Seven pillars of wisdom for a new Archbishop of Canterbury
PAUL JOHNSON
There is no satisfactory way of choosing a new Archbishop of Canterbury, or any other Anglican bishop, for that matter. It has caused trouble to the authorities for more than 1,000 years. Strictly speaking, the Archbishop, in accordance with ecclesiastical law, ought to be chosen by the dean and chapter of his cathedral, who formally elect him. But this is forbidden by the secular state. When in 1848 the Whig government foisted the controversial cleric Dr Renn Hampden on the diocese of Hereford, the dean wrote to the prime minister saying that the chapter intended to elect its own choice. Lord John Russell replied briefly. 'Dear Sir, I have received your letter in which you announce your intention of breaking the law.' The chapter climbed down, as it would be forced to do today.
Apart from anything else, there is no agreement on what constitutes a good Archbishop of Canterbury. All agree that the present one is a dud, but no one can say exactly why. One of the best 19th-century primates was William Howley, who held the post from 1828 to 1848. Today he would be called a reactionary. He was the last of the line to wear solid-gold shoe buckles, to go about in a coach-and-six escorted by outriders, and to dine in all-male state in the palace at Canterbury (where women were still forbidden), before retiring, his liveried servants carrying flambeaux, to 'Mrs Howley's lodgings' for the night. Why was he a success? Sydney Smith thought it was because he could laugh. During the Reform Bill riots his coach was assailed. Howley sat unperturbed while the missiles flew, but his young chaplain became hysterical. 'Your Grace,' he wailed, 'someone has just flung a dead cat in my lap!' The Archbishop replied serenely, 'You should thank Almighty God it was not a live one.'
Again, take the case of Archbishop Geoffrey Fisher. As headmaster of Repton, he was a notorious flogger of bad boys, breaking all records for use of the cane. As archbishop he was described as 'less of a spiritual leader, more like a secretary of state for Church affairs'. Yet he was the last archbishop who carried any real authority, in the state and with the public, because he believed absolutely in what he was doing and in his power to do it. By contrast, those who seem made for the job often fail, Cosmo Gordon Lang, Archbishop from 1928 to 1942, Fellow of All Souls and an exceptionally clever man, gorgeously handsome and prelatical, easily at home with grandeur, is now remembered only for two gaffes: praising the Kaiser in 1914 and disparaging the fallen monarch Edward VIII in 1936.
People say that laymen, and especially politicians, should have nothing to do with clerical appointments. Yet the last two Archbishops of Canterbury to be canonised were made very much by the personal choice of a king. It was the scoundrelly William Rufus who chose St Anselm, Archbishop from 1093 to 1109. The fact that he later confiscated Anselm's estates and drove him into exile ironically testifies to the wisdom of the selection. Again, it was Henry II's insistence on giving the pallium to Thomas a Becket which set in motion the bloody but magnificent struggle of wills that led to murder in Canterbury Cathedral. History teaches that politicians are no more, and no less, likely to pick winners or land us with boobies than clergymen are. The popes have been chosen by the College of Cardinals since at least the early 13th century, producing the usual selection of exotics, enthusiasts and dogmatists, together with smoothies, misfits and heroes — one or two saints as well. The English state, meanwhile, has provided a similar mixture. The same machinery that gave the Church the learned and saintly Lancelot Andrewes also produced the meddlesome and arrogant William Laud, who did so much to bring about the civil war, and the worldly and tuft-hunting Benjamin Hoadley, so derided by Pope and Swift.
Nor does it seem to make much difference to the results whether the politicians are pious or scoffers or whether they believe in God at all. Gladstone was an overscrupulous High Churchman who went to enormous trouble to pick the best bishops. But they were no better on average than those selected by Lord Palmerston, who was much influenced by his evangelical son-in-law, the Earl of Shaftesbury, or those by Disraeli, who may not even have believed in God at all, or by A.J. Balfour, a professional sceptic. Once or twice, Labour politicians, anxious to make a 'popular' choice, have landed us with prize nuisances: thus Harold Wilson gave us the dreadful Bishop of Durham, who invariably spoiled Christmas and Easter for many pious Anglicans with his headline-grabbing pronouncements. But such disastrous choices arc rare.
In 1894 the prime minister was Lord Rosebery, a sumptuous millionaire not inclined to spend his days worrying about clerical appointments. A colonial bishop, George Kennion of Adelaide, was on leave. At his club an acquaintance, by way of a joke, asked him, 'Have you called on the PM yet?' The bishop: 'No, why should I?' The friend: 'My dear sir, surely you must know that all colonial bishops are expected to see the PM and tell him, fairly briefly of course, what is going on in their diocese. If you don't call, it is sure to be noticed and remarked upon.' Credulous and by now thoroughly flustered, the bishop put on his best clothes and hastened to Downing •Street. He was told that the prime minister did not live there but in his own magnificent house in Berkeley Square. The bishop consequently repaired to Mayfair, where he was told that Rosebery was at Epsom, it being Derby Day. So he left his card. As it happened, Rosebery's horse, Laidas, won the Derby. When he returned in triumph to Berkeley Square, a vast crowd of successful punters came to cheer. He appeared on the balcony and saluted them, a glass of champagne in hand. The delighted PM was in due course handed the bishop's card. 'Decent of him to call. I remember him at Eton. Wasted in the colonies.' He turned to his secretary. 'Have we anything coming up?' The see of Bath and Wells, my Lord.'
'Right it's his.' So the glorious palace next to Wells Cathedral, with its moat and its enchanting garden, was handed to the unknown cleric, who continued to occupy it for a quarter of a century, to the complete satisfaction of the diocese.
I suspect that if the Anglican Church is a true one, the Holy Spirit will ensure that whatever selection procedure is in use the faithful will be served. If it is not a true Church, it does not really matter who is chosen. To the new man I offer seven pillars of archiepiscopal wisdom. 1. Less about the Third World and human rights. 2. More about the Ten Commandments and human duties. 3. Don't travel the world. 4. Visit English cities and villages instead. 5. Listen hard before you preach. 6. Say what you really believe, always, and say it loud and clear. 7. Pray to God morning, noon and night, for all of us, and especially for yourself, that you may do the right thing, whatever the cost.
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