I was helped by a sad incident. That laid-back philosopher Victor McCallin, Vice Principal of the London College of Divinity, had just left the college to become vicar of Jesus Church, Enfield, a few miles from Oak Hill. It seemed an unusual post for a Low Church Irishman, because Jesus Church was notoriously ‘High’. Nevertheless, I was delighted to have my old teacher and friend so close. No sooner had Victor started his new work than he asked me if I would cover his services while he and his wife Joan took two weeks’ holiday. I was glad to agree, but within a few days I was told that on the eve of his holiday Victor had collapsed, and had been rushed to hospital. Eileen and I visited him, little suspecting that anything was seriously wrong – but we were told that Victor had leukaemia, and was not expected to live. Within days he was dead.
We could scarcely take in the suddenness of his death. It hardly seemed possible that the smiling, relaxed Irishman with his kindly and gentle humour was no longer with us. Instead of covering his services for two weeks, I became the resident minister and priest for nine months. The congregation of Jesus Church were shattered by Victor’s death, and I did my best to provide cover and care during this period. It meant learning the ropes of doing things the ‘Anglo-Catholic’ way, and I began to respect the thorough and painstaking character of Catholic worship. Donning chasubles and copes eventually became second nature. Students from Oak Hill came across to preach and share in the life of the church, and they too began to appreciate the strength of a tradition so different from their own.
In 1970 I joined the staff of St John’s College, Nottingham. This sideways move was not made because I had been unhappy at Oak Hill. For some time Michael Green, who had replaced Hugh Jordan as Principal at the London College of Divinity, had kept me in touch with the exciting plans to move LCD to Bramcote, Nottingham, where it became St John’s, Nottingham. The invitation to return to my old college as a staff member was an exciting one, and I was attracted by the teaching I was offered and the more historical approach it would enable me to take. An additional attraction was that St John’s would be a constituent college of the University of Nottingham, which would bring me into contact with a wider range of fellow teachers.
The difference between St John’s and Oak Hill lay not in evangelical character so much in ethos and style. The students at St John’s were on the whole much younger, with a greater number of graduates. There was a heady buzz about the place, with a strong missionary focus and great intellectual content. The students were lively, and were not content with half-baked views or shoddy thinking. Spirited discussion shaped the life of the place, and a deep and healthy spirituality fused academic and worshipping life. Some of the friendships we made with students continued for the rest of our ministry – particularly with Paul and Mary Zahl. Paul, a very bright American, was reading for a master’s degree, and later went on to complete his doctoral studies at Tübingen under Professor Jurgen Moltmann. He would later become Dean of Birmingham, Alabama, where his scholarship and effective preaching increased the cathedral congregation significantly, and where he developed an international ministry. Paul was not the only high flier at St John’s by any means; there were others there whose academic prowess may have been less distinguished, but who were not lacking in other skills and abilities. The chemistry of intellectual vigour; spiritual commitment and deep interest in engaging with the contemporary world made the college an exciting place to be in the 1970s.
The staff was the most able and happiest team I have been privileged to be part of. Michael Green led us with typical enthusiasm and enormous commitment to the gospel, and there was little doubt that his presence drew many students to the new college. Julian Charley, the Vice Principal, had just joined the newly formed Anglican/Roman Catholic International Commission as its only evangelical scholar. The awakening of evangelical interest in and sympathy towards Catholicism owes a great deal to Julian’s dedicated interest in the Roman Catholic Church, which took a personal form in his deep friendship with Father Jean Tillard, one of the Catholic representatives on the Commission. Sadly, Julian’s outstanding ability was never fully recognised by the “Church, and he was never offered a senior office commensurate with his gifts.
Colin Buchanan was another outstanding teacher whose energy, entrepreneurial ability and scholarship made a breathless and dynamic contribution to the college. Possessor of one of the sharpest brains in the Church, Colin was also a man of integrity and deep faith. His combative personality and direct, uncompromising style earned him a few enemies over the years, but his pastoral concern and commitment to people won him more friends than he lost.
Charles Napier taught doctrine alongside me, and brought something very special and distinctive to the college. Brought up as a Roman Catholic and ordained a Roman Catholic priest following advanced studies at Louvain University, Charles had left his Church and had become an Anglican. He contributed a deep stillness and a lovely debunking attitude that gently put any bumptious student – or staff member, for that matter – in his or her place.
Within a short while St John’s became the largest and most popular college in the Church of England. Whilst clearly within the evangelical tradition, its stance on most things was refreshingly radical, in the biblical sense of being rooted in a commitment to New Testament orthodoxy, yet open to all that God wanted to give us together. The Charismatic Movement was now beginning to make inroads in all Churches and it was hardly surprising that it soon found a home at St John’s. At first the form this took was in new songs, and especially a beautiful Polkingham sung mass that we used at every college communion service. Later it manifested itself in several students claiming that if one desired to be empowered, ‘baptism in the Holy Spirit’ was necessary. I found myself in strong conflict with this theology, although not in opposition to the spiritual awakening it brought. In my view, the idea that there could be a special group of Christians, superior to others by reason of a second baptism, flew in the face of Christian thought. There could only be one baptism for the forgiveness of sins.
Before very long I found myself somewhat embarrassed by an event that was to change me dramatically, and that made me more sympathetic to Charismatic theology. Things were going well at St John’s. I had finished my Ph.D, and I was thoroughly enjoying the intellectual challenge of the work and the close friendships with students. But I was beginning to be aware that my spiritual life was lagging behind my intellectual development. I was at a loss to know what to do about this. I realised that part of the problem stemmed from the nature of priesthood. When one is a priest, and particularly when one is associated with such a clear-cut tradition as evangelicalism, the pressure to conform and to give the impression that one’s faith is impervious to doubt and unbelief is enormous. Unlike the Catholic tradition with its time-honoured policy of spiritual direction, the individualism of the evangelical tradition had no comparable support structure. There was no one to whom I could turn and talk things through frankly. Even to admit to questioning the essence of Christianity in a theological college where I, as one of the teachers, was a purveyor of certainty, seemed shameful. Although I knew I could have trusted any of my colleagues, I was reluctant to do so. I felt trapped.
As I analysed my problem, I detected a layer of fear in myself that I had never encountered before, including fears of death and dying. These surprised me, and I had no idea where they had come from. At first I wondered if they originated in the study I was doing at the time on existentialist thinkers such as Kierkegaard, Jean-Paul Sartre, Albert Camus and others. This focused on the principles that seemed to underpin modern life and culture, and I was enjoying this particular dimension of thought. The fears, however, were real, and faith seemed so insubstantial. The challenge of the ‘absence of God’ coincided with a spiritual barrenness that I was palpably aware of. Worship seemed boring and unreal; God Himself seemed remote and without substance, and the arguments for His existence weak and foolish. Even Jesus Christ, for so long the heartbeat of my faith, now appeared to be little more than a vague historical figure, incapable ever again of inspiring enthusiasm and commitment in me.
In the priesthood, the job and life are one. I was in my mid-thirties, still very young in ministerial terms, and merely to go through the motions was hypocritical and out of the