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In our leisure time there was opportunity to explore the surrounding region, including the teeming city of Basra, a forty-minute car ride away. Every Sunday evening dozens of us would go to worship at St Peter’s Church, where there was a hospitable expatriate congregation. I confess that I can scarcely recall the services at all, and the only thing I remember is the vicar’s fascination for the card game Racing Demon, that was played every Sunday evening following choral evensong. But the worship was excellent, and almost without realising it I was nurtured and sustained by it.
Several of us went on a number of trips to the ancient Assyrian site of Ur of the Chaldees, home to Nebuchadnezzar. Time had reduced this great archaeological site to pathetic heaps of stone, but its grandeur and imposing scale was undiminished.
It was the living, vibrant Iraq that intrigued me, however, and I went out of my way to find out more about the life of its people. I made some enquiries at the Education Centre on the base, and enrolled in a class to learn Arabic. In this way I encountered Islam as a living faith. I was the only pupil in the class, and I took advantage of such personal tuition. My teacher was an intelligent middle-aged Iraqi named Iz’ik, who took great delight in teaching me the rudiments of a graceful language. In addition to the language, he introduced me to his faith. Through his eyes I gained a sympathy towards and an interest in Islam that has endured until the present time.
I was impressed by my teacher’s deep spirituality and devotion to God. It was not uncommon to see Muslim believers serving on the camp lay out their prayer mats wherever they were and turn to Mecca at the set times of the day. Many of my fellow airmen mocked them, but I could not. I sensed a brotherhood with them in their devotion and their openness about their spirituality. Although sharp differences exist between the two world religions, the way that Islam affects every aspect of life continues to impress me.
I was led also to appreciate the overlap between the Christian faith and Islam. I discovered its deep commitment to Jesus – a fact hardly known to most Christians – who is seen as a great prophet who will come as Messiah at the end of time. I began to appreciate the remarkable role of Mohammed in Islam, and the way in which he is a role model for male Muslims. Perhaps one of the most striking things that Iz’ik revealed to me was the fact that in Iraq Christians had been living alongside Muslims for centuries in complete harmony. In time I met a number of Assyrian Christians whose faith was deep and real.
Iz’ik and I often discussed the areas of faith and life where our religions diverged. Among these was the Trinity, and I hope that my youthful explanation led my teacher to understand that Christianity is monotheistic, and not polytheistic as many Muslims believe. I argued as strongly as I could for the relevance of Jesus Christ and the determining significance of Him for faith. As I saw it then – and still do – one can have a high regard for Jesus (as Muslims undoubtedly do), yet fail to see that unless He is central to the faith, that faith is inadequate without Him. Some thinkers have termed this the ‘scandal’ of Christianity, and the reason it can be seen as uncompromising and exclusive.
Perhaps above all I was led to appreciate the spirituality of Islam, and its devotion to prayer and the disciplined life. Although, as a young evangelical, I was perhaps over-eager to convince Iz’ik of the truth of Christianity, he would give as good as he got, and we both enjoyed our weekly discussions. Later in life those times would help me to treat Islam not as a faith hostile to Christianity, but as a religion with many virtues and many similarities to our own. Sadly, when I left Shaibah I left the study of Arabic behind me as well. In 1956 I did not consider it remotely possible that I would ever find the language useful in the days to come. How wrong I was.
The months passed quickly because there was so much to do. As the Wireless Operator of an air-ground rescue crew, I enjoyed several weekends on practices in the wonderful Iraqi marshes, which in recent years Saddam Hussein has so destructively drained. In the 1950s it was a fertile area for wildlife and fishing, and if the truth be known, the air-ground rescue practices were in fact an opportunity for the CO to indulge his love of shooting game. Besides being the wireless link with the base, my other job was to pluck and skin the beautiful pheasants he shot. Ironically, on one of these weekends an aircraft actually did crash in Kuwait, and an ad hoc rescue team had to be formed to do what we were supposedly training to do.
Because the desert ground was so hard, and the heat so debilitating, free time was passed in less strenuous activities, and the open-air swimming pool was our daily centre when off-duty. I was keen on other sports too, and accompanied a friend who was a dedicated runner in punishing laps of the perimeter of the airfield. The daily routine of work and sport allowed time for Christian fellowship as well. Of the 120 men on the base, there was a small but healthy number of practising Christians of all denominations and traditions. There was no Chaplain, so we had to create our own worship, which usually took the form of Bible study with hymns and prayers.
Towards the end of my time at Shaibah I found an old building left open for spring cleaning. Shaibah had been a huge base during the Second World War, and most of the former camp was now closed up. To my surprise I found myself in a well-kept Anglican chapel. I immediately conferred with some of my friends, and we agreed that it would be good to keep it open – that is, if the CO agreed. He did, but for a limited time only. So for several weeks we held services according to the Book of Common Prayer rite and I celebrated holy communion – quite illegally, of course. I don’t suppose for one moment that the Almighty was bothered that in the absence of a priest a group of young men took it in turns to use the words of the 1662 Prayer Book and to celebrate communion.
Once a week a flight from RAF Habbaniyah would bring us one of the latest films being shown in the UK, and we would gather in the open air to watch them. I well remember one which suggested to me the residual hostility some people felt towards the Church of England. The title I cannot remember, but one of the characters, a vicar, was a detestable man out to con an old woman of her wealth. When he was shown putting on his dog collar, jeers and whistles of disgust drowned out the soundtrack. The moment seemed to show that young people felt alienated from the life of the Church. That of course had not been so in my case, but I had to remember that not everyone had had good experiences of clergymen.
There was a darker side to service life which brought home to me the value of a faith, with its framework of moral values. Several times a week men would visit the brothels of Basra, and sometimes they returned with the unexpected fruits of pleasure – in the form of gonorrhoea, syphilis and other sexually transmitted diseases. This meant that we had to endure horrific educational films on the dangers of these diseases, which certainly disturbed many of us, but did not seem to dampen the ardour of others. I did not see it as my job to reprove them, although I would certainly put my view forward. Neither was I immune from the temptation that led them to succumb, but I suppose I felt that my faith expected me to honour women, and not to treat them as mere objects of sexual gratification.
As time drew close to my demob, the next stage on my journey increasingly occupied my mind and prayers. One evening when I was on a late shift, the silence of the desert called me to reflect deeply on the future. When the shift ended I signed the usual summary of work, then waited outside for the car that would bring out my replacement and take me back to the camp. I could not but marvel at the beauty and brilliance of the night sky from the darkness of the desert in which I stood. Thousands of stars illuminated the heavens, and seemed within an arm’s length of me. As I drank in the awesome scene, I was overcome by the finiteness and smallness of man when measured against the age of the universe. And yet, that did not intimidate me. Later Gerard Manley Hopkins’s great poem ‘The World is Charged with the Grandeur of God’ would become one of my favourites, and would capture for me the feeling of awe I felt then.
It has sometimes puzzled me that the size of the universe has led thinking people into agnosticism. Some have said to me, ‘How can you possibly believe in a personal deity when our planet is a third-rate planet in a tenth-rate galaxy in one of countless solar systems?’ I would usually reply that this was making too good a case for the earth, but that size has little to do with it. If the Almighty is so awesome that He has created as many galaxies as there are grains of sand in a million deserts, that same awesome God may still love us and be our heavenly Father. Pascal’s cry, ‘The silence of eternal space terrifies me,’ did not stop him trusting in the maker of all things.
It was those evenings in the southern Iraqi desert, under the velvety blanket lit by the brilliance of thousands of stars, that led me to take an interest in cosmology and the mystery of creation. I have not read anything since that has caused me to falter in my conviction that a personal faith in a loving God is not irrational or incredible. But it is not faith that drives people to serve God and others, so much as love. I was convinced of the love of God for all, and that was the element that energised my response perhaps more than any other.
But that moment beneath the stars also crystallised a question that had been on my mind for months: what was I going to make of my life on my return to England in a few weeks? Teaching was an admirable profession. Social work too attracted me. But the tug at my heart was definitely the ordained ministry, and in prayer I tried to put into words my deep desire to serve God and humankind with all my heart.
I had no qualifications to speak of, just an overwhelming longing to make something of my life with all the energy and ability I had been given. Yet even with the optimism and self-confidence one has at that age, I was conscious of the huge challenge ahead of me. But under that wonderful night sky the thought began to enter my head that ordination might not be beyond me. I might lack academic qualifications, but I did not lack ability or a great desire to do something useful with my life. I was still young enough to learn. I could only do my very best, and rely on God’s grace.
4 Shaken Up
‘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.