Jesus famously said, “Let he who is without sin cast the first stone”. So, possibly, I have no right to pass judgment on Jonathan Baker, the bishop of Fulham, for unceremoniously stopping a concert in his church in mid-flow the other night – and it really was unceremonious in that he was barefoot and in his dressing gown. Perhaps the audience would have taken him more seriously if he’d been wearing his cope and mitre rather than heckling him as they did.
But I do sympathise with my senior colleague. I too have a very low tolerance for noise when I’m trying to sleep – or just relax. I am constantly asking my now adult children, who still live with us in the vicarage, to keep the noise down. On a good day, I do this in the manner of Ross from Friends, with a passive-aggressive hand gesture. On a not-so-good day, I might be a bit snappier. My longsuffering wife calls me Victor Meldrew and refuses to go to the cinema with me unless I promise not to turn round and tut at talkers – or, worse, “politely” ask them to stop talking, which is potentially dangerous in this day and age.
However, I’m not “in role” in either of those contexts. I’m just Dad or a random grumpy old man. Whereas part of the deal of being an official representative of God is that you have to be nicer than nice all the time. In the film In the Loop, Tom Hollander’s politician character moans that holding a surgery for his constituents is “like being Simon Cowell, only without the ability to say, ‘Eff off, you’re mental’.” But in that respect, being a vicar is even harder. People expect you to turn the other cheek, smile and say “Bless you, my son” even in the face of extreme provocation. And failure to do that doesn’t just reflect badly on you, it could undermine someone’s very faith.
That’s quite a lot to live up to, which is why Saint James said people should think twice before becoming church leaders (I’m paraphrasing somewhat) and, of course, we’re all only human. I know that I’ve fallen short of this high standard many times. Nonetheless, I accept that that is the nature of my calling and I try, as much as possible, to be a good ambassador for Christ – particularly at weddings.
There’s a long history of conflict, for example, between wedding photographers and grumpy vicars and often, when I arrive at the church on a Saturday afternoon, I see the photographer take a deep breath and force their face into a smile before nervously asking: “So, what are your rules?” When I say: “I don’t have any. Just do whatever the bride wants”, they look like I’ve offered to pay off their mortgage.
The other classic grumpy vicar move is not allowing the local yoga class to meet in the church hall – because yoga is, as they see it, tantamount to witchcraft. Well, aside from the fact that most such classes have no spiritual or religious component and are just harmless – and, indeed, healthy – exercise, I think it’s an own goal to ban them in any case. If it gets into the press, it’s not going to advance the mission of God and will just make the church look ridiculous. And so we return to the bishop of Fulham.
When I first saw the story on my Facebook feed, I assumed it was a spoof from the Babylon Bee (“your trusted source for Christian news satire”) and it seems that those who were present felt the same. The choir director, Leigh Stanford Thompson, said he thought, for a moment, that it was some form of performance art. The bishop’s dressing gown would have heightened that impression. But slowly the awful truth became clear. And most awful, surely, was that the bishop rudely referred to the choir’s performance as a “terrible racket”, which brings to mind another excruciating episcopal gaffe.
I’m told by people who knew him that the late Mervyn Stockwood, who rose to be bishop of Southwark, was generally charm incarnate, but he let himself and the church down when he joined its ill-considered pushback against The Life of Brian in the famous BBC debate with John Cleese and Michael Palin, dismissing the film as “undergraduate humour” and suitable for the mentally deficient. For me – and most clergy I know, including the former archbishop Rowan Williams – it’s first-rate and theologically astute; but the point here is, we should always play the ball not the man.
Baker has, to his credit, now apologised, but while he and I are required to forgive others their sins by virtue of our office, those whom he offended that night might be less willing to do so. As the saying goes, reputation is like virginity: once you lose it, it’s impossible to get it back. But fortunately, I believe in miracles. So, I’ll be praying for my fellow Vicar Meldrew – and remembering that there but for the grace of God go I.
Ravi Holy is the vicar of Wye in Kent and a standup comedian
