I WAS contacted recently by a journalist. “Did I have anything to share about my time at school with Nigel Farage?” Well, as a matter of fact, I did not. Although we overlapped, I have no recollection of him at all.
But the journalist’s enquiry did cast my mind back to my school days, when racism and anti-Semitism were widespread. Indeed, thinking about those years has been quite “triggering” — to use a contemporary phrase — both in relation to both the bullying that I experienced and a particular racist incident that I witnessed and that upsets me to this day. I remember trying to intervene (I was new to the school and myself scared) as I saw just how wretched my classmate looked.
Even now, if I see that kind of behaviour meted out to people — in films, for example — my reaction can be quite visceral: at the wrongness of it, at a beloved child of God so brutally diminished.
Fast forward some 30 years, and I found myself ministering in an inner-city parish in Bristol. Levels of deprivation were high. Drug and alcohol abuse was widespread. Life expectancy was some ten years lower than in the richer parts of the city. The church had been built to serve the workers in the cotton industry, which flourished briefly from the 1830s.
But the parish had always been poor. Up until the 1990s, the community was almost exclusively white working-class: “born and bred”, people used to say. By the time I arrived, there was a large Somali Muslim population, refugees from the civil war in Somalia. Relations between the two communities were not good. I tried to broker better relations between the church and mosque, but progress was slow, and my congregation were not keen.
I got to know the white British population best in the pubs. Although the pub-going population rarely came to church, I was “their” vicar. They shared their lives with me, unburdening themselves in profound and moving ways, often over a pint of Natch cider.
There was much disgruntlement with how things had changed in the community, and how, in their view, those in power were corrupt and did not care for them. If they voted at all, their political leanings were not with the established political parties — on the contrary — and their views on the Somalis were often unrepeatable. But I loved them, and was pretty sure that God loved them, too. I longed for the toughness of their lives to ease.
THERE is a lot of talk at the moment in the Church of England about Christian nationalism and the rise of the far-Right. There is much to be concerned about. Christians must always speak out against language that dehumanises or diminishes, or the co-option of Christian symbols to support exclusivist political agendas.
But, equally, we need be heard saying just as loudly that the Church welcomes all people, including those who might vote for Reform UK, are worried about immigration, or feel that something has been lost in this country. Otherwise, the risk is that our inclusion is only partial, and we will alienate people and fail in our mission to be the Church for the whole of England.
When I was in the parish, I did not agree with the views that I encountered about the Somalis, whose hospitality and rich culture I also came to enjoy. Such views fell far short of the Christian vocation to love our neighbour and welcome the stranger. But I tried to understand why the white British population might see the world the way they did — why they might feel aggrieved or left behind. And what I discovered were a people that were easy to love, fallen and sinful just like myself, but, as I remember thinking at the time, since when has the gospel ever been about those who are righteous (Mark 2.17)?
SO, IF we are to change the narrative and take practical steps to communicate that the Church of England really does welcome all, regardless of social class or political affiliation, what might we do?
Part of it is to lean into the expertise of our estates’ practitioners, who have much to teach the wider Church. As a bishop, I am gathering my clergy who are ministering in communities, just like the one I served in, to explore what mission and service to those who feel forgotten or alienated looks like. I am getting out on to estates to meet ordinary people, to listen to them, and to show them that the Church cares.
In Southwark diocese, we are not naïve about the complexities. There is a narrow path to be trod distinguishing between legitimate political views — knowing that Christians will always hold a range of opinions — and those who have more sinister motives. And we will always want to ask how Jesus might lead us, and those whom we serve, into deeper truth, understanding, love, and compassion.
St Paul, in his second letter to the Corinthians, talks about how, “in Christ, God was reconciling the world to himself, not counting their trespasses against them, and entrusting the message of reconciliation to us” (5.19). I have always found these words deeply moving. We are entrusted by God with a ministry of reconciliation — to exchange hostility for peace. Notwithstanding our frail and fallen natures, God still calls us.
But we will not succeed in this ministry unless we speak across divides, and are heard loud and clear saying that our mission is to all people, including those whose views we may not share, or which we even find abhorrent. None of us is righteous: all of us need God’s healing power; and this needs to be reflected more clearly in how we speak and act. May we believe, this Holy Week and Easter, as we journey to the foot of the cross, straining to catch a glimpse of the resurrection life, that Jesus’s blood can indeed overcome the enmity and divisions in society and bring healing to our world.
I have challenged some of my churches in the Kingston Episcopal Area to consider having a standing item, “Ministry of reconciliation”, on their PCC agenda. As we seek to knit our country back together, building communities where all can flourish, our times call for nothing less.
Dr Martin Gainsborough is the Area Bishop of Kingston in the diocese of Southwark.
