the 1970s, the state further expanded its funding for church preservation by announcing that state aid for the preservation of churches in regular use would be provided through grants administered by the Historic Buildings Council.120 By the late 1980s, the state contribution to church repairs and maintenance through English Heritage (the successor organization to the

Historic Buildings Council) reached £7 million each year.121 This new funding stream represented an acknowledgment by the state that historic church buildings should be treated on the same terms as secular buildings, as valued elements of England’s national heritage.

120 Parliamentary Debates, House of Lords, vol. 377, 5th Ser., 1976, col. 856WA. 121 Historic Churches Preservation Trust and Incorporated Church Building Society, Annual Report, 1988, 2.

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Conclusion

We should be wary, of course, of attributing some abstract “will of the people” to the actions of the state when it comes to what still remains a tiny proportion of the overall government budget, especially when it is possible to identify a handful of civil servants who were the key actors in bringing about changes in policy. But if we take seriously the notion of representative government (in both the state and the Church of England), we need to recognize that, by the mid-1970s, it had become politically acceptable (and even desirable) to set aside money to ensure that England’s historic churches survived as repositories of beauty and of history. Betjeman’s promotion of an aesthetic understanding of the value of England’s churches had triumphed, not just in the realm of public opinion, but also in the messy world of policy-making. It seems fitting that, in the early 1990s, the Redundant Churches Fund accepted Betjeman’s contention that there was no such thing as a redundant church by renaming itself the Churches Conservation

Trust (CCT) in order to reflect the fact that churches once known as redundant could

“still make an important contribution to the life of the spirit, to the communities they have served for so many centuries, and to the landscape they decorate and enrich.”122

At a service celebrating the 25th anniversary of the creation of the Redundant

Churches Fund, the dean of Carlisle quoted the architect Ninian Comper: “To enter […] a

Christian church is to leave all strife, all disputes of the manner of church government and doctrine outside – and to enter here on earth into the Unity of the Church.” Comper, the architect of dozens of churches (and a favorite of Betjeman’s), was surely being self- consciously naïve – conflict and controversy must have accompanied many of his church

122 The Churches Conservation Trust, 28th Annual Report and Accounts 1996-1997 (London, 1997), 2.

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restorations. But the fact that his words could be repeated with a straight face reveals how, by the end of the twentieth century, the aesthetic value of churches had trumped and even effaced their often contentious history.123 This shift towards thinking of churches in aesthetic terms can also be seen in the dean’s description of churches in the care of the

Churches Conservation Trust as “moth-balled or as buildings preserved in aspic or like flies in amber.” Both aspic and amber, of course, allow observers to see in without disturbing. The CCT churches were “as if the parishioners have just gone out after the final service”, their appearance seemingly preserved in perpetuity.124 Their value now, in spite of the dean’s insistence on them as places of prayer, was as objects of beauty to see and enjoy.

The depth and breadth of this new popular interest in the aesthetic and traditional aspects of Christianity came to light in the late 1970s and when the Church of England introduced a new prayer book after nearly two decades of planning and experimentation.

A Gallup poll conducted in 1980 found that three-quarters of respondents who identified themselves as “C of E” favored the traditional marriage service of the Book of Common

Prayer to the modern service in the new prayer book. Even among active church members, who looked upon the new liturgy more favorably than those who only passively identified with the Church, only 7 percent described themselves as “very happy” with the changes.125 An editorial in the Times suggested the root of this distaste

123 The Churches Conservation Trust, 25th Annual Report and Accounts 1993-94 (London, 1994), 8; I would like to thank Barnabas Calder for pointing out the irony of Comper’s words. 124 Ibid., 9. 125 “Gallup to the Rescue,” The Times, June 12, 1980, 17; “Church Leaders and Congregations Split on Form of Service,” The Times, June 12, 1980, 5.

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for the new versions lay in the Church’s misunderstanding of what liturgy must be and must do:

Certainly, the language of a liturgy should be intelligible in so far as the matters allude to are intelligible, but more is required of the language than that. It should be dignified, solemn, resonant, universal, hieratic and unfashionable. […] The Church of England is blessed with forms of public worship exceptionally endowed with those qualities – and it is busy pushing them out of use.126

Though parliamentary efforts to preserve the older forms of worship were led by

Conservatives, the campaign against the modern forms of liturgy and the Bible also received support from the Labour leader Michael Foot (who, when he died in 2010, had a non-religious funeral): “I entirely agree with your views on the Authorised Version and wish you well in the campaign. … I would strongly support whoever it was who said ‘If the Authorised Version was good enough for St Paul, it should be good enough for anybody’.”127

By the early twenty-first century, the Church of England seems to have accepted and sought to take advantage of the fact that its main appeal to many English people now lies in the realm of aesthetics and beauty rather than faith or spirituality. In publicizing new regulations that eased restrictions on marriages in parish churches, the Church of

England published a video, Your Church Wedding, that emphasized, almost exclusively, the aesthetic aspects of church weddings. Downplaying the religious aspects of the service (there is no mention of God in its five minutes), the video highlighted churches as a beautiful place to get married. One priest in the video ponders, “What makes a church wedding so special? The music, the hymns, the vicar, the venue, the powerful vows, and

126 “Gallup to the Rescue.” 127 Michael Foot, ed. David Martin, PN Review 6, no. 5 (June 1980): 10.

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the love of two people coming together.” No doubt articulating the message that the

Church sought to promote, a couple who had opted for a church wedding looked back fondly on the experience: “It’s been said that there’s love in the walls, because there’s been so many weddings there. […] Not only is it aesthetically a beautiful place, but it feels beautiful as well.”128

128 Your Church Wedding in the Church of England, 2011, http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QiJcVz7zMKQ.

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EPILOGUE: AN ANGLICAN AFTERLIFE

The wedding of Prince William, newly installed as the Duke of Cambridge, and

Kate Middleton in April 2011 encapsulated the distinctively Anglican afterlife of

Christian England that this dissertation has sought to explain. Though the wedding was technically a private event, the coalition government embraced its national dimensions by declaring it a public holiday and encouraging street parties to celebrate the marriage. The

BBC estimated that 34 million Britons tuned into its coverage of the wedding, putting it in the top ten most-watched events in British history.1 That figure of 34 million was almost seven times higher than the five million people estimated to attend church on a weekly basis and almost three times higher than the 13 million who claimed to go to church at least once a year.2 What the British people saw in the royal wedding, therefore, likely had more impact on people’s conceptions of Christianity than any recent experience of a regular church service. What they saw, therefore, merits close examination.

The people that tuned in witnessed the wedding of a man and woman who had already lived together for several years before the wedding, a fact that led Prince Charles to joke that “They have been practising long enough.”3 But that quip aside, no one seems

1 “Royal Wedding Watched by 24.5 Million on Terrestrial TV,” BBC News, April 30, 2011, http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/entertainment-arts-13248199. 2 Ashworth and Farthing, Churchgoing in the UK, 13. 3 “They Have Been Practising Long Enough: Charles and Camilla Welcome ‘Wicked’ News of Engagement,” Mail Online, November 16, 2010, http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-1330272/Prince- William-Kate-Middleton-engaged-Charles-Camilla-welcome-wicked-news.html. 258

to have minded that Kate, presumably, was not a virgin. As Deborah Cohen has noted,

“Kate and William have more or less cohabited for years without even the fuddy-duddies objecting.”4 William’s credentials as an active Christian are also dubious. The Daily

Mail reported that, his status as the future Supreme Governor of the Church of England notwithstanding, William only attends church a “handful” of times each year.5 The point is not to suggest any failings of William or Kate but rather to emphasize the Church of

England’s openness to marrying a couple whose commitment to orthodox Christian belief and practice could be said to be lacking.

This was not a matter of special treatment for the future Defender of the Faith.

Recognizing that weddings now represent one of its few pastoral opportunities, the

Church of England now actively advertises church weddings online and by sending representatives to wedding trade shows. On its website encouraging couples to consider church weddings, the Church proclaims “You can marry in a church! You’re welcome to marry in the Church of England whatever your beliefs, whether or not you are christened and regardless of whether you go to church or not. It’s your church, and we welcome you!”6 Other pages on the website assure readers that the requirements to have a wedding in an Anglican church are minimal: there is no need to be christened and no requirement of belief (“your Vicar […] understands that spiritual beliefs are complex and varied”). Even a church marriage after a divorce is not impossible. Left unstated is the

4 Deborah Cohen, “Not ‘Normal,’ But Less Bizarre,” Room for Debate, November 17, 2010, http://www.nytimes.com/roomfordebate/2010/11/16/can-a-royal-couple-be-a-modern-family/not-normal- but-less-bizarre. 5 Rebecca English, “He’s the Future Defender of Faith - so Why Does Prince William Only Go to Church a ‘Handful’ of Times a Year?,” Mail Online, January 14, 2013, http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article- 2261908/Hes-future-Defender-Faith--does-Prince-William-church-handful-times-year.html. 6 “You Can Marry in a Church!,” Your Church Wedding, http://www.yourchurchwedding.org/youre- welcome/you-can-marry-in-a-church.aspx. 259

Church’s continuing prohibition on same-sex marriage, but the overall message is clear: the Church of England is there for you when you want it.

The liturgy of William and Kate’s wedding ceremony revealed the enduring popularity for older liturgical forms. Common Worship, the most up-to-date set of services authorized by the Church of England, contains two possible services. The first, simply described as “The Marriage Service”, incorporates modern language. The second, called “Alternative Services: ‘Series One’ Solemnization of Matrimony”, uses the more old-fashioned language of “Dearly beloved, we are gathered here in the sight of God…”.

Where the current standard service uses a 1988 version of the Lord’s Prayer (“Our Father in heaven, hallowed be your name”), the Series One liturgy reaches back to the 1662

Book of Common Prayer for its version of the Lord’s Prayer: “Our Father, which art in heaven, hallowed be thy name”. These differences might seem minor, but they represent two different visions about what the liturgy of the Church of England should do. The standard service in Common Worship attempts to cast received wisdom in language fully comprehensible in the twenty-first century. By contrast, the Series One liturgy uses older formulations to preserve the powerful experience of tradition.

William and Kate’s wedding utilized the Series One version of the marriage service, complete with its archaic language of “as ye will answer at that dreadful day of judgement when the secrets of all hearts shall be disclosed”. What William and Kate (or whoever made the ultimate decision regarding liturgy) evidently wanted was the traditional option, the one endlessly praised for its beauty and grace. For the millions in the audience who had never seen or heard the more modern version of the liturgy, the wedding may simply have reinforced the popular image of the Church of England’s rites

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as all the more powerful and meaningful for their archaisms. John Betjeman’s once praised the Book of Common Prayer precisely on these grounds: “Without doubt I prefer the Authorised Version of the Prayer Book. This is because I am used to the language which is practical and good to the ear, even though some of the words in it are obsolete.

They are like a screen between us and naked mystery and all the more necessary for that.”7 On special occasions (not least weddings), people seem to want something different from the run-of-the-mill, not just platitudes in modern language. In its desire to keep people on board, the Church of England has been happy to provide that specialness through old-fashioned liturgy and the medieval parish church.

But while the ceremony ticked all the boxes for a traditional wedding, the guest list pointed towards major changes that had taken place in the religious landscape of

Britain in the previous fifty years. Alongside the footballers, the pop stars, and the television celebrities, the attendees included a long list of representatives of Britain’s increasingly diverse religious communities: Rabbi Anthony Bayfield of the Movement for Reform Judaism, Anil Bhanot of the Hindu Council, Malcom Deboo of the

Zoroastrian Trust Funds of Europe, archbishop Gregorious of the Greek Archdiocese of

Thysteria and Great Britain, Jonathan Sacks of the United Synagogue, Bogoda

Seelawimala Nayaka Thera of the London Buddhist Vihara, Maulana Syed Raza

Shabbarm of the Muhammadi Trust, Natubhai Shah of the Jain Academy and Indarjit

Singh of the Network of Sikh Organisations.8 Over a third of the religious attendees

(leaving aside the Anglican clergy involved with the actual ceremony) were

7 John Betjeman, ed. David Martin, PN Review 6, no. 5 (June 1980): 10. 8 “Royal Wedding Guest List,” BBC News, April 23, 2011, http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-13175842. 261

representatives of non-Christian faith groups, far outstripping the 5% census respondents in 2011 that identified with a non-Christian religion.9 The service may have been

Anglican, but the congregation was multicultural one. In that sense, the wedding mirrored the Commonwealth Day services which also take place in Westminster Abbey.

At least since 1991, the Commonwealth Day service, often attended by the Queen, has included readings of sacred texts by representatives of the Muslim, Jewish, Sikh,

Buddhist, and Hindu communities of Britain.10

The Establishment had not always been so inclusive of non-Christian minorities.

When Britain’s Jewish community petitioned the BBC for occasional broadcasting of

Jewish services, the BBC’s Governors rejected the request on the grounds that “once

Jewish services were admitted, it would be hard to resist claims for broadcasting time from other non-Christian faiths”, and thereby constitute a change that would be “far- reaching and regrettable.”11 Even in the late 1970s, the suggestion that the BBC broadcast Muslim services was literally risible. The transcript of a meeting between

Muslim representatives and members of the BBC’s religious broadcasting department records that the suggestion that the BBC set aside five minutes on Friday evenings for

Muslim broadcasts provoked “Great hilarity!”12

But while the broadcasting authorities were skeptical of unsettling the Christian monopoly on the airwaves, the churches themselves proved more sensitive to the wishes

9 Paul Weller, “Identity Politics and the Future(s) of Religion in the UK: The Case of the Religious Questions in the 2001 Decennial Census,” Journal of Contemporary Religion 19 (2004): 4. 10 For news coverage of the 1991 service, see “Commonwealth Day Observance Service,” The Times, March 12, 1991. 11 William Haley, “Request for Broadcast of Jewish Services,” September 1, 1959, T61/16/1, BBC Written Archives Centre. 12 “Notes on Islam Seminar,” September 27, 1977, 9, T61/16/1, BBC Written Archives Centre. 262

of religious minorities. A commission chaired by the bishop of Durham recommended that schools with sizable Jewish populations establish religious education classes that catered to both Christian and Jewish students. It also recognized the “value of occasional experimental services, carefully designed to incorporate many of the significant similarities which exist between the main world religions.”13 A 1976 report by the Free

Church Federal Council Education Committee went further when it declared that “we cannot sustain the view of an exclusive Christian education in county schools” and recommended the inclusion of other faiths into religious education curricula.14

This tolerance of religious difference extended beyond the classroom to areas like employer-mandated uniforms and public safety. Between 1969 and 1989, British Sikhs fought and won a number of disputes related to wearing turbans. At the end of these campaigns Sikhs were allowed to wear turbans in school and in a variety of occupational settings that would normally require other headgear. In addition, Sikhs were exempt from helmet requirements both for motorcycle-riding and at building sites.15 David

Feldman has argued that this openness to visible religious difference reflected a long tradition of “conservative pluralism” which accepted diversity within the United

Kingdom as a means of incorporating minority groups into the structures of governance and thereby shore up the power of existing elites.16

As Feldman points out, idealistic proclamations of pluralism can, when put into practice, turn into mere tokenism. While religious minorities eagerly embraced the new

13 The Fourth R, 141. 14 Free Church Federal Council Education Committee, Religious Education in County Schools, 14. 15 David Feldman, “Why the English Like Turbans: A History of Multiculturalism in One Country,” in Structures and Transformations in British History, ed. David Feldman and Jon Lawrence (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2010), 282. 16 Ibid., 288–293. 263

opportunities for state-funded state schools by New Labour, Christian dominance in the faith school sector has endured – in 2007, there were just seven state-funded Muslim schools.17 Similarly lopsided proportions are found among military and hospital chaplaincies. Of 280 chaplains employed by the Ministry of Defence in 2012, 275 represented Christian denominations – Jews, Sikhs, Muslims, Hindus, and Buddhists in the armed forces got one chaplain each. Of the Christian chaplains, over half (155 out of

275) were Anglican.18 Over three quarters of full-time chaplains working in NHS hospitals are Church of England clergy.19 Compared these figures, non-Christian faith groups were well-represented at the royal wedding, albeit solely in a symbolic role.

What is significant about the religious inclusiveness that emerged from the 1970s onwards is that it has led to non-Christian religious groups becoming some of the most vocal supporters of the continuing establishment of the Church of England. The sociologist Tariq Modood has pointed out the irony of reformers seeking the disestablishment on the grounds that preferential treatment of a single religious group discriminates against others rarely bother consulting religious minorities to see if they want the burden of that discrimination removed.20 Modood argues that “triumphant secularism” may, in fact, be a greater threat to the rights of minority groups than the continuing establishment of an organization that has proven willing to help other faiths engage in the public sphere.21 In the 1990 Reith Lectures, Jonathan Sacks, the Chief

17 Ibid., 301–302. 18 “House of Commons Hansard Written Answers,” UK Parliament, October 8, 2012, http://www.publications.parliament.uk/pa/cm201213/cmhansrd/cm121008/text/121008w0001.htm. 19 Morris, Church and State in 21st Century Britain, 74. 20 Tariq Modood, “Establishment, Multiculturalism and British Citizenship,” Political Quarterly 65, no. 1 (March 1994): 62. 21 Ibid., 72–73. 264

Rabbi, warned that the disestablishment of the Church of England would be a “significant retreat from the notion that we share any values and beliefs at all.”22 By the second decade of the twenty-first century, the establishment of the Church of England seemed secure – the abortive reform of the House of Lords would have reduced the number of bishops in the upper house but not eliminate them entirely, even as it would have done away with the hereditary peers.23

Senior figures in the Church of England have eagerly embraced this account of the Church of England’s role in British public life. Rowan Williams argued that the

Lords Spiritual are “not there to represent the Church of England’s interests: they are there as bishops of the realm, who have taken on the role of attempting to speak for the needs of a wide variety of faith communities.”24 In a multi-faith reception at Lambeth

Palace, the Queen went further:

The concept of our established Church is occasionally misunderstood and, I believe, commonly under-appreciated. Its role is not to defend Anglicanism to the exclusion of other religions. Instead, the Church has a duty to protect the free practice of all faiths in this country. […] gently and assuredly, the Church of England has created an environment for other faith communities and indeed people of no faith to live freely.25

This is, in fact, a rather novel interpretation of the Church of England’s responsibilities and the nature of its establishment. Sixty-years earlier, Cyril Garbett defended

22 Jonathan Sacks, The Persistence of Faith: Religion, Morality & Society in a Secular Age (London: Weidenfeld and Nicolson, 1991), 68. 23 For evidence of the continuing support of establishment by non-Christians, see “House of Lords Reform,” All Things Considered (BBC Radio Wales, April 29, 2012), http://www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/b01gxn6g. 24 “Bishops’ Dozen in Reformed Lords,” The Church Times, March 30, 2012, http://www.churchtimes.co.uk/content.asp?id=126323. 25 “HM the Queen Attends Multi-faith Reception at Lambeth Palace,” February 15, 2012, http://www.archbishopofcanterbury.org/articles.php/2358/hm-the-queen-attends-multi-faith-reception-at- lambeth-palace. 265

establishment on the grounds that the Church represented a comprehensive version of

Christianity to the English people. By the early twenty-first century, the comprehensiveness of the Church’s responsibilities had stretched even beyond the boundaries of Christianity.

Even as its active membership has plummeted, then, the Church of England has retained a place in British politics and culture. It has done so by successfully appealing to widely divergent segments of English society. To the small minority of people who remain active church members, the Church remains a spiritual home. To the larger number of people who call themselves Christian (and some who do not) but whose main experiences of churches comes through holiday services, rites of passage, and “church crawling”, the Church of England is a treasure-house of England’s architectural, literary, and musical glories. And to non-Christian religious minorities, the Church of England is a bulwark and defender of faith against a rising tide of secularism. It is these strange bedfellows that have kept the Church alive as a cultural resource and a critical voice in the public sphere. Without this precarious alliance, the Church might have slipped into being what some have already accused it of being: a Christian denomination just like any other, meaningful to its members but otherwise insignificant to a basically secular society.

Fading into that insignificance may, of course, still happen. If it does, I see two main ways in which it is likely to occur. First, ongoing disputes within the Church of

England over homosexuality and women’s ministry may destroy the Church’s carefully tended image as a broad, progressive institution. This could happen either through the splintering off of conservatives into separate denominations (thus undermining the

266

Church’s claims to comprehensiveness) or, perhaps even more damagingly, forcing the

Church to cater to its most conservative members for the sake of unity. If the latter occurs and the Church becomes widely seen as a reactionary, homophobic, and misogynistic organization that has fallen behind the times (as, admittedly, some already see it), no amount of popular appreciation of church buildings and the Book of Common

Prayer will keep people filling the pews for baptisms, weddings, and Christmas services.

Second, the further breakdown of “soft establishment” may continue to reduce people’s exposure to Christianity and further de-naturalize the idea that some sort of vague Christianity is a central feature of English culture. 1994 may turn out to have been a tipping point in this respect. In that year, the Conservative government of John Major introduced two changes which weakened longstanding legislative protections that the churches had enjoyed. First, the Sunday Trading Act removed most restrictions on

Sunday trading, thereby opening up further activities that might draw people away from the churches on Sunday mornings. Second, the Marriage Act extended the possible locations for civil wedding ceremonies beyond registry offices to include other premises approved by local authorities, opening the door for country homes and other event venues to attract couples who wanted a picturesque location but were not especially committed to a church wedding.26 The strange birth of (neo)liberal England might, in fact, turn out to mark the belated death of Christian England.

26 Between 1991 and 2010, Christian ceremonies went from being 50% of the total number of weddings to 34%. In that same time period, the proportion of Christian weddings that were Anglican increased from 67% to 77%. “Marriages in England and Wales, 2010,” Office for National Statistics, February 29, 2012, http://www.ons.gov.uk/ons/rel/vsob1/marriages-in-england-and-wales--provisional-/2010/marriages-in- england-and-wales--2010.html. 267

Or it might not. The Church of England has, through the centuries, shown a remarkable ability to reshape itself in order to ensure its survival. The people of England have, for their part, demonstrated considerable creativity in what they make of the diverse repertoire of cultural resources that English Christianity has produced. To fall back on a historian’s cliché, the only certainty is that things will continue to change. Whatever form that change ends up taking, it seems certain that the afterlife of Christian England that I have explored in this dissertation will turn out to be a transient rather than an everlasting one.

268

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