Faith, Faultlines & Safeguarding

At what point does an “improvement plan” stop looking like progress and start looking like an admission that the system itself has been profoundly dysfunctional for years?

I attended what was described as a house blessing. It developed into a form of deliverance ministry, what some might describe as a minor exorcism...There were no levitating bodies or anything resembling a scene from a horror film. No spinning heads, no dramatic soundtrack. And yet the safeguarding concern was there, subtle, complex, and hidden in plain sight.

When a leader associated with safeguarding failures steps into a role centred on restoration, the question is simple. On what basis?

Safeguarding within church contexts has, rightly, focused on protecting children and vulnerable adults, often where clergy or church officers have been the source of harm. But this has created a fundamental blind spot. There is far less recognition or confidence when harm flows in the opposite direction, from congregant to clergy.

If you haven’t yet watched Power: The Downfall of Huw Edwards , be prepared: it is difficult viewing. But it is important viewing, not simply because of the subject matter, but because of what it reveals about trust, and how easily that trust can be misplaced. Huw Edwards was not just a public figure; he was a trusted presence in the homes of millions. For years, his calm, measured, and mellifluous delivery offered reassurance during moments of national significance and colle

Archbishop of Canterbury History was made this week at Canterbury. The installation of a woman as Archbishop marks a significant moment for the Church of England and the wider Anglican Communion, particularly for generations of women whose vocations were resisted, delayed, or denied. But history does not exempt leadership from scrutiny. It sharpens it. In her first sermon, the Archbishop acknowledged harm within Christian communities: “ We must not overlook or minimise the pa

In busy seasons like Easter, it’s easy to focus on the practicalities; services, music, hospitality, and managing the flow of people. But alongside all of this sits a quieter responsibility. Safeguarding isn’t separate from welcome; it’s part of what makes welcome real.

This blog reflects on themes raised in Martin Sewell’s recent commentary, published on Surviving Church, about the experience of victim-survivors and the institutional response to persistent or ongoing safeguarding concerns within the Church of England. His reflections raise difficult and necessary questions about accountability, whistleblowing, and safeguarding culture. The reflections that follow draw on my own experience and build on earlier posts on Guarding the Flock.

Institutions don’t reveal themselves in their policies. They reveal themselves in rooms where they think nobody is watching...

Safeguarding competence is not a matter of sex or gender. Sex or gender does not make someone a safe pair of hands. Safeguarding is about judgement, accountability, humility, and moral courage. It is about how power is exercised, constrained, and scrutinised. It is about what happens when harm is disclosed, when difficult questions are asked, and when institutional reputation is at stake.

Victim-survivors don’t experience safeguarding as a policy. They experience it as a decision: will you protect me, or will you protect yourselves?

Many bishops now carry moral residue: the enduring weight of having chosen what was least disruptive rather than what was right.

Justice does not simply need to be done; it needs to be seen to be done. Yet the Church of England repeatedly behaves as though how things look to survivors is an inconvenience rather than a safeguarding imperative. Survivors are told to “trust the process” while watching the same group of senior leaders rotate roles; gatekeeper today, colleague tomorrow, and respondent the next.

The Church does not need a nurse to hold its hand. It needs a surgeon to cut out the cancer.

If Christmas—the feast of truth entering the world—is not the moment to tell the truth, then the silence is not pastoral. It is deliberate. It is public amnesia dressed in liturgy.

When I found myself in a management meeting as the newly arrived safeguarding adviser — a lay observer in a collar-heavy room — I was utterly fascinated. The dynamics. The factions. And what appeared to me to be an almost obsessive preoccupation with sex. Then someone said it: “Shall we talk about LLF?”

In such environments, safeguarding ceases to be pastoral and becomes political. It shifts from preventing abuse to preserving power.

Policies and safeguarding frameworks may look great on paper, but behind the scenes, the machinery of reputation management is working overtime.

Clergy under investigation often feel — and, in my experience of diocesan safeguarding, too often are — presumed guilty. Cut off from support, they can be left in limbo for months. Even when cleared, the stigma lingers. Whispers persist, careers stall, reputations are bruised. The wounds seep on, staining trust and sapping the confidence of both clergy and their communities.

“We don’t want to take a clergy person’s agency away.” That was the repeated justification given by safeguarding leadership when asked why clergy members facing stalking and harassment weren’t being safeguarded.