One of our most mischievous boys was a ten-year-old called Billy Budd. The reason I still remember his name forty years on was he was left behind in Southend when three coachloads of children went to the seaside for our annual summer outing. The trip was planned thoroughly, and considered foolproof; we did not take into account, however, the mischievousness of London children. Each child was given a card with details of the trip, the church and telephone numbers in case they got lost or needed help. Those were the days when one could take children to the seaside and let them roam at will. We drummed into the boys and girls the importance of being back at the coach station at 6 p.m.
The day was sunny and warm, and the trip was a great success. Most of the children stayed with their appointed leaders. When 6 o’clock came we did a thorough round-up – or thought we did. I counted all the heads in my coach and called out names; but somehow Billy fell through the net. Later we found that one of his friends had put up his hand when Billy’s name was called.
The next day was Sunday, and Mrs Budd came along to the hall that afternoon with a tired-looking Billy holding her hand. Looking accusingly at me, she said: ‘You left Billy behind yesterday, you know.’
I was startled, and laughed, ‘Certainly not, Mrs Budd. We counted everybody.’
She replied, ‘You did, you know. When he got to the coach park at 7 p.m. the coaches had left. He went to the police station and they put him in a comfortable cell, and I returned with him this morning on the milk train at 5 a.m.’
I stammered out an apology, and her tone softened immediately. She said, smiling, ‘I thought you would like to know.’ I dread to think what would be a parent’s reaction today.
In my third year at St Mary’s Peter asked me if I would be prepared to do a little teaching at Oak Hill Theological College in Southgate, as the member of staff teaching the doctrine paper for the London BD was sick. I was delighted, and accepted immediately, reasoning that as well as assisting the college, it would provide me with an opportunity to consolidate my knowledge. I was just about to register for a doctorate. I had decided so because just a few weeks previously I had received an envelope enclosing £50 with a one-sentence note: ‘For your Ph.D.’ Eileen was convinced – correctly, as it later turned out – that this kind and generous gesture had come from Peter Johnston’s wife Phyllis.
Spurred on by such belief in me, I registered for a doctorate in ecclesiology whilst still juggling the demands of the parish, family life and teaching at Oak Hill. It was a busy existence, but I loved it. If in later life I achieved anything at all it was due to the thorough training I received from Peter Johnston: his love of people and that rare gift of giving the other person instant and total attention; his thorough sermon preparation; his confidence in the gospel and evangelical witness; his humanity and tolerance of human weakness; his strategies for church growth – all these, and much more, were his legacies to his curates. He was never a soft touch, however. Never once in my four years working with him did I dream of calling him ‘Peter’ – he was always ‘the Vicar’ or ‘Mr Johnston’. He expected the highest standards from us, and showed his disapproval clearly when it was necessary. I remember being angry with him once in my first year when I turned up for the Sunday services in a pair of brown shoes – my black pair were unfit to wear. Mr Johnston took one look at them and said, ‘You can’t possibly process in brown shoes – go and sit in your stall at once.’ I did so in silence, feeling indignant that he did not allow me to explain that at the moment we did not have enough money to buy a new pair of shoes.
On another occasion I had agreed to speak at a meeting on my day off and I went to see the vicar to get my day off changed. He heard me out, then said: ‘George, I want you to learn that a day off is very important, and it should be only for emergencies that it is ever changed. No, you can’t have a different day. Fulfil that engagement, and learn the lesson.’ I did so, very quickly.
Peter Johnston was in every sense of the words a thorough professional in all he did. He was convinced that those who served Christ in the ordained ministry must give of their very best, and be a disciple and learner until their time was over. He was not a particularly exciting preacher, but his talks were learned, well prepared and biblical. He built up St Mary’s to be at the heart of the community and relevant to its needs because he understood that the Christian faith spoke directly to the hearts of all. Yet he had his Achilles’ heel. He often compared himself unfavourably with Maurice Wood, his predecessor, because he did not possess a degree. He had gone to Oak Hill College straight from the navy, and felt inadequate as a result. Of course he should never have thought that. His intelligence and wide reading made him an outstanding evangelical leader, and I am not alone among his many curates in testifying to the way he prepared us for our ministries ahead.
Our time at St Mary’s was drawing to an end. Eileen too had found it a place of growth. I marvelled at her ability not only to create such a warm family life but to open our home to all comers, as well as taking a full part in parish life alongside Phyllis. It was typical of Peter to mark our departure with a hint of humour. I preached for the last time on the evening before we left, and following my address I was astonished to hear Peter stand and say: ‘Our final hymn is “Begone, Unbelief, our Saviour is near!”’
‘Could any ministerial work be better and happier than St Mary’s, Islington?’ I asked myself as we followed the van containing our belongings in a friend’s car. Prebendary Maurice Wood had asked me months before if I would join his staff at Oak Hill, and I had agreed after much consultation. I regretted leaving parish life behind, as I had only ever thought of my ministry in terms of working with ordinary people and leading them to our Lord. I had never thought of myself as a teacher, and this invitation had taken Eileen and me by surprise. But instinctively we felt that it was right to accept.
We joined a strong and happy faculty with members of the calibre of Maurice himself, a gifted pastor and evangelist; John Taylor the Vice Principal, a superb Old Testament teacher later to be Bishop of St Albans; Alan Stibbs, the éminence grise of the college, whose biblical expositions were outstanding; John Simpson, who taught history, and would become Dean of Canterbury Cathedral during my time as Archbishop; and a number of other impressive teachers.
It was my task to take on the bulk of teaching doctrine for the London BD and Dip.Th. courses, which was an extremely heavy load. Considering that I was just thirty – younger than many of the students – I had every reason to worry if I would be up to it. I need not have done so: I managed to keep slightly ahead of the students in the first term, and then quarried away until I was on top of the material.
We had a very happy four years at Oak Hill, during which I completed most of my dissertation for the Ph.D as well as having time to reflect more on the challenges facing the Church, and the desperate need for unity. In particular I began to wonder if I was truly at home in the evangelical tradition. I felt guilty about even entertaining the question. After all, everything I had received and everything I was, I owed to this noble tradition.
As I wrestled with the issue, I realised that it was not the substance of evangelicalism I was doubting, so much as the superficial assumptions many evangelicals made. It was depth that they seemed to lack. When I considered the books on my study shelves it was clear to see the influence of a godly liberal tradition ever since I had started to become a thinking Christian. Furthermore, I was uncomfortably conscious that, even at Oak Hill, there was too much superficial teaching and intolerance concerning other traditions in the Church, especially any form of Catholicism. More to the point, I was finding myself increasingly drawn towards that tradition. Just a few miles away in Cockfosters was a small Roman Catholic monastic community, and on the occasions when I was there for an act of worship I found it inspiring and moving. I could not accept that Christ was absent from that small band who, though no doubt different from me in many respects, were just as devoted as I was to the Christian faith.
I realised that