The Conclave Is Huge for the Future of the World. There's Another Choice Coming That Rivals It.

Yahoo

07-05-2025

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As Roman Catholic cardinals gather in Vatican City on Wednesday to select the next pope, on the other side of Europe another (much lengthier and, if you can believe it, even more secretive) process is underway to decide who will be the next archbishop of Canterbury, the highest-ranking bishop in the Church of England and the symbolic head of the global Anglican Communion, a worldwide 'family' of churches that are historically connected to the Church of England. The communion is one of the largest Christian fellowships in the world, with around 85 million members across more than 165 countries.
The previous archbishop of Canterbury, Justin Welby, announced his January 2025 resignation in November 2024, after an independent review, widely known as the Makin Report, found that he had failed to report the prolific child abuser John Smyth, who had committed some of his crimes in the course of his work for charities associated with the Anglican Church. And if this is all sounding vaguely reminiscent of similar demons haunting the Church of Rome, be assured that the similarities do not stop there.
Welby's resignation comes at a time of deep division in the Church of England and the wider Anglican Communion, division largely centered on—you guessed it—issues of gender and sexuality. Because the Episcopal Church, the American province of the Anglican Communion, is widely known for its progressiveness, it is easy for Americans to forget that this is not necessarily reflected in the wider body. The Anglican Communion, and Anglicanism as a tradition, prides itself on its tolerance for disagreement and diversity, a legacy of the 16th-century Elizabethan Settlement, which transformed the divisive political (and romantic) project of Henry VIII into a unique theological tradition.
As a result of this legacy, Anglicanism continues to hold together, within one ecclesiastical body, High-Church Anglo-Catholics and worship-band evangelicals, left-wing progressives, and right-wing reactionaries. This cacophony of perspectives is less pronounced in certain provinces of the communion. For example, the Episcopal Church is much more theologically and politically uniform today than previously, after decades of infighting and a painful split. But in the Church of England, the Anglican Communion's mother church, the full range of this diversity remains largely intact.
This is in no small part because the Church of England is the only remaining established Anglican church. And it is the state religion. The king remains the church's supreme governor, and the archbishops of Canterbury and York, as well as 26 diocesan bishops, hold seats in the House of Lords. This also means that every resident of England, Anglican or not, lives within the confines of a parish and should be able to worship in the parish church and present themself to that parish for life events such as baptism, marriage, a funeral. This 'right to worship'—like the broader allowance for diverse worship styles and theological views—is one of the key foundations of the Elizabethan Settlement.
However, over the past 30 years, culture-war debates over the inclusion of women and LGBTQ+ people have tested this agreement, which quite literally brought an end to the first phase of the English Reformation. The first battle (arguably still ongoing) was over the inclusion of women in the ordained ministry. These tensions have been dealt with by deferring to local opinion (though not to everyone's satisfaction). However, when the Rt. Rev. Gene Robinson was consecrated bishop of New Hampshire in 2003, the first openly gay person elevated to that ranking in the Episcopal Church and the Anglican Communion, not only did some American parishes break away from the Episcopal Church, forming the core of what is now the Anglican Church in North America, but the Episcopal Church's membership in the Anglican Communion came under threat. And the Episcopal Church was temporarily suspended from the communion in 2016, when it began to allow same-sex couples to marry.
Although the Episcopal Church did, in the end, remain, the consecration of Robinson led directly to the creation of Global Anglican Future Conference, a gathering of conservative Anglican bishops aimed at limiting further progress on the inclusion of LGBTQ+ people within Anglican liturgical life. Even in 2022, at the most recent Lambeth Conference, the decennial gathering of Anglican bishops hosted by the archbishop of Canterbury, questions surrounding LGBTQ+ people dominated the debate. And, in what is undeniably not one of the shining moments of Christian hospitality, the then archbishop of Canterbury, Welby, invited the spouses of bishops in heterosexual marriages to attend the conference but did not invite the spouses of bishops in same-sex unions.
As in the case of the Catholic Church (and the United Methodist Church and beyond), the conflict has often been presented, particularly by conservatives, as a clash between the West and the 'global south,' yet another instance of know-it-all Westerners attempting to impose their will, customs, and culture on the people of Africa, Asia, and Latin America. It is a charge that, given its implications of imperial cultural domination, has a particular sting when directed at the English—for obvious reasons.
And so, while the Church of England is technically as independent as any other province in the Anglican Communion, its internal debate over LGBTQ+ inclusion has been shaped by concerns about the long-term viability of the communion itself. Two key issues lie at the heart of the debate: whether clergy should be permitted to enter into same-sex marriages, and whether same-sex marriages or civil partnerships should receive any form of public blessing—including marriage rites.
These questions are also complicated by the Church of England's status as a state church. The Marriage (Same-Sex Couples) Act of 2013, which established marriage equality in the United Kingdom, specifically excluded religious institutions, including the Church of England, from having to perform same-sex marriages. It is an exception that stands in awkward tension with the centuries-old 'right to worship' and arguably a raison d'être for having a national church. The simple fact is that the Church of England is no longer a place where anyone in England can turn up to get married.
This is the situation the next archbishop of Canterbury will inherit. And he will be selected in a different manner from any of his predecessors. In 2023 the General Synod voted to change the composition of the Crown Nominations Commission (the body that will recommend candidates to King Charles) to include five new representatives, one from each region of the Anglican Communion. This development has raised fears among progressives that conservative forces could receive additional support and succeed in appointing an archbishop to lead the Church of England whose views are far outside the English mainstream. At the same time, conservatives have voiced concerns that a progressive archbishop, one who, say, greenlights same-sex marriage, could cause more conservative provinces to flee the communion altogether.
That is to say, the race for the next archbishop of Canterbury reflects the same divisions as faced by the Roman Catholic conclave, though put in much starker and more immediate terms. We will likely see the next pope step out on the balcony of St. Peter's months before word comes from the king as to the final decision of who will lead the Church of England and the Anglican Communion. But the fact that these two global churches, who have not been in communion with each other since Henry VIII wanted a divorce in 1534, seem to be experiencing the same problem reveals a great deal about the state of religion and society—and has very little to do with same-sex couples or their relationships, at least not really. They are just the unlucky symbols of a much bigger, more metaphysical debate. (One might say the same for immigrants and refugees, though that is another conversation.)
We live in a moment of profound societal change, change that has put questions of identity, belonging, and community at the forefront of our public conversations and personal struggles. Religious institutions, once central to explaining the natural world and legitimizing political power, have long since lost that authority. For a time, they have clung to the role of moral arbitrator and communal glue, but even that, increasingly, is slipping away. We cannot agree on what our lives and relationships should look like and mean in this brave new world, and our churches don't seem to have any good answers. And so, just as we are fracturing our governments, schools, and families over questions of who we are and how we belong, we are doing the same to our churches—not because they have the answers, but because they no longer do. This is the stark reality for the next bishops of Rome and Canterbury—whoever they may be.