A shiver runs down an agnostic spine

Press, 25 July 1984, Page 21

A shiver runs down an agnostic spine

Conor Cruise O’Brien (left) of the London “Observer” reflects on the proximity of the York Minster fire on July 9 to the consecration there three days earlier of Dr David Jenkins—-a theologian who does not believe in the virgin birth or in the resurrection—as the new Bishop of Durham.

We are sometimes liable to fall into the error of identifying the intellectual convention of our own immediate circle with the spirit of the age we live in. An excellent example of thjs was provided by “The Times” last week. On Tuesday it wrote editorially about the fire at York Minster “In an age more prone to spy out symbolic significance, the disaster and the circumstances surrounding it would have been an irresistible object of baleful head-shaking — especially if lightning was to blame, as seems probable. A bolt from Heaven the very night after the Archbishop preached in defence of his Durham appointment before the assembled Synod: it is hard not to be reminded of Elijah and the priests of BaaL” But in “The Times” for the following day there were letters which showed that, in this very age of ours, there are people, and readers of “The Times” to boot, who see the bolt from Heaven in precisely that fight. Anthony J. Pettitt of Bromley, Kent, wondered wryly, “whether the fire in the Minster was also the almighty fire threatening to burn down a cathedral in which recently had been consecrated a bishop of our Anglican Church who publicly expressed disbelief in several tenets of the Christian faith shared by all confirmed members of the Church.” A Wiseman, of Maidenhead, Berks, turned the point neatly against the Archbishop of Canterbury, Dr Runcie, who had repeated the words of the chief fire officer that “the Lord was on our side, as we battled with those flames.” “I wonder,” writes Mr Wiseman, “whom He supported, when the fire started.” The letter from Dorothy J. Rus-

sell, of Croydon, is the pithiest of all: “ ‘Just lightning’ says the bishop dismissively. To those as old fashioned as I, lightning is the wrath of God.” Mr Pettitt, Mr Wiseman and Miss Russell are every bit as much a part of this age of ours as are Bishop Jenkins and the editorial writer of “The Times.” So are Dr Paisley and his friend the Pope, both of whom are likely to incline — though for somewhat different reasons — to the “bolt from Heaven” interpretation of the happening at York. It seems to me probable that most believing Christians in the world today would find that interpretation credible, if they knew the circumstances. Doctrinally — if that is the right word — I agree with Dr Jenkins about the things he doesn’t believe in. I don’t believe in the Virgin Birth or the Resurrection. I forget what the third thing is that Dr Jenkins doesn’t believe in, but I’m sure I don’t believe in it, either. But then I’m an agnostic, not a bishop, and I find it peculiar that a bishop should go around agreeing

with me quite so much. I can’t help feeling that a bishop, if he is to do his job properly, ought to be a bit better at believing things than Dr Jenkins appears to be.' Being a bishop, after all, is about belief, and about believers. He is supposed to help his flock, and strengthen them in then- faith, and I don’t see how Dr Jenkins can do these things. If I were a devout Christian, I should find it a bit depressing to have a bishop who was known to think that the story of the Resurrection was for the birds. It is, of course, entirely to Dr Jenkins’ credit — and this is the genuinely edifying aspect of the matter — that he wouldn’t pretend to bebeve things he didn’t believe, in order to make bishop, as so many crafty and ambitious priests must have done in every age and clime. But surely someone — perhaps the Archbishop of Canterbury — should have addressed to Dr Jenkins the simple words of commonsense: “I’m sorry old chap, but if you don’t believe in the

Resurrection, you can be anything

else you like, and we wish you luck, but you can’t be a bishop.” Nobody said that, except possibly God. No, I don’t beGeve the "fire from Heaven” hypothesis. Not really. But the coincidence — as all of us agnostics stoutly believe it to have been — was so, well, striking, that it had me wobbling there for a moment. As it had “The Times” editorial writer wobbGng in that bit I quoted. He started off by distancing himself from superstition — “In an age more prone,” “baleful headshaking” — but then the distance shortens: “The very night ... it is hard not to be reminded of EGjah and the priests of Baal.” You are aware of a little shiver, running down the writer’s spine, there for a moment. My son Patrick asked me, when he was eight years old, whether I believed in ghosts. “No, Patrick,” I said. “Neither do I, daddy,” said Patrick. “All the same when you’re up in the attic . . in the dark . . . 'and you hear those little feet-feet coming after you . . . sometimes you’d wonder.” One lightning bolt may be set aside as coincidence. But what if every time Dr Jenkins preached a sermon, the church he preached in were to be struck by lightning? Then, I think, there might be growing doubts about the propriety of that particular episcopal appointment. On the other hand, if he succeeds in preaching on for a while, without further manifestations of divine displeasure, then the new bishop may succeed in Gving down the inauspicious if spectacular inauguration of his episcopal career. Or what if the bishop were to announce that, having considered

Minster, damaged on his account, by his own admission. It is unlikely that the bishop will be dogged by further thunderbolts, and it is also unlikely that he will recant. What is likely is that there will be a sense of continuing unease among his flock and, more generally, the Church of which he is a bishop. The unease seems to me inevitable: these people are getting confusing Pavlovian signals. It is incongrous and disturbing that an intellectual of Dr Jenkins’ stamp should be the custodian of a faith with a credal formulation. Locke defines faith as “the assent to any proposition, not . . . made out by the deductions of the fiery communication from above, received at York, he now does believe in the Virgin Birth, the Resurrection and whatever the other thing was he used to say he didn’t believe in? There is a sofid, and quite close, Pauline precedent, after all. Bishop Jenkins wasn’t personally struck down, but it was a near miss. The bishop’s conversion, in that sense, would be a happy ending to the story, and satisfactory to all parties. Well, nearly all. Some of the bishop’s critics seem to be so worked up that, even if he recanted

and repented, they would sue him for the cost of the repairs to York

reason, but upon the credit of the proposer.” But what if the “proposer” possessing “credit” — in this case a Christian bishop — attaches more importance to “the deductions of reason” than to any “credit” which he himself, by reason of what his office represents, may be believed to possess? In that case, I think, the ordinary baffled Christian is entitled to ask the man who deals in this way with his faith what right he has to go around dressed up like a bishop? There is a notion that persons of some intellectual eminence are particularly suited for high ecclesiastical office. Behind this notion is another notion: that Christian intellectuals are best fitted to expose the errors of unbelievers. The trouble with that is that Christian intellectuals who argue with unbelievers are more likely to catch unbelief than the unbeliever is to catch belief. It may be that, through the logic of such dialectics and through its own intellectuals, the Church of England has inhaled unbelief in quantities which, while healthy enough for an individual, are toxic for a Church. What has all this got to do with me, as an agnostic? Well, I’m the kind of agnostic who likes Churches to be there. If I need to turn to one, one day, I don’t want to find it all full of agnostics, in there, looking out at me.