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.

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?”

Safeguarding is not simply about stopping harm. It is about bearing witness. It is about making sure that what was once silenced is not ignored again. It is about ensuring that every voice is honoured, even when broken, trembling or unsure.

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.

Credibility is the currency of safeguarding. Survivors who come forward with regional or working-class accents may face disbelief, quiet dismissal, or subtle mockery because of how they sound. How are they supposed to speak up if their voices are judged before their words are heard?