Welby’s Moral Compass: A Critique of the Church

The Church of England—where even moral failures seem to be handled with the efficiency of a bad farce. The newly released report has revealed the full extent of horrific abuse inflicted by John Smyth QC, a man so well-respected within the Church hierarchy that his position as moral overseer went unquestioned for decades. Despite shocking findings of violence, psychological manipulation, and cover-ups, the Church’s handling of the entire affair resembles a tragic pantomime of apologies, evasions, and the occasional convenient overseas “relocation.”

Smyth QC, a barrister and one-time campaigner for public morality, allegedly carried out decades of sadistic abuse. As for the Church, it turns out they’d rather hush it all up and pop him on a plane to Zimbabwe than, say, inform the police. No report, no scandal—just a fresh field of victims on a new continent, far from prying British eyes. Only in 2013 did the Archbishop of Canterbury, Justin Welby, acknowledge the horrific scope of Smyth’s actions, admitting to personal failures and lapses in “energetic investigation”—a statement so mild it’s practically tepid.

Welby’s Moral Compass: Pointing at Others, Not the Church

Let’s not forget that Archbishop Welby, when not apologising for historic abuses, is often found on a high moral horse, quick to deliver stern warnings about ethical failings in society. His condemnations of societal ills—whether it’s bankers, politicians, or anyone else who doesn’t meet his ethical barometer—come thick and fast. But when it comes to cleaning up the rot within his own house, his sense of moral urgency seems to drop off sharply. In his own institution, where power was abused on an industrial scale, Welby’s response has been more about measured regret than decisive action.

The fact is, Welby’s eagerness to point the finger of righteousness at everyone from politicians to hedge fund managers rings rather hollow when his own Church has spent decades avoiding accountability. Smyth’s victims could have used that same moral urgency from Welby back in 2013, when he became fully aware of the abuse but seemingly chose to take the slow and steady approach to justice. And now, with decades of pain finally laid bare, his apologies feel like a tired ritual rather than an honest reckoning. If only Welby could muster the same zeal for rooting out institutional corruption as he does for delivering the occasional televised sermon about the decline of modern values.

A Legacy of Silence: How the Church Failed Its Most Vulnerable

The Church’s handling of Smyth’s case reads like a masterclass in institutional stonewalling. Reports of Smyth’s abuse surfaced in 1982, when the Iwerne Trust—responsible for the evangelical camps Smyth ran—concluded his actions were “horrific.” Yet, rather than alert the police, the Trust merely recommended Smyth seek “spiritual guidance” and, in classic Church of England fashion, arranged for him to quietly leave the country. With a swift bit of ecclesiastical diplomacy, he was packed off to Zimbabwe, where his conduct would go unchecked for years and ultimately lead to even more tragic outcomes, including a death.

This tendency to hush up abuse, to sweep it under the ecclesiastical rug, has long plagued the Church of England. Even when the allegations were finally brought to light by Channel 4 News in 2017, the Church’s response was slow, bureaucratic, and burdened with more apologies than actual consequences. Welby’s acknowledgment that Smyth “manipulated Christian truth to justify his evil acts” feels like an attempt to separate the abuse from the institution itself, as if the Church’s only crime was trusting the wrong man. But the Church’s sins go far deeper than that. Smyth’s abuse was not just the work of a lone predator—it was made possible by a culture of silence and moral cowardice at every level.

From “Over-Enthusiastic Corporal Punishment” to “Criminal Acts of Gross Abuse”

The revelations in this report paint a picture of a Church more concerned with protecting itself than protecting its members. The language around Smyth’s abuses shifted over time, from “over-enthusiastic corporal punishment” in the 1980s to “criminal acts of gross abuse” today. The escalation in terminology is stark, but one has to wonder—had it been called out for what it was in the beginning, would Smyth’s victims have had to endure decades of suffering in silence?

This excruciating delay in labelling the abuse for what it was—torture—says volumes about the Church’s priorities. The victims were left in the shadows, while the Church’s response was little more than a series of faintly worded admonitions. To those watching, it seems that maintaining the veneer of moral authority was far more important than the actual pursuit of justice.

The Limits of Apology: Should Welby Resign?

After the report’s release, one of Smyth’s victims, Mark Stibbe, called on Welby to resign, describing the years of cover-ups, delayed investigations, and half-measures as “shameful.” And indeed, given the extent of the Church’s inaction and Welby’s admission that he “personally failed” in 2013, his resignation would be a powerful statement that the Church is finally willing to hold itself accountable.

Yet Welby has chosen to remain, arguing that his role is to ensure change rather than to step down. It’s an admirable stance, perhaps, but there is something unsettling about it. In any other institution, the leader who presided over such a scandal—especially one who waited years to take meaningful action—would be expected to shoulder the full weight of accountability. In the Church of England, however, “sorry” appears to suffice.

The Hypocrisy That Haunts the Church

Ultimately, this scandal raises questions not just about Smyth’s crimes, but about the moral fibre of the institution itself. It’s hard not to view Welby’s lofty sermons on morality and social justice with a degree of cynicism now. When one of your own becomes arguably the Church’s most prolific abuser, the time for moral grandstanding is over. The Church of England has failed to heed its own teachings, opting instead to shield predators and preach forgiveness—ironically, most often for itself.

The shame here is compounded by the scale of Smyth’s impact. His abuse spanned two continents, and his methods were so calculated, so systematised, that calling it anything less than “evil” seems inadequate. The Church of England was his silent accomplice, enabling him to move freely between countries and leaving generations of victims behind, all while maintaining an air of piety and moral authority.

In the end, apologies from Welby and the Church will not undo the pain, the shattered trust, or the lives forever scarred by Smyth’s actions. What’s left is a hollow apology that sounds more like damage control than genuine remorse. And as Welby stands at the pulpit, quick to rebuke others for moral failings, he might want to pause and consider the beam in his own Church’s eye.