Rowan’s Rule: the biography of the archbishop

Archbishop Justin Welby: risk-taker and reconciler
by Andrew Atherstone, reviewed by Mark Chapman

The current and the previous occupants of the throne of St Augustine at Canterbury could hardly be more different. Rowan Williams, who served from 2002 to 2012, is someone of prodigious intellect, with a theological wisdom ranging across virtually the whole of the discipline. He had made a name for himself in academic life in both Oxford and Cambridge before becoming Bishop of Monmouth. But Williams was also a man of profound angst-ridden spirituality, shaped by both Anglo-Catholicism and Orthodoxy; and not particularly interested in strategy or in leadership, at least as conventionally understood. As Rupert Shortt makes clear in the new edition of his sympathetic yet critical biography, Williams’ perception of the role of the bishop – like his understanding of Christian discipleship more generally – was determined by “Christ-likeness”, a willingness to take on the suffering of others, particularly the outsider. This could lead to him seeming strangely isolated. As one of his friends remarked, “The habit of agonising inwardly made Rowan curiously unreceptive to the attempts of others to support or challenge him.”

For Williams, theology was about living with questions and encouraging further thought – everything had to be pondered carefully and cautiously and there were very few certainties. This approach was not always to prove helpful. A man whose theology was honed by the via negativa of the Fathers or Teresa of Avila was bombarded by constant criticism from both liberals and conservatives, inside and outside the Church. And yet he resisted over-simplification and never uttered a platitude, which in the world of the soundbite was a high-risk strategy. His refusal to take sides meant that friends often felt betrayed (as with the fiasco over the aborted appointment of the openly gay Jeffrey John as Bishop of Reading, shortly after Williams’ succession). As archbishop, Williams, known for his earlier support of committed same-sex relations, decided to suspend his own opinions for the sake of unity. But his own plan for holding the Anglican Communion together (the Anglican Covenant) and his efforts to secure women bishops in the Church of England were both to flop, partly through a lack of firm leadership and poor media-management.

Rowan’s Rule reads like a catalogue of failures by a brilliant man in the wrong job. Shortt is particularly critical of Williams’ forays into politics, which are seen as impractical and unrealistic. Williams was considered gullible (especially by the conservatives), a poor time manager (or an overly generous pastor), and a poor judge of character. As one of his colleagues put it: “His distaste for management meant that he surrounded himself with people who didn’t necessarily have the necessary complementary gifts.” But, as Shortt recognises, Williams has left a rich legacy. He may have made many mistakes but he got people talking and thinking about God, leaving us with a “thirst to pray more. It is a rare gift.” And this is where his greatness lies: strategies are quickly forgotten, as are differences over the issues of the day, but the legacy of Christ-likeness can last for ever. The lasting memory of Williams may be of a great public intellectual who made Christianity sound exciting and credible (almost in spite of the Church).
Of course, it is far too soon to begin to assess his successor’s legacy. What is clear, however, is that he is completely different. As Andrew Atherstone reveals in the updated edition of his remarkably well-researched biography, Williams’ successor, Justin Welby, makes no claim to theological depth. He converted at Cambridge to student Evangelicalism which mutated into the sort of middle-class enthusiasm of the Alpha franchise associated with Holy Trinity Brompton, influenced by charismatic Evangelicalism. His earlier background was in the oil industry rather than in academic theology, and this was followed by risk-taking leadership in two English cathedrals (Coventry and Liverpool). But there is also pain in his background – he came from a broken home, and was raised by an alcoholic father who failed to pay his fees at Eton (and who was briefly engaged to Vanessa Redgrave); later, he lost a daughter in a car accident.

So far, Welby’s track record reveals that unlike his predecessor he is clearly a strategist who can set targets and work out ways of reaching them; he has been prepared to appoint intelligent advisers and to focus his energies where he can make an impression. His credibility rests not in theological profundity but in a very different sort of intelligence. His experience in business and in the ministry of reconciliation in Coventry has given him a very different approach to conflict management: he made use of “facilitated discussions” over women bishops which forced conversation between the factions and led rapidly to the measure being accepted – without any need for “decisive” (or divisive) leadership. So is Welby simply a middle-class Evangelical with political nous?

There seems to be rather more to him than that. He has close links with the Chemin Neuf community and has been keen to surround himself with people from different parts of the Church of England. His directness and lack of pomposity, qualities shared with Pope Francis, can be disarming (as when he once asked me why there were no theologians among the bishops). His form of risk-taking reconciliation might have a great deal to contribute – not just to the Church of England and to the Anglican Communion, but to relations with the Roman Catholic Church and to the wider world. Let’s see.