Author: Bishop Richard Randerson (page 7 of 9)

In January 2007 Bishop Richard said that if proof of the existence of God depended on scientific evidence he would have to declare himself an agnostic

‘Atheists are getting bad press’ was the lament of an Auckland academic, calling for more respect for non-believers in an article in the New Zealand Herald in January 2007. Here was a new twist in religious debate. It is usually Christians who lament bad press while non-believers and other faith communities go scot-free. I felt immediately sympathetic with the author and penned a reply for the Herald a few days later. I expressed the hope that people might be defined by what they believe, rather than by what they do not, and suggested that ‘humanist’ was a better word for those committed to human wellbeing from a non-religious base.

I wrote that in my experience the ‘god’ atheists did not believe in was not one many Christians believed in either. Such a god was very often an image left over from Sunday School days, or the product of populist caricatures purveyed by crusading atheists like Richard Dawkins. I agreed with Dawkins that the existence of God cannot be proved by science, and said that if my faith in God was dependent upon scientific proof I would have to declare myself an agnostic. Science cannot prove it one way or the other.

The conjunction of the words ‘agnostic’ and ‘bishop’ in the same article was too much for the Herald to resist and a reporter, Patrick Gower, was dispatched to conduct an extended interview. The media delights in sniffing out whiffs of heresy among church leaders and the Herald clearly thought it was on to a winner here.

Patrick and I had a lengthy interview. He listened carefully, asked good questions and went away with what I judged to be an intelligent understanding of contemporary theology. But knowing how easy it is for reporters to get religious issues wrong, I sent him a two-page email next day, setting out with crystal clarity a summary of my views on key issues. I emphasised the need to look for the deeper meaning of a story rather than to take the story literally. Many might put the story about Jonah and the Whale, for example, in the same childhood category as Jack and the Beanstalk. But this is a story of God’s love for all: Jonah wanted to avoid preaching the word of God in Nineveh, the Sin City of the day, but was redirected courtesy of the ‘whale’.

However, I was not greatly surprised when the Herald ran a major article entitled I’m no wishy-washy believer which made scant reference to the substantive points I was making. Whether it was Patrick or an editor who had slanted the story, I could not tell. The article said I did not believe in Adam and Eve, nor in the Virgin Birth. What it did not say was that I believed both stories conveyed deep truths in symbolic form, Adam and Eve being generic figures as part of a drama showing the unity of all creation, while the Virgin Birth story pointed to the unity of human and divine natures in Christ.

Reaction to the article was extensive. Prime Minister Helen Clark rang to congratulate me on having the courage to raise contemporary issues of faith in public. But the Herald was not finished. Weekly columnist Garth George took up the cudgels. Garth, who could always be counted on for a robust traditional opinion on any matter social or religious, referred to the Oxford Dictionary definition of an agnostic as ‘a person who believes that nothing is known or can be known about the existence and nature of God’. This customary definition of ‘agnostic’ was totally disconnected from my use of the word ‘agnostic’. I was talking strictly about scientific proof of God’s existence, not other ways of knowing God. I have yet to meet any church leader or member who believes God can be proved by science.

Garth George further wrote that ‘once a parson reaches a certain level of authority in the (Anglican) church it is well-nigh impossible to dislodge him’. This too is totally untrue. Bishops and clergy are all subject to judicial processes if they breach doctrinal or moral guidelines. I emailed Garth asking him to correct these two major errors, but he declined. Instead he published his views again in the evangelical Challenge Weekly which he was editing at the time. This time he published a letter I wrote in response.

I was grateful for the support of my fellow bishops a week later who, meeting in Nelson, issued this statement:

As bishops of this church we regret the way in which the media and talkback hosts have caricatured Bishop Randerson as agnostic and unbeliever. We know, firsthand, that his faithful ministry over 42 years as vicar, social justice commissioner, bishop and dean has consistently reflected the conviction that the nature of God is revealed in Jesus Christ, whom we call Son of God. Bishop Randerson has spoken clearly and personally about the reality of the resurrected Christ.

Garth had the grace to include the bishops’ statement in his next Herald column.

Reactions to the Herald article fell into three groups. There were letters of concern to the bishop, one demanding that I recant or resign. Another wanted me to affirm my faith in God as a ‘Supreme Personal Being as stated in the creeds’. This gave me pause for thought. Had I been reciting the creeds all my life and missed this reference? I consulted the Anglican prayer book and found no mention of God as a supreme personal being. I wondered about the level of teaching from our pulpits. To one of the clergy I wrote:

As an orthodox believer my own convictions stand clearly within the historic creeds affirmed by the Anglican Church. It is important that clergy themselves are well informed on such matters and able to interpret them accurately to parishioners. It is also important that the Church be able to communicate effectively a contemporary understanding of its beliefs to a huge constituency which includes both its own members as well as many in the wider community. The appreciation from large numbers of people has been astonishing.

As the bishop was away it fell to me to reply to these letters and in every case I offered to meet with the parish concerned. Only one parish accepted the invitation and twelve of us sat round over lunch. I was looking forward to a good dialogue but it was all rather strange as no one seemed to want to say anything.

I also received a few emails from avowed atheists. For different reasons than the concerned clergy they were equally adamant that religious imagery should not be changed. I could almost hear an anguished wail from my computer: ‘You’re not allowed to change anything’. I felt the atheists had well-polished arguments for demolishing traditional religious images but were left without a target when faith was interpreted in a 21^st century context.

But the largest number of responses was from people inside and outside the Church who identified strongly with what I said. Some were folk who had abandoned the Church long since, others were interested bystanders, and some were people still in the Church but hanging on by their fingernails. Comments from the many letters and emails I received included:

I really appreciated your article and interview with the Herald. For many years I kept my struggle over the dissonance between my views and the words we say in church to myself. I also imagined I was probably the only person who felt like that. In retrospect I am astonished I thought that. The reason probably is that it is rare for such views to be discussed in church, whereas each week we repeat the same words from the prayer book, and there is no indication they are not being accepted literally by everyone.

Your description of your faith experience – in touch with something other – and the impact of the awareness of mystery and the paradox of it being personal and yet unable to say clearly what is ‘on the other side of that’, resonates so much with where I find myself to be.

You have been instrumental in my return to Anglicanism after 35 years. I admire your courage and integrity and have felt supported and encouraged in my faith journey these last two years.

My first encounter with Richard Dawkins[1] was in an interview with Kim Hill on National Radio in December 2006. I listened as she first interviewed Dawkins by telephone from Oxford, UK, on his book The God Delusion[2].  For the next half-hour Kim and I discussed the book and the author’s arguments.

I said to Kim I thought the book the most dishonest I had ever read because Dawkins’ attack on religion was based entirely on caricatures and fundamentalist viewpoints. Totally absent from the book was any reference to contemporary religious scholars such as Rowan Williams, Karen Armstrong, Marcus Borg, Tom Wright or Walter Wink. Academic integrity requires an impartial overview of a topic, not a narrowly selected set of extreme views to support a pre-determined conclusion.

Dawkins is well aware of alternative views and worked closely on a public education issue with the then Bishop of Oxford, Richard Harries. Together they wrote a letter to Prime Minister Tony Blair protesting at a proposal to introduce the doctrine of creationism into a state school science curriculum. The letter was signed by eight bishops and nine senior scientists, and Dawkins notes that the letter was drafted by the Bishop of Oxford. Church and Science lined up to oppose religious fundamentalism, but Dawkins nonetheless ignores intelligent religious thinking, presumably because it would undermine his atheistic crusade.

But lop-sided as his arguments are, Richard Dawkins has a large global following among the growing numbers today who know next to nothing about the historic Christian faith. Gone are the days when most might have some awareness of the basics of Christianity, even at a Sunday School level. ‘What’s Easter?’ a teenager asked me once. And there’s the reported comment from a young modern at a Christmas parade: ‘Isn’t it outrageous that now even the churches are trying to jump on the Christmas band-wagon?’

Caricatures abound in the popular mind. Speculative theories are advanced that Jesus didn’t die on the Cross but was revived from a death-like coma, married Mary Magdalene and they both lived happily ever after by the Dead Sea. A religiously uninformed population is unable to critique the theories of Dawkins and others, and hence take their theories as authentic. There is also a genre of journalists who delight in stream-of-consciousness, caricature-based polemics against the Church. Like Dawkins, they exclude any objective or intelligent assessment. The global outrage over the Danish cartoon mocking Islam some years back deters any journalist from a similar attempt today, but it is open season for attacks on Christianity.

Dawkins has a legitimate target in religious fundamentalism. Belief by some churches in the imminent end of the world leads to conclusions like ‘don’t bother working for peace or justice, to help the poor or save the environment: the world will soon end and all those problems will be forgotten’. Mainstream religion is at one with Dawkins in attacking such gross theological and ethical distortions.

Richard Dawkins directs much of his energy to showing the irrational nature of belief in God. But what would constitute a contemporary understanding of God in the 21st century? And when we talk of ‘God’, what sort of image is in our mind? The traditional image of God as a supernatural being is well-established and has been a source of strength for many both past and present. But if, as I experience, God is mystery, can there be different images of a mystery which human words and images cannot adequately express?

American theologian Marcus Borg suggests there are two very different understandings of ‘God’ in the Christian tradition.[3] One is of ‘God as a Being’, the other of ‘God as Sacred Presence’. The two are not mutually exclusive, one expressing the transcendence of God, the other the immanence, or presence, of God. Karen Armstrong[4] offers a similar, but slightly different, distinction between ‘God as a Being’ and ‘God as Being’, a distinction that resonates strongly with my own experience.

There is no irrefutable argument to prove the existence of God; in fact the whole question is wrongly construed. When someone asks: ‘do you believe in the existence of God?’ the question is usually understood as ‘do you believe in “God as a Being”, a supernatural person who created the universe, governs the affairs of the world and can intervene for good or ill’? In popular thinking, how you answer that question defines you as an atheist, agnostic or believer.

This is where Dawkins gets off on the wrong track to start with. Assuming that the faith question is about belief in the existence of a supernatural being, he cites Bertrand Russell’s analogy of a celestial teapot.[5] Russell hypothesises that a china teapot is in orbit between Earth and Mars. The teapot is too small to be observable, so no one can prove it doesn’t exist, but who in their right mind would believe it actually does? So it is with the existence of God, says Russell, and Dawkins agrees. The proposal cannot be disproved but anyone with an ounce of common sense would regard it as ridiculous.

With this argumentum ad absurdum, Dawkins dismisses any rational basis for belief in ‘God as a Being’, but perhaps we should be grateful to him. For in demonstrating one absurdity, he unwittingly demonstrates an even greater absurdity, and that is trying to address the question of faith within this kind of framework. I want to suggest that the question of faith is not one of intellectual assent to the existence of ‘God as a Being’ but arises out of our experience of ‘God as Being’, a reality at the heart of human life. Nothing can be proved or disproved, but there are experiences that may be shared of a mystery that people interpret in different ways. I see ‘God as a Being’ as a traditional image of ‘God as Being’, but not the only image.

What are some of those experiences? I was once asked by a man dying of cancer in his 60s to conduct his funeral. He was not a religious person, but wanted a funeral that respected the integrity of his non-religious beliefs. I have conducted many such funerals over the years and was happy to accede to his request. When I asked him how he viewed life and death, he said: ‘I don’t believe in God, but I have a feeling of being part of something bigger than myself.’ I was amazed because his words are the same ones I would use to describe my core experience of God. I feel part of something bigger than myself, something that transcends all human life and creation and links me to every person and part of creation.

Other people express such feelings in other ways. In a personal reflection Tim Murray, a retired Australian headmaster who spent his teaching life in church schools, writes that he ‘attended chapels and churches regularly for 50 years, received communion, read lessons, even preached an occasional “sermon”, sang in choirs, read religious poetry, directed religious plays and festivals… so that the language and atmosphere of religious activity…was absorbed through the pores of the skin’. ‘But’, he asks, ‘now that I am “free”, where am I?’ And pushing beyond all the religious words and images to something deeper, he pens these words:

Somewhere deep in our destiny
there’s a dimension
no microscope has power to penetrate,
no telescope has strength to see –
a dimension without which
we are unimaginable.
No sense can make it tangible;
nothing tangible can make it sense.
It is the still point around which
we revolve and
have our being.
It is utterly and infinitely central.
Some might call it conscience,
the essence of self,
the whisper of the soul,
depth, destiny,
purpose, meaning,
mystery.
Some might call it God.
Why try to find a label?
Why try to tie it down?
By definition it is beyond our grasp because
it is beyond our reach – but it has to be there.
Without it our world would not turn.

Many will know the words of Dag Hammarskjold, second Secretary-General of the United Nations:

I don’t know who or what put the question. I don’t know when it was put. I don’t even remember answering. But at some moment I did answer Yes to Someone, or Something, and from that hour I was certain that existence is meaningful and that, therefore, my life, in self-surrender, had a goal.[6]

Hammarskjold records an experience of otherness, of mystery, something that cannot be put into words, but from which arose his vocation to serve others. This sense of vocation came strongly to Moses as he tended his father-in-law Jethro’s sheep on Mount Horeb. It was doubtless a slow day when Moses turned aside to see a bush alive with fire. From the bush he heard a voice that spoke of the suffering of his people Israel, and called him to the risky task of confronting Egypt’s Pharaoh and leading Israel out of Egypt to the freedom of the Promised Land. When Moses enquired as to the name of the One who was calling him, the enigmatic reply he received was ‘I am who I am’.[7] The name conveys the sense of being, or essence, consistent with the image of ‘God as Being’.

Other people express their sense of ‘something bigger than themselves’ in other ways. I asked a church study group once what they felt God meant to them – forget words, creeds, pictures, just quite simply their bottom-line lived experience. There was a long silence but at length a woman in her 40s, a hospital nurse and mother, said: ‘Well I guess for me it’s a feeling that whatever happens to me in life, I am never alone.’

I have often quoted the words of Cathy Benland who, in 1987, made a submission to a New Zealand Royal Commission on Social Policy on The S-Factor, where S stood for Spirit. ‘What would be the common elements,’ she asked, ‘of a spirituality most New Zealanders might identify with?’ Among the elements she listed ‘a sense of awe in the face of the mystery of existence’. Many would identify with her words when we stop to ponder the miracle of our universe.

Kate Brignall, an English doctor in Wellington for a year’s sabbatical in 2012, offers another perspective on God in this sense of ‘mysterious other’. Kate and I spent extended sessions in Bellagio’s coffee shop in Hataitai exploring our understanding of God. Shortly before returning home Kate wrote:

The true human identity is God
that which is unifying, beyond, ethereal
within us and yet perceived beyond us
that which gives meaning and purpose
Calling the selfish self to the selfless self
that which is truth of being
touching, reaching, communicating
that which binds all things in the universe together
stars, sky, sea, earth and every living thing
that which tends, nurtures, is life-giving
a reflection of ultimate goodness
that which resonates deep within the soul
this is what I call God.

Think also of events which bring tears to one’s eyes. Tears are a sign of being touched at the core of our being by things that are profoundly real. Typically they catch us when we experience great grief over the loss of a loved one, or when we see others experiencing such loss. Or contrariwise in the experience of great joy, when people who had been lost to one another are re-united, or when some amazing and totally unexpected outcome happens for a family experiencing natural disaster such as a flood or house fire. Or when people act with unrestricted compassion and generosity to assist complete strangers facing urgent need, be it at home or abroad.

Or again when people have the capacity to transcend a massive loss and act with greatness of spirit. One such example moved the nation a few years ago when a young Christchurch mother, Emma Woods, spoke of the death of her four-year old son, Nayan, who was tragically killed by a car that spun out of control. Emma said of little Nayan: ‘We had a perfect day at Playcentre, played lots of games together, and had a good time at the mall. I have no regrets about that day – we had fun together.’

And of the young driver of the car: ‘We are pretty clear we don’t want this to be the defining moment of his life. He is young, only 17. He has got his whole life ahead of him and we hope he will use it to do good things, to be good with people, and maybe eventually to be a good father.’ I know nothing of Emma’s spirituality, but her words are an astonishing statement of wisdom and generosity in the face of unimaginable grief. She has drawn on the deepest resources of spirit, while acknowledging the extent of the loss and pain she will feel through long years ahead.

I offer these experiences and reflections as examples of ‘God as Being’ rather than ‘God as a Being’. ‘God as Being’ is like the air we breathe, or the water in which fish swim. It is the life-giving milieu in which we exist. It is that which lifts us beyond ourselves to some larger vision and love. The faith question is no longer ‘do you believe in the existence of a supernatural being?’, but ‘what do you experience at the heart of life?’ People name or describe these experiences in many different ways, religious and non-religious. It is not about proving the existence of anyone or anything – simply how we interpret basic human experience.

Such experience is universal through time. Both Moses and Dag Hammarskjold found their vocation arose from an encounter with mystery. And when we are moved by a reconciliation between two people who had been lost to one another, we find an ancient parallel in the story of the Prodigal Son[8], a young man who took his share of his father’s inheritance and blew it all in riotous living. Broke and friendless he heads for home, his mind rehearsing speeches of abject humility and apology. But his father sees him coming, dashes out to meet him and, waving all speeches aside, welcomes his lost son home and throws a party. The dynamics of human life and relationships do not change.

Many might identify with these experiences without putting them in a religious framework. As I said, nothing can be proved. People find a framework to express their experiences and choose to live within it. For the Church, ‘God as a Being’ or ‘God as Being’ is at the heart of these central experiences in life. Words and images express the nature of God through stories, music, paintings and icons which form a rich and evocative heritage. But interpreted in a literal manner the heritage can become a barrier to understanding. Much of the heritage is symbolic, pointing to powerful truths lying beyond and beneath what appears on the surface. Faith is not in the heritage, but in the deeper truths to which the heritage points. To attempt to shoehorn such richness into the straitjacket of facts or rational proof is a singularly blinkered endeavour.

‘God as a Being’ has been a central part of the heritage and points to a supernatural person who acts with wisdom, love and care for all God’s people. The image works powerfully for many in encountering God, and hence is to be honoured. But increasingly in the 21^st century it is an image that has become a barrier for many, for several reasons.

First, it is an image that comes from the traditional religious framework of a three-decker universe of heaven, earth and hell, a universe peopled by gods, demons, angels and spirits. There can be symbolic meaning to these concepts, but for many today such symbolism is unreal, and the whole framework rejected.

Second, there is a tendency towards anthropomorphism, to construct God in our own human image. A well-attended address by Lloyd Geering[9] , entitled How Humans Made God, discussed this theme. As I shall show later, I disagree with Geering’s conclusion, but he lucidly set out the dangers of anthropomorphism. Awareness of this danger dates back 2,500 years to the classical Greek era when a philosopher, Xenophanes, satirised this tendency thus:

But if cattle and horses and lions had hands or could paint with their hands and create works such as men do, horses like horses and cattle like cattle, (they) would depict the gods’ shapes and make their bodies of such a sort as the form they themselves have.

In other words, if the horses wanted a god they would choose a horse. It could not, of course, be any old nag that whinnied and wheezed, grew old and died. It would have to be a horse characterised by the finest of qualities – power, wisdom, eternal youth, leadership and protection of all the equine race. The danger of having an image of God as a supernatural being is that we append to a human image such qualities as all-loving, all-wise, all-knowing, all-powerful, eternal and pre-existent.

The concept of a pre-existing Being leads into the third problem, that of the ongoing, sterile debate with science about cosmic origins. A pre-existing being, it is argued, must have had a hand in the formation of the physical universe. But since time and causation did not exist until the universe was formed, concepts of pre-existence and first cause have no meaning outside the existing cosmos. In truth, neither theologian nor scientist has an exact answer about cosmic origins. Endless debate leads nowhere. Science and religion are complementary. Concepts of evolution and the Big Bang add much to our knowledge of the physical workings of the world. Religion offers wisdom about how we live within that world, our sense of connectedness to all people and the earth, our sense of care for all that is.

By contrast the ‘God as Being’ framework avoids fruitless debate with scientists about the beginnings of the universe, yet I have never heard a public debate between theologian and scientist based on anything other than ‘God as a Being’. I once debated the question of cosmic creation with a scientist in Auckland and took the ‘God as Being’ approach. Such an approach bypasses the customary sterile arguments and opens the way to a fruitful discussion on how religion and science can work together on key ethical issues such as in medicine and technology.

The problem of evil is a fourth major issue with ‘God as a Being’. It cropped up with the Asian tsunami in 2004, or with the more recent Christchurch earthquakes, or at the personal level when someone we love is dying, or has been killed in a road accident. Did God send such disasters? Or why didn’t God intervene to prevent or remove such human tragedy? The concept of a supernatural being who intervenes, or doesn’t but should, is a product of anthropomorphic thinking, a problem avoided by other images of God.

For myself in recent years I have felt increasingly comfortable with the reality of God as mystery. I do not need to have answers to all the ‘Why?’ questions about life and the universe. Like the man I quoted at the outset, I have a sense of being part of something bigger than myself. I have a sense of being cared for. I understand God as love or spirit. In prayer I feel I open myself to such love and spirit which provides a sense of spiritual well-being. Rowan Williams, former Archbishop of Canterbury, describes his experience of prayer: ‘I feel I am being attended to.’ It is an experience which is intensely personal without necessarily feeling there is literally a Person on the other side. One could describe the mystery as trans-personal. It is an experience which clarifies vision, re-sets directions, reminds one of one’s calling and values, and helps one reach out with compassion to all in need.

The language the Church uses in worship is almost entirely based on the traditional concept of ‘God as a Being’. It is a language that assumes God is a Person to whom we pray, who hears our prayers and responds. For those whose experience God as Being rather than a Being, the language requires a more symbolic interpretation. Impersonal language is not the answer since, whichever image one feels most at home with, the experience of God is the same, and the experience is intensely personal.

The experience of ‘God as Being’, a mystery of love and spirit, is the reality that I find makes better sense than the image of ‘God as a Being’. It is the God image that works for me, while I acknowledge other images, or no image, work better for others. It is the same reality that drives our work of caring, justice, peace-making, reconciliation and environmental stewardship. The test is what image and framework works for us in experiencing and living by the deepest realities of human existence.

And here is where I disagree with Geering’s conclusion in How Humans Made God. He concluded his lecture with a quote from the German philosopher Ludwig Feuerbach (1804-72):

We must replace the love of God by the love of man as the only true religion. The fate of mankind depends not on a being outside it and above it but on mankind itself…My wish is to transform friends of God into friends of man, believers into thinkers, devotees of prayer into devotees of work, candidates for the hereafter into students of this world.

To which Geering added:

In the evolving world of human thought the idea of God has now done its work and a great work it was. It is over to us, as humanity come of age, to shoulder responsibilities we once expected the heavenly parent to do for us.

What Richard Dawkins and Lloyd Geering have in common is a simplistic choice between God as a supernatural being or humanism. The choice might be described as a theological bipolar disorder. Each limits his view of God to one exclusive, albeit traditional, image of God as a supernatural being. Each demolishes that image, Geering in a more sophisticated and erudite fashion than Dawkins. Each concludes the only alternative is humanism. Each ignores the whole concept and experience of God as mystery, or ‘God as Being’. And sadly, the bulk of their hearers lack sufficient theological awareness to critique this fundamentalist dualism.

In what sense is God ‘real’? God as a supernatural being has a sense of reality even if one cannot prove the existence of such a being. But God as mystery may seem vague and unreal. In either case reality lies in the life experiences out of which any concept of God grows. The best analogy is that of love. No one would deny the reality of love. It is one of life’s most powerful forces, and hopefully there is no one who has not experienced that reality, however remote love might be in some of life’s sad situations. Where does love come from? Is it from some outside source, some reservoir of love on which we can draw, perhaps like one of Plato’s forms? Or is it something that springs into a relationship spontaneously whenever two people act lovingly to one another? Whatever one’s view, the reality of love is the same.

CK Stead’s prize-winning novel My Name was Judas (2006) stirred another important element in public debate in New Zealand. The novel is a well-researched book, and a good read, and I had a stimulating cup of coffee with the author to discuss it. The book raises questions about why we call Jesus the Son of God. Is it because he worked miracles? Or is it something else? Jesus once asked his disciples who they thought he was. Peter replied: ‘You are the Messiah, the Son of the living God.’[10] It is the same question people ask today, and many different answers are offered.

From the outset Christians came to see in Jesus the revelation of the divine mystery. Talk of God as mystery can be somewhat vague and not much help to ordinary folk wanting clues on how to respond to the many complexities of daily life. If one speaks of God as love, then in Jesus the fullness of that love is clearly seen. Jesus disregarded all boundaries and conventions that stood in the way of reaching out to the broken-hearted, the poor and despised. His words and actions brought hope to those on the margins of life while challenging the comfortable perceptions of the rich and powerful.

To call Jesus ‘Son of God’ expresses the belief that in Jesus the true nature of God was fully revealed. The late English Bishop John Robinson described him as a ‘window into God’, and in common parlance one might say he was a ‘chip off the old block’. There are two important things to note here. First, for those who have dismissed the idea of God, Jesus cannot be Son of God for there is no God to be son of. For them, Jesus may be a revered prophet, sage or source of moral wisdom, along with others throughout history.

Second, there can be no proof that Jesus is the Son of God. One cannot prove the existence of God, and neither can one prove that Jesus was the Son of God. It is a question of discernment and choice, the interpretation each person makes of life’s central experiences, and the values and commitments one chooses in consequence.

Nonetheless, many attempts have been made to prove that Jesus was the Son of God. In the popular mind the Church’s teaching that Christ was born of Mary the Virgin with no human father is seen as such an attempt. With a human mother and a divine father Jesus’ humanity and divinity are neatly demonstrated. The trouble is that most people today don’t believe virgin births are possible. Many hence dismiss this idea out of hand. If belief in a virgin birth, along with sundry other miracles, is seen as essential to faith, then many turn back before they have even started.

The difference between literalism and symbolism is key to resolving this dilemma. As long ago as 1922, the Archbishops of Canterbury and York appointed a commission of bishops and theologians to examine key Christian doctrines.[11] It took 16 years for the commission to report, and on the Virgin Birth some members believed there had been a literal virgin birth, while others saw the birth story as symbolic. What they all agreed was that the essential truth of the story was that in Jesus both divine and human natures were completely at one. The literal truth or otherwise of the birth narrative was not essential to faith, but the perception of Jesus as Son of God was.

A 75-year-old church member once asked me if I believed in the Virgin Birth. He had been an Anglican all his life, holding significant church positions. I said I most certainly did believe in the Virgin Birth, but in a symbolic manner as just outlined. He replied that in all his years in the Church no vicar had ever explained that to him. I was appalled. Here was a key article of faith which a doctrinal commission had lucidly addressed 75 years ago, but no one had ever spelled it out to this life-long Anglican. Again, it made me wonder what level of theology goes out from the pulpit.

C K Stead assumes that Jesus’ status as Son of God depends upon his miracle-working capacity, an idea he then proceeds to debunk. His novel is written as a reflection by Judas 40 years after the death of Jesus. Judas writes of a childhood upbringing as a friend of Jesus – their homes, play, education, conversations. As they become adults, Judas observes Jesus taking on more of a leadership and preacher role and gathering crowds around him. Talk of Jesus as a Messiah alarms Judas, who thinks the people are getting carried away.

Judas explains how many of Jesus’ so-called miracles were really no more than ordinary human events exaggerated into miraculous divine acts by incredulous supporters. Thus a man with an evil spirit was cured not by divine power, but by Jesus’ calm manner: Jesus had a way of talking to people that helped them into a peaceful frame of mind. And the story of Jesus raising a man from the dead was likewise an exaggeration by his followers: the man was only close to death. The disciples’ various accounts of resurrection appearances are no more than the kinds of voices and visions bereaved people often experience in thinking of the dead, Stead suggests via Judas. On the assumption that Messiahship depends on the ability to work miracles, Stead dismisses any claims about Jesus as Messiah because there were really no miracles to support such a claim.

In reducing divine miracles to the status of exaggerated accounts of human events, Stead provides a useful counterpoint to a different kind of exaggeration – that which exalts the divinity of Jesus, portraying him as a godlike figure who descends from heaven, strides across Palestine subverting the laws of nature with amazing miracles and, after his death, is brought back to life and returns via a cloud to heaven. Such a picture denies the very point of the incarnation, namely that Jesus was fully human, identified with us as human beings and thus opens a new and fuller perspective on God.

The interplay between these two views captures precisely the theological dilemma that has occupied the minds of the Church’s scholars from earliest times: how can the divine and the human be found together in the person of Jesus? In rejecting the divine, Stead errs on one side of the dilemma, just as an emphasis on Jesus as divine miracle-worker errs on the other. Stead compounds his error by concluding his novel with the words: ‘Our friend was not the Messiah, nor will there ever be one.’

So what sense can we make of this? What does it mean to say that in Jesus the human and the divine were both at one? For me it does not depend on miracles and whether they are to be understood literally or symbolically. I see Jesus as Son of God because Jesus’ life and teachings reflect fully the love, truth and justice of God. Jesus’ followers regarded him as Son of God and Messiah on the same basis. The Messiah was the one long expected by the people of Israel who believed that his coming would usher in a new order in which the light and love of God was central, and a peaceable kingdom of universal justice and wellbeing would blossom. In Jesus the disciples saw this fulfilment, and committed themselves to his cause.

This awareness did not result from some miraculous suspension of the laws of nature. Nor did it arise from intellectual proof. Rather it was a truth forged through long days and nights on the road with Jesus, listening, thinking, watching, through days of euphoria to days of darkness when all seemed too hard. But slowly the dawning of the conviction summed up in Peter’s words: ‘Lord, to whom else can we go? You have the words of eternal life.’[12]

Stead’s novel is useful in immersing Jesus fully in the human condition. But his debunking of miracles does not undermine faith in Jesus as Son of God, because faith does not depend on miracles. Stead speculates in an interesting manner about miracles, but it is a peripheral debate. At the end of our coffee conversation I said I hoped my theological critique of his book was not offensive. ‘Not at all,’ he replied. ‘I would have been upset if you had said the book was not well written.’

In this chapter I have sought to share how my own thinking about God and Jesus has developed over a lifetime. I am sure there is more still to understand. I have sought to emphasise that the existence of God is not something one can prove or disprove. Popular preoccupation with the question of the existence or otherwise of a supernatural being diverts us from the real question about God. That question is what we experience at the heart of life, something which, while being ultimately a mystery, nonetheless gives us a sense of connection to all life, people and creation, something experienced in the nature of love, something which changes our lives and calls us to be agents of change for the wellbeing of others and the earth that sustains us. 

I believe many are leaving the Church, and others not even considering joining it, because the Church is not making clear the symbolic nature of much of its teaching. There are clergy who interpret their faith literally, and so teach their congregations. There are others who, espousing full well the symbolic truth, do not query the literal dimensions of a story in case it upsets people. In so doing they may well create a sanctuary of doctrinal certainty for the gathered few, but at the huge cost of alienating many others. The Church does little to provide an intelligent and robust expression of its theology in the public arena, abandoning the field to atheists, humanists and others to peddle their own anti-religious messages to an undiscerning community.

---

[1] Richard Dawkins, emeritus fellow of New College, Oxford, is well known as a global crusader for atheism.

[2] Bantam Press, 2006.

[3] Speaking Christian, 2011, chapter 5.

[4] The Case for God, p.20.

[5] The God Delusion, pp 51-55.

[6] Markings, Faber & Faber, 1963.

[7] Exodus 3.14.

[8]  Luke 15. 11-32.

[9]  Lloyd Geering is a highly respected New Zealand theologian and former professor of religious studies, who over a lifetime has made a major contribution to the discussion of religion in society. As Principal of Knox Theological Hall in 1967 he was charged by the Presbyterian Church with ‘doctrinal error’ and ‘disturbing the peace and unity of the church’ over an article he wrote entitled What does the resurrection mean? He was acquitted of the charges.

[10] Matthew 16.16.

[11] Doctrine in the Church of England, SPCK, 1938

[12] John 6.68.

The election in 2003 of Gene Robinson, an openly gay American priest with partner, as Bishop of New Hampshire, opened a simmering cauldron of barely repressed divisions amongst Anglicans around the world. The debate continues unabated.

Growing up in the 1950s and 1960s, I cannot remember when I first heard homosexuality discussed. As a boy I recall some characters who lurked around bathing sheds, but these would be more accurately described as paedophiles. My only instinct was to flee.

Homosexuality was not discussed at school, nor over coffee at my university hostel. It was not part of any teaching or discussion at theological college. I certainly had no awareness that some people might be gay, or even how one might tell. Which all seems frightfully naïve in retrospect, but indicates the circumscribed thinking of the 1950s.

So in 1964 when I was ordained I knew little about a major issue on which most young people today would be well informed. My first exploration of the biblical, ethical and pastoral aspects of homosexuality came via a comprehensive report from the Diocese of Christchurch in 1979. A committee convened by the Rev’d Colin Brown had been working for two years, consulting with members of the gay community as well as with professionals in medicine, psychology, philosophy and law.

Some 35 years later I find the report as relevant today as it was then. It is a model of lucidity, good research, inclusiveness and fairness. It decries the ignorance and prejudice regarding gay and lesbian people. It calls for more education of clergy and those training for ordination. It examines the handful of biblical texts that refer to homosexual acts and points out that the Bible does not address the question of the ‘homosexual condition’ but only acts considered immoral in quite different contexts. Of various viewpoints current at the time, the committee was closest to the view that ‘both homosexual and heterosexual relationships are “natural” features of human life, hence positively good, and the gift of God’. The report aroused hostility in conservative quarters, but I believe it has much to contribute to the current debate.

The Christchurch report also called for the decriminalisation of homosexual acts between consenting adult males. This became an issue for me in 1985 when I was Vicar of St Peter’s in Wellington and Labour MP Fran Wilde introduced in Parliament a Homosexual Law Reform Bill aiming to achieve such decriminalisation.[1]  Several church leaders supported it publicly, but I did not feel ready for this, although support for decriminalisation does not necessarily mean giving moral approval to same-sex  relationships.  I was also anxious about what the congregation, or wider Church, might think, and hence kept silent. The Bill was passed by Parliament with a narrow majority in July 1986.

Seven years later the National Government’s Associate Minister of Health, Katherine O’Regan, introduced a Bill[2] to outlaw discrimination on the grounds of sexual orientation. I was by now Anglican Social Responsibility Commissioner and issued a supporting media statement:

While there are New Zealanders who oppose homosexuality from the standpoint of morality, there can be no doubt that in terms of anti-discrimination this amendment should be promptly enacted…The unfortunate comments of the Police Minister linking homosexuality with paedophilia are not only prejudiced and emotive, but also illogical and wrong.

Again, one could support anti-discrimination without necessarily regarding homosexual acts as moral, but now, at age 53, I was clear on both issues, although it had been a long journey. What had brought me to such clarity? No doubt careful research and reasoning such as in the Christchurch Report were critical in weighing biblical insights with the contemporary context. This addressed the rational side of things, but something deeper was going on in the heart. For me the ‘something deeper’ was my knowledge over many years of gays and lesbians who had become friends.

I am sure that a loving and committed homosexual relationship is acceptable in the eyes of God. This conviction has not resulted primarily from study of the Bible, although I believe it is entirely consistent with Scripture. The point of conviction for me arises from the friendship and collegiality I have shared with gay and lesbian church members, lay and ordained, over many years and in many places. Their experience of Christ, and their commitment in the Christian way, is no different from mine.

To say they are not fully part of the Church is a terrifying judgment which is not ours to make. I could not bring myself to say to someone whom I know to be a committed Christian: ‘Sorry, mate, you’re a good friend but I cannot regard you as part of the Church because you are living in sin.’ Yet that is precisely the message many gay people have received, implicitly or explicitly, and have felt themselves excluded from the Body of Christ. Some churches have refused to give Holy Communion to known gays and lesbians. By contrast, the Church globally and locally has often affirmed their full membership of the Body of Christ.

All our three children have gay godfathers, two of them priests, the other a long-term Anglican church member. At the time we invited them to be godfathers, their sexual orientation was not known to us. But godparents are chosen for their Christian faith and commitment to care spiritually for a godchild, and it was clear each of our three friends met those criteria. Knowing their orientation would have made no difference to our choice. Awareness of someone’s faith and integrity arises out of a personal relationship. It is entirely different from having an intellectual theory about a principle, and applying that principle abstractly to people one does not know.

In 1994, soon after my appointment as assistant bishop in Canberra was announced, I went to Australia for preliminary discussions. Graham Downie, religion reporter for The Canberra Times, was keen to interview an incoming bishop, especially one from ‘across the ditch’. Graham had an instinct for stories with an edge and asked me for my views on same-sex relationships. This was tricky. Here was a Kiwi hardly anyone knew, coming to take on pastoral leadership, and having to give a view on a very divisive topic. I was cautious, but said I knew homosexual clergy who exercised faithful, acceptable and thoroughly pastoral ministries which were a great blessing to their parishioners. And that once parishioners experienced such ministry, any initial reservation they might have had was often overcome.

I said it was important that gay clergy and laity should be able to be up-front about their orientation and not to keep it suppressed as something shameful. The headline next day said ‘new bishop has liberal view of homosexuality’, and I found myself replying from New Zealand to a small flurry of protests from some Canberra clergy.  Over time I formed good friendships with some of these, although there were a couple of parishes where I was never invited to preach. At the time of our farewell I was especially moved by a letter I received from one of the clergy who had expressed concern at my appointment:

Thank you for your support and friendship over the last few years. Your visits and our personal encounters have been a great encouragement. Thank you for not allowing my alarm at that Canberra Times article to be a source of conflict or mistrust. We will miss your willingness to hear and understand. We will miss your gracious, supportive and practical responses to our needs.

I am not wanting to be self-congratulatory in quoting that, but the letter moved me because it showed that in an inclusive church people may have different views but yet still trust one another as fellow members of the Body of Christ.

The Lambeth Conference of bishops in 1998 was a watershed moment in the life of the Anglican Communion. Some 800 bishops from around the world were present, most with their spouses, and a decision on same-sex relationships loomed large on the agenda. Early in the conference the gay and lesbian movement sponsored a ‘meet and chat’ evening in a Canterbury pub. I went down for what turned out to be an open and friendly discussion. The Archbishop of Canterbury, George Carey, was also present.

But other voluntary evening events were rather sinister. One such was sponsored by a London parish that offered gays and lesbians an opportunity to become ‘straight’ by turning to Christ and ‘repenting of their sin’. The programme included biblical teaching, small group work, personal counselling and an act of repentance and re-commitment to ‘the Christian way of life’.

I was appalled. There may be some hovering on the cusp between gay and straight who might be tipped into a choice for straight by such a programme, but for many who are homosexual by nature, such programmes are an exercise in frustration, and far worse. They load participants, already suffering from the opprobrium of society, with a deep sense of guilt and sinfulness, and exclusion from the Church. In tragic cases this has led to suicide, all in the name of Christ.

Bishops at Lambeth took part in working groups of their choice, one of which discussed the ordination of those in same-sex relationships, and the blessing of same-sex unions. Groups worked up a report with recommendations to bring to the final plenary session for discussion and adoption. Resolution 1.10 was headed Human Sexuality with clause 1 affirming:

In view of the teaching of Scripture (this conference) upholds faithfulness in marriage between a man and a woman in lifelong union as following the teaching of scripture, and  believes  that abstinence is right for those not called to marriage.

Clause 2 recognised:

that there are among us persons who experience themselves as having a homosexual orientation….. We commit ourselves to listen to the experience of homosexual persons and we wish to assure them that they are loved by God and that all baptised, believing and faithful persons, regardless of sexual orientation, are full members of the Body of Christ.

Clause 3 stated:

While rejecting homosexual practice as incompatible with Scripture, (we) call on all people to minister pastorally and sensitively to all irrespective of sexual orientation and to condemn irrational fear of homosexuals.

And clause 4:

(We) cannot advise the legitimising or blessing of same-sex unions nor ordaining those in same gender unions.

The opening words of clause 3 ‘rejecting homosexual practice as incompatible with Scripture’ were added in plenary session from the floor, something almost unheard of.  With 800 bishops all used to airing their views on most topics, tight control from the Chair ensures there is little room for discussion or amendment of resolutions. Clearly, the amendment had been pre-arranged with the conference leadership.

Two thirds of the bishops supported the amendment, and the numbers are interesting. Of the 800 bishops half came from Western nations and half from the global South (Africa, Asia and South America). If one assumes the South mostly supported the amendment, and add one third from the West, a two thirds majority is achieved. But the majority of the West voted against the amendment, not, I believe, because they felt Scripture specifically supported homosexuality, but because they judged Scripture to be silent on the question of committed same-sex relationships.

When the motion was put as a whole, it was passed with an 83 per cent majority.  I was one of 45 who abstained because of conflicting clauses which affirmed marriage in clause 1 but rejected homosexuality in clause 3.

Following the final vote large whoops of victory echoed around the plenary marquee, in marked contrast with the minority of us who stood silently on a grassy knoll outside in solidarity with gay and lesbian sisters and brothers. The motion showed a growing divide between West and South, as well as within the West. This divide widened in the following decade. Many churches in Africa are experiencing rapid growth whereas many Western churches are in decline. Many from Africa link church growth with faithfulness to the Gospel and say the decline in Western churches is a consequence of liberalism and watered-down belief.

The reality, I believe, is quite different. Faithfulness to the Gospel is central to any church, but we live in a world of major cultural and demographic diversity.  Manhattan is quite different from Mombasa. Western churches today live and work in a post-modern and post-Christian milieu where the simple perpetuation of traditional expressions and practices fails to engage many younger people. Wrestling with issues such as homosexuality challenges traditional thinking, and requires openness in the light of contemporary insights and experience.

Dialogue at Lambeth was intense. An African bishop said there was nothing to dialogue about: ‘the Bible is clear. If you disagree you might as well start tearing pages out of the Bible’. Many African bishops saw a clear statement condemning homosexuality as essential to their pastoral and evangelistic task. But an American bishop said just as essential to her pastoral and evangelistic task was a statement of inclusiveness that committed the Church to dialogue.

Looking at Lambeth resolution 1.10 some 16 years later, I suspect the voting today might not be much different. I see a distinct parallel with the Church’s attitude to those who had remarried after divorce prior to 1970. On the one hand they were assured they were full members of the Church but in many places they were excluded from Holy Communion. Today we offer the same assurance to the gay and lesbian community but exclude them from the priesthood unless they are celibate.[3]

Returning to Canberra post-Lambeth 1998 I wrote the editorial for the diocesan newspaper, expressing my own perspectives while affirming the need to dialogue respectfully with those who conscientiously hold other views. There was some predictable protest but at a Sunday service a month later a woman came up to me over morning tea and said: ‘I am 75 years old, Bishop, and have been an Anglican and a lesbian all my life. This is the first time I have felt welcome in my own church.’

Bishop Gene Robinson retired from his post in New Hampshire in 2013, but his election ten years earlier forced Anglicans globally to acknowledge and manage the growing division. Of same-sex relationships the General Convention of the Episcopal Church[4] said in 2000: ‘We expect such relationships will be characterised by fidelity, monogamy, mutual affection and respect, careful, honest communication, and the holy love which enables those in such relationships to see in each other the image of God.’ Electoral synod members in New Hampshire who chose Gene Robinson as their bishop in 2003 would have doubtless satisfied themselves fully on such points.[5]

Rowan Williams, former Archbishop of Canterbury, writes of ‘the body’s grace’[6]:

For my body to be the cause of joy, the end of homecoming, for me, it must be there for someone else, be perceived, accepted, nurtured; and that means being given over to the creation of joy in that other, because only as directed to the enjoyment, the happiness, of the other does it become unreservedly lovable.

In the same paper he suggests that sexual relationships cannot be limited to procreative heterosexuality:

…the absolute condemnation of same-sex relations of intimacy must rely either on an abstract fundamentalist deployment of a number of very ambiguous texts, or on a problematic and non-scriptural theory about natural complementarity, applied narrowly and crudely to physical differentiation without regard to psychological structures.

For myself I have come to the view that bonding between two people, with its essential ingredients of love and fidelity, lies at the heart of any life-giving sexual relationship. A relationship should be measured not by its outward form, nor by the orientation of the partners, but by its inner essence, and hence faithful and committed same-sex relationships are also acceptable in the eyes of God.

Nonetheless, Gene Robinson’s election as bishop ran against the recommendations of Lambeth resolution 1.10, and deep-felt distress was expressed from many parts of the Anglican Communion. In response, Archbishop of Canterbury Rowan Williams convened the Lambeth Commission in 2003. Chaired by Robin Eames, then Archbishop of Armagh, the commission was mandated to recommend steps to ‘maintain the highest degree of communion possible’ among Anglicans globally in the circumstances.

In its Windsor Report, the commission acknowledged the right of the American Church to act according to its own constitution, but regretted that it had acted without due regard to Lambeth 1.10. By acting contrary to the firmly held views of other churches in the Anglican family, it had damaged the ‘bonds of affection’. Calling on all to seek ways to reconcile and heal the divisions, it proposed the establishment of an Anglican Covenant to strengthen unity within the Anglican family worldwide.

The Covenant went through three drafts from 2005-2009 and was then circulated within the Anglican Communion for discussion.  Of its four principal sections, three set out the bonds which bind Anglicans together. These include the catholic and apostolic faith, the scriptures, the sacraments of baptism and Holy Communion, the creeds, shared Anglican history and tradition and unity in mission.

The Covenant affirmed the constitutional autonomy of all Anglican churches, or provinces, while calling on the churches to have regard for the common good of the Communion in exercising their autonomy, and to engage openly and patiently in biblical debate and reflection.

The first three sections were an admirable and sufficient basis for global Anglican relationships, but Section 4 proposed a new advisory body to address controversial issues such as the ordination of a gay bishop. If such a body advised that an action was unacceptable, the proposing Church might then decide whether to defer the action or to proceed with it. If it chose the latter it might then find itself relegated to a restricted status and suspended from the Lambeth Conference[7], Anglican Consultative Council or the Primates’ Meeting.

Unfortunately, Archbishop Rowan Williams gave a hint as to which way a new advisory body might jump. With regard to same-sex unions, he wrote in July 2009[8]   that ‘the Church has consistently read the Bible for the last 2000 years’ in a way that does not support such unions, and that only ‘the most painstaking biblical exegesis’ leading to ‘a strong level of consensus and solid theological grounding’ could support any change. Since such consensus was unlikely any time soon, the door to any change was firmly closed.

As the Covenant went round the Communion for discussion and adoption, it found good support in traditional circles who felt confident that Archbishop Williams’ statement would preserve the traditional position. But elsewhere support lagged, the Covenant being rejected in New Zealand as well as in the Church of England and other Western churches. Maori opposed it, feeling that any decision made on the other side of the world smacked of neo-colonialism. No more has been heard about the Covenant.

Its real failure was that it was seen by many as a very un-Anglican way of going about things. Here was an issue which, like the ordination of women 30 years earlier, had created heated divisions. Lambeth 1978 did not take a definitive position on the ordination question, but agreed that different provinces might make their own decisions. Many have ordained women while others, sadly, still have not chosen to do so.

On the women’s ordination issue, Anglicans agreed to live with diversity. The Windsor Report also called for diversity and dialogue on the ordination of homosexuals. But when the heat in the kitchen of dialogue seemed too much to contain, the Covenant provided for a decision-making process that would choose one side over the other. Wisely the Communion as a whole rejected such an approach.

In September 2003 I was invited by the Bishop of Auckland, John Paterson, to preach at the annual diocesan synod. Addressing the current debate on homosexuality, I sought not to promote my own well-known viewpoint, but rather to talk about the process of change. One of the biblical readings was from Acts 10 where Peter, firm in his conviction that Jews should not associate with Gentiles, came to accept via a vision from God that old boundaries had been transcended in favour of a new inclusiveness. I said:

This dynamic of relationship with God over-riding tradition was seen also in tonight’s reading from Acts 10. Peter had been requested by Cornelius, the Gentile centurion from Caesarea, to come to see him. Peter said to Cornelius that it was unlawful for a Jew to associate with a Gentile, but he had come without objection because the vision of the great white sheet with all manner of creatures in it had taught him he should not regard as profane any creature that God had made.

Peter went on to say (vv 34, 35) that he now understood that God showed no partiality, but that in every nation anyone who fears God and does what is right is acceptable to God. As Peter proclaimed the Gospel to Cornelius and his friends, the Holy Spirit fell upon them, and they were baptised.

James Alison, an English Roman Catholic priest and theologian, commented on the same text:

In a very short space of time in Luke’s story-telling we have gone from something rather like ‘You are no part of our narrative’ through ‘You can be part of our narrative, but only on our terms’ to ‘Heavens, we are part of the same narrative, which isn’t the one either of us thought it was and it isn’t on the terms set by either of us’[9].

In November 2003 I was invited to be the guest on Kim Hill’s late night television show Face to Face. As we began a 25-minute conversation, Kim headed right into the gay debate. ‘How can you possibly support a gay bishop in the face of the vast weight of biblical evidence against it?’ she asked dramatically. I replied that the ‘vast weight of biblical evidence’ amounted to no more than a handful of texts, some more than 3000 years old, with quite unclear meaning, and coming from an age when there was no awareness of committed same-sex relationships, nor of contemporary scientific evidence about homosexuality as a natural condition for some.

I pointed out that St Paul’s injunction against women in church leadership roles was far more precise, yet there were many women church leaders today. The Church had recognised that Paul’s views were the product of the patriarchal ethos of his time.  Paul had also laid down other principles about gender equality and the different gifts of different members of the Body of Christ, and the Church’s judgment today was that these latter principles had the greater weight.

Kim was undeterred. There had been rumours at the time that Prince Charles may have had a secret relationship with his butler. ‘Do you regard that as acceptable behaviour in someone who might one day be the head of the Church of England? What might we expect next?’ she asked; ‘today his butler, tomorrow his horse?’ I said I gave no credence to rumours promulgated in the media, nor to speculation about further liaisons.

The synod sermon and the Kim Hill interview sparked unrest in some quarters. In December 2003, 19 of the clergy wrote a letter of concern to the Bishop of Auckland about my views. They felt that in the absence of any clear and public statement from the bishop about the diocesan standpoint, people might think my views expressed the diocese’s attitudes to gay bishops and same-sex relationships, and that such a perception was damaging to the Church’s mission and ministry.

I could understand their concern. I do not know what response the bishop sent, but the only answer that could be given was that the diocese encompassed a variety of views and that dialogue was the only way ahead. The episode raised the question as to whether bishops should express their views openly on divisive issues. I believe it is a failure in leadership if they do not.

I have always said my views are personal. As a bishop of the Church I accept the policies and decisions of the Church, and live by them. It is in order for a bishop to have a view on controversial matters, although in the present climate there is pressure on bishops not to express a view in case it alienates one section of the Church or another. Much safer to talk about prayer, dialogue and study than to risk putting one’s head above the parapet and be shot at.

No one can expect a bishop to have the same view on every subject as every member of the diocese. What one can expect is that a bishop will respect the convictions of every person, and ensure that all are included. I do. I lament the immaturity in the Church, or in any institution, if the leadership is prevented from speaking openly lest it cause offence. Leaders are called to lead, not merely to manage warring factions. And clergy and church members need to be mature enough to live with diversity rather than to operate from a mindset that it’s ‘my way or the highway’.

While I have received messages of opposition to my views, I have at the same time been greatly moved by many letters of support, at times from clergy who have carried for years the burden of having to conceal their orientation lest they be drummed out of office. Most moving have been the responses of church-going parents of gay or lesbian offspring who have felt the pain of the Church’s implicit exclusion of their children, and a feeling of guilt by association.

A country vicar wrote:

I am a newly ordained priest and was recently asked if I would officiate at a civil union ceremony between a school friend of my daughter and her female partner of long standing. I had to say that I was unable to do this as an Anglican priest. I was deeply saddened as I have known this person for the last ten years and know this is not a request she has made lightly.

I live with my questions of ‘is this what Jesus would have said? Is this the Gospel of love I represent? What does this speak of the church to the secular world seeking answers to life’s questions?’ I personally support and relate to what you have said with regard to God, spirit, love. I pray that I will have the courage in my ministry to walk this path, the true Gospel of love and inclusiveness – sometimes not a comfortable place to be, but it wasn’t comfortable for Jesus either.

‘A WORLD WITHOUT GAYS’ trumpeted the banner headlines of the Weekend Herald[10] at Queen’s Birthday weekend 2004. Newly installed as archbishop, the Most Rev’d Whakahuihui Vercoe, aged 75, stated this view as part of his vision of a new morality for a future society. Archbishop Vercoe had a long and distinguished ministry over 50 years, including as an army chaplain, and with commitments to indigenous rights, anti-apartheid, and issues of poverty and justice.

Known for conservative views in other areas, his words about homosexuality did not surprise, but nonetheless created much distress in both church and community. Radio NZ rang me mid-morning for a comment, putting me in the difficult situation of having to disagree with my own church leader. But it was important for something to be said to repair the damage done to the gay and lesbian community. I pointed out that there was a diversity of viewpoint among Anglicans and that the words of the archbishop, while carrying the weight of his office, were not those of the Anglican Church as a whole.

I added that the General Synod[11] which elected the archbishop had passed a motion which ‘acknowledges and honours the contribution that gay and lesbian Anglicans make to the life and ministry of the Church’. Agreed to by a large majority, the motion went some way in expressing a more positive view but did not address the main issue of homosexuality.

The issues are not resolved. Liz Lightfoot, in her book Outspoken[12], interviews a number of gay and lesbian Anglicans, some ordained, some lay, as to their experience of ‘coming out’ within the church. A lay-person, Liz had exercised a ministry in her own local church as a liturgist, leading the prayers and administering the chalice in Holy Communion. She asked what would be expected if she applied to be formally licensed for this role by the diocese:

Would I have to be either in a hetero-sexual marriage or celibate? If I were to enter into a same-sex relationship, would I have to relinquish my licence and my duties? The answer was that if I did enter a same-sex relationship, I would not be able to continue as a licensed liturgist. I could occasionally, at my vicar’s discretion, say some prayers or read a lesson, but I would not be able to administer the chalice (p.7).

In her interviews with other gay and lesbian Anglicans she found similar experiences. One person said she had been barred from administering the chalice but was still able to be on the morning tea roster. Not all Anglican parishes are like this. There are several, especially in the cities, which practise a policy of open inclusion and welcome. The Auckland Community Church is a worshipping community of gays, lesbians, bisexual, transgendered and straight people which meets every Sunday evening for Holy Communion in St Matthew-in-the-City Anglican church. Two of the women interviewed by Liz spoke of the friendship and support they received there:

They were just incredible. I don’t think we would have made it without them. I honestly don’t think we would have, because they were Jesus to us in those first few years. We experienced amazing love from them.

Marriage equality became a topic for national debate in 2012 when the Government introduced the Marriage (Definition of Marriage) Amendment Bill. The introduction to the Bill noted that while the Marriage Act 1955 does not define marriage, and makes no reference to marriage being between a man and a woman, nonetheless ‘couples, other than a man and a woman, have not been able to obtain marriage licences under the act. This Bill will make it clear that a marriage is a union of two people regardless of their sex, sexual orientation or gender identity.’

Human rights were seen as the essential rationale for the Bill, with the introduction noting that ‘marriage, as a social institution, is a fundamental human right…and that the Bill would ensure equality for people…in accordance with the New Zealand Bill of Rights Act 1990 and the Human Rights Act 1993’.

I made a submission to the Select Committee stating that I believed the Bill was in line with Christian principle, and noting that the Anglican definition of marriage has changed over the years. In 1662, the Church of England Prayer Book said that marriage existed first, for the procreation of children; second, as a ‘remedy against sin, and to avoid fornication’; and third, ‘for the mutual society, help and comfort that one ought to have for the other, both in prosperity and adversity’. The woman had to promise to obey and serve her husband. The relationship was not one of equality, and the union of husband and wife was last of the three purposes.

Today, by contrast, the New Zealand Prayer Book states that marriage is a gift of God so that ‘husband and wife should be united in heart, body and soul…and in their union fulfil their love for one another’. And second, ‘marriage is given to provide the stability necessary for family life, so that children might be cared for lovingly and grow to full maturity’. The priority of purposes in marriage has been totally reordered, and the requirement that a woman obey her husband has disappeared.

I stated that just as the Church’s understanding of marriage has changed over the years, so I believed it could now be modified again to be inclusive of gay and lesbian couples, who may also be ‘united in heart, body and soul…and in their union fulfil their love for each other’. They may also ‘provide the stability necessary for family life, so that children might be cared for lovingly and grow to full maturity’. There are many same-sex couples in long-term committed relationships, and research shows children may be cared for equally well in same-sex families as in heterosexual ones.

I canvassed some of the biblical background, noting that while same-sex relationships appear to be condemned in passages such as Romans 1.26,27, the context is one of a variety of debauched behaviours that belong to people who ‘refuse to keep in mind the true knowledge about God’ (v.28)… ‘who have no conscience, and show no kindness or pity for others’ (v.31). Faithlessness, lack of kindness and debauchery are not the marks of many gay and lesbian couples.

I noted also that scripture needs to be interpreted in the light of current knowledge. Part of our current knowledge about sexual orientation is that homosexuality is not a sin or aberration, but is as natural for many as heterosexuality is for others. Study of contemporary biological, genetic, psychological and socio-cultural factors in sexual orientation is essential to biblical interpretation.

I appeared before the Select Committee on 14 November 2012.   Members were concerned about  statements from conservative clergy that they would choose to go to jail than marry a same-sex couple.   I reassured committee members that in my view the marriage equality proposal could not coerce clergy to marry a same-gender couple against their conscience. Such statements, I believed, arose from a completely erroneous understanding of the requirements of the Marriage Act. The authority given to clergy and marriage celebrants is permissive rather than prescriptive.

On 13 March 2013 the Bill passed its second reading in Parliament by 77 votes to 44. National MP Chris Auchinvole, a Presbyterian, said older people had baggage to carry from the days when homosexuality was labelled illegal and immoral. He had been a member of the select committee and had learned from listening to the submissions that

each homosexual, lesbian, bisexual and transsexual person appearing before us was not just to be seen as an individual, not just to be identified by gender preference, but in fact as a mother’s son or daughter, and a father’s daughter or son, a sibling to their brothers and sisters, grandchildren to their grandparents, nephews and nieces to their uncles and aunts, and uncles and aunts to their nieces and nephews, cousins to their cousins. They are all family along with their heterosexual friends and relations and are all an integral part of New Zealand, all part in my mind, my heart and my conscience, of God’s family. I now realise that this bill seeks to put first something critics have accused it of undermining – and that is the family.

In 2012, the Anglican Church established a commission to explore options for the Church regarding same-sex relationships. Headed by former governor-general Sir Anand Satyanand, a  Roman Catholic, the commission was charged to consult widely within the Church and bring a report to the 2014 General Synod. The Commission, known as Ma Whea? – Where to?, tabled ten options. These ranged from do nothing at one end of the spectrum to splitting the Church at the other. In the middle were several options that allowed for diversity of practice by different bishops or dioceses.

‘Permitted diversity’ was the option adopted by the bishops at the 1978 Lambeth Conference regarding the ordination of women, but many do not see this as an option for same-sex relationships. A significant section of the Church sees heterosexual marriage or celibacy as the only options, regarding this as a matter of core doctrine from which there can be no deviation. Dual-practice options would represent a departure from Christian truth and could drive individuals, parishes or dioceses from the Church. Equally ‘do nothing’ options could drive away those at the opposite end of the spectrum. Doubtless many in same-sex relationships, and those who identify with their cause, have already left, having no wish to be part of a Church with judgmental and exclusive policies.

The General Synod in Waitangi in May 2014, of which I was not a member, was thus presented with a very difficult situation. How could it preserve the unity of the Church in the face of deeply held doctrinal divisions? After three days of intense debate and work behind the scenes a proposal opening the way for diversity of practice was agreed to. The synod upheld the traditional doctrine of marriage but at the same time agreed to develop a structure allowing for the blessing of same-sex relationships. The position of those who could not in conscience engage in such a blessing would be protected. The proposal also called for the writing of an order of service for a same-sex blessing.

The decision was taken unanimously, showing that careful and prayerful dialogue had led to a consensus between deeply divided perspectives. The decision stated that ‘distinct identities were not collapsed, but rather surpassed and transformed by Jesus Christ’. It was also agreed to work on the questions of the theology of ordination and marriage.

The proposals will be presented at the 2016 General Synod before final agreement in 2018, with extensive consultation in between. There is no guarantee agreement will be reached:  the next General Synod meetings could reject the plan. But the fact that the synod agreed to the proposal has opened the door for diversity of practice: it was a watershed moment.

General Synod also offered this apology:

Over many years our Church has become increasingly aware of the pain of the LGBT[13] community. All too often our Church has been complicit in homophobic thinking and actions of society, and has failed to speak out against hatred and violence against those with same-gender attraction. We apologise unreservedly and commit ourselves to reconciliation and prophetic witness.

The struggle has been long with some distance still to run. Perhaps it was easier for Parliament, which did not need to consider the nature of marriage but could restrict itself to the issue of human rights. Nonetheless the thinking in the Anglican Church dates back at least to the 1979 Christchurch report, 35 years ago, and we have had more than enough time for progressive action. Change may mean some leave the Church, but in the end the values of justice, inclusiveness and truth outweigh a concern for unity at the price of silence.

In his 2003 book The Dignity of Difference, Chief Rabbi Jonathan Sacks writes:

The test of faith is whether I can make room for difference. Can I recognise God in someone who is not my image? If I cannot, then I have made God in my image instead of allowing him to remake me in his.

Both church and society are at their best when they encompass difference and are enriched by it.

---

[1] There had never been any criminal sanction applying to females.

[2] The Human Rights Amendment Bill, 1993.

[3] There are, of course, many gay and lesbian clergy operating under a ‘don’t ask, don’t tell’ ethos.

[4] Resolution DO39. Known then as the Episcopal Church of the USA (ECUSA), the American Church today is simply known as The Episcopal Church (TEC).

[5] In May 2003 an English priest, Canon Jeffrey John, was nominated to be Bishop of Reading in the Diocese of Oxford. Canon John had been in a same-sex partnership for 25 years with another Anglican priest, a partnership they each declared to be celibate. The announced appointment to Reading created such division within the Church of England that the Archbishop of Canterbury persuaded Canon John to withdraw from acceptance of the post. He is currently Dean of St Albans but is discussed from time to time as a future bishop.

[6] The Body’s Grace, an address to members of the Lesbian and Gay Christian Movement, 1989.

[7] Bishop Gene Robinson was excluded from the Lambeth Conference of 2008 in an attempt to avoid division.

[8] Communion, Covenant and our Anglican Future.

[9] On Being Liked, p.ix, 2004.

[10] 5-6 June.

[11] Held in Rotorua the previous month.

[12] Outspoken, Coming out in the Anglican Church of Aotearoa New Zealand, 2011. Liz is a freelance editor and writer in Hamilton, NZ, and daughter of Anglican priest Keith Lightfoot and his wife Jenny.

[13] Lesbian, gay, bisexual and transgender.

Criticisms of the Church’s call for justice from the neoliberal establishment

Back in 1985 when some politicians embarked upon a love affair with market ideology, I remember wondering how it would all turn out. Here was something new, something different from the community approach that had characterised New Zealand politics all my life. Could a new approach increase our national wealth and lead to greater well-being for all? Could this be the ‘rising tide which lifts all boats’, as the policy architects of the day proclaimed?

It soon became clear that the rising tide was lifting the most luxurious boats, but many of the poorer craft seemed anchored to the bottom and were clearly foundering. What also became clear was that market economics were based on ideological foundations quite different from the values the nation had lived by for a long time. The new values were trumpeted by Ruth Richardson, Minister of Finance, when she introduced the 1991 Budget. ‘This Budget,’ she proclaimed, ‘is a battle for the hearts and minds of New Zealanders.’

It was an unfortunate choice of phrase. American President Lyndon Johnson once used it to describe the US pacification programme in Vietnam. When US forces bombed villages, he said, they were engaged in a struggle for the hearts and minds of the Vietnamese. Perhaps the Minister saw the warfare here as being socio-economic rather than military, but the destruction of lives and communities was a common feature. I selected the phrase for the title of my book[1] in response to the social devastation.

I also read some of the philosophy of Ayn Rand, and in particular her book The Virtue of Selfishness (1962). Russian born, Rand migrated to the USA and wrote several books based on the philosophy of objectivism. Her morality is centred on the ethics of rational self-interest:

The basic social principle of the Objectivist ethics is that just as life is an end in itself, so every living human being is an end in himself (sic), not the means to the ends or the welfare of others – and, therefore, that man must live for his own sake, neither sacrificing himself to others nor sacrificing others to himself. To live for his own sake means that the achievement of his own happiness is man’s highest moral purpose (her italics).

The principle of trade is the only rational ethical principle for all human relationships, personal and social, private and public, spiritual and material. It is the principle of justice.

I have not met members of any Randist sect in this country, but the radical libertarian philosophy of deregulated markets, minimalist government and maximum individual freedoms has many staunch adherents. I always enjoyed talking with Lindsay Perigo, editor of a 1990s publication The Free Radical. After a TV interview one night we had a stimulating conversation ranging from Adam and Eve to free market philosophies. For Lindsay, private health and education systems were just for starters as he went on to canvass privately purchased security officers in lieu of a police force. Quite how privately purchased fire protection would operate was never explained.

About this time Auckland businessman Alan Gibbs arranged for the live feed of BBC Radio into New Zealand. On weekdays Lindsay compered a breakfast business and politics programme insert which included a short, sharp Soapbox component with a roster of speakers. I was clearly the token liberal speaker set up as cannon fodder for the other contributors.

Many would be horrified with Ayn Rand’s view that the achievement of individual happiness is the highest moral purpose in life. And yet it seems to me that was the underlying ideology we were led into during those years of radical socio-economic change. The ideological divide had never been so clear, with the churches and others having a radically different view. In a fine turn of phrase, the Business Roundtable’s Roger Kerr described the churches as being ‘perpetrators of corrosive myths’. Such ‘myths’ were a belief in the common good, and an ethos of mutuality whereby the wellbeing of all was a collective social responsibility.

Rand would doubtless have endorsed the views of Adam Smith, the 18^th century Scottish moral philosopher, with his views on ‘the invisible hand’[2]:

It is not from the benevolence of the butcher, the brewer, or the baker, that we expect our dinner, but from their regard for their own self-interest. We address ourselves not to their humanity but to their own self-love.

(The individual is) led by an invisible hand to promote an end which was no part of his intention…..I have never known much good done by those who affected to trade for the common good. It is indeed an affectation, not very common among merchants, and very few words need be employed in persuading them from it.

The US economist JK Galbraith comments[3]:

The reference to the invisible hand has for many a mystical overtone: here is a spiritual force that supports the pursuit of self-interest and guides men (sic) in the market to the most benign of ends…A man of the Enlightenment, Smith did not resort to supernatural support for his argument…(but) in our own time the market has, indeed, acquired a theological beneficence; Smith would not have approved.

Galbraith’s reference to a mystical overtone is well captured by my all-time favourite cartoon of the 1990s by Dana Fradon in The New Yorker. The economy was engaged in the idolatrous worship of market mechanisms, mindless of the human consequences.

New Zealanders are not ungenerous. It is always moving to see people respond to cases of human concern. We learn of a child who needs money to go abroad for life-saving surgery. We hear of a tourist couple assaulted and robbed of everything they have. An old lady is attacked in her own home by an intruder. A young family finds their home totally wrecked by storm or fire. Israel engages in yet another modern day slaughter of the innocents in Gaza. The appeal goes out to the nation and people give generously with moving messages of support.

But when it comes to the nation’s attitudes and policies about those in need, a very different mindset takes over. In a TV3 programme The Vote in June 2013, Duncan Garner and Guyon Espiner led two teams in a debate on the causes of child poverty: was it the result of poor parenting and budgeting, or was it a lack of income? One team was from the well-heeled commentariat of the ‘pull yourself up by your own bootstraps’ brigade, while the other included social justice advocate Celia Lashlie and Children’s Commissioner Dr Russell Wills,  along with graphic accounts from budget advisers and foodbank operators working at the grassroots, those who knew the reality of poverty on a day-to-day basis.

The theories of the commentariat did not match the facts of the grassroots operators. At the end the studio audience was asked to give its vote, while the TV audience recorded their votes via email, text or Twitter. The graphic accounts of those at the coal-face notwithstanding, 63 per cent believed poverty to be the result of poor parenting and budgeting skills. In an almost throw-away line, Duncan Garner summarised: ‘so there you are, folks – that is the view of middle New Zealand.’

His use of the word ‘middle’ was significant. If almost two thirds of middle New Zealand believe the poor have enough money, there is no political incentive to change anything. It is not just the Government that is responsible for policy: every voting Kiwi affects the wellbeing of those at the margins of society.

In similar vein Rewi Alley, a Kiwi who spent 60 years of his life in China as an educator, writer and workers’ advocate, revisited his homeland in 1971 and wrote this poem, Auckland:

Weekend, and comes the sound of motor-mowers clipping neat lawns street after street. And in gardens fig trees, lemons and grapefruit bear richly, a myriad flowers throw out their fragrance…

And people speak of world problems as though such were no pressing concern of theirs; go on thinking that more and more prosperity is just around the corner and that the end of life is just to be comfortable and happy, protecting their children from hardship…

No sea so blue as that of Auckland, no gulls whiter, no youth more straight-limbed and eager, and truly no place where challenge is greater for the new Oceania to be.

Taxation is an ongoing political debate, and in 1988 I critiqued Roger Douglas’ proposal for a flat tax. A flat tax was mooted as a simpler way of doing things, a solution to tax evasion and an incentive to entrepreneurs who would work harder if they were able to keep more of their earnings. In a media release I pointed out that a flat tax was good news for those on high incomes but no benefit at all to lower income earners. Nor did I think entrepreneurs were working at half speed because of high tax levels. I suggested the solution to tax evasion was to plug loopholes, a challenge many governments have addressed with only modest success.

Dr Lisa Marriott[4] said that $23 million of welfare fraud was detected in 2012, compared with $1 billion of tax evasion, the latter amount being potentially as high as $5 billion annually. In spite of the vast differential in amounts, 800 people were prosecuted for welfare fraud but only 50 for tax evasion. The average amount of welfare fraud was $70,000, with 60 per cent of those convicted being given jail sentences. By contrast the average amount of tax evasion was $270,000 but only 20 per cent of those convicted were imprisoned. Clearly institutional morality has a significant inbuilt bias against the crimes of the poor as compared with the crimes of the rich.

Tax rates can be too high, but there are those who attempt to portray tax as one of society’s great evils, following Ayn Rand’s philosophy that taxation is theft. Often in May each year a business organisation proclaims Tax Freedom Day, the day when all one’s tax liabilities have been paid for the year and one can now get on to working entirely for oneself. One year chartered accountants Staples Rodway ran a newspaper advertisement:

CONGRATULATIONS NEW ZEALAND, TOMORROW YOU CAN HAVE A DAY OFF. IT’S TAX FREEDOM DAY.

The average New Zealander will spend 141 days working to pay government and local taxes. But look on the bright side… you have 224 days to find an astute accountant.

There is little doubt as to what end astute accounting would be applied.

A total contrast is found in the famous words of Oliver Wendell Holmes, inscribed on the Inland Revenue building in Washington DC: ‘taxes are what we pay for a civilized society.’ Taxes pay for all the essentials in a decent society – health, education, public housing, police, fire services, roads and infrastructure, welfare support, the justice system. Careful stewardship of public monies is always essential but a fixation on cost-cutting inflicts flesh and blood wounds on those least able to manage.

Dom Helder Camara (1909-99) was a Catholic bishop in Brazil, and an apostle of non-violence. Politically conservative as a young priest, he experienced a conversion while ministering among the poor in the favelas of Rio de Janeiro. ‘When I fed the poor, they called me a saint,’ Camara said, ‘but when I asked why they were poor they called me a communist.’ Labelled ‘the red bishop’, he  worked tirelessly for democracy and human rights in Brazil. During a time of persecution a hired assassin knocked on the elderly Camara’s door. He was so moved by the sight of the bishop that he blurted out: ‘I cannot kill you. You are one of the Lord’s.’(From Common Prayer: a Liturgy for Ordinary Radicals).

While some may believe taxation is theft, my sense is that a far larger number would agree with Sister Marie Augusta Neal that withholding basic necessities from the needy is a greater theft:

The Gospel mandates that no right of ownership supersedes human need….No matter who possesses food, it belongs to hungry people.[5]

The gap between rich and poor has been a growing debate in New Zealand in recent years. As the gap widens the more affluent push for private education and healthcare with a lessening commitment to adequate public provision. Elizabeth Anderson[6] has written:

As economic inequality increases, the better off perceive fewer and fewer shared interests with the less well-off. Because they buy many critical goods – health insurance, education, security services, transportation, recreation facilities – individually from the private sector….they tend to oppose public provision of these services to the wider population.[7]

A recent New Zealand study[8] has shown:

• From 1982 to 2012 the ratio between the top 20% of incomes and the bottom 20% has increased from 2.4 to 2.8
• The Gini coefficient[9] in the same period has risen from 0.26 to 0.33 which ranks New Zealand 22^nd out of 34 OECD countries (where 34^th is the most unequal)
• From c1985 – c2005 the increase in the NZ Gini score was the highest out of 24 OECD countries.

Research by two British academics, Richard Wilkinson and Kate Pickett[10], correlates income inequality with a composite set of social factors such as social trust, mental illness, life expectancy, infant mortality, violence, drug and alcohol use, obesity, education, teenage births, homicides, imprisonment and social mobility. The authors found that in virtually every society, the larger the rich/poor gap, the worse that country performs in terms of social well-being, not just for the poor but across the board.

Their analysis is that countries with high levels of inequality are driven by individualistic and competitive attitudes, and by a consumerist[11] and materialistic ethos. ‘Keeping up with the Jones’, or better still ‘keeping ahead of the Jones’, has a divisive and stress-producing quality that affects rich and poor alike. A survey showed[12] that once people were earning enough to live comfortably, they were content with that income as long as their peers were not getting more. Social status was more important than purchasing power, with half saying they could live with a reduced income provided they knew they were ahead of others. This could well be the driving dynamic for the seven figure salaries paid to senior executives.

In unequal societies the affluent and successful strive to keep ahead and protect their margin. For those who lag behind there is a sense of failure that can lead to depression, anger and compensating behaviours such as drug and alcohol abuse, violence, crime and imprisonment.

It is popular to describe the behaviour of the latter group as anti-social, but in truth anti-social behaviour starts with the affluent who minimise their tax payments and thus avoid contributing to the social fabric. It is to be found in politicians who know votes can be won by appealing to people’s financial self-interest, and suggesting the poor have only themselves to blame. The behaviour of voters who support such policies rather than opting for the common good is also anti-social.

The consequences of inequality are seen in human lives. OECD and UNICEF (2009) statistics show that New Zealand performs poorly compared with other wealthy nations. We are:

• 2^nd worst in terms of child well-being
• 4^th worst in mental illness with 20% of the population affected
• 2^nd worst in drug use, equal to UK and USA
• 2^nd worst in infant mortality with a rate of six deaths per 1000
• in the bottom five nations in terms of overseas aid.

Of crucial significance is the issue of penal policy. Driven by punitive policies such as ‘three strikes and you’re out’, New Zealand has the second highest rate of incarceration with 195 per 100,000 of the population locked away. Only the USA has a higher rate with 576 per 100,000. By contrast the Scandinavian countries have a rate of only 60. There is a worrying racial dimension to imprisonment: 50 per cent of the nation’s inmates are Maori, their rate of imprisonment being 5.7 times that of non-Maori.  With the closure of mental hospitals, many mentally ill people often end up in prison after committing some form of offence.

The situation is deteriorating. Even though some crime rates are falling, and we know that longer prison sentences usually make inmates less fit to lead constructive lives, the prison population is not shrinking. Pressure for tougher sentences is a reflection of inequality, say Wilkinson and Pickett, which is driven by a competitive win-lose mentality: others need to be put down so that I can stand higher. Inequality does not permit ‘soft’ policies such as restorative justice, or spending money on education to equip those ‘inside’ with the skills and confidence to reshape their lives.

The bullying and cyber-bullying of fellow students in schools and employees in workplaces, leading to high rates of youth suicide, is another likely indicator of how inequality destroys social cohesion. Not just the poor are affected.

Victoria University criminologist John Pratt studied prisons in Scandinavia in 2008/09 and found many benefits arising from policies aimed at re-establishing people in normal social life.  Scandinavian countries have a greater sense of collective wellbeing which makes such policies possible. But he questions whether there is a sufficient level of trust and egalitarianism in New Zealand society, and hence the political will, to make changes in our own penal system, despite its manifest failings. 

On the positive side, New Zealand does well with a high degree of social trust, good educational outcomes, and a comparatively low rate of homicides. But it is the more equal countries such as Japan, Denmark, Norway and Finland that score consistently well on all the indicators of social well-being. Characterised by social cohesion and a sense of family, these nations aim to see all provided for well. The common good is worth far more than tax cuts.

How can we reverse the prevailing Kiwi mindset so that we focus on the things that give life to all rather than on our own self-enhancement at the expense of others? As a nation we have a tremendous opportunity, and a tremendous responsibility. The Spirit Level documents that nations committed to the common good actually achieve that goal.

In December 1999 Jackie and I came home after our five years in Australia interested in what had changed during our absence. A year earlier the Anglican Church had initiated a Hikoi of Hope. People from all over the country marched to Wellington to show their concern about the entrenched poverty nationwide. Graphic pictures and stories emerged from the multiple journeys to the nation’s capital. Despair was mingled with bonds of affection among the marchers, and a renewed sense of hope and determination for change.

The hikoi converged on Wellington on 1 October 1998 with thousands of citizens gathered in front of the steps of Parliament. Church and community leaders presented to the Government a shared statement of concern with jobs, income, housing, education and health as prime objectives for action.

The 1999 general election saw a change back to a Labour Government. I was warmly surprised to find in the Treasury’s briefing to the incoming government[13] a section entitled Social Cohesion and Inclusion. The report noted that social cohesion was enhanced when people felt institutional frameworks were working well and treating people fairly, but weakened when people felt marginalised or institutions failed to deliver fair outcomes. ‘Protecting the living standards of those families who are most disadvantaged is a pre-requisite to achieving social cohesion’, said the briefing paper[14]. The report also noted growing inequality within New Zealand.

Messages about social cohesion and protecting the living standards of disadvantaged families had not been heard in policy-making circles for a long time. The advice had been freely on offer from the churches throughout that period, but now Treasury was coming to the party as well.  Why had it taken highly-paid government researchers so long to reach such an obvious conclusion, I wondered? Or do public servants offer the kind of advice they think will be acceptable to the government of the day, so that independent thinking in the public service no longer exists?

The church leaders’ 1993 statement referred to earlier[15] suggested five principles of social justice:

• To respect human dignity with its rights and responsibilities
• To live in solidarity with others, aware of our interdependence
• To seek the wellbeing of all
• To value work and creativity
• To give priority to the needs of the poor.

They also emphasised that ‘a primary focus for our social justice concerns must be the special relationship which exists between Maori and all other New Zealanders, as expressed in our founding document, the Treaty of Waitangi’.

The church leaders showed how these principles are ‘firmly rooted in the teaching of Jesus Christ and the Hebrew scriptures’. But, of course, the principles are shared widely by many in society. One of the heartening experiences of the 1990s was the building of partnerships not only across church boundaries but with many different groups and individuals, such as in the hikoi, who shared a deep concern for those on the margins. Few would not endorse the principles, but with such a wide disjunction between principles and outcomes such endorsement can be vacuous.

And what of today? Each year the Salvation Army produces a succinct and focused analysis of the socio-economic state of the nation.[16] The 2014 report shows some marginal improvements but nonetheless:

• 19 per cent of children live in welfare benefit-dependent households
• from 2008-2013 recorded offences of violence, sexual assault and child neglect rose by 68 per cent
• in education there has been an improvement in NCEA Level 2 achievement, but a wide gap remains between low and high decile schools (26 per cent), and Maori and non-Maori (24.9 per cent)
• the prison population is unchanged at 195 per 100,000 population, one of the highest in the western world. The Maori imprisonment rate is 5.7 times that of other New Zealanders
• unemployment has fallen to 6 per cent, but for 15-19 year olds the rate is 24 per cent. For Pacific Islanders the rate is 13.9 per cent, and for Maori 12.8 per cent. All rates are lower than in 2012 but higher than in 2008.
• the Salvation Army distributed a record 55,718 food parcels in 2013, a 67 per cent increase over 2008.

A separate report on child poverty[17] published by the Children’s Commissioner, Russell Wills, shows:

• 285,000 children live in poverty defined by income, this number including 1 in 3 Maori and Pacific island children, and 1 in 7 European children
• 1 in 6 children are in families which struggle to afford basics such as healthcare and clothing
• 3 out of 5 will experience poverty throughout their childhood.

Reflecting on these sombre statistics, Major Campbell Roberts[18], writes:

The neo-liberal paradigm that has been so dominant in New Zealand politics is convincing us that a society is little more than a collection of markets, that citizens are only consumers, and that governments have only a residual role to play in mediating all of this. The Salvation Army does not accept this view of humanity or of community life. We believe that there is a spiritual and moral aspect to life that demands we individually have a clear spiritual and moral framework to our lives – not just a framework that sees achievement in personal economic benefit. Similarly, New Zealand’s strength and achievement as a nation is not found in economic indicators alone but in indicators that show the strength of our concern to deliver care, compassion and social justice to everyone…our ambition has been underwhelming and our imagination stunted.

Campbell Roberts names child poverty and affordable housing as core concerns and suggests the lack of voter pressure for change shows the public is unaware or unconcerned. He is clear that only a change in attitude by New Zealanders at large will create the political will for governments to respond to poverty.

At times I recall social situations deemed quite acceptable in the past which we now regard as scandalous. In the 19^th century Maori were forbidden to speak their own language at school. In Australia I think of the stolen children generations – aboriginal children forcibly removed from their homes and families supposedly to give them a better life. There was the era when young teenage women who became pregnant were packed off to an institution where they gave birth only to see their child forcibly sent out for adoption. Churches and other institutions were willing players in all these arrangements, believing it was for the best. In hindsight we can see just how cruelly wrong we were.

And I ask: ‘how on earth could they have allowed such things to happen?’ And then I ask: ‘what are we doing today that later generations will look back on and ask how could we have allowed such things to happen?’

One such question is how any society can regard itself as moral when it allows a quarter or more of its children, with their families, to live in poverty, in cold, damp and overcrowded houses, doubling or tripling up with other families, with inadequate food, incurring illnesses such as asthma, pneumonia, rheumatic fever or TB, unable to afford proper medical care or medication, ashamed to send their kids to school in worn-out clothing, without jerseys, shoes, lunch or money for a class trip, sending mothers out to clean buildings in the middle of the night, packing pre-schoolers off to a day care at 6am so parents can work, earning a minimum wage of $14.25 an hour, or being unemployed, children having the best years of their lives ruined by the stain of poverty and the shame of social exclusion, parents denied the natural joy and pride of being able to provide for their children adequately with the basics and some of the simple pleasures such as a day at the beach.

How many of us who have been able to provide all these things would regard any of the above circumstances as socially acceptable? And yet the majority of us do, as that TV3 Vote programme indicated: 63 per cent of middle New Zealand believe the problem lies with the parents, not with economic deprivation. It is another example of the inequality that destroys social cohesion, mutuality and a commitment to the common good.

The other issue we may look back on in shame is unemployment. With 6 per cent of the workforce unemployed, New Zealand is better off than some countries, yet there are large numbers of job-seekers, and many who feel under-employed. Youth unemployment is at 24 per cent. In some European countries that rate is 50 per cent. How can we regard ourselves as a moral nation when we allow young people at the height of their hopes for a fulfilling life to be abandoned to idleness, despair and suicide? How much does this feed an anger leading to drugs and crime?

And why does it happen? It is because we are locked into a mentality that the only acceptable form of income is a wage gained from a paid job: welfare recipients are looked down on. Modern technology means fewer workers are required to deliver the basics. Yet the drive to produce more is a path to unnecessary consumption, the exploitation of scarce resources, growing problems with waste and pollution, and pressing issues of climate change from over-consumption.

Suppose as a society we broke out of the narrow job/wage straitjacket to develop a whole new paradigm of work and income. There is no shortage of work in the community. Proper care for the environment beckons on every side. An army of younger and older people could be deployed in caring for those in need in the community. Job-share situations could be further promoted. Good work is anything that contributes to community wellbeing and produces satisfaction, meaning and purpose for the worker. We should be exploring new approaches to ensure no person leaves school without some opportunity to grow through creative endeavour.

One barrier to any such move is the bunker mentality that is relentlessly preoccupied with driving down costs, causing many of the social problems through under-funded public services and leaving people sitting idle each day. The bunker mentality also prohibits any holistic examination of policies which cut costs in one area, only to see them blow out in another. Inadequate household income, for example, drives up the costs of illness caused by poor nutrition or overcrowded houses. Unemployment leads to increased welfare payments, drug and alcohol addiction, violence, crime, vandalism, mental illness and a whole range of other symptoms, all with heavy costs.

It costs the nation almost $1 billion annually to keep 8700 prisoners locked up in jail. Suppose that money were spent on our children and young people long before they became disillusioned and anti-social. Money spent on prevention is much less than the cost of repairing damaged lives. The advocates of cost-cutting squander vast amounts of public money remedying the personal and social consequences of human lives wasted by a failure to spend up front what it takes to give every child a confident start in life. It is not just a financial issue. Money spent to bring life and hope to the next generation is morally preferable to spending money to sustain lives blighted by public neglect.

A cabinet minister once asked me if I agreed that voluntary giving to the poor was more moral than the tax and welfare approach. His reasoning was that money given out of compassion for someone in need had a superior moral motivation than money involuntarily taxed and distributed, generating resentment rather than compassion among taxpayers.

Compassion and generosity are the finest of virtues and our society would be the poorer without them. But I said in reply that providing for all was an essential moral dimension of a decent society, and no amount of personal philanthropy could ensure the basics for an entire population.

Philanthropy often depends on knowing at first hand the needs of another. The story is told of an Afro-American Pullman car attendant who cared meticulously for a wealthy passenger who was so impressed he agreed to fund the man through a college education and get him a better job. Perhaps if every citizen personally sponsored someone in need a system based on philanthropy might work.

But, of course, it could never happen. We know already that two thirds of middle New Zealand believe the poor have only themselves to blame. And how many of us know people living outside our own work and leisure networks? We have no idea what life is like for families in poor neighbourhoods. We speed past on motorways taking us from comfortable suburban homes to the equally comfortable offices where policy is formulated on the basis of statistics laced with the ideology of inequality.

Here is our dilemma as a nation. As individuals we can be caring and generous and go out of our way to help someone in need. But when it comes to policy-making the minds of most are closed to any action that would make a difference.

Thirty years ago New Zealand was a much more equal society. It could be so again. But it will take a huge shift in the mindset of the majority to undo the impact of the forces of individualism and privatisation which have eroded our sense of mutuality and the common good and turned us into one of the most unequal societies in the western world. Can we make the change?

Robert Reich, an American political economist and Secretary of Labor in the Clinton Administration from 1993-97, offers this challenge[19]:

There is thus an opportunity for us, as for every society, to redefine who we are, why we have joined together, and what we owe each other and the other inhabitants of this world. The choice is ours to make. We are no more slaves to present trends than we are to vestiges of the past. We can, if we choose, assert that our mutual obligations as citizens extend beyond our economic usefulness to one another, and act accordingly.

---

[1] Hearts and Minds: a Place for People in a Market Economy, Social Responsibility Commission, 1993.

[2] An Inquiry into the Nature and Causes of the Wealth of Nations, 1776.

[3]  A History of Economics, 1998.

[4] Victoria University of Wellington, quoted in TV3’s programme Mind the Gap, 31 August 2013.

[5] A Socio-Theology of Letting Go, 1976.

[6] Philosopher, University of Michigan.

[7] Quoted in The Economist, 27 January 2014.

[8] Bryan Perry, Ministry for Social Development, 2013.

[9] The Gini coefficient measures income differentials in a society. It ranges from 0 (perfect equality) to 1 complete inequality.

[10] The Spirit Level: Why More Equal Societies Almost Always Do Better, 2009.

[11] An indicator of consumerist tendencies in the more unequal countries is that USA and New Zealand spend twice as much on advertising as Norway and Denmark. In A New Earth, Eckhart Tolle writes that in making a purchase we are often not buying a product but an ‘identity enhancer’.

[12]  The Spirit Level, p 225.

[13] Towards Higher Living Standards for New Zealanders, 1999.

[14] ibid, p. 42.

[15] In Chapter 5.

[16] Striking a Better Balance, Alan Johnson, the Salvation Army Policy and Parliamentary Unit, February 2014.

[17] The Child Poverty Monitor, 2013 figures, updated 27 February 2014.

[18] The highly respected director of the Salvation Army’s SPPU, in Striking a Better Balance, pp 7-9.

[19] The Work of Nations, 1991.

Bishop Richard’s early days, calling and shaping of ministry

St Bartholomew’s Day, 24 August 1968: P & O’s Arcadia stood high on a morning tide at Prince’s Wharf in Auckland. I felt my stomach churn as I contemplated, at the age of 28, my first trip out of New Zealand on a voyage that would start a life-changing journey. Jackie and I had married eight months earlier at Papakura. She was a high-school teacher at Manurewa and together we ran the parish youth group – a classic ground of romance for single curates in their first parish. Now we were headed for New York and England for three years of study and work.

Arcadia took us on an idyllic two-week voyage across the Pacific to Vancouver, with stops in Fiji and Honolulu. From Vancouver we travelled by Canadian Pacific through the Rockies to Lake Louise, across Canada’s great rolling prairies and past lakes, farms and woodlands to Toronto, and finally by overnight train via Buffalo to New York City.

Our home for the next eight months was Union Theological Seminary in uptown Manhattan, just north of Columbia University on Broadway. Originally a Presbyterian seminary dating from 1836, Union was now ecumenical in character and a place where robust theology engaged with the strong societal currents of America in the late 1960s: Martin Luther King, Jr and Robert Kennedy both assassinated, the Black Power movement gathering momentum, students demonstrating against the Vietnam war, and California’s revolution of the flower children liberalising western societies around the world.

We were catapulted into a world far removed from the quiet 1950s suburban environment in which I had grown up. Takapuna, where I was born, was a quiet town on Auckland’s North Shore in the days before the harbour bridge. Our family of five lived in a state house with neither car nor phone until I was 14. I was often sent off with a penny to make a call from the public telephone box down the road.

Takapuna’s iconic white sand beach was a regular summer gathering place, and my school years were taken up with swimming, tennis, rugby, boy scouts and schoolwork. Childhood memories are redolent with images of the ‘golden weather’ Bruce Mason writes about in his play.[1] As a 12-year old I had a job after school at Bill Rees-George’s pharmacy delivering prescriptions by bike to customers. No crash-helmets in the 1950s, and riding roads on which cyclists today would take their life in their hands.

Without a car we got around on foot or bike, or via a bus ride to catch one of the old double-decker steam ferries to Auckland. Across our back fence lived Captain Fitzgerald, a ferry skipper on the Devonport run. From time to time I took a ride with ‘Fitz’ in the wheelhouse, delighting as a schoolboy in ringing up ‘Full Ahead’ on the engine-room telegraph, steering Toroa  or Makora across the Waitemata Harbour, and sounding the whistle (two blasts for port) as we rounded the corner into the Auckland ferry basin. On the deck below passengers could stand on an iron catwalk in the engine-room, watching the huge pistons pounding while the fireman shoveled yet more coal into the rapacious maws of the firebox. Berthing those cumbersome behemoths in Auckland was no mean feat and could cause a skipper difficult moments when fighting a strong wind or flooding tide.

My father, Brian, worked for the Bank of New Zealand and was much involved in community activities. He chaired the local Boy Scouts and Primary School committees and was vicar’s warden at St Peter’s church, supporting his three sons in their school, scouts and church life. He was a great gardener, and spent hours digging and planting and producing great crops of fruit and vegetables. He loved swimming and regularly took us on bikes to Takapuna beach until we were old enough to go ourselves.

My mother, Ngaio Penrose, was the youngest of four daughters, growing up in Devonport and a foundation pupil at Takapuna Grammar School from 1927. Brian was a pupil at Rotorua High School and met Ngaio at an annual Queen’s Birthday sports exchange between the two schools. They obviously continued a friendship, with Dad arriving from Rotorua and daringly showing up uninvited at Mum’s 21^st birthday party in 1932. They were married on New Year’s Day 1936, four years ahead of my birth.

Ngaio was academically bright and could easily have managed a university career. But, like many women of her generation, she looked after her boys full-time, only taking on part-time paid employment once we were all settled in school. Alongside Dad, she played a major role at St Peter’s, leading the Young Wives group and later the Mothers Union. As with many families post-war, there was little money to come and go on. I remember my parents sitting down each Sunday evening at the family table working out to the penny each item of expenditure for the coming week. No credit cards in those days.

My two younger brothers were Michael and Tony. Tragically Michael died of an illness in his early 30s, leaving Marie, small daughter Michelle, and a son, Matthew, born after Michael died. I am immensely proud of my brother Tony who, for almost 20 years, has been a judge first of the High Court of New Zealand and now of the Court of Appeal. With his wife, Glenda, well-known for her artwork, they play leading roles in their church and community.

School days at Takapuna Primary and Takapuna Grammar were pleasant even if somewhat uneventful.  I worked hard and did well academically, being dux of school at both primary and secondary levels. I played school rugby, although not brilliantly, and was a prefect in my final year at high school. Good friendships have endured even though I left Takapuna for university in Dunedin in 1958. Dad died in 1987, and Mum not till 2000 at age 89. At her funeral in the new (1962) St Peter’s church I looked around the congregation, recognising many schooldays friends I hadn’t seen for 50 years. I felt the tears come as I reflected just how special had been those days of the golden weather in Takapuna.

I first felt a call to the priesthood in 1955, my fifth form year (today Year 11) at school. In an essay about future careers I recall writing the word ‘minister’ in my very best hand-writing. How did the call come about? My personality type is not given to Damascus Road experiences: for me things tend to build slowly. No doubt my parents’ committed church involvement was a major factor which drew me into a regular pattern of Sunday school, youth group, choir-singing and being an altar server.

At my confirmation in 1953 Bishop Simkin[2] asked all the boys to stay behind after the service and spoke to us earnestly about the need for young men for the ministry – no thought of women priests then. I don’t recall feeling any positive response that night, but maybe a seed was sown.

The Church was a great place to belong to. I loved the worship, the singing, youth group programmes and the many good friends. The monthly dance in the parish hall was a social highlight, as were summer weekends with a large group on Takapuna beach. It seemed everyone in town belonged to a church. Looking around my school class I knew which church most were connected to. What we couldn’t foresee was that this was the last decade of the Christendom era, a reality that just a few years later precipitated a crisis for me.

My grandfather, Cyril Randerson, was a Presbyterian minister who retired from ill health in Rotorua at age 55. A large oil painting of his grandfather, John, a Wesleyan minister in 19^th century England, hangs on our living room wall. So perhaps there was something in the genes that sent me off in my final year at school to apply to Bishop Simkin to train for the priesthood. There was none of today’s rigmarole of examining chaplains and discernment weekends. My vicar, Geoff Maffey, had doubtless written to the bishop saying here was a likely lad, and after a ten-minute interview I was accepted.  I enrolled for a four-year Arts degree at the University of Otago in Dunedin where Selwyn College was seen as a good Anglican-based residential environment for potential ordinands. Dunedin was followed by three years of theology at St John’s College in Auckland, with a generous church scholarship covering all my tuition, board and travel for those seven years.

During my Dunedin years I began to explore New Zealand by train, developing a lifelong enjoyment of rail travel. Second class on the Limited Express from Auckland to Wellington was an arduous 14-hour journey, but it felt almost mystical to travel by night through the North Island hinterland, feel the wilderness, climb the Raurimu Spiral, skirt the mountains of the central plateau and cross lofty viaducts.

Confessing my love for trains has always seemed a bit infra dig but I was reassured by reading F.A. Iremonger’s classic biography[3] of former Archbishop of Canterbury (1942-44), William Temple:

(Bradshaw’s Railway Guide) was one of his favourite books: ever since the Oxford days, when he took a peculiar interest in working out complicated cross-country journeys…he always found pleasure in hunting up trains and discovering unusual changes and connections.

I understand the archbishop well. Armed with a systems timetable listing the extensive services to towns which haven’t seen a passenger train for years, I travelled to places like Opua, Okaihau, Dargaville, Te Puke, Gisborne, Hokitika, Westport and Cromwell. Some of the best rides were on the mixed ‘goods with car’ trains that serviced little-used lines like Stratford-Okahukura[4], following the route now known as ‘the forgotten highway’ through Whangamomona and Ohura. On Train 555 one day I stood on the open platform of the passenger car as we trundled gently through this magnificent and remote part of New Zealand.

Bob, a fellow ministry student in Dunedin, also loved trains and took a year out from his studies to train as an engine-driver. On one occasion he joined the crew on the northbound Limited from Dunedin. The challenge on this journey was to make a successful transit through the long and winding Mihiwaka tunnel with its steep uphill gradient, just beyond Point Chalmers. Heading a heavy 12-car express, the Ja steam loco plunged into the tunnel at full throttle. As smoke and fumes filled the cab, the driver and fireman threw themselves to the floor, lifting the footplate to gulp in fresh air from under the engine. Totally perplexed, Bob called for an explanation. Knowing Bob’s future vocation, the driver shouted: ‘Don’t ask questions, sonny; just get down on your knees and pray to God we get up this hill’.

In July 1966 I was on a bachelor’s holiday in Northland and planned a journey that began with a short run on the railcar from Okaihau[5] to Kaikohe. From there I intended to hitch-hike via the Hokianga Harbour and Waipoua Kauri Forest to Dargaville where the vicar, Arthur Burton, had kindly agreed to have me stay overnight. Next morning I planned to catch the 10.15am ‘goods with car’ that worked the Dargaville branch to Waiotira Junction, connecting there with the railcar to Auckland.

But the highway west of Kaikohe was totally devoid of traffic. As I trudged along I was becoming anxious about being stranded. At length a car came and stopped to pick me up. The driver was William Naera, father of the late Bill Naera, a priest who had trained with me only three years earlier. The Naeras lived 90 kilometres further on at Waimamaku and invited me to stay the night. Mr Naera asked if I would lead them in evening prayer, which I was glad to do.  I was very grateful when he offered me a lift to Dargaville next morning in time for the 10.15am ‘mixed’.

On ‘mixed trains’ timetable constraints were not pressing and on one occasion after our marriage Jackie and I were the only passengers on an Opua-Whangarei ‘goods with car’. The driver invited us to ride with him in the engine and, somewhere south of Otiria junction, eased his train to a halt alongside a spreading plum tree laden with ripe fruit. ‘My wife’s making jam’, he said, and grabbing cartons from the back of the cab the three of us scrambled over a fence, plucking plums while the big diesel loco rumbled idly on the track beside us.

In Dunedin from 1958-1961 I completed an MA, majoring in Greek but also including Latin, French and Philosophy. At Selwyn College there were a dozen ‘theologs’ – candidates for ordination doing undergraduate work as a basis. Mixing in with students studying medicine and dentistry, law, commerce, science and engineering was a good exposure to other disciplines and lifestyles. There were some wild parties which posed an intense moral question for us ‘theologs’: was it right to sing the bawdy songs, or even attend at all? I always went along and sang the less bawdy lyrics.

At St John’s College in Auckland from 1962-64 I studied for a Bachelor of Divinity degree extramurally from Otago. Life at St John’s had a semi-monastic flavour. Most of us were young and single, but a few older married students were also required to ‘live in’. We were only allowed out for a few hours three days a week.  Daily worship in the chapel was scheduled at 7am, 12.15pm, 5.15pm and 9pm. Attendance was compulsory and silence observed overnight.

Pastoral training was part of the curriculum, but it was not extensive.  We were taught how to baptise babies and practised with a plastic doll in the chapel. There were classes in conducting marriages and preparing couples for marriage, which included exploring with a couple such issues as communication, finances and sexual relationships. As a 25-year old bachelor two years later I found the latter acutely difficult but the bride-to-be on one occasion assured me there was no need to worry as she was already pregnant.

The marriage classes sparked an interesting conversation at breakfast one morning when one of the students asked the sub-warden if it was possible to consummate one’s marriage in a registry office. The sub-warden, Dr Catley, an Australian bachelor with a very dry sense of humour, replied: ‘Possible I would think, but not very usual.’

I was ordained deacon on St Andrew’s Day, 30 November 1964 in St Mary’s Cathedral in Parnell, and a year later as priest. About a dozen of us were ordained on each occasion, most young, single men embarking on 40 years of parish ministry. I had been appointed curate in Papakura in South Auckland and as a newly-minted deacon rode out there that night on my motor scooter.

I arrived in time for the final meeting of the Church of England Men’s Society, an end of the era for one of the Church’s traditional institutions. Church-based social meeting points were being replaced by community groups such as Lions or Rotary. Nevertheless, a monthly church dance held in the church hall still attracted up to 400 young people from all over South Auckland. Today, I imagine, they would be at night clubs or the pub.

In December 1965, having just been ordained priest, I went out to celebrate Holy Communion for the first time at St Margaret’s, the small red brick country church on the Karaka. Waiting for me was the churchwarden, Gordon Laing, who welcomed me warmly on behalf of the local parishioners. He went on to reflect: ‘You know, Richard, we have a lot of young men from the city coming out here with new ideas about changing this and changing that, but we’re 25 years behind the times, and quite frankly we like it that way’. Gordon need not have worried: in those early years I had little idea about changing anything.

I got myself into trouble at the annual diocesan synod in 1968. Each year a motion was required to adjust clergy stipends in the light of inflation. In the debate I suggested we should live sacrificially by not taking an increase, saying that Jackie and I were able to live comfortably on the existing stipend. The Herald leaped on to this as a big story: turning down a wage increase was big news. A reporter was sent to interview Jackie on our food menu and budget, with details published in an article next day.

But this first foray into synod debate, unsurprisingly, was not well received. We were Dinkies (double income, no kids), and I was speaking to family men supporting a family on a single income. A trade unionist sent a copy of my photo from the Herald with a bullet-hole marked in my forehead. My statement was naïve and foolish, and I remember driving home to Papakura wishing the earth would open and swallow me up.

A dramatic shift in the nature of Church and society had taken place during the seven years of my training, and this made my early years as a priest the most difficult of my whole life. It had nothing to do with Papakura, the people, or my vicar, Herb Simmonds, a good priest and very supportive.

When I signed on for ordination in the 1950s, society was largely homogeneous with limited lifestyle options. On Sundays church was almost the only show in town, and church-going a regular part of the lives of many. I looked out from the choir-stalls at Evensong at Takapuna and saw a packed church with many community leaders present. By the mid-1960s the tide was going the other way. Church was not the only place to be on Sundays as sport, cinemas and shopping became options.

Reduced numbers have been noticeable for over 50 years now. While around 52 per cent of the population still registers as having a religion, the proportion of those ticking the ‘no religion’ box has risen to 42 per cent. Church participation has moved from a habitual routine for many to a chosen activity for the committed. The change had taken place while I had been studying and was a key part of a crisis I faced at Papakura. The Church I signed up for was very different from the one I was now in. Many who started with me on the road to ordination diverted into other careers.

There were other elements in the crisis. My years of study had seen my personal transition from teenager to adult. Prior to ordination, life had a comfortable annual cycle of study, examinations, summer holiday and work. With those regular and familiar markers gone, I now faced a lifetime with no predictable signposts, and was confronted for the first time with searching questions about life, its purpose and meaning. I wrestled with deep theological questions posed by Bishop John Robinson[6] in Honest to God, and in New Zealand by Professor Lloyd Geering. Geering was tried for heresy by the Presbyterian Church in 1967 for an article he wrote entitled What does the Resurrection Mean?, but was acquitted of the charges.

All these factors were part of an inner turmoil I was experiencing: there were many dark days when I felt very depressed. I consulted a priest/counsellor who diagnosed that I was experiencing the ‘dark night of the soul’, a classical feature of the spiritual journey, and prescribed some of the spiritual exercises followed by the saints. But his diagnosis was inaccurate and my own ‘dark night’ persisted.

Another remedy I explored was to seek a direct experience of the Holy Spirit. Charismatic experiences, accompanied by speaking in tongues, were very much in vogue. People experiencing such a phenomenon reported a heightened sense of God’s presence accompanied by great joy. One afternoon I prayed earnestly for such an experience in a small country church, but to no avail. In retrospect I am grateful my prayer went unanswered for it might have cut off the much deeper exploration I needed to do.

That exploration was to do with the changes in church, society and myself which had taken place during my seven years of tertiary studies. Questions about the mission of the Church, faith and vocation were the unidentified causes of my dilemma. At St John’s College the warden, Raymond Foster, had suggested I undertake post-graduate study – perhaps a PhD in Patristics (the early church Fathers). With my honours degree in Greek this was a logical suggestion, perhaps leading to a career in theological teaching. But I have never felt a call to academic life, and a PhD did not attract me.

Alternative advice was offered by Bishop Simkin who recommended I make no decision until I had a few years of ministry experience. This was especially sound advice given the major issues that arose for me at Papakura. Two clergy I knew who had studied at Union Theological Seminary in New York told me of the seminary’s commitment to studying theology in the context of contemporary life. This seemed an option far more suited to the new questions of theology, church and society with which I was wrestling. The major bright spot for me in Papakura was meeting and marrying Jackie and now, in August 1968, we found ourselves sailing in Arcadia en route to New York.  My crisis was resolving as I set off to grapple with the theological and vocational issues that had precipitated it.

Three weeks later our train from Toronto rolled down beside the Hudson River before entering the subterranean darkness of New York’s Grand Central station. A very conscientious customs officer wanted to examine minutely the huge amount of luggage we had with us. Eventually escaping into the broad daylight of mid-town Manhattan, we needed two taxis to take us to Broadway at West 121^st Street where we were glad to move into a seminary apartment. It had no natural daylight, but by opening a window one could look out and up a narrow gap between buildings to see the sky above.

New York City and Union Seminary quickly proved the right places to be. Jackie found stimulating work as a personal assistant in the World Council of Churches offices in the adjacent Riverside Centre, popularly known as the God-Box. The faculty at Union included several first-rate theologians who, along with students from many different countries, created a stimulating and challenging environment.

I enrolled in a Masters programme which allowed multi-choice options to match the questions I was asking. A course on the doctrine of God with Daniel Day Williams addressed issues being raised by Robinson and Geering. I did biblical courses on the book of Lamentations and the Gospel of John. Another explored biblical teaching on poverty, wealth and justice.

For one semester we made weekly visits to store-front churches and social agencies in Harlem and the Bronx. Emerging from the subway we found ourselves in parts of the city which provided a very down-at-heel contrast to Broadway at 121^st. Rubbish and rocks created an obstacle path for pedestrians. Boarded-up apartment blocks spoke of abandonment by both the city and former residents.

Those we met were largely black or Spanish-speaking. The social agencies conveyed a distressing picture of life for the homeless and dispossessed, but the various non-denominational store-front churches demonstrated a dramatically new way of being church. The pastors were locally born and raised. The congregations lacked the resources to build attractive churches with all the usual facilities. Instead a cheaply rented, abandoned shop provided a weekly meeting point.

Many of the church programmes were shaped by the imperative to respond to members of poor but colourful neighbourhoods who, amazingly, maintained a sense of vibrancy and hope. Gradually I realised that my life was being re-shaped by people living on the margins. I was learning that if a congregation’s agenda is built around the needs of its members, then it is hard for a middle-class church to respond to the needs of the poor and marginalised.

In the evenings a steady stream of visitors came to the seminary. Many were clergy or other activists who had been working in Central or South America. They had seen the oppression of peasants and factory workers by large global companies, many of them American, who exploited the land and labour of the poor, often hand-in-glove with local governments and big land-owners.

Most striking among the visitors were Daniel and Philip Berrigan, both Roman Catholic priests, although Philip later withdrew from the priesthood. Involved in actions against poverty and racial segregation, they later became widely known for their protests against the Vietnam War. In the 1960s, Philip was one of the ‘Baltimore Four’ who entered the Baltimore Customs House and poured a mixture of their own and animal blood on military selective service files which drafted young men for Vietnam.  In 1980, they invaded a Pennsylvania missile facility, damaging nuclear warhead nose-cones and pouring blood on military documents. Both served terms in prison as a result.

The Vietnam War was a source of deep-felt social division in both New Zealand and America. Soon after my ordination the New Zealand Herald carried a full-page advertisement, signed by a large number of clergy of all denominations, opposing New Zealand’s involvement in the war. At first I was a little chagrined that I hadn’t been asked to add my name, but then reflected that had I been asked I might have declined. I had thought very little on the topic, being swayed largely by one-sided media opinion.

All that changed in New York where we mixed daily with American students who had broken the law by burning their draft (military call-up) cards. I have strong memories of a journey to Washington to take part in the March Against Death in November 1969. Jackie and I travelled by train from New York, sitting by chance next to the anthropologist, Margaret Mead. Thousands had travelled from all over the USA and we were marshalled upon arrival at one of many staging posts around Washington.

Our own meeting-point was a church where all the pews had been removed and we were served hot soup and bread while awaiting instructions. ‘How nice for the church that this should happen to it,’ said a young woman standing nearby. The plan was that each marcher would write on a large card the name of one of those killed in Vietnam. We wrote ‘all NZ troops’ on our card. In the darkness a long march began around the White House. As we passed the front gates (heavily defended lest peace marchers got violent), Jackie and I shouted out the names on our card and placed it in one of several coffins.

It was a very cold November night but we had some moving conversations along the way. Next to us was a young white American who was weeping as we walked. I asked him who the person was whose name he carried. It turned out to be a former black schoolmate who had died in Vietnam. ‘This friend of mine has given his life for a country that gave him no more than peanuts,’ he replied. ‘His mother gave me permission to carry his name.’

Dawn broke on a bitterly cold but brilliantly sunny day. Frozen after the night’s march, many sought refuge in one of the nearby Smithsonian Institute buildings. The one we found was delightfully warm and already filled with marchers sitting on steps, sprawled out on seats, or sleeping in alcoves and lobbies. The staff made no effort to move anybody on. I was greatly impressed by such warm hospitality and, on our return to New York, wrote a letter of appreciation to the director of the Smithsonian.

Waxing somewhat lyrical, I said how good it was to see state institutions being able to see beyond their specific mandate to a higher national purpose, thus being part of the momentum for peace. Some time later I received a formal reply:   ‘Dear Sir, thank you for visiting the Smithsonian. I am glad you enjoyed your visit and hope you will come again next time you are in Washington.’

Following the assassination of Martin Luther King, Jr in April 1968, the Black Power movement gathered momentum. At Union Seminary the reality of racism was spelled out by various staff and black leaders. The seminary was ‘occupied’ by Black Power members and closed for two days while Union considered its own policies on race. The concept of institutional racism was new to us. In New Zealand discrimination was still being seen in personal terms such as the notorious incident when a Maori was denied entry to a Pukekohe pub during my school years.

I went to New York extolling the excellent race relations in New Zealand, but in point of fact I knew little about issues of race. There was one Maori boy in my class at primary school, and only about three, as I recall, among the 1200 students at Takapuna Grammar. A defensive cliché at the time, and still heard today, was: ‘One of my best friends is Maori’. There may well have been no personal animosity, but neither was there any awareness of the reality of racism. Racism was evident in another cliché: ‘they make great truck-drivers’, reflecting an assumption that Maori were better suited for blue collar than white collar work, an assumption clearly disproved some 50 years later.

At Union we learnt about the nature of institutional racism, that even in the absence of inter-racial hostility the socio-economic statistics for black, Maori or Pacific Islanders in terms of health, housing, income, jobs, longevity and imprisonment lag far behind the white majority. Without any personal intention to discriminate, a nation’s core institutions often fail indigenous or minority groups through ignorance or neglect. Thinking this would be a new take-home message for New Zealand, we returned in 1971 to find such awareness was already growing with strategies for institutional change being promoted.

In the summer of 1969, with our year at Union completed, Jackie and I bought an old VW Beetle and drove to Tuscaloosa for a ten-week pastoral counselling course at Bryce, the Alabama State Mental Hospital. There were 5000 patients at Bryce, many of them locked up for a lifetime and slowly vegetating. Jackie and I were part of the hospital chaplaincy team and spent the time visiting patients under supervision and with reflections from the chaplains.

In Alabama signs of racial discrimination were evident. All the patients at Bryce were white, black patients being housed at another mental hospital at Mt Vernon. Washington had pledged to cut off all federal mental health funding to Alabama if the hospitals were not integrated. Faced with this ultimatum, Governor George Wallace reluctantly succumbed and the first busloads of black patients arrived at Bryce while we were there, in the summer of 1969. The patients appeared to cope with the change much better than some of the staff.

One evening I attended a sitting of the local Tuscaloosa court where most of the defendants were black and charged with misdemeanours. One case involved a young black truck-driver who was repairing his truck by the side of the road when a young white woman walked by. She alleged that the truck-driver had propositioned her. His story was precisely the opposite: he had been fixing his truck when she stopped and chatted him up. Listening to their stories, I felt his was somewhat more credible than hers. The judge listened to it all and then went into a lengthy reflection, saying he didn’t know whom to believe. However, what he did know was that ‘nowhere south of the Mason-Dixon line had a white girl ever propositioned a black boy’. But since he couldn’t tell for sure he was bound to let the truck-driver off with a warning.

A happier experience was the wedding of two New York City retail buyers, both white, in a small black settlement. We drove out through cotton-fields to the venue, a small concrete-block factory named the Freedom Quilting Bee. The two buyers had discovered a market in New York at top-end retail stores for the high quality patchwork quilts made by black women from the South. They had discovered this black Alabama community and opened an outlet for their quilts in New York. The factory had been constructed from the proceeds, production had increased and earnings were flowing into the local area.

The two buyers, shunning a high society New York wedding, had chosen to marry in the FQB factory. So there, surrounded by sewing machines and a sea of black faces, we observed the nuptials. Afterwards we gathered under a large spreading tree in the summer heat and, standing in the dust, enjoyed a meal of fried chicken, corn and grits.

Back in New York for a second year, Jackie worked as personal assistant to George (Bill) Webber. Bill, a staff member at Union, lived in Harlem in a high-rise apartment block and was a prophetic leader in outreach to the poor. I had taken a course with Bill during my studies, and he was keen to enlist Jackie as a colleague in his new role as President of New York Theological Seminary. I spent the year gaining urban ministry experience in two parishes – Grace Church, Brooklyn Heights, and St Paul’s Chapel near Wall Street where the twin towers of the World Trade Centre were just beginning to rise out of the ground. Thirty years later St Paul’s Chapel played a central support role for victims and relatives following the 9/11 tragedy.

Our time at Union, in New York and the USA were foundational in our understanding of church and society. The stimulus of living in an international community in the ferment of the Black Power and anti-Vietnam War movements, the exposure to urban poverty, and the anger at the impact of corporate business on the poor and vulnerable in third world countries, expanded and challenged our awareness of the world.

I loved the in-depth study in theology, Bible and the Church’s mission. I realised that my basic training at St John’s College in Auckland, while sound enough in traditional terms, made no connections at all with contemporary life and issues. It did not link theology with justice, ethics, economics, peace or race relations. It was theology in a vacuum.

Union made all these connections, revolutionising my understanding of the Church’s mission, a topic also missing at St John’s. Mission was about attracting people to church, not too difficult a task in the 1950s when people came in large numbers. Clergy were busy running Sunday services, baptising, marrying and burying parishioners, organising Sunday schools, youth groups, or men’s and women’s groups, and making pastoral visits to the congregation.

There were some chaplains in prisons and hospitals, and an outreach to those in need by city missions and social service agencies, but the parish church was the central focus.  This was not taught in so many words, but we all knew what it was about. At college we role-played making home visits to parishioners (with some side-splitting conversations), and visited parish churches on Sundays. We took services in old people’s homes, or at a local prison, but the parish was the predominant focus.

Theology at Union was very different. God was seen as active throughout the world, the spirit of love and reconciliation, suffering with the poor, the spur to right conduct in individuals, institutions and nations. Arising out of worship and teaching, the Church’s task is to be active in the workplace, society and politics, to work for universal justice and wellbeing. The primary direction is church-to-world, not world-to-church.

Most churches still operate predominantly in attractional mode, although there are stunning examples of clergy and parishes reaching out to their local communities.  But although society has changed massively over 50 years, and church attendances have fallen, the Church still operates a strategy better suited to the 1950s than to the 21^st century. 

Our experiences and insights in America turned our world upside down, illuminating the many questions I wrestled with as a curate and underpinning everything I have done since.  My sense of vocation was deepened and widened, showing me a world beyond church boundaries. The time had been rich beyond our expectations.  So it was with gratitude but also some sadness that Jackie and I left New York, flying out to the United Kingdom in August 1970, keen to explore further ministry experiences and looking forward to the birth of our first child.

---

[1] The End of the Golden Weather.

[2] Bishop of Auckland, 1940-1960.

[3] William Temple, his Life and Letters, 1948.

[4] This line is mothballed at present but self-drive golf carts along it make a delightful excursion.

[5] Okaihau, the northern passenger railhead, was distinguished by a platform sign ‘Pubic Taxis for Hire’ (sic).

[6] Bishop Robinson was Bishop of Woolwich and, during a spell of illness in 1963, wrote an international best-seller entitled Honest to God. A major question explored in the book was whether it was necessary to think of God as a supernatural being, or whether there were other images that might be more appropriate in the mid-20^th century. Robinson’s book sparked a major theological storm with many finding his thinking refreshing and constructive, while others prayed fervently he never suffered a period of prolonged illness again.

Download File

Instructions for downloading: Click the “Download File“ button above. Now the file will be saved in your Download folder. From there you can open the file to print.

Slipping the Moorings

A memoir weaving faith with justice, ethics and community

An overview of changes and issues in Church and Society over 50 years as seen by Richard Randerson as an Anglican priest, bishop and social justice advocate

CHAPTER HEADINGS & SYNOPSIS       (244pp, incl. 16 photos, cartoons). Foreword: Rod Oram

1. A life-changing journey: growing up in Takapuna, Otago University, St John’s Theological College, curacy at Papakura , marriage to Jackie (1967). Two years post-graduate study and work in New York leading to total redirection of ministry from church-facing to world-facing.
2. Through the factory door: a year with the Teesside Industrial Mission, UK and then establishing industrial mission in Auckland (1971-78)
3. A church in the city: vicar at St Peter’s, Wellington (1978-90), inner city issues, and several of issues in next chapter also
4. The times they are a-changing: key change issues 1970-90 eg  anti-apartheid, nuclear-free NZ, ordination of women, remarriage of divorcees, a bicultural church
5. Working at the Margins: my time as Anglican social justice officer (1990-94) in Jenny Shipley/ Ruth Richardson era; responding to issues of poverty within NZ
6. Purveyors of Corrosive Myths: the ideological underpinnings of libertarian policies in NZ from 1985; global finance collapse
7. Crossing the ditch: assistant bishop of Canberra (1994-99), justice issues in Australia, stolen children, life in a semi-rural diocese
8. Ethics in the public square: royal commission on genetic modification, health ethics committee, business ethics, how we “do” ethics (but often don’t)
9. Same-sex blessings: the same-sex debate in church and society from 1970-2014
10. Full circle:  dean of Holy Trinity Cathedral, Auckland (2000-07); engagement with city issues; role of cathedral; inter-faith dialogue; Asian tsunami service.
11. Is the bishop an agnostic? public debate between Richard Dawkins, Lloyd Geering, CK Stead and myself as a (so-called) ‘agnostic ‘bishop
12. Would I do it again? Reflections on the pros and cons of priesthood; reflections on nature of today’s church and its leadership (should we expect more leadership from bishops on public issues?)