It is one of the great seats of all Christendom. Augustine the Benedictine founded it. Thomas a’ Becket died in its defense. Geoffrey Chaucer turned its pilgrims into a literary tradition. Henry VIII wrested it from Rome. Set amid the beautiful Kent countryside, Canterbury spawned a fractious global church and then watched its power ebb as surely as its pews ate empty on Sunday. Now it faces a thoroughly modern identity crisis: is it to serve as a living relic, a religious museum to be visited twice each year, or will it risk change and an ugly civil war?
Such are the dilemmas facing George Leonard Carey, 55, who this week will be enthroned as the 103rd archbishop of Canterbury, leader of 70 million Anglicans and Episcopalians world wide, 27 million of them in the United Kingdom. But that Anglican Communion is hardly a community at all. Of its 29 autonomous regional branches, eight now ordain women priests (including the United States, Canada and Ireland). The Church of England does not, however, nor does it recognize the legitimacy of women priests ordained in other dioceses. This has raised questions only a canon lawyer could love:is a man ordained by a woman bishop (both the U.S. and New Zealand churches now have one each) a priest in the eyes of Canterbury? Not yet.
Carey has made no secret of his position. In an interview last month he called opposition to the ordination of women “a serious heresy.” Even in the polite Anglican church, those were fighting words. After taking a beating from clerical and press critics he retreated, suggesting that his foes were guilty only of a “fundamental error.” This week he will try again. In a taped interview with the BBC, Carey confesses to making a mistake which “left me wrestling with the power of language.”
The match isn’t over. “This is a church that reacts instinctively against breaths of fresh air and new brooms,” says the Rev. Geoffrey Kirk, secretary of Cost of Conscience, a group that opposes women’s ordination and claims the support of 3,800 of England’s 11,000 active priests. For many, women priests still pose an unacceptable deviation from Biblical teaching or religious tradition. A change in church law, Kirk worries, could provoke perhaps 1,000 early retirements. Another 600 priests from the church’s weighty Anglo Catholic wing, he thinks, might declare outright allegiance to Rome. No change in the law would provoke “great division and great unhappiness,” counters the Rev. Ulla Monberg of St. James Church in London. She is one of 1,200 ordained women deacons in England, who lack the power to consecrate bread and wine and absolve sins. “The church would also gain priests,”–herself included–“even as it lost some.”
Almost any statistical gain for the Church of England would prove welcome. Most measures of membership and attendance have been falling steadily for decades (chart). “I see the church as an elderly lady who mutters away to herself in a corner, ignored most of the time,” Carey said bluntly last month.
In style and background, Carey represents a break from predecessor Robert Runcie, who tangled with Margaret Thatcher on economic policy but was more cautious in church affairs. Born in London’s unprivileged East End, Carey calls his career “rags to purple.” Unchurched throughout his childhood, he later found inspiration among evangelical Anglicans. Carey supporters expect him to build on that tradition.
Carey does not fit in any religious pigeonhole. He rejects a literal interpretation of the Bible, but he’s sympathetic to charismatics who speak in tongues. He supports the ordination of women but expects his gay priests to remain celibate. Because of that range, Carey was hailed as a bridge builder when named to the post last July. But cursed are the peacemakers. His decision to include fewer than 10 minutes of evangelical songs in this week’s two-hour service is a case in point. “It could result in schism,” says British hymnologist Donald Webster. “Some will want services conducted with dignity, and some will want embraces and hand slapping.” If so, you might find Carey with the hand slappers. No bishop has been more enthusiastic in promoting the 1990s as the church’s Decade of Evangelism.
At least he’s not being ignored. Beyond the heresy remark, editorials have attacked Carey’s characterization of Christ as a management expert. “If you don’t get bums on pews,” laments Daily Telegraph deputy editor Charles Moore, “you won’t be made a bishop.” This sort of prattle will test a bishop’s Christian charity. “It’s a job you wouldn’t wish on your worst enemy,” says Andrew Carey,25, George’s son. “You certainly wouldn’t wish it on your father.”
The archbishop of Canterbury runs a historic institution that continues to shrink.
There are about 27 million Anglicans in the United Kingdom. Attendance is decling; polls show only 1.1 million go on Sundays.
Since 1987, the Curch of England has ordained 1,200 female deacons. The church still bars women priests.
The worldwide Anglican Communion has 70 million members in 29 regional churches in 164 countries. Each regional church is autonomous: the liturgies and policies vary widely.
