Readings: Job 38, 1, 4-11; Acts 27:27-44

On a Sunday in May 2024, I was in a car park in Calais with a group of refugees largely from Eritrea and South Sudan. It was Orthodox Easter: We danced to music from a car stereo, shared Eritrean food, prayed. The prayers were led by a young man, in his early 20s, called Amanuel – the Eritrean for Emmanuel – ‘God with us’, language for Jesus we associate with jolly Christmas carols. I was visiting the work of a project that the United Society Partners in the Gospel, the Anglican mission agency I lead, had set up with the dioceses of Canterbury and Europe. The refugee situation in Europe is, of course very complex, but as our young Anglican Refugee Support Lead puts it to me last week: ‘we have to be OK with complex; we have to be OK with nuance’. Our job as church is to be the human face – to provide care and compassion; shelter and security if possible, fresh water, food, clothes – and a wide range of other forms of support, including supporting families who had been bereaved.

Inevitably, conversation was hesitant and guarded, on both sides. Having fled violence and brutality, those we were with had already travelled over 5,000 miles: People on a journey they had hopes, as English speakers, to cover a few more miles across the channel – that they might arrive somewhere they could learn to call – in time – home. A place we could leave for at the end of the day via the Eurotunnel with the minimum of inconvenience.

A year on, last week, I was in Canterbury cathedral for Refugee week and in the Crypt, where, our Refugee Support Lead had created simple memorial boards to remember all those who had drowned, or died on French soil, partly as a result of increased security measures1. The boards recorded their names – and ages: 21, 23, 32, 17, 14, 7, 6 and most pitifully, one hour – in most cases the full name, but in some just Muhamed, Sara, and in a handful of cases, there was no name. I looked anxiously, and was naturally relieved not to find an Amanuel on the Boards, but my feelings of relief were trivial in the face of the 498 people known to have died since 1999; with 2024 being the worst year with 89 deaths.

Today’s reading gives us the closing extract from a classic ancient Mediterranean Sea adventure or misadventure. I love the technical and human detail of this managed shipwreck with its four-anchor technique and the unusual anchoring from the stern. It is October, right at the very end of the season which the ancients regarded as safe for travel – no-one sailed from November to February. The ship is an Alexandrian grain ship, part of the state sponsored trade supplying grain for Rome. But it also doubled up as a prison ship with Paul and others under military guard to be delivered to Rome. Classic maritime activities.

Things have been going badly wrong and we join the story as panic is setting in – people are turning to their own self-interest – the sailors try to do a bunk in a boat confident in their skills to survive – but they are brought back into line by the soldiers, ignorant landlubbers, who stupidly exacerbate the situation by cutting the boat loose. A little later, fearful they will be blamed if the prisoners escape, they make to execute them. Throughout, however, Paul, who has gained the confidence of the senior officer; is determined that all will survive and come safely to shore. But that requires strong moral leadership in a context in which all have different investments, anxieties and needs – and, frankly, a great deal to lose. The captain his cargo of wheat which will have consequences; the soldiers a severe punishment for losing their prisoners, the sailors their lives and probably pay. Paul appeals to the common good, to the reality – literal and moral – that they are all ‘in the same boat’. And through quick and effective decision-making and a fortifying, spirit-lifting shared meal in which they eat together as companions – literally, those who break bread together – they are united and strengthened for what lies ahead.

It is a commonplace to say that as human beings we are all ‘on a journey’. But it is, of course, true. The maritime experience, being ‘in the same boat’, however, heightens our awareness of this reality and can deepen our sensibility. At sea, the stakes are higher, the risks greater, the dangers ever-present. The sea has a way of making things more obvious, things we take too easily for granted on shore: the importance of engaged, responsible leadership; of everyone knowing their role and doing it; of collaboration. Indeed, the maritime environment fosters a collective senseof how to live together in a space, sometimes, literally, how we stand or move in relation to one another. As a result, the laws of the sea are different. In particular, the obligation to aid people in distress; that rescuing souls ‘in peril on the sea’ is a fundamental human duty.

We live in a world, today, which presents us with real challenges, which are inherently complex and difficult to address: the climate crisis, the unprecedented movement of people driven by conflict, but also environmental pressures, the shifts in geostrategic power, the dilemmas around national and indeed maritime security in a world with new geographical realities. And it is a world increasingly difficult to navigate in an age of populist politics and polarising forms of media – with disinformation, deepfakes, deception. Yet it is a world which calls out for the exercise of moral leadership at all levels – bold, humble, and collaborative. Leadership that speaks not the easy attractive word but rather the complexity of real lives and situations seeking solutions, building consensus and cherishing the common good.

Being ‘in the same boat’ means having a deeper awareness of each other; coming to understand we sail the same turbulent waters in this world, facing the same challenges albeit from different angles, and having an obligation to reach out to others in distress: There is something profound about a maritime outlook that has much to teach us and equip us in all the many dimensions of our lives as human beings, in the city as well as on the sea,

It is not simply that the world would be a better place if we thought a bit more about others. The point is rather that if we recognise the investments, the anxieties, the needs of the other (whoever they be – the Filipino sailor, the Mayor, the cadet, the businesswoman, the alcoholic, the lonely widower, the Eritrean refugee), and if we take onboard that recognition and awareness so that it becomes part of our journey, our story, then through humility and empathy, we will step deeper into our own humanity and become the relational speakers, the creative agents, the cooperative persons, the bold leaders, that we can be. And that we have to be, if we are to live and to know ourselves as a part of something larger, something greater.

Of course, we always have the option to simply journey through life as the heroes of our own stories without looking to others or the wider horizon, but if we do so, we will become smaller, more timid, more brittle people – and we will fail to see in our sisters and brothers their deep precious worth as children of God, like us – Emmanuel, God with us, truly with us in the salt and the swell, in the waves and not simply the harbour. Amen.

The 1985 State of Emergency marked a pivotal moment in South Africa’s apartheid era. Many participated in the struggle from different places—some directly and others through advocacy, prayer, and protest abroad. As a young person, I joined marches, church services and vigils in London, so I was eager to attend this webinar and learn more about the Kairos document and its legacy 40 years on from its publication.

In the latest FeAST webinar, hosted by USPG, South African poet, theologian, and Senior Researcher at the Desmond Tutu Centre for Religion and Social Justice, Dr Thandi Gamedze, took participants on a powerful and thought-provoking journey towards liberation in South Africa and the birth of the Kairos document – written by black South African theologians amid the turmoil of the 1985 State of Emergency. It is a manifesto that boldly confronted the church’s complicity with the apartheid regime. She explained that the theology of the Dutch Reform Church provided justification for the apartheid system and that the Kairos document offered a liberation theology coming from oppressed people.

Thandi invited participants to reflect on how, four decades later, the global Church still faces urgent questions about its role in supporting or resisting today’s structures of oppression. She said,

In these times, recalling the often-marginalised histories of church resistance to oppression can help us to remember our prophetic role as the church, and can provide imagination for faithful church responses to the broad-ranging crises that we are currently living through.

Participants discovered important people, organisations, and moments that shaped the fight for liberation in South Africa by playing an interactive game Thandi developed, called Freedom Theologies: South Africa. It allows people to explore the stories of how South African Christians and their allies resisted apartheid.

Thandi spoke about the inflated role in the liberation struggle that today’s church claims to have played. “Yet, often the actual stories are unknown. There is a need for faithful remembering of our work as the church today in our contemporary struggles,” she said.

As someone researching my Jamaican ancestry, I eagerly anticipated this FeAST webinar. The Anglican Church in Jamaica has been intertwined with my ancestors’ lives since the mid-1800s and most likely earlier, with St Stephen’s Parish Church in the small rural town of Nain, documenting their baptisms, marriages and deaths.

The Revd Garfield Campbell’s presentation has given context and history to my personal research. He divided it into three parts: firstly, the history of the diocese of Jamaica, secondly, the role of its first bishop Christopher Lipscomb, and finally its evolution to the present day.

The Church of England (the Established Church) in Jamaica was born in 1664. It wasn’t until 1824 that the dioceses of Jamaica and Barbados were established by the British government to appease both the anti-slavery advocates and those who supported slavery. Bishop Christopher Lipscomb, who was answerable to the British government, was given the mandate to instill religious and moral instruction to the enslaved people who were restless and enlivened by the anti-slavery debates, while at the same time safeguarding the interests of the slavers.

Garfield explained that because of the many challenges he faced, Bishop Lipscomb built an ecclesiology (that is, a study of the Church) based on compromise operating from a position of domination which prioritised the enslavers over the enslaved. There were some clergymen, schoolteachers, and catechists who worked to improve lives. Enslaved people saw baptism and confirmation as a means of obtaining minimum protection. Marriage, for example, provided legal protection from being sold to separate enslavers. Post-slavery, baptism facilitated access to better-funded schools run by the Established Church.

Today, the Anglican Church in Jamaica is often seen as a church for the wealthy, a perception rooted in its history and, according to Garfield, not entirely accurate. However, he noted some people’s unease surrounding Archbishop Justin Welby’s presence at the Diocese’s 200th anniversary celebration, reflecting lingering historical tensions.

Garfield hails from Nain, the same rural community as my parents and ancestors, and is a second-year PhD researcher at the University of Leeds, studying 19th-century Anglican missiology in Jamaica through conversion, power, and agency. In his summary, he questioned whether the Anglican Church in Jamaica can overcome the perception some people have of it. He believes it can but “it will require open honest and genuinely democratic self-examination rooted in an acknowledgement of a compromised past which has leaned more towards the side of the oppressor rather than the oppressed.”

Watch the full webinar here: https://uspg.org.uk/feast/webinars/

The telegram arrived early on Good Friday 1980. It informed me that my bishop had decided to sponsor me to train to be a priest. The very next thing in my diary that morning was to carry the processional cross for the sung liturgy, as all around me the choir of King’s College, Cambridge, where I was researching in mathematics, sang Allegri’s setting of the Miserere. It struck me then, that the message I had just received was my calling to hold up the cross of Jesus before God’s people not just for an hour one Spring Friday morning but for the rest of my life.

What had drawn me first to the Christian faith, and then on to seeking ordination, was the powerful sense I had of the God who, in Jesus Christ, knew me better than any earthly person, and at the same time loved me more deeply than any human being ever could. Jesus showed that limitless love throughout his ministry. He healed the sick, freed those held captive by evil, listened to the voices of outcasts, confronted the perpetrators of injustice. Above all, he forgave sinners, often even before they had plucked up the courage to repent.

This was a Jesus I wanted both to follow and to hold up so that others like me could come to know him, or to know him better. This was the forgiveness and love he showed supremely that first Holy Week, when on what Christians now call Good Friday, he allowed himself to be murdered for love of you and me.

Nailed to the cross, Jesus proved conclusively that his love and forgiveness had no limits, not even death itself.

2025 marks the 1700th anniversary of the first Ecumenical Council convened at Nicaea in AD 325, a landmark moment that profoundly shaped Christian doctrine and unity. At its heart is the Nicene Creed, a declaration of faith embraced by Christians across the world.

To celebrate this enduring legacy, USPG has produced a video that features a global compilation of people and church partners declaring their belief by reciting the Creed. Among these voices are speakers of Twi, Bengali, Nyanja, Arabic, Spanish, and Welsh, alongside English spoken by believers from the Middle East, Zambia, and the Solomon Islands. Together these voices reflect the amazing linguistic and cultural diversity of the Anglican Communion, as well as the wonderful reality of one shared faith.

This video is both a celebration of shared belief and an exploration of diversity, encouraging reflection on how this foundational text continues to shape Christian identity and foster connection across cultures and generations.

Watch now and hear the Nicene Creed like you’ve never heard it before!

A Simple Guide to the Nicene Creed

To help you unpack the Creed, check out our study guide: ‘We Believe’. Contributors from the Philippines to the Middle East track key elements of the Creed including the nature of Jesus, His resurrection and the power of the Holy Spirit. The questions and prayers encourage meaningful discussions around unity, diversity, and how we can live out Christ’s message of love and justice today. Click the link below to order or download a copy for free.

In the heart of Doha, where cultures and faiths intertwine like threads in a grand tapestry, I have the privilege of serving as an administrator and the Secretary to the Senior Priest at the Church of the Epiphany, The Anglican Church in Qatar. My role extends beyond managing schedules and logistics—it is a sacred calling to cultivate a space where faith flourishes, where a global community of believers stands as one family in Christ. Being a Christian in this land is a quiet yet profound pilgrimage, one that calls for patience, wisdom, and an open heart. Each day unveils a new lesson in trust and service, revealing the depth of what it means to walk in faith where Christianity, though a minority, is embraced with dignity and respect.

Qatar, with its deep Islamic heritage, has extended a gracious hand, offering Christian communities a safe and structured space for worship. The Religious Complex in Doha, fondly known as “Church City,” stands as a luminous symbol of coexistence—a place where believers from across the globe gather in devotion and gratitude. The Church of the Epiphany, where 57 nationalities worship side by side, embodies the richness of diversity, while the Anglican Centre, home to 90 churches of various denominations, testifies to Qatar’s commitment to religious harmony. In a world where religious freedom is often fragile, we give thanks for Qatar’s openness and protection, allowing our Christian community to thrive in faith, unity, and peace.

One Church, Many Nations: A Friday service at The Church of the Epiphany, Doha

The ‘Whom Shall I Send?’ Young Adults Conference in 2023 stirred something deep within my spirit, calling me to pause and truly listen—to God, to my own calling, to the whispers of divine purpose. It was through this sacred encounter that I was encouraged to embark on a journey I never envisioned—studying Theology.

Joyaline, pictured front left, with fellow ‘Whom Shall I Send?’ participants and clergy from the Province of Jerusalem and the Middle East.

Yet it was on the ‘Whom Shall I Send?’ programme in Cyprus the following year that I truly learned the grace of waiting. We “sat” under the tent of Abraham and Sarah (Genesis 18) and saw how their story is one of trust, hospitality, and unwavering faith in God’s promises. Hospitality is not merely an act, but a spiritual discipline, one that has shaped my own faith journey. Each encounter with a stranger feels like God retelling my story—reminding me of His guidance, reshaping my perspective, and redirecting my steps toward His purpose. As Hebrews 13:2 (NRSV) beautifully reminds us, “Do not neglect to show hospitality to strangers, for by doing that some have entertained angels without knowing it.”

What once seemed like a mere administrative role has unfolded into a divine vocation. In a land where Christianity is a treasured privilege, my work supports a mission far greater than myself.

Through worship, service, and silent witness, we stand as a testament to the enduring strength of the Christian faith. Peacemaking and interfaith dialogue have deepened my understanding of what it means to embrace differences and walk forward in love, as Jesus taught in Matthew 5:9: “Blessed are the peacemakers, for they will be called children of God.”

Here in this land, our faith flourishes not because of our numbers, but because of God’s boundless grace. The Church of the Epiphany, with its vibrant and diverse congregation, is a reflection of the global body of Christ—united not by geography but by a shared faith in the One who calls us His own. In this sacred space, I am reminded that God’s kingdom knows no borders, and His love is limitless.

As we wait, may we do so with expectant hearts. As we welcome, may we do so with open arms. And as we walk forward in faith, may we tread the path with courage, knowing that the One who calls us is ever faithful.

In my ‘day job’, I have the huge privilege (and pleasure) of working with senior leaders, lay and ordained, across the Anglican Communion, and of learning something of the challenges that face the member churches of our wider Fellowship.

These really are hugely varied: In some cases it is working with communities under regular threat from natural disasters during the hurricane season in the Caribbean or being subject to multiple typhoons in the Philippines. In these cases, houses and schools and livelihoods have to be rebuilt from scratch – and bishops and other leaders have a crucial role to play in encouraging communities in the ways of hope and resilience, in addition to galvanising practical support, locally and internationally.

In other churches, especially in much of Asia, Christians are often in a small minority and from marginalised ethnic groups or castes, and face active discrimination or persecution.

Then there are the ongoing ‘business as usual’ challenges of working within corrupt political and unstable economic conditions which make clergy stipends or housing or pensions (along with those of the majority of the congregations they serve) precarious – or in some cases, non-existent. And I haven’t even scratched the surface in terms of the challenges posed by war or chronic violence; of what it means to ‘be Church’ in the Congo, Myanmar, South Sudan or Gaza.

Everyday basic realities are rarely examined. They just are. But they too can create significant pressures. Some flow from geography: Leading a diocese that may take a couple of days to travel across (rather than an hour or two) – problems familiar to those in Brazil or Botswana or Madagascar. Others from issues of communication and mutual intelligibility. Polyglotism is the norm not the exception: Most churches serve multiple language groups and some operate with liturgies in a range of official languages: The Prayer book of Southern Africa is currently printed in nine languages. In South India, there are four main languages in addition to English (Telugu, Tamil, Malayalam and Kannada), however the number of languages spoken across the region is in the hundreds.

This is just a quick snapshot of what bishops have to navigate – alongside the internal politics and tensions of the institutional and communal dimensions of ecclesial life. And of course, it is the latter which (almost) always generates the most disturbing challenges for any church.

The Church of England at the national level is very obviously in need of systemic change. That has been true for quite a while. And it is within this frame that we should approach the oft-repeated statement about the Archbishop of Canterbury, ‘it’s too big a job for any one person’. Clearly the issue isn’t one of scale (see under ‘the Pope’). There are clearly powerful arguments for separating the Archbishop of Canterbury’s responsibilities to the Church of England from the Communion-wide role – though I’m not completely convinced that this is where the real issue lies.

Over the last seven years I have attended provincial synods across the Communion in wonderfully diverse contexts. I have enjoyed learning something of the different ecclesial politics in operation, not least of how primates and bishops are elected, or exercise authority within different churches – sometimes with great sophistication and wisdom. Inevitably, those conversations involve the articulation of broader cultural and political considerations within which episcopal authority is exercised.

Unsurprisingly, I am often drawn into conversations where I am asked to explain or interpret one church to another – rarely in terms of the formalities (canon law, etc) but rather – what really happens and why. And within all of this – the Church of England is a complete outlier. Nothing can illustrate this more clearly than the task of trying to explain to fellow Anglicans – many in countries which were formally part of the British Empire – why the committee responsible for appointing the next Archbishop of Canterbury is chaired by the former head of the State’s domestic intelligence service, MI5. To many, where a primate is simply elected by his or her fellow bishops, such deep entanglement with the State is incomprehensible, frankly ‘lost’ – without trace – ‘in translation’.

The challenge for the Church of England at the national level is not one of strategy, but of organizational culture – or rather cultures. When looked at from outside the UK this seems obvious. The Church of England’s organisational culture is too dependent on, and derivative of, institutions that form an integral part of the British State: Our Synod has shrined ‘a quasi-parliamentary form of institutionalised conflict’ with Church House an attempt at a centralised civil service for an organisation with 42 semi-autonomous regions each with its own county leader, aka Diocesan bishops. If you also throw into the mix an archiepiscopal court across the river – need more be said?

When any organisation faces a serious, even existential, crisis it has to have the humility to ask fundamental questions and to look beyond itself for models and examples. Not simply to copy or import them (the wholesale importation of ideas or practices really doesn’t work) but to ‘think with’. We are part of a global communion, so if, in the Church of England, we are serious about reviewing and refreshing the culture at the heart of our national church, we may need to overcome that characteristic British myopia and look beyond La Manche at our sisters and brothers and how they organise their lives together as Christians – in most cases with significantly less resource that we are privileged (and burdened) to carry. The humility and courage to walk this road may be one of the most important qualities in a new Archbishop.

Windrush Day is a day set aside, since 2018, to mark and celebrate the contributions of people of Caribbean origin or descent to the building up of the United Kingdom (physically, economically, institutionally, socially and culturally), particularly after World War Two.

I came to England over fifty years ago,  not knowing that in doing so I was joining the group of Caribbean ‘arrivants’ that today we call the Windrush generation. I did not arrive on June 22nd,  on a boat at Tilbury docks, but as an unaccompanied minor at Heathrow airport, on a BOAC plane on a very cold day in March. I came as a child, but like all those who arrived before, I came with expectations of new opportunities and challenges.
However, the challenges that I and many others have faced since migration have caused quite a few people of the British Caribbean diaspora to disparage the term ‘ Windrush generation’ and see little significance in the day itself, partly because they feel it locks them into a particular episode of history or ties them to an identity which does not encapsulate them, and into a story which is complex and problematic. This is because the story of the Windrush generation is also the story of the Windrush scandal, a story of hostility and rejection.

In the same year that Windrush Day was inaugurated, it came to light that hundreds of older Caribbean migrants, who came as part of the drive to build back post-war Britain, were being threatened with deportation, forced to stop work, some detained, denied legal rights, and some even deported from the UK by the Home Office to a place they no longer called home.  Every one of them was told that despite arriving here with British subject passports and living here for decades they did not belong and had no right to be in this country.

That sense of  ‘unbelonging’ and the hostile environment of racism and rejection is felt by many of the original generation and their descendants. There can be no Caribbean diaspora person who has not personally faced or known someone who has faced, overt racism, unconscious bias, and racialized arrogance due to skin colour and cultural differences from the mainstream white UK society.  And this was no different for those who looked for welcome and hospitality from Christian brothers and sisters. The stories of people being turned away from church doors are well known.  Thankfully, this did not stop that generation of migrants from envisioning a place for themselves in whatever aspect of society they wished to succeed in. And it’s for this reason that campaigners fought so hard to have Windrush Day recognised.

So on this and every Windrush day, we give thanks to those early pioneers, and we celebrate the successes of those individuals who, with few, if any, role models believed in their talent and skills and most often their God, and often worked hard to overcome prejudice, and advanced themselves, their families and their community.   Today we can see the flourishing of leadership and representation of people of colour and those of Caribbean heritage and descent in all aspects of life in this country. In our polity, in the public and private sectors, in civil society and community,  in arts, media, theatre, finance, medicine, science and tech, sports and music, and in churches of all denominations. However, though much has changed, there is still a way to go before people can truly feel welcome and accepted, and that they fully belong.

Speaking of the Church of England, there are still too many people feeling bruised by a church that responded too slowly to the recognition of the presence, talents and leadership abilities of the ‘Windrushers’ and their descendants.   The Archbishop of Canterbury, Justin Welby said a couple of years ago,  “ To be a church that expresses love institutionally, we have to consider the well-being of all”.  The church is now on a programme of change-making, moving the church from lamenting past inactivity to making necessary institutional and systemic changes to ensure a more diverse church at every level.

All churches must be places and spaces of belonging for people of every nation and every language who come to church to worship and serve God in mission and ministry. This is the vision of Revelation 7: 9.  We are not there yet. However, I say to the naysayers, the truthtellers and the changemakers, let us continue to strive to bring in that kingdom where uniqueness and unity are celebrated, and where that image of every nation, tribe, people and language coming before the throne is our aspirational and inspirational challenge and hope.  To everyone, a blessed Windrush Day Amen

Prayer Points:

• That we place belonging at the heart of our witnessing and worshipping – drawing all to the knowledge that we belong to Jesus and to each other.
• That all are truly welcomed and recognised in our churches – in word and deed to play a full part in the life of the church.

That we seek to discover the gifts and talents of all so that they be encouraged and enabled to offer those to God and to the building up of his kingdom.

Christmas plays are fascinating exercises of imagination. One of my all-time favourite characters from Christmas plays in India has been the fictional ‘inn-keeper’ who refuses a place for Joseph and Mary in the ‘inn’. Of course, this is an ‘extra-biblical’ tradition, because the gospels themselves do not mention the innkeeper, but only that Jesus was born in a manger as there was no place for him in the ‘inn’.

There is more to the word ‘inn’ than meets the eye in the biblical text. An ‘inn’ in the Palestinian context was probably a single room, a common space which would not allow the needed privacy for the delivery of a baby. In that context, taking into consideration the constraints of space in a place already teeming with people (because of the tax registration ordered by the Roman empire), and recognising the need of Mary, making the manger a makeshift maternity ward seems a masterstroke of imagination.

I always wonder who was behind the decision to allow Mary to give birth to Jesus in a manger, though it is easy to theologically whitewash it as the fulfilment of prophecy. Was it the owner of the inn who would normally be a man, or his wife or their entire family?  Whoever it was, what seems conveyed is a resolute unwillingness to let constraints and circumstances have the last say when it comes to welcoming the stranger.

In a global context where fear of the ‘other’ fuels a lot of xenophobia, reading the Christmas story ‘between the lines’  might challenge many to exercise an alternative imagination amidst what the biblical scholar Walter Bruggeman calls “our jaded politics, our confused morality and our unbearable economics” which drive many to despair and make it difficult to discover ground for new possibilities.

The sign of the manger is a powerful antidote to the tendency to escape the costly commitment of embracing the other, often through seeking solace in the rhetoric of shortage and safety. In the making of space to welcome the unknown, the divine has been welcomed. There is an exchange of hospitality as the fragile hospitality of humans meets the hospitality of God, who comes to us in vulnerability. In this exchange of hospitality, we find the inspiration to meet and not miss, to receive and not reject the divine in the face of the other. In such an embrace lies the promise of life in all its fullness.

Reflect

Cities in tumult,

their citizens in turmoil

By the number games

of numbed consciences

Reduced to mere statistics

Fragile lives find no safety in numbers

For, in a first come first served world

the ones left behind are the weak and ‘heavy laden’

Into this messiness

The tender mercy of God breaks

Even on dark nights

Into dreary hearts

Bookended with the words “do not be afraid”,

The eternal Word assumes its shape

In the spaces we make and the faces we embrace

As that perfect love  that casts away all fear

The past month has seen a long overdue flurry of activity in relation to the Church of England’s involvement in the transatlantic slave trade. A newly released film, After the Flood, draws on pertinent academic scholarship and documents historic and scriptural relationships between churches in Britain, missionaries and the transatlantic slave trade. A two-part radio programme explores the impact of The Church’s Slave Plantation on contemporary Christianity in the Caribbean. An apology has been offered by the Archbishop of Canterbury after the Church Commissioners launched a report detailing connections between their predecessor fund Queen Anne’s Bounty and transatlantic chattel slavery.

It is my hope that these activities will catalyse much needed conversations within and between USPG, the Church of England and the Anglican Communion about institutions, their archives and how they understand their own histories. Doing so is vitally important if we are to approach with any integrity questions of recognition, reconciliation and repair with our global partners around the Anglican Communion in the present, as we navigate our complicity in the violence of the colonial past.

In collaboration with scholars at the University of Leeds, we at USPG have been working on our archival holdings and digitising source material to render it visible in an open access online exhibition. One of the collections in this online exhibition includes some of the historical sources relating to The Church’s Slave Plantation –  a bequest to the SPG in the will of Christopher Codrington III. Codrington, Barbadian born and British educated, was Governor of the Leeward Islands and came from an established Anglo-Barbadian lineage. Within plantation societies in the late 17th and early 18th centuries there was considerable disagreement over whether enslaved people could or should become Christians. Codrington favoured the conversion of enslaved people. When he died in 1710 at the age of 42, he left two sugar plantations in Barbados and 300 enslaved Africans to the SPG.

In the early 1700s, the SPG’s foundational focus concerned the conversion of nonconformist Protestants and unchurched European settlers in the north American colonies. Working with enslaved Africans was not a primary concern of the Society, despite the actions of two SPG missionaries Elias Neau and Francis Le Jau, stationed in New York and  South Carolina, who urged SPG in London to consider catechising enslaved Africans in the colonies as a matter of priority. In the years leading up to Christopher Codrington’s death, advocacy for the baptism and Christian education of enslaved people had significantly influenced the SPG in London. The SPG in turn used their influence to appease planters who were concerned that baptism would entail freedom from slavery, thus undermining the plantation economy. The project was beset with political hurdles, but commitment to the development of a Christian form of slavery by SPG’s missionaries and staff, in which ‘freedom’ was perceived to be a matter of the spirit rather than of the body, was pursued and developed based on scriptural and theological grounds[1].

Codrington’s bequest drew SPG into the trades of slavery and sugar and SPG ran the Codrington plantations for 120 years. For the first ten years of SPG’s oversight, the chests of enslaved people were branded with the word ‘Society’ to indicate ownership, in case they should manage to escape. This is merely what some of the historical sources tell us about the SPG’s role in the slave trade. What then of the experiences of the vast majority of enslaved people which are not recorded in the archive? What of those today who continue to be victims of the racist codes that were laid down and consolidated in the work of the missionary church in Barbados? How does a Christian organisation which seeks a deeper relationship with its own history and with the Church of the Province of the West Indies respond to this? What responsibility should it take? What does it need to learn? What might the repair of such brokenness of relationship entail?

After the Flood offers some insights here. It suggests that we must begin by resisting the institutionalisation of ignorance. We must examine and educate ourselves in relation to our own histories and the histories of the institutions and nations to which we belong. We must acknowledge white privilege, reflect on how it fixes us all within local, global and institutional hierarchies and ask ourselves what it might mean to liberate ourselves from it? This is work that can only be done in dialogue with others. We must listen to and talk with those whose experiences differ from our own. We must constantly work to acknowledge and cede our own privilege for the sake of others. And we must begin by accepting the truth of what we have propagated in the past, and be honest about the ways in which which we continue to benefit from our histories in the present.

[1] For full accounts of this history and the role of SPG within the transatlantic slave trade see Gerbner, Katharine. Christian slavery: Conversion and race in the Protestant Atlantic world. University of Pennsylvania Press, 2018 and Glasson, Travis. Mastering Christianity: Missionary Anglicanism and Slavery in the Atlantic World. OUP USA, 2012.