Читать книгу Know the Truth - George Carey - Страница 10

‘Don’t trouble because you think you are not fit. Of course you are not fit. The greatest saint is not fit for the service of God: but there is a wise saying that God does not choose what is fit but he fits what he chooses … the sense of unfitness is one of the signs of vocation.’

The Spiritual Letters of Father Hughson (1953)

AT THE END OF JANUARY 1956 I was demobbed, and exchanged the heat of Shaibah for the cold of Dagenham. I received a wonderful reception from my parents and family, and it was so good to be home. Later in life T.S. Eliot’s wonderful poem ‘East Coker’ would become one of my favourites. It includes the simple line ‘Home is where we start from’. Eliot was making the point that home is the cultural, spiritual and social start for us all – and for me it was certainly all of those things. Returning home made me realise what I missed those many months but had never pined for, because the security of a good home gives one the strength not to rely on it as a crutch, but to know it as a resource. Nevertheless, it was a great homecoming, and the future beckoned.

A few days after my return the church had its annual New Year party, and of course I wanted to be there. It was a foggy evening when I set out, and on the ten-minute walk I had to cross a footbridge over a railway line. I could hear footsteps approaching, and out of the fog appeared a young lady of about seventeen. We recognised one another from the church youth group, and walked together to the party, chatting happily and catching up on one another’s news. Her name was Eileen Hood. She was working as a nanny and studying for her NNEB (National Nursery Examination Board), and was intending to become a nurse when she qualified. She was an intelligent girl, and she was also very good-looking. Later, as I became increasingly drawn towards her, I found I had some rivals to see off, but at that time romance was not high on my or her agenda. A friendship developed, however, and we began to see a lot of one another.

Of greater concern to me at that moment was my future, and the tug I felt in my heart to be ordained. I resumed my job with the London Electricity Board, but made no secret of the fact that I did not see my long-term future there. I was moved by the understanding and encouragement of Mr Vincent and other senior staff. They may not have shared my goals or my religious commitment – though some certainly did – but they knew that another kind of career beckoned.

The problem was my lack of academic qualifications, which I felt keenly. It came home to me with a particular shock when a few months after demob I served on a youth camp. Also helping out were a few students from Ridley Hall, Cambridge, one of the Church of England’s theological colleges. One of them, a few years older than me, asked what I was going to do in life. I replied rather hesitantly, ‘I feel the call of ordination.’

I shall never forget the look of incredulity on his face. ‘Forget it!’ he said instantly. ‘You’ll never make it!’

I never did ask him to explain himself. Such a crushing retort momentarily knocked the stuffing out of me. If that was how a fellow young Christian could react to another’s aspirations, what future did I have in the ministry?

A clue to the answer came in a much more encouraging form from the curate at Dagenham Parish Church, Eric Vevers. Mr Vevers was in his thirties, and had been a carpenter before training for the ministry at Oak Hill Theological College. When I told him I wanted to be ordained, he gripped me by the shoulders and said fiercely, ‘Don’t do it, George. Don’t be ordained.’ Seeing my startled response, he continued, ‘You must not even consider the idea of ordination unless you feel in your heart that this alone is what you want to do, and that God is calling you and is confirming it through His Church – otherwise it will be the most terrible of all professions.’

His words struck home, and I had to reflect deeply on what constituted the character of vocation to the ordained ministry. It seemed to consist of three elements. The priesthood had to attract. I could say without any equivocation that it did. There was the intellectual challenge it offered, the centrality of people and community, the joy of speaking of one’s faith – all this and more appealed to me greatly. Then one’s own personal abilities and qualifications came into it. Long before intellectual attainment one must have qualities that are ‘ministerial’ in character. My family and friends were telling me that I got on well with all sorts of people, that I had the ability to communicate, that I possessed the basic knowledge of scripture, that I was eager to learn. Above all I had a passion for Christ and His Kingdom. Lastly, I recognised that no good thing came without some sacrifice. I had to be prepared to accept the cost. The priesthood then – and now, but especially then – was very poorly paid, and vocation entailed accepting this as a precondition of service. I was ready for that too.

Pit-Pat, our vicar, was of great help. In spite of the differences in our understanding, which had deepened since my return, he was a constant encouragement and support. Indeed, in his time as vicar at least six young men sought and eventually received ordination – remarkable for anywhere, let alone a place like Dagenham. He knew of my great desire, but was also well aware that unless I had an opportunity to matriculate to university I had no chance whatsoever. He brought to my attention the work of the Reverend ‘Pa’ Salmon, who lived in Rock House, Woldingham, Surrey. Pa was a rich evangelical clergyman who used his wealth to help disadvantaged young people. To my delight I learned that he would not only provide board for me in his home, but would give me uninterrupted time to study for matriculation, and would provide a tutor. I leapt at the offer, said goodbye to the London Electricity Board and moved to Rock House.

Pa Salmon’s remarkable offer felt like an answer to prayer, and I shall never forget the warmth of his family and the privilege it was to study in his house with six other young men. It was, I suppose, a kind of monastic community as we gathered each day for study, for fellowship, for prayer and for work. We were led by the Reverend John Bickersteth, who kept an eye on us all, guided us in our various studies and, week by week, gave the most insightful Bible studies, drawing imaginatively on the Greek text of the New Testament. John was the ideal person for this kind of ministry. He was just twelve or so years older than most of us, and well able to connect with our aspirations. He gave great personal encouragement to me, and I flowered under his leadership.

I had set myself the goal of studying for three ‘A’ levels and six ‘O’ levels, and my target date was a mere eighteen months ahead. There was a lot to do, and very little time. But I was hungry to learn, and highly motivated. I discovered the joy of studying systematically, reflecting and arguing with texts. The days, weeks and months raced away as my studies deepened. And of course I grew as a person. It is difficult for people who are used to speaking with fluency and ease to understand that others may find social communication simply terrifying. So it was with me – I felt awkward and very aware of my working-class background and speech. However, my confidence developed as I discovered that I could hold my own in argument; that I was as bright as, if not brighter than, some of those I envied for their social ease.

I saw a lot of Eileen, who was also working for exams. We were falling in love although I could not understand what she saw in me. She knew the way my life might turn out, and we discussed whether she really wanted to be the wife of a clergyman. Her immediate future, as she saw it, lay in nursing, which she also regarded in terms of vocation and as a Christian ministry. It was her intention that once we were married she would continue in her profession, as well as giving herself unstintingly to a common life with me serving our Lord. I could not have asked for more.

At last the exams came, and when the results arrived I had passed in all subjects – three A’ levels and six ‘O’ levels in eighteen months. I made sure to thank all those who made it possible – Pit-Pat, Eric Vevers, the church family, and above all Pa and John Bickersteth. At last, I felt, I was really on my way.

Almost at the same time as I sat the exams I was required to attend an Ordination Selection conference, or as people of my generation called it, a CACTM (the Church’s Advisory Council for the Training of Ministry) conference. It was a nerve-racking experience to be one of thirty or so young men grilled by half a dozen experts over a twenty-four-hour period. Two things I especially remember. The first was a group session, designed to allow the Selectors to assess the would-be ordinands’ social and group skills. I enjoyed this a lot, but I was disconcerted by some of the assumptions that prevailed. One that particularly shocked me was a discussion as to whether or not Baptists were actually Christians. If the fact that we were discussing such a question surprised me, still more troubling was the discovery that a significant number of the group actually thought the Baptist tradition was sub-Christian. This made me aware that I was one of just a handful of evangelicals on that Selection conference. At that time evangelicals were few in the leadership of the Church, and as far as I can remember there was not one evangelical among the Selectors. Later the subject of ecclesiology was to become an important element in my theological thinking (see Chapter 5), but at that moment I was only aware of deep differences in the family of the Church, and that the tradition I had come from was in a minority.

My second memory was of an enjoyable conversation with the educational Selector. He asked me about my reading, and I spoke with great gusto of books that had influenced me, and others that I was currently reading. ‘Such as?’ he threw at me. I replied that I had just finished Bertrand Russell’s Why I Am Not a Christian, then gave a résumé of the book and why I found it unconvincing.

The Selector said with a quizzical smile, ‘Well now, imagine that one day you bumped into Bertrand Russell in Blackwell’s bookshop and you were given the opportunity to show why you are a Christian. What would you say?’

With some rapidity I gave my answer. The Selector looked at me, still smiling broadly, and said after a long pause, ‘Well, Carey, I hope you don’t meet him for a very long time!’ It was a response I deserved. I had a long way to go in understanding the difficulties of those who honestly cannot believe, as well as in appreciating the deeper issues of philosophy, science and epistemology that separate unbelief from faith.

A few weeks later I was informed that the Selection Board had recommended me for training, and I was given the green light to go to college that autumn, at the age of twenty-two. But which college? Pit-Pat was desperate for me to go to either Wycliffe Hall, Oxford, or Ridley Hall, Cambridge. If neither of these appealed to me, he felt I should choose a clear-cut evangelical college such as Oak Hill or, preferably, Tyndale Hall, Bristol, where he had trained for the ministry.

I was open to all suggestions, and visited six or so colleges in rapid succession. Each was excellent, but one stood out for me – one that Pit-Pat did not know well and did not care for particularly, the London College of Divinity, at Northwood. LCD, as it was known, was the former St John’s, Highbury, which was destroyed by enemy action in the war. The Principal responsible for the college’s move to Northwood was Dr Donald Coggan, who in 1956 became Bishop of Bradford, and was later to become Archbishop of Canterbury. Now, under the principalship of an Irishman, Dr Hugh Jordan, LCD was enjoying great popularity and attracting many students.

There were two reasons why LCD appealed to me. It was an evangelical college, but it was not narrow or partisan. I must have felt instinctively that I needed a broader theological education, and that LCD would suit my temperament. The second reason was equally important I was attracted by the intellectual rigour of the London Bachelor of Divinity course, with its emphasis on languages, philosophy and historical theology. The course taught at both LCD and King’s London offered all I was most anxious to study. It did not worry me that I was bypassing colleges at Oxford and Cambridge. I was fully aware of the excellence of theological education in those venerable universities, as well as the snob value of an Oxbridge degree, but I was quite satisfied that the London BD offered a more satisfying course that would stretch me fully.

For non-degree students the basic course for those under thirty was the three-year ALCD (Associate of the London College of Divinity) course. Those who had matriculated to do the degree course, such as myself, were required to do the four-year course, which included the ALCD.

It was with some nervousness that in September 1958 I entered the gates of the London College of Divinity and set out on a four-year programme that was to change me forever. Deep friendships were developed, and the rigorous academic regime was punctuated with much fun and fellowship. One particularly memorable moment was when Eileen paid her first visit to the college. It was an inflexible rule that girlfriends could only visit at the weekends, and then only with the Principal’s approval. On the last Saturday of the Michaelmas term I went to the station to meet Eileen. During my absence the other students covered the walls of my room with pictures of their girlfriends. Eileen’s astonishment and my dismay at seeing photographs of dozens of girls caused great amusement, but I had trouble persuading her that they had nothing to do with me. The embarrassment was completed when later that evening, having returned from taking Eileen to the station for her journey back to London, I found that the lock had been changed on my room and my bed was now outside the Principal’s office. I was grateful that Dr Jordan was able to see the joke.

Compared to today, the theological training of my day was monastic and Spartan. The few married students in college were required to live apart from their wives, with only two free weekends per term. Permission to marry during one’s training had to be obtained from the Principal and one’s Bishop. The day started with worship at 7.15 a.m., and failure to be there meant an explanation to the Principal. The mornings were given over to lectures, and the afternoons devoted either to sport or manual work around the grounds. Further study followed from 4.30 p.m., and after evening prayer and supper, study continued until 9.30 p.m. Compulsory silence was demanded from 11 p.m. until 6 a.m.

For those of us newly returned from National Service, and especially for someone like myself, for whom education had come at such a price, this discipline hardly seemed draconian. Indeed, I soon found that I wanted more time to study, because I enjoyed it so much. Although I pitched myself into the social life of the college and had a regular place in the football team, I felt that I had to discipline my use of time so as to squeeze as much as I possibly could from the hours given to me. I found that by getting up slightly earlier than the others, going to bed slightly later, spending a little less time drinking coffee after supper and so on, I had more time for the reading and study I so relished.

There was no protection from the world of hard ideas and difficult questions. The staff was dedicated and talented. I particularly remember Victor McCallin, the Vice Principal, another Irishman from Trinity, Dublin, who gave us splendid, though whimsical, lectures in philosophy. ‘Never avoid critical questions during your time here,’ he would warn successive generations of students, ‘because if you do, when you are alone later in ministry they will come and grab you by the throat.’

I was not alone in finding many of my ideas and beliefs being challenged. Degree students such as myself were required to prepare for a university entrance exam at the end of our first year, so the work was thorough and searching. It seemed at times as if the faculty intended to drive every certainty from us: our Old Testament study focused on the historicity of the texts, and took us into the arid wastes of dry Germanic scholarship; New Testament study seemed designed to show that we could know very little of the Jesus of history; philosophy led us to questioning certainty of any kind; and history and comparative religion forced us to consider the competing claims of other religions and other denominations. That we did not cave in under this avalanche of critical theology owes much to the rhythm of worship which underpinned our studies, as well as to the caring teaching we received. We were in no doubt that each member of the staff was a practising and believing Christian, and that they were always on hand to explain and assist if any student floundered intellectually or spiritually.

All this was grist to my mill. To swim as a tiny minnow in this ocean of ideas and follow in the wake of great giants like Augustine, Thomas Aquinas, Martin Luther, Karl Rahner and William Temple was a wonderful privilege. Although an evangelical and thoroughly committed to a belief in the authority of the Bible, I was unable to accept narrow theories of inerrancy, in which the Bible was held to be historically accurate as well as literally ‘true’ in every detail. I did not, for example, see a scientific world-view as incompatible with the world view of the scriptures. Many evangelicals may have believed the world was created in seven days, but that was not my interpretation of the Book of Genesis. As time went on I realised that there was nothing preventing me from accepting with conviction the trustworthiness of the Old Testament in its fundamental purpose of disclosing God’s will for His chosen people Israel, and the unfolding drama of redemption leading to the coming of Jesus. In short, I did not require a book devoid of human error, corrupted texts or mistakes.

When later in my first year I asked a prominent evangelical preacher to explain to me why 2 Chronicles was so different from 2 Kings when both books were largely describing the same historical events, his reply astonished me. ‘The difference,’ he opined, ‘is that similar to a photograph and a portrait. The books of Kings describe what actually happened, but the books of Chronicles are looking at it from an artistic point of view.’ Even though I had just commenced Old Testament studies, I was staggered by the ignorance of this answer, although no doubt the speaker truly believed what he said. I remember thinking at the time that if that was an accurate expression of evangelical orthodoxy, it was too facile for me. No serious student of the texts could dismiss the profound differences between the two books in such a simplistic way. However, the answer that I found so unsatisfactory led me to dig deeper, and it took me months to acknowledge that I had to face up to the fact that the two books of Kings as well as Chronicles were primarily theological works, in which the writers were reflecting on history as well as seeking to write it. To this day I remain dismayed that many evangelical clergy seek to shield their congregations from critical scholarship. It need not disturb trusting belief – on the contrary, it will often lead to the strengthening and maturing of faith.

My faith was greatly shaken by the rigorous studies at LCD. But such shaking is an important element within the strengthening of faith. My knowledge was broadening out to include new ways of understanding God’s truth. Of course, holding together the content of faith – namely God as understood through Jesus Christ – as trustworthy and reliable is only possible through the lived experience of knowing Him and walking with Him. This, for me and for my colleagues, took the form not only of regular worship in chapel, but also the discipline of private prayer and reflection on scripture. This practice has continued through my life and ministry, and is the foundation of what I am and what I do. My experience echoes the wonderful answer given by Carl Jung, the famous psychologist, when he was asked towards the end of his life, ‘Do you believe in God?’ To which he gave the breathtaking answer: ‘I don’t believe – I know, I know.’ My studies of philosophy showed that epistemology (the science of knowing) takes many forms, in which analytical knowledge – two and two makes four – is but a small part of what we can grasp as truth. Indeed, analytical knowledge is not without its difficulties, as its truth derives from the self-contained world of arithmetical knowledge. Knowledge as we normally understand it emerges from reflection on experience, and is as foundational for every area of life as it is for theology.

At the end of my first year at LCD the Reverend E.M.B. Green, a dynamic young evangelical scholar, joined the staff and sharpened the missionary focus of the college. Michael arrived with an impressive reputation as a scholar and teacher. He was the possessor of first-class degrees in classics and theology, and the author of several studies of New Testament subjects. To have him as one of our faculty was a great coup for the college, and he did not disappoint. We were riveted by his challenging teaching and the depth of his lectures. He was also a gifted evangelist, and many of us went on unforgettable parish missions with him. His love of God and willingness to share his conviction made a lasting impression on my life and ministry. The combination of classics and theology that Michael brought was a great gift to us all, and my understanding of the Greek text of the New Testament deepened, just as my knowledge and grasp of Hebrew flourished under the wise teaching of Mr Jordan, our Principal.

As my theological knowledge and my experience of faith developed, so did my relationship with Eileen. We had already committed ourselves to one another in a long engagement that had started on her eighteenth birthday, but now, two years later, we were anxious to get married well before I was ordained. The problem was that the rule of the Church then was very firm: marriage and ordination training did not mix, so marriage had to be delayed. I was not convinced by this logic. Nervously I approached both Bishop and Principal, and presented the strongest arguments I could muster. To our great delight both gave their full agreement, and we made plans to marry on 25 June 1960, after a three-year engagement and halfway through my studies.

This was perilously close to the prelims of the degree course, and to my dismay I discovered that the first paper in Hebrew, which was mandatory for honours degree students, was scheduled for the Monday following our wedding. The shock was compounded by the fact that we had planned to take our honeymoon in Dunoon, on the Clyde, where Eileen’s mother had been brought up. How on earth could I possibly square this circle – to marry on Saturday, 25 June in Dagenham, fly up to Glasgow, and take a Hebrew exam two days later at the University of London? It was agreed that I could sit the exam at the University of Glasgow – but what would Eileen say about this? Fortunately, instead of throwing up her hands in horror at this intrusion into our honeymoon she saw the funny side, and agreed that somehow the exam had to be included in our plans.

Our wedding was a wonderful celebration and commitment. Dagenham Parish Church was packed with family and friends. Pit-Pat took the service, and preached on the text from Joshua 24: ‘As for me and my house, we will serve the Lord’ – a verse that would continue to inspire and guide us through the years. Although Eileen gave the traditional promise to ‘obey’ her husband, both of us knew that our marriage would not and could not be based on inequality. True marriage, we knew, was a mutual obeying, trusting and learning. I realised that I had much to learn from Eileen, and I hoped that I could offer something to her as well.

We had a wonderful honeymoon, despite the interruption. While I sat in an examination hall in Glasgow University, Eileen waited on a park bench outside in glorious sunshine. I remember going into the examination in a carefree mood – I was rather surprised to find out much later that I had passed comfortably.

After an engagement lasting three years it was a relief to live together as man and wife. Today, the distinctions between married and single life have largely gone, and many cohabit without any sense that it might be wrong. I regret the loss of innocence that this implies, and the fact that it suggests that marriage is no longer special. This may be dismissed as the thoughts of someone out of touch with modern culture. So be it. I remain unconvinced that society has improved on God’s will for His people by such laxity in sexual matters. We have lost the grandeur of holiness and the personal discipline involved in keeping oneself solely for another precious person.

Back from honeymoon we settled in Northwood, sharing a house with another newly married couple, Bill and Maggie Barrand, who became lifelong friends, especially Maggie, who had earlier distinguished herself as a member of the England badminton team. Eileen began work as a staff nurse at Mount Vernon Hospital, where she worked with terminally ill carcinoma patients.

Towards the end of my final year at LCD the security of our faith and the calmness of our lives were shaken by the loss of our first child. We had both been thrilled when Eileen became pregnant. She had a very good pregnancy, and was physically well throughout it. She reached full term, and we awaited the birth with enormous excitement. The days dragged by, until fourteen days later she was admitted to Hillingdon Hospital to be induced. After examining her carefully, the doctor shook his head and told us with great sympathy that the baby was dead. To this day I admire so much that young woman who, at the age of twenty-three, had to endure twelve hours of agony, knowing that at the end of it a dead baby would be the issue.

After her ordeal we clung together tightly, wordlessly, helplessly, and found comfort in one another. So much joy and happiness had been invested in that baby – a boy, to whom we had already given the names Stephen Mark. In the delivery room I held him in my arms, and could not believe he was dead, he seemed so beautifully formed. Eileen was not so fortunate. She only saw him briefly, because the Sister firmly believed it was not in the mother’s interest to hold him. In her kindly Irish Catholic way she told me firmly, ‘Don’t worry, dear. We Catholics believe he lives in a special place called Limbo.’ It was meant to be helpful. We did not find it especially so.

We emerged from the hospital reeling, empty-handed and wounded. Where is God when bad things happen to good people? Neither of us was so naïve as to believe that our happiness and welfare was the test of God’s existence and His providence. We knew we lived in a world shot through with tragedy and the effects of man’s sinfulness. As Christians we were also aware that membership of God’s family did not give us a cast-iron guarantee that we would float through life trouble-free. But this was our first personal experience of suffering, and our thoughts constantly turned towards that vulnerable and helpless baby who never had an opportunity to live.

Two things, I believe, kept us going – personal experience and fellowship. We knew we lived in God’s love, and were aware of His presence beside us. Our tragedy also made us aware of how precious it was to belong to a tightly-knit Christian community. At its best the Church is a wonderful source of friendship and kindness – and that is what we found at college, where we were supported and embraced by affection and prayer. Almost immediately we found that our suffering became part of our lives and ministry. To our astonishment we realised that other young couples had also suffered the death of a child, and we were able to share our experience and share in their suffering. But, of course, one can never forget. On every 2 April we think of Stephen Andrew and remember him in silent prayer, wistfully wondering what kind of person he would have become.

Both of us returned to work, and I had to focus on my finals. I was determined to give of my very best, and studied night and day until the examinations which fell at the end of June – then waited anxiously for the results. I was overjoyed to see my name among those awarded a 2.1 honours degree. As I stood there looking at the board outside the Senate House in Gower Street, I thanked God for His grace which had led me to this day. Now I had to take the learning, the knowledge and the training gathered over the years, and put it to work.

I visited a few parishes to see if I was acceptable to the incumbent. One experience hurt me a little. The Principal wished me to see Canon Tom Livermore, a prominent evangelical and the Rector of Morden in Surrey. I made the journey by train, then walked to the Rectory. Canon Livermore was expecting me, and to my surprise he had his overcoat on. Without inviting me inside he said, ‘Let’s take a walk around the parish.’

As we walked he interviewed me, but I had a sneaking feeling that he had already made up his mind about me. We walked past the old parish church, then into a council estate and past the mission church. ‘That is where I would put you, Carey,’ he said, ‘if I had a job to offer, but only a few days ago I offered the curacy to somebody else.’ By this time we were almost at the station: ‘Now, how much was your fare? Well, here it is. Goodbye.’

I could not believe that anybody could be so cruel. I felt I had been dismissed as a working-class lad who could only work in one culture. Later I got to know Canon Livermore, and found him to be a friendly man and an effective leader. Everybody, I suppose, can have an off day.

Happily, we were soon offered a post at St Mary’s, Islington, in north London, where Prebendary Peter Johnston was the vicar. After years of sensing a vocation, facing the doubts, the rejections, the obstacles and the sheer hard work of intense theological study, my ministry was about to begin.