Last February’s General Synod showed, in stark and unprecedented terms, how fragile confidence in the Church of England’s senior leadership has become. At the start of the Group of Sessions, Sam Margrave attempted to prevent the Archbishop of York, Stephen Cottrell, from delivering a Presidential Address.

This was not a fit of personal animus. Stephen Cottrell was — and remains — at the centre of multiple safeguarding, leadership, and governance failures. Many people, me among them, have called for his resignation. But “Teflon Stephen” refuses to go.

The Standing Orders provide a number of procedures for General Synod members to stop an item of business. The most common is a procedural motion to “move to next business”. That motion would almost certainly have been challenged by the Synod’s legal adviser if used against a Presidential Address. While not explicitly ruled out by the current Standing Orders, the limits on when it may be used implicitly mean that it could not be deployed in that context.

So Sam Margrave wisely chose another route: the suspension of Standing Order 119 — the Standing Order that makes provision for Presidential Addresses. Suspend that Standing Order, and there is no Presidential Address.

The attempt failed. By a counted vote of the whole Synod, 73 members voted in favour of stopping the address, 239 voted against, with 43 abstentions. The Archbishop therefore spoke. But the numbers matter.

A vote of 73 Synod members willing to take the extraordinary step of seeking to block a Presidential Address, together with a further 43 unwilling to support it, represents a significant and entirely unprecedented expression of no confidence in an Archbishop by the Church’s General Synod — just under a quarter of the Synod indicating opposition or withholding support. That should have been a warning light. Instead, the Church’s leadership brushed it off and carried on regardless.

It is against that background that the Standing Orders Committee’s proposed amendment to Standing Order 33 must be judged. The change would make explicit what was previously implicit: that a motion for “Next Business” may not be moved on a Presidential Address or the questions that follow it.

In substance, it locks in protection for archbishops at the very moment Synod has demonstrated a willingness to challenge them. At a time when trust in the Church of England — and in Stephen Cottrell personally — is at a low ebb, that looks less like tidying up procedure and more like circling the wagons.

The way this is being done compounds the problem. The Business Committee has determined that the amendment will be deemed approved unless five members spot it, object, and force a debate. That is no small ask when Synod members are already required to plough through more than 900 pages of GS and GS Misc papers — nearly 350,000 words — before even reaching the notice papers, where this proposal is buried.

Expecting members to catch and contest a constitutional tightening of their own powers under those conditions is not transparency; it is procedural stealth.

The handling of last year’s motion only sharpens the concern. The Chair of that session, the Bishop of Dover, Rose Hudson-Wilkin, chose not to allow debate on the procedural motion. She was entitled to do so under the Standing Orders — but she then proceeded to offer her own extended intervention, invoking Scripture and prayer, and downplaying questions of consequence by appealing to biblical examples of flawed leaders.

I have nothing personal against Bishop Rose — she was the first person I interviewed when I was 14 and volunteering on a church-event newsletter — but the way she handled Sam Margrave’s motion was wrong.

Many members experienced her intervention not as neutral chairing, but as a spiritually-abusive weighted rebuttal of a procedural challenge, delivered by someone who had just ruled that no debate should take place.

At such a moment, the instinct of Church leadership should be to open itself further to scrutiny, not to narrow the space in which it can be exercised. Other Synod members enjoy no comparable “safety blanket”. They can be interrupted, curtailed, or procedurally challenged. Archbishops, it seems, must not be. If Standing Orders are to be amended, they should move in the opposite direction: towards reducing disparities of power, not entrenching them. Accountability cannot be something the Church merely preaches. It must also be something its leaders are willing to face — in the chamber, in public, and without procedural insulation.

The post Preaching accountability while closing the shutters appeared first on Church Abuse.

See also: When “No Case To Answer” means no accountability: Why the Tudor decision exposes a safeguarding system beyond repair

See also: Stephen Cottrell’s own words — and why they fail basic safeguarding and legal tests

See also: Authority invoked, lessons avoided: what the Archbishop of York’s statement still fails to confront

And if you want a good reminder of the case, listen to BBC Radio’s original File on Four investigation

The Church of England is currently engaged in two distinct processes arising from the David Tudor case. One is a disciplinary complaint brought under the Clergy Discipline Measure against the Archbishop of York, Stephen Cottrell, which was halted at a preliminary stage by the President of Tribunals under section 17 of the Measure. The other is a national, independent Safeguarding Practice Review, still ongoing, examining the Church’s handling of the case over many years and intended to identify learning to improve safeguarding practice and outcomes for victims and survivors.

The Safeguarding Practice Review (SPR) was commissioned by the National Safeguarding Team and the dioceses of Chelmsford and Southwark to examine the Church’s handling of the David Tudor case over many years. Its terms of reference make clear that Stephen Cottrell’s actions will be part of the review. The review began work in March 2025 and was originally expected to conclude within six months. A final call for evidence was issued in September 2025, after that initial timetable had already elapsed, and in November the Church announced a further delay, citing new police information.

The review is now expected to report in early 2026. Its stated purpose is not to re-litigate disciplinary findings, but to identify learning, assess safeguarding practice and decision-making, and improve outcomes for victims and survivors. At the time the Archbishop issued his statement, this review was ongoing and unfinished.

These two processes serve different purposes and operate to different standards. A Section 17 decision determines only whether a complaint proceeds to a tribunal; it does not make findings of fact after a hearing, and it does not exhaust wider questions of safeguarding leadership, institutional learning, or systemic failure. The difficulty with the Archbishop’s public statement following the Section 17 decision is not its timing, but the way it sought to present that procedural outcome as a point of closure while the broader safeguarding review remains unfinished.

By framing the Section 17 decision as definitive, and by invoking senior judicial authority — emphasising that the President of Tribunals is also a judge of the Court of Appeal — to reinforce that framing, the Archbishop’s statement did more than explain a procedural outcome. It shaped how that outcome would be understood — and, crucially, how it would be reported — at a point when a wider safeguarding process remains unfinished.

That risk was not theoretical. It materialised almost immediately in media coverage of the Archbishop’s statement. Within hours, mainstream outlets reported the outcome as a substantive exoneration. The Guardian ran the headline “Archbishop of York cleared of misconduct over handling of sexual abuse case”. Premier Christian News used“Archbishop of York cleared over handling of abuse case”. The Church Times headlined: “President of Tribunals finds no case to answer for Archbishop of York in David Tudor case”.

That framing did not arise from the President’s decision itself, which stopped the complaint at a preliminary stage and expressly acknowledged serious mistakes and regrettable decisions. It flowed from the Archbishop’s own characterisation of the outcome. The danger identified above — that a Section 17 threshold decision would be treated as final vindication, and would dominate the public narrative while a Safeguarding Practice Review remains ongoing — therefore moved rapidly from risk to reality.

Respect for the independent reviewer

It is important to be clear about what this critique is not. It is not a criticism of the independent Safeguarding Practice Review or of the reviewer herself. Sue Williams is a former senior police commander, appointed precisely because of her professional independence, experience, and credibility. The Terms of Reference make clear that the review is designed to examine evidence, identify good and poor practice, and apply professional judgment on the balance of probabilities in order to improve safeguarding outcomes.

There is no reason to doubt the reviewer’s integrity or competence. The concern lies elsewhere: in the institutional context in which she is being asked to work, and the signals being sent publicly by the Church’s most senior leaders while her work is ongoing.

Two foreseeable risks created by the statement

The Archbishop’s statement creates two distinct and foreseeable risks, both of which are grounded in recent Church experience rather than speculation.

First, the risk of dampening critique.

When a senior leader publicly frames a Section 17 decision as definitive exoneration, and explicitly associates that outcome with the authority of a senior judge, it inevitably raises the stakes for anyone who later offers criticism. An independent reviewer, however robust, cannot be unaware that any adverse findings may be portrayed as contradicting what has already been presented to the public as a quasi-judicial clearance. That does not mean the reviewer will soften conclusions — but it does mean the institutional climate has been made more difficult than it needs to be.

Second, the risk of delegitimising the review’s findings if they diverge.

This risk is not hypothetical. Following the publication of the Makin Review in the John Smyth case, there were public attempts by figures linked to the Archbishops’ Council and the National Safeguarding Team to question, contextualise, or resist aspects of the findings — particularly where they touched on reporting failures and senior responsibility. That experience shows how quickly review findings can be contested when they are uncomfortable.

By issuing a statement that strongly asserts “no possibility of misconduct”, the Archbishop has inadvertently provided ammunition for supporters to challenge the SPR’s conclusions if they are critical. If the review identifies failures in leadership, decision-making, or safeguarding culture, the response may not be “what can we learn?”, but “how can this be right if a senior judge said otherwise?”.

That dynamic undermines the very purpose of a Safeguarding Practice Review.

Narrative closure versus safeguarding humility

There is also a deeper problem of leadership judgment.

The Archbishop’s statement could have taken a different tone. It could have said, in effect: this is an interim procedural decision; serious concerns remain; an independent safeguarding review is ongoing; I will listen carefully to its findings. Instead, the statement prioritised reassurance — to himself and to the institution — over restraint.

That choice matters because safeguarding leadership demands humility in uncertainty. When processes are ongoing, particularly those designed to learn from harm, leaders are expected to resist the urge for premature validation. In this case, the Archbishop chose language that effectively said “I am in the clear”, rather than “this is one step, and more scrutiny is to come”.

The victims and survivors are once again placed second. Their experiences are acknowledged in words, but subordinated in practice to the need to assert reputational closure.

A continuing failure to grasp the structural problem

Most troubling of all is what the statement again fails to address: the structural safeguarding failure at the heart of the Tudor case.

The Archbishop repeats the claim that there was “no power” to remove David Tudor earlier. Yet he offers no recognition that this remains a live safeguarding defect, nor any indication that he intends to do anything about it. A bishop still cannot remove a priest in circumstances of known safeguarding risk. That is not merely a historical curiosity; it is a present danger. A Safeguarding Practice Review is precisely the mechanism through which such systemic failures should be confronted.

By presenting the disciplinary outcome as effectively final, the Archbishop’s statement diminishes the space for that necessary structural reckoning.

Another red flag — and a necessary conclusion

None of this requires an allegation of bad faith. But safeguarding is not assessed by intention alone. It is assessed by judgment, awareness, and the ability to place institutional learning and survivor wellbeing ahead of personal validation.

In that respect, this statement is another red flag. It shows a continuing tendency to conflate procedural outcomes with moral clearance, to close narratives prematurely, and to underestimate how power and messaging affect safeguarding processes still in train.

For a leader already criticised for failures of curiosity, reflection, and structural action, this is not a minor misstep. It is part of a pattern.

Safeguarding credibility depends not only on what leaders say, but on what they choose not to say while others are still doing the work of truth-finding. On that measure, the Archbishop’s statement falls short — and reinforces the case that his position is no longer tenable.

Leadership that repeatedly places reassurance before accountability cannot deliver a safer Church. At this point, the only responsible course left is resignation.

The post Archbishop Stephen Cottrell says he has been cleared — but the Tudor case is still under review appeared first on Church Abuse.

If you don’t want to read the full 1,400 words, go to the 300-word TL;DR summary

See also: When “No Case To Answer” means no accountability: Why the Tudor decision exposes a safeguarding system beyond repair

See also: Authority invoked, lessons avoided: what the Archbishop of York’s statement still fails to confront

See also: Archbishop Stephen Cottrell says he has been cleared — but the Tudor case is still under review

And if you want a good reminder of the case, listen to BBC Radio’s original File on Four investigation

Yesterday’s blog examined why the “no case to answer” decision in the David Tudor case is unsustainable. This supplement takes a different but equally important approach. It examines the Archbishop of York’s own words, as recorded in his response to the complaint, and measures them against four benchmarks:

1. good safeguarding practice and process;
2. his public statements to the media;
3. the duties imposed on charity trustees by law; and
4. the Church of England’s own safeguarding policies.

The difficulty is not tone, sincerity, or intention. It is process, evidence, and accountability.

Memory is not safeguarding: why records matter

In his response to the complaint, the Archbishop accepts overall responsibility for decisions affecting David Tudor but says that he has “no actual memory” of the processes by which Tudor was reappointed as Area Dean. He then adds that he is “sure” he would remember if safeguarding professionals had questioned the propriety of those reappointments — and that they did not.

This is not a minor point. It goes to the heart of safeguarding governance.

Safeguarding systems do not rely on personal recall. They rely on records. Where a known abuser is subject to ongoing restrictions; where risk is said to be “managed well”; and where decisions are taken to extend responsibility, authority, or visibility, safeguarding standards require a clear, contemporaneous documentary trail. That trail should include:

• written advice from safeguarding professionals;
  
• minutes or notes of meetings where risk and role suitability were discussed;
  
• documented consideration of alternatives and mitigations;
  
• explicit recording of victim and survivor impact; and
  
• a reasoned, recorded justification for the final decision taken.

These records are not optional, and they are not kept for their own sake. They exist precisely so that, when decisions later come under scrutiny, the organisation can demonstrate how safeguarding judgments were made, what information was considered, and why particular risks were judged acceptable or unacceptable.

The Archbishop repeatedly emphasises that Tudor’s risks were being “managed well”, with regular oversight and professional involvement. If that is correct, then robust records must exist. If they exist, they should have been used, cited, and relied upon in responding to the complaint and in reviewing safeguarding actions. A review that looks past records and instead relies on a failure of memory is not a meaningful review at all.

If such records existed but were not used, that raises serious governance questions. It suggests that record-keeping is treated as a compliance exercise rather than as a tool for accountability and learning. Records that are not used to inform review and scrutiny serve no safeguarding purpose.

If, on the other hand, those records did not exist, then the claim that risk was “managed well” is unsustainable. Risk management that cannot be evidenced is not risk management; it is assertion.

Either way, reliance on “I’m sure I would remember” falls far short of what safeguarding policy expects. It reduces safeguarding to personal confidence rather than demonstrable process — exactly the failure mode that safeguarding frameworks are designed to prevent.

The “I can’t remember” defence in law and public accountability

This problem is not unique to the Church of England. Courts and statutory inquiries have grappled repeatedly with the question of what weight can be given to an office-holder’s inability to remember key decisions.

The consistent legal and public-law position is clear: an inability to remember does not absolve responsibility, particularly where the individual held a senior role and where proper records should have existed.

In the UK Supreme Court and Court of Appeal, cases involving historic wrongdoing, institutional failure, or public authority decision-making regularly emphasise that responsibility does not depend on personal recollection. Courts look instead to contemporaneous documentation, established processes, and what ought reasonably to have been recorded. Where records are missing, that absence itself can support adverse inferences about governance and control.

The same principle is repeatedly applied in Independent Statutory Public Inquiries. From child abuse inquiries to major public disasters, inquiry chairs have consistently rejected “I can’t remember” as an adequate answer where the witness was responsible for systems, policies, or decisions. The expectation is not perfect recall; it is that proper records exist and can be examined. Where they do not, that absence is treated as a failure of governance.

Inquiries have also been explicit that senior leaders cannot rely on memory loss while simultaneously asserting that systems were robust and risks well managed. Those two positions are logically incompatible. Either the system was robust — in which case it should have produced records capable of scrutiny — or it was not.

Against that backdrop, the Archbishop’s reliance on lack of memory, coupled with personal assurance (“I am sure I would remember”), is not a neutral evidential position. It is a red flag. It indicates a safeguarding system that cannot demonstrate its own workings when challenged.

Administrative convenience over safeguarding priority

The Archbishop explains that he was reluctant to reappoint Tudor as Area Dean but did so because he was told that there was nobody suitable to replace him. That explanation is treated as mitigating context, but it is troubling when measured against safeguarding norms.

Area Dean is not a marginal role. It carries authority, influence, and symbolic weight. Where a known abuser is involved, safeguarding best practice requires positive justification for extending responsibility — not merely an explanation of difficulty.

Good safeguarding governance would expect to see a documented options appraisal: who else was considered, what interim arrangements were explored, whether the role could be left vacant, whether duties could be redistributed, and why each alternative was rejected. It would also expect explicit consideration of the safeguarding and trauma impact of maintaining a known abuser in a senior position.

Without such evidence, the explanation reads as administrative convenience taking precedence over safeguarding priority. That is precisely the cultural failure safeguarding regimes are designed to counteract.

“We knew he shouldn’t have been allowed back”

One of the most significant statements attributed to the Archbishop is this: “We knew he shouldn’t have been allowed back into ministry, but since he had been, and we couldn’t remove him, we were working hard… to manage and minimise the risk.”

This is an extraordinary admission. It acknowledges that Tudor’s presence in ministry was itself recognised as wrong, yet treats that recognition as a fixed constraint rather than a trigger for escalation.

Safeguarding leadership is not about accommodating acknowledged failure. It is about challenging systems that perpetuate risk. Managing risk while accepting that someone should not be in ministry is not safeguarding; it is containment.

This sits uneasily with the Archbishop’s public statements at the time, in which he insisted that “everything was done” to manage risk, that Tudor was not ignored or protected, and that action was taken as soon as legally possible. Those assurances demand evidential backing. Without records showing how victim impact was assessed and prioritised, they cannot be substantiated.

Charity trustee duties and structural neglect

As a diocesan bishop and later Archbishop of York, Stephen Cottrell was a charity trustee, subject to legal duties to act where he knew of serious risk to beneficiaries and of systemic governance weaknesses.

His own words show that he knew bishops lacked effective powers to remove clergy in high-risk safeguarding situations. That was not theoretical; it constrained his actions directly. Under charity law, identifying such a defect is not the end of the matter. Trustees are required to take reasonable steps to remedy known structural risks, including escalation and reform.

Instead, the inability to remove became an explanation rather than a problem to be solved. The status quo was accepted, even as its consequences were acknowledged. That is what neglect looks like in governance terms: not bad faith, but failure to act on known, ongoing risk.

The contrast with Hindley

The later case of Andrew Hindley at Blackburn Cathedral demonstrates that such paralysis was not inevitable. When safeguarding risk was treated as intolerable, the Church was prepared to contemplate radical structural options to bring the situation to an end. The lesson is not that a neat statutory power existed, but that senior leaders knew the system was not powerless when the will to act was present.

Policy versus practice

The Church of England’s safeguarding policies emphasise victim-centred practice, defensible decision-making, transparency, and accountability. Measured against those standards, the Archbishop’s own account reveals repeated gaps: reliance on memory rather than records; administrative convenience outweighing safeguarding priority; public assurances unsupported by evidence; and acceptance of structural incapacity without meaningful challenge.

None of this requires an allegation of bad faith. But safeguarding is not judged by intention. It is judged by process, evidence, and outcomes. Using the Archbishop’s own words, the conclusion is unavoidable: the actions described are not defensible when measured against safeguarding best practice, public assurances, charity trustee duties, and the Church of England’s own standards. That is why accountability cannot end with “no case to answer”.

• This post was amended on 31 January 2026 to correct the name of Andrew Hindley

TL;DR — Why the Archbishop’s own words matter

The latest decision in the David Tudor case concluded there was “no case to answer” in relation to the Archbishop of York’s handling of safeguarding concerns. This follow-up examines the Archbishop’s own recorded words — and finds that they do not withstand scrutiny when measured against safeguarding standards, charity-law duties, and the Church of England’s own policies.

In his response to the complaint, the Archbishop accepts overall responsibility but says he has “no actual memory” of key decisions, relying instead on personal assurance that he would remember if safeguarding professionals had raised concerns. That is not a safeguarding answer. Safeguarding depends on records, not recall. Where risk is said to have been “managed well”, there should be clear documentary evidence showing how decisions were made, what advice was given, what alternatives were considered, and how victim impact was weighed. If such records exist but were not used, both the records and the review process are deficient. If they do not exist, claims of good risk management cannot be sustained.

The Archbishop also explains that a known abuser was reappointed to a senior role because there was “nobody suitable” to replace him. Safeguarding practice requires positive justification for extending authority and status — not administrative convenience. There is no evidence of a documented options appraisal or of victim-centred decision-making.

Most strikingly, the Archbishop acknowledges that the individual “shouldn’t have been allowed back into ministry”, yet frames safeguarding as managing risk within that reality rather than challenging the system that allowed it. That sits uneasily with public statements insisting that “everything was done”.

As a charity trustee, the Archbishop had a legal duty to act on known, systemic safeguarding risks — including defects in the Church’s powers to remove clergy. Accepting those defects without meaningful challenge is neglect, not inevitability.

Using the Archbishop’s own words, the conclusion is unavoidable: the actions described are not defensible by safeguarding, governance, or legal standards. Accountability cannot end with “no case to answer”.

The post Stephen Cottrell’s own words — and why they fail basic safeguarding and legal tests appeared first on Church Abuse.

If you don’t want to read the full 1,500 words, go to the 479-word TL;DR summary

See also: Stephen Cottrell’s own words — and why they fail basic safeguarding and legal tests

See also: Authority invoked, lessons avoided: what the Archbishop of York’s statement still fails to confront

See also: Archbishop Stephen Cottrell says he has been cleared — but the Tudor case is still under review

And if you want a good reminder of the case, listen to BBC Radio’s original File on Four investigation

The decision by the President of Clergy Discipline Tribunals to dismiss the complaint concerning the Archbishop of York’s handling of the David Tudor case is not simply unpersuasive. Read carefully, it is unsustainable on the evidence, inconsistent with ordinary judicial reasoning, and fundamentally misaligned with contemporary safeguarding and charity-law standards.

This is not a matter of hindsight, nor of personal animus. It is about governance, accountability, and whether the Church of England’s disciplinary system is capable of responding credibly when safeguarding failures involve senior leaders.

On the evidence, it is not.

A threshold test quietly rewritten

Under the Clergy Discipline Measure 2003, the President of Tribunals must decide whether there is a case to answer. That is a gateway test. Its purpose is to filter out complaints that are frivolous, vexatious, or incapable of amounting to misconduct even if proved — not to determine the merits of contested safeguarding judgments.

Yet in this case the President reformulated the test. He stated that a matter should proceed only if there were a “real prospect”, taking the case at its highest, that a tribunal would find misconduct.

That formulation does not appear in the Measure or in the Clergy Discipline Rules (made by Statutory Instrument). No authority is cited for importing it. And its practical effect is decisive: it allows the President to weigh evidence, assess credibility, and determine reasonableness at the very stage designed to avoid that exercise.

Having raised the bar, the decision repeatedly acknowledges that:

• serious mistakes were made,
• decisions were “regrettable”,
• and the Archbishop “could and should have been more curious”.

Yet it concludes that no tribunal could reasonably find misconduct.

That is not neutral gatekeeping. It is a merits decision, taken by a single office-holder, without the testing, transparency, or adversarial scrutiny that a tribunal exists to provide.

Good faith treated as a shield against accountability

A central strand of the reasoning is that the Archbishop acted “in good faith”, relied on safeguarding advice, and was dealing with an “inherited situation”.

All of that may be true. None of it answers the charge.

In ordinary judicial, regulatory, and safeguarding contexts, good faith does not negate neglect. Senior office-holders are routinely found culpable where they:

• know of a serious risk,
• have authority or influence to mitigate it,
• but fail to act reasonably in light of that knowledge.

Misconduct under the Clergy Discipline Measure expressly includes “neglect or inefficiency in the performance of office”, a statutory definition the President expressly acknowledges, but then undermines in practice by treating good faith as effectively dispositive rather than as one factor to be weighed.

That is not how safeguarding accountability works in the NHS, education, charities, or regulated professions. It should not be how it works here.

Managed risk is not the same as suitability for authority or honour

The most serious flaw in the decision lies in its treatment of status and power.

The President accepts that the safeguarding restrictions imposed on David Tudor were so significant that they demonstrated he was not suitable to minister as an ordinary parish priest. Yet he simultaneously concludes that appointing and reappointing him as Area Dean, and conferring an honorary canonry, could not amount to misconduct because those steps were taken in accordance with policy and safeguarding advice.

That reasoning is incompatible with safeguarding reality.

Safeguarding agreements manage known risk. They do not confer endorsement. They do not render a person suitable for senior roles. And they do not neutralise the safeguarding significance of authority, visibility, and institutional honour.

Senior diocesan offices and honorary canonries are not administratively neutral. They signal trust. They enhance credibility. They expand access and influence. In safeguarding terms, they are risk amplifiers, not incidental decorations.

The assertion that any risk arose solely from Tudor’s parish role — and not from these additional offices — is not a finding grounded in evidence. It is an assumption, and an implausible one.

Speculation substituted for professional curiosity

The decision concedes that a civil settlement in 2012 ought to have prompted greater curiosity, because it suggested the possibility of additional victims.

That concession should have been decisive. Instead, it is neutralised by speculation: the President reasons that if Tudor had been asked further questions, he would likely have denied further offending, and therefore nothing would have changed.

That is not judicial reasoning; it is conjecture.

Safeguarding practice does not excuse a failure to inquire on the basis that the answers might be unhelpful. The duty is to ask, to reassess risk, and to strengthen safeguards when new information emerges — not to assume the outcome in advance.

“Independent judge” — but not institutionally independent

In his separate decision concerning publication, the President described himself as an “independent judge”.

That description is, at best, incomplete.

The President of Clergy Discipline Tribunals is paid by the Archbishops’ Council. The Archbishop of York is not a peripheral figure in that body: he is its chair and president.

This is not an allegation of bad faith. It is a statement of structural conflict of interest. In any other safeguarding or regulatory system, the appearance of independence would be regarded as compromised where a decision-maker is funded by, and institutionally connected to, the leadership of the organisation whose conduct is under scrutiny.

Independence is not only about personal integrity. It is about structure.

Charity law, trustee duties, and neglect of a known structural risk

As Bishop of Chelmsford and later Archbishop of York, Stephen Cottrell occupied roles carrying not only episcopal responsibility but formal charity trustee duties.

He was — and remains — a member of the House of Bishops by virtue of both offices. The members of the House of Bishops are collectively at the heart of safeguarding policy, legislative reform, and governance oversight.

In addition, by virtue of his office as Archbishop of York, he became not only a member, but also the chair and president of the Archbishops’ Council. The Council is the Church’s principal executive charity body. It is responsible for proposing legislation, coordinating safeguarding policy, and bringing draft Measures to the General Synod.

Recent correspondence from the Charity Commission to General Synod members and diocesan bishops make those trustee expectations explicit.

Trustees must not merely respond to individual incidents. They must act where they know of systemic or structural risks that expose beneficiaries to harm.

The David Tudor case revealed exactly such a structural risk. The Archbishop repeatedly relied on the assertion that he had no legal power to remove or suspend a priest in circumstances where serious safeguarding risk was known and accepted.

That difficulty was not theoretical. It affected him directly. It constrained his own decision-making. And it shaped the outcomes in this case.

Crucially, that meant he also knew — or ought to have known — that every other diocesan bishop was subject to the same incapacity in comparable circumstances.

In charity-law terms, this is the decisive point. A trustee who becomes aware of a governance or legal defect that prevents a charity from protecting beneficiaries is expected to take reasonable and proportionate steps to remedy that defect, not merely to accommodate it.

Those steps include escalation, reform, and — where necessary — legislative change.

As a member of the House of Bishops and chair and president of the Archbishops’ Council, Stephen Cottrell was uniquely positioned to act. He could have pressed for, and required the initiation of, draft legislation to be brought before the General Synod to address the inability to remove or suspend clergy in high-risk safeguarding cases. He could have insisted that the structural weakness exposed by the Tudor case be remedied for the whole Church.

He did not.

The likely defences are predictable: that legislation takes time; that responsibility is collective; that safeguarding reform is complex. None withstand scrutiny. Trustees are not required to guarantee outcomes, but they are required to take reasonable steps when serious risks are known. Here, the risk was known, personal, systemic, and ongoing — and the status quo was accepted.

Measured against Charity Commission expectations, that is neglect of trustee duty: knowledge of a serious safeguarding risk combined with a failure to take reasonable steps to eliminate or mitigate it.

A disciplinary system not fit for purpose — and not fixed by reform

This case exposes a deeper truth. The Clergy Discipline system is not fit for purpose in serious safeguarding cases.

Threshold decisions are opaque. Power is concentrated in a single office. Conflicts of interest are structural. And senior leaders are effectively insulated from scrutiny by design.

Nor will this be cured by the proposed Clergy Conduct Measure. Despite changes in language, the critical architecture remains: a powerful president, a high gateway threshold, and limited transparency. In cases like this, the “tribunal” is largely theoretical.

Two unavoidable conclusions

Two conclusions follow inexorably.

First, the Clergy Discipline system — and its proposed replacement — cannot deliver credible accountability in serious safeguarding cases. It is structurally flawed and institutionally defensive.

Second, the position of the Archbishop of York is untenable. Not because of malice or bad faith, but because he presided over — and failed to correct — a system that placed institutional continuity above safeguarding integrity.

Leadership requires more than regret. It requires responsibility.

In this case, responsibility now requires resignation.

TL;DR — Why the Tudor decision matters

A senior Church of England disciplinary decision has concluded that there was “no case to answer” in relation to the Archbishop of York’s handling of the David Tudor safeguarding case. That conclusion does not withstand scrutiny.

The President of Clergy Discipline Tribunals rewrote the legal threshold he was required to apply. Instead of asking whether there was a case to answer — the statutory test in the Clergy Discipline Measure — he applied a stricter, invented standard: whether there was a “real prospect” that a tribunal would ultimately find misconduct. That test appears in neither the Measure nor the Clergy Discipline Rules. It allowed him to decide the merits himself, at the gateway stage, without a tribunal ever hearing the case.

The decision repeatedly acknowledges serious failings: that mistakes were made, that decisions were “regrettable”, and that the Archbishop “could and should have been more curious” when new information suggested the possibility of further victims. Yet it then treats “good faith” as effectively dispositive — a near-complete defence — despite the fact that misconduct under the Measure expressly includes neglect or inefficiency in the performance of office. In safeguarding and regulatory contexts, good faith does not cancel neglect.

Most troubling is the treatment of power and status. The decision accepts that safeguarding restrictions on Tudor were so serious that he was not suitable for normal parish ministry — yet concludes that appointing and reappointing him to senior diocesan roles, and conferring an honorary canonry, could not amount to misconduct.

That reasoning ignores a basic safeguarding principle: status, authority, and honour increase trust and influence, and therefore increase risk. Managed risk is not the same as suitability for leadership.

The President also describes himself as an “independent judge”, but the office is funded through the Archbishops’ Council, which is chaired and presided over by the Archbishop of York. That is not an allegation of bad faith, but it is a clear structural conflict of interest that would be unacceptable in most safeguarding or regulatory systems.

Finally, the case exposes a deeper governance failure. As Bishop of Chelmsford and later Archbishop of York, Stephen Cottrell knew that bishops lacked effective legal powers to remove clergy in high-risk safeguarding cases. That problem affected him directly. It also affected every other bishop. As a senior charity trustee and chair of the Church’s main executive body, he was in a position to press for legislative reform to fix that defect. He did not. Under Charity Commission standards, knowingly accepting a serious, systemic safeguarding risk without taking reasonable steps to remedy it amounts to neglect of trustee duty.

Two conclusions follow. First, the Church’s disciplinary system is not fit for purpose in serious safeguarding cases — and proposed reforms will not fix that. Second, the position of the Archbishop of York is untenable. Not because of malice, but because accountability, safeguarding credibility, and public trust now require responsibility to be taken.

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The criticism I make of the Church’s handling of this safeguarding complaint does not arise from a single decision, nor from a single failure of judgment. It is the product of a sequence of complaints, processes and refusals stretching back to 2019, in which the Church of England — at various levels — repeatedly chose institutional convenience over clarity, learning and pastoral responsibility. In doing so, senior Church figures not only kept the truth hidden; they conspired — whether knowingly or through systematic incompetence — to concoct lies.

At every stage, senior figures spoke about safeguarding culture and lessons learned. At every stage where those words required action, they failed to act.

The most recent and most visible failures are those of the Archbishop of York, Stephen Cottrell, and the Archbishop-Elect of Canterbury, Sarah Mullally. Both refused to apologise and refused to commission an independent lessons-learned review when given the opportunity to do so, even though such a review was promised to the victim in this case at least as far back as 2021.

That refusal was not an isolated lapse. It was the endpoint of a pattern that runs through the handling of three distinct complaints under the Clergy Discipline Measure, and through the reasoning of the President of Tribunals, who declined to take further action against the Archdeacon of Nottingham.

Three complaints, one pattern

The first complaint was made in 2020 by the Archdeacon of Nottingham, Phil Williams, against the Revd Anthony Giles, Rector of Epperstone, Gonalston, Oxton and Woodborough. The underlying facts were serious. A parishioner had disclosed sexual abuse, indecent exposure and coercive sexually explicit communication by her vicar.

She approached the Church with a straightforward question: “This is what my vicar did — is that OK?” She was told by safeguarding officers that it was sexual assault and an abuse of position of trust.

Yet when the matter reached senior ecclesiastical figures, it was reframed. After reading the narrative put forward by the archdeacon, the Bishop of Southwell and Nottingham, Paul Williams (no relation), described the complaint as concerning “an intimate relationship outside of marriage”. The Deputy President of Tribunals, Judge David Turner, described the behaviour as “consensual”. That reframing minimised the safeguarding dimension and set the tone for what followed.

What was reported as sexual assault and indecent exposure — and investigated as such by Nottinghamshire Police — was treated by the Church as a priest not seeking safeguarding advice when he was aware that a vulnerable woman had romantic feelings towards him. 

The actual complaint that Mr Giles had to face in his clergy disciplinary tribunal was:

The actual complaint that Mr Giles had to face in his clergy disciplinary tribunal was that:

1. In 2015, at a time when he was aware of feelings of romantic affection towards him from Ms AB, a vulnerable woman, he:
   1. failed to seek assistance or advice from the diocesan safeguarding team as to how to respond appropriately to her; and
   2. in failing to seek assistance or advice, placed the concerns of his own reputation above the pastoral needs of Ms AB; and
2. During 2017, he:
   1. sent text messages to Ms AB which were inappropriate in frequency and content; and
   2. in doing so, failed accordingly to observe or maintain appropriate professional boundaries.

This was a complete distortion of the complaint, but Ms AB was unable to challenge it. She tried: she complained to the bishop, to the archdeacon, to the diocesan safeguarding team, to the national safeguarding team, to the Archbishop of York, to anybody who would listen. But nobody did listen. She had no voice in the Church’s process. No victim has a voice in the Church of England’s safeguarding processes. They are silenced.

That complaint resulted in Mr Giles being prohibited from acting as a priest for six months — but he was not removed from office. This, despite the statutory penalty guidance putting it the other way around: a tribunal should decide whether a priest should be removed from office and then decide whether it should also prohibit the priest from ministry, either for a limited term or permanently. Looking through the published tribunal judgments, this is the only case where a priest received a prohibition from ministry but who remained in office. In effect, his punishment was a six-month paid holiday, on top of the time he previously spent suspended pending the outcome of the tribunal.

The Bishop of Southwell and Nottingham and the Archbishop of York have both expressed privately to Ms AB that they do not want Mr Giles to continue in ministry. But neither of them has done anything to bring about his removal from ministry. He continues to “serve” his parishes to this day. Meanwhile, Ms AB has been forced to leave her home and relocate to another town, and has rarely stepped foot in a church as a result of her treatment at the hands of the Church’s processes (Matthew 18:6 springs to mind).

The second complaint was brought by me in 2020/21. It concerned the Bishop of Southwell and Nottingham’s handling of the case, including his decision to question the victim himself, contrary to recommendations in previous lessons-learned reviews, his failure to ensure appropriate pastoral care was provided to the victim, and his mishandling of safeguarding responsibilities. That complaint was rejected by the Archbishop of York.

In a covering letter dated 18 December 2020, sending the bishop’s response to the complaint to the archbishop, the bishop’s solicitor said: “the bishop would want to extend an unreserved apology to [the victim] if she felt that the support she received was inadequate.” Despite that assurance, the bishop has never apologised to the victim. He apologised for what Anthony Giles did, but not for his own actions, nor for the inadequacy of the support she received.

The third complaint was made by me in August 2025. It concerned the Archdeacon of Nottingham’s continued refusal to provide the victim with a copy of his original complaint and the misrepresentation of her account within Church processes. This complaint reached the current President of Tribunals, Sir Stephen Males.

He decided to take no further action. His decision, and his reasoning, expose how deeply embedded these problems are. It is this third complaint that this blog post explores.

“It is not clear”: uncertainty as a shield

The President of Tribunals’ decision notice halting my complaint about the Archdeacon of Nottingham relies heavily on a single device: the assertion that key matters are “not clear”. That phrase appears repeatedly and does crucial work. It allows the decision to avoid grappling with evidence without having to reject it.

One example is central. The President states that “it is not clear whether Ms AB was ever told of” the earlier decision of the Deputy President. He goes on to say: “It would appear that she was not told because, if she had been, she and the Complainant [me] would have understood that the Respondent had included her allegations in the 2020 Complaint and the present Complaint might have been avoided. Plainly she ought to have been told and, if she was not, that was a failing.”

Yet the evidence before him was clear because in paragraphs 21–22 of her witness statement, Ms AB explains that the Deputy President’s decision notice was sent to her, that she read it, and that it caused her significant distress.

She describes the sense of being blamed and disbelieved, and the way the wording in the Deputy President’s decision notice compounded the earlier harm. This is direct, first-hand evidence. The Deputy President’s decision could not help her to understand that the archdeacon had included her allegations. Her allegations were of sexual assault. Sexual assault can never be described as “consensual”.

The President does not say that he rejects Ms AB’s statement. Nor does he explain why it should be regarded as unreliable. He simply declares the matter “not clear”.

That approach recurs elsewhere. The President says it is “not clear” what the complainant was told by safeguarding officers when she first raised her concerns, despite her statement setting out a consistent account: that she was told the conduct amounted to sexual assault and abuse of trust. He says it is “not clear” whether procedural handling caused harm, despite detailed evidence describing the impact on her mental health, family life and faith.

In another passage, the President treats references in the chronology to instructions attributed to the Bishop as of unclear basis, despite those references being identified in the witness statement and supported by an annexed chronology quoting dated instructions that were provided to me (the complainant) by the bishop — and my statement set out the documentary basis for those claims. Again, no evaluation is offered; uncertainty is simply asserted.

The most troubling aspect of this reasoning is not disagreement with the complainant’s case, but the absence of analysis. The decision does not weigh evidence or explain why it fails to meet the required standard. Instead, “not clear” becomes a full stop. It functions as a way of preserving institutional comfort while avoiding accountability.

An aborted judicial review

I had intended to bring a judicial review against the President’s decision. The concern was not merely the outcome, but the manner in which evidence appeared to be disregarded rather than evaluated. That is not what should be expected of a decision-maker who also serves as a judge of the Court of Appeal of England and Wales.

I engaged in pre-litigation correspondence with the Archbishops’ Council and the Office of the President of Tribunals, primarily through their external solicitors, Sharpe Pritchard LLP.

Ultimately, I did not progress the application for a judicial review — not because my concerns lacked substance, but because the potential remedy available to the court was so limited. If the court had found that the president’s decision was unlawful, the most it could have ordered was a fresh decision by the same decision-maker.

The court could not substitute its own assessment of the evidence. Faced with the prospect of further delay, further exposure and the likelihood that the same focus of protecting the Church would be repeated, I did not proceed to litigation.

That context matters. When a system concentrates so much power in a single decision-maker, and offers so little meaningful oversight, no ability for challenge or appeal, and no ability for those decisions to be scrutinised by being made in the open, the quality of that decision-maker’s engagement with evidence becomes critical. In this case, the repeated invocation of uncertainty in the face of specific, sworn evidence undermines confidence in the process itself.

A missed opportunity for apology and learning

It was against this background that the Archbishop of York and the Archbishop-Elect of Canterbury were approached. The request made to them was modest and reasonable. It had two parts: an apology acknowledging the harm suffered and the Church’s failures in responding to it, and the commissioning of an independent lessons-learned review as had been promised in 2021. The request was, in effect, an invitation for the Church to honour its own commitments.

Both leaders refused.

The wording of their responses was strikingly similar.

On 10 October 2025, the Archbishop of York wrote:

“It appears you are proposing litigation against the Archbishops’ Council. It would be inappropriate for me to enter into dialogue with you over this, and therefore … I won’t be answering your questions, or any further questions which relate to or arise in relation to any claims you may make.”

On 27 October 2025, the Archbishop-Elect of Canterbury replied:

“It appears that you are proposing litigation against the Archbishops’ Council. And whilst I am not yet a member it would be inappropriate for me to enter into dialogue with you over this, and therefore … I won’t be answering your questions, or any further questions which relate to or arise in relation to any claims you may make.”

Both of the Church of England’s most senior bishops stated that because litigation was proposed, it would be “inappropriate” to enter into dialogue, and therefore no questions would be answered. No apology was offered. No review was commissioned. Engagement ceased.

That position was not legally compelled. An apology does not amount to an admission of liability. Commissioning a lessons-learned review does not prejudice legal proceedings. These are well-established points, repeatedly made in safeguarding reviews — including safeguarding reviews commissioned by the Church of England, purportedly so they could learn lessons from past mistakes and not repeat those mistakes again. The refusal was a choice.

Words without weight

What makes that choice so damaging is the contrast with the public statements of those involved. The Archbishop of York has spoken eloquently about humility, repentance and the need for the Church to listen to survivors. The Archbishop-Elect of Canterbury has emphasised cultural change and the importance of trust. Those words are on the record. They are frequently cited as evidence that the Church has learned from past failures.

Yet when faced with a real case demanding precisely that response, both leaders retreated behind legal process. They chose distance over dialogue, silence over apology, and delay over learning.

This is precisely the pattern identified and criticised in countless lessons-learned reviews: fear of litigation inhibiting apology; process displacing pastoral care; institutional defensiveness compounding harm. The tragedy is not that the Church was warned. It is that those warnings were ignored when they mattered.

Conclusion: lessons ignored, not learned

Taken together, these events form a coherent picture. A safeguarding complaint reframed as consensual. Concerns about handling dismissed. Evidence treated as “not clear” despite being detailed and specific. Apology withheld. An independent review promised and not delivered. Senior leaders stepping back when moral leadership was required.

The Archbishop of York and the Archbishop-Elect of Canterbury are not responsible for every decision taken along the way. But they are responsible for how they responded when the failures were laid before them.

They had the authority — and a moral duty — to apologise. They chose not to.

They had the authority — and under current guidance, I would argue, an obligation — to commission an independent review. They chose not to.

Safeguarding reform cannot rest on speeches and statements alone. It is tested in moments like this, when apology is uncomfortable and learning carries risk. In this case, the Church’s most senior figures failed that test.

Until that failure is acknowledged, the promise that lessons have been learned will remain exactly that: a promise, repeated, but not kept. And for this victim — as for so many victims of the Church of England’s safeguarding processes — the truth remains untold.

And the sad fact remains: when Stephen Cottrell and Sarah Mullally were confronted with a moment requiring moral leadership, pastoral courage and institutional honesty, they both chose to walk by on the other side. They opted for silence, refused to apologise, declined to commission the promised independent review and then withdrew entirely.

Neither has contacted me, nor the victim, since it became clear that the proposed judicial review would not proceed.

• This post was edited on 27 January to correct some typographical errors, including the name of the Archdeacon of Nottingham.

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The Charity Commission’s Official Warnings to the Liverpool and Chelmsford Diocesan Boards of Finance – the legal bodies that make up the Church of England in those areas – mark a moment of profound significance for the Church of England. For the first time, as far as I am aware, the regulator has concluded that Church bodies committed mismanagement in their handling of safeguarding concerns – this time relating to allegations against the former Bishop of Liverpool, Dr John Perumbalath.

These warnings are not technicalities. They expose deep structural weaknesses in the Church’s safeguarding culture, governance, and leadership. And they raise unavoidable questions about the role of the Archbishop of York, Stephen Cottrell, who – through his positions as Metropolitan, Chair of the Archbishops’ Council, and Chair of the House of Bishops – has had unparalleled responsibility for driving safeguarding reform.

What the Charity Commission found

The Commission’s warnings to Liverpool and Chelmsford identify clear governance failures:

• Liverpool: Trustees “failed to consider or investigate” a safeguarding complaint against Bishop Perumbalath and did not ensure that risks were properly assessed or reported.
  
  
• Chelmsford: Trustees failed over a period of “about two years” to report a serious safeguarding incident relating to a complaint made in 2023 about Perumbalath’s conduct during his earlier ministry in the diocese.

Both dioceses have issued statements acknowledging shortcomings. Liverpool’s trustees explicitly accept that they “did not adequately discharge their safeguarding responsibilities”. Chelmsford disputes some of the Commission’s conclusions but accepts the need for stronger trustee oversight.

The regulator’s findings are stark: trustees were not given the information they needed, and safeguarding concerns were not handled in line with charity law.

This is not an isolated failure. It is part of a pattern.

The structural problem: Safeguarding in the shadows

The Church of England’s safeguarding system is structurally flawed – I am not the only person or organisation who has been saying this for years. Investigations and decisions are routinely handled in private by:

• Bishops
• Archbishops
• The Archbishops’ Council
• The National Safeguarding Team

These bodies operate with limited transparency, limited external scrutiny, and – crucially – no statutory independence. Time and again, independent reviews, survivor testimonies, and media investigations have shown that this system fails those it is meant to protect.

The Church of England will point to its INEQE safeguarding audits as evidence of external scrutiny – as it repeatedly does to suggest that their actions are scrutinised. INEQE has not published audits for either Liverpool or Chelmsford. Liverpool’s audit is scheduled for the coming weeks. No date is given for Chelmsford’s audit.

Survivors and campaigners have long criticised INEQE’s methodology for relying heavily on diocesan self‑assessment and for failing to engage meaningfully with victims. The Charity Commission’s findings now underline the limitations of that approach. Where INEQE tends to produce reassuring, institution‑friendly commentary, the statutory regulator has identified serious mismanagement, inadequate processes, and a lack of trustee oversight.

The contrast could not be clearer: the Church’s preferred auditing model is simply not capable of detecting the failures that the Charity Commission has now exposed. Instead, the Charity Commission’s warnings confirm what many have long argued: the Church’s internal safeguarding structures are not fit for purpose.

1. Trustees are kept in the dark

In both dioceses, trustees were unaware of key safeguarding concerns. This is not unusual. Across the Church, safeguarding cases involving clergy – especially senior clergy – are handled privately by bishops and the NST. Trustees cannot fulfil their legal duties if they are not informed.

2. Bishops hold too much unchecked power

Bishops are simultaneously:

• Pastoral leaders
• Line managers
• Public representatives
• Decision‑makers in safeguarding cases

This creates unavoidable conflicts of interest. When allegations involve senior clergy – or bishops themselves –the system becomes even more compromised.

3. The NST is not independent

The National Safeguarding Team reports to the Archbishops’ Council, not to an external regulator. It operates within the same hierarchical culture that has repeatedly failed survivors.

4. The Archbishops’ Council has been formally criticised

In November 2025, the Charity Commission issued a public admonishment stating that the Archbishops’ Council must “rapidly accelerate safeguarding reforms” because progress was too slow and governance was inadequate.

That Council is chaired by Stephen Cottrell.

Stephen Cottrell’s leadership: A fair and necessary critique

This is not about personal attacks. It is about leadership, governance, and accountability.

Stephen Cottrell has repeatedly presented himself as the figure who will transform safeguarding in the Church of England. In public statements, he has said:

• “We are committed to creating a safer Church.”
• “We will learn from past mistakes.”
• “We will rebuild trust.”

Yet under his leadership:

• The Archbishops’ Council has been formally criticised by the Charity Commission for slow and inadequate safeguarding reform.
• The House of Bishops has failed to deliver the independent safeguarding structures repeatedly promised to survivors.
• General Synod has been given partial or delayed information about safeguarding controversies, with key documents withheld or heavily controlled.
• The Church continues to rely on internal processes that lack independence, transparency, and credibility.

As Archbishop of York, Cottrell is not responsible for every operational failure. But he is responsible for:

• The culture of safeguarding leadership
• The pace of reform
• The transparency of national governance
• The oversight of the NST
• The information given to Synod
• The direction of the Archbishops’ Council

The Charity Commission’s warnings land squarely within his sphere of responsibility.

Trustees: The legal risks you now face

Trustees of Church of England bodies – members of bishop’s councils or Diocesan Board of Finance executive committees – are legally responsible for safeguarding. The Charity Commission has now made it clear that:

• Trustees cannot delegate safeguarding oversight to bishops or the NST.
• Trustees cannot rely on being “kept informed” – they must insist on information.
• Trustees must ensure that serious incidents are reported promptly.
• Trustees must challenge inadequate processes.
• Trustees may face personal regulatory consequences if they fail to act.

If trustees sit back and allow safeguarding to be mismanaged by bishops, archbishops, the Archbishops’ Council, or the NST, they risk:

• Regulatory action
• Disqualification
• Reputational damage
• Scrutiny from statutory agencies

The era of assuming “the bishop handles safeguarding” is over.

The path forward: Independent, statutory safeguarding

The Charity Commission’s intervention makes one thing clear: the Church cannot continue to police itself.

A statutory, independent safeguarding body is now essential. It would:

• Remove conflicts of interest
• Ensure trustees receive the information they need
• Provide consistent standards across dioceses
• Restore public trust
• Protect vulnerable people
• Protect trustees from being placed in impossible positions

This reform has been promised for years. Under Stephen Cottrell’s leadership, it has not been delivered.

Leadership must be accountable

The Charity Commission’s warnings are not just about two dioceses. They are about a national safeguarding culture that has failed repeatedly – and about leadership that has not delivered the reform it promised.

Stephen Cottrell has held the most senior safeguarding leadership roles in the Church of England. He has chaired the bodies responsible for reform. He has controlled what Synod sees and does not see. He has spoken of transformation, but the regulator now finds mismanagement in dioceses connected to the system he oversees.

This is not a personal attack. It is a fair, evidence‑based assessment of leadership.

The Church of England cannot rebuild trust without accountability. And accountability must begin at the top.

A Church that has received two unprecedented Charity Commission warnings cannot credibly rebuild trust while the same leadership structures – and the same leaders – remain in place.

Stephen Cottrell has chaired the Archbishops’ Council through repeated regulatory criticism, overseen a safeguarding system that still operates in secrecy, and promised transformation that has simply not materialised. These are not questions of personal morality; they are questions of governance, judgement, and public responsibility.

At some point, leadership must be accountable for the culture it has shaped and the failures that have occurred under its watch. That moment has now arrived. For the sake of survivors, for the integrity of the Church, and for the credibility of the reforms that must follow, Stephen Cottrell should step aside.

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Archbishop Stephen Cottrell’s statement about a safeguarding failure

29 June 2020

Ten years ago I was approached about a safeguarding allegation regarding a priest. I was able to see the survivor and begin to hear what was a difficult and harrowing story. However, I was moving between roles at the time and although I did speak with colleagues about the actions that needed to be taken, I failed to ensure that these were properly documented and followed through in the way I would expect.

Now that I have discovered that this incident was not followed up as it should have been, I am deeply distressed and extremely sorry.

Because this has recently come to light, I am both thankful that it is being addressed properly now, but also mindful that in my new position as Archbishop of York it is absolutely essential that I am open and transparent about the need for the whole of our church to be scrupulously honest with each other about any failings in safeguarding.

In the past, the Church of England has been too quick to protect its own reputation and slow to admit its failings. This must change. Those in public office should be subject to scrutiny. Good safeguarding is an absolute priority for the Church of England and for me personally.

In the diocese of Chelmsford where I have served for the past ten years, I have been helped by survivors I have worked with, as well as a first-rate safeguarding team, to have a much greater understanding of why safeguarding itself is so important and how we must be prepared to confront our failings and learn from them.

Therefore, although I am embarrassed that I did not follow this up as scrupulously as I should have done ten years ago, I want to go on the record about what has happened in order to demonstrate a new spirit of openness and transparency over how we ensure that the Church is as safe as it can be, that survivors are listened to and dealt with honestly, and perpetrators brought to justice.

Archbishop Stephen Cottrell
Official C of E Statement, June 2020

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Archbishop Stephen Cottrell addresses the General Synod in a a debate about the IICSA report

25 November 2020

I was ordained into a Church, and IICSA has showed us this so, so shamefully, but I realise now I was ordained into a Church that when it came to safeguarding was concerned, first of all, to protect its own reputation; secondly, to limit damage; and, thirdly, most shamefully, to ignore abuse and its consequences. Over the last 30 years or so, I have seen the Church change and I have been part of that change in different ways.

So, now, we do not ignore abuse. We train clergy and we have a way of protecting children and vulnerable adults. We have made some progress but there is still obviously a third stage of change that we need to go through. . .

The first and the most important is that we change our culture. There is a culture of clericalism and deference in our Church and that cannot continue because it is deeply, deeply unhealthy and it allows some of us to find ourselves in positions where people feel that somehow we have become above reproach and that we cannot be criticised.

This is really, really bad for us. Part of this culture change, therefore, must mean that, when we make mistakes – because we will make mistakes and things will go wrong, we will not always get it right – part of the culture change is to be open and transparent about that as followers of Jesus Christ. . .

Therefore, we welcome independent scrutiny and we look and reach out to the survivors and offenders who have reached out to us, saying “We want your help. We want to build a new culture. We want to stop being in this place where we have to keep saying sorry”. Goodness, I am deeply, deeply shamed and deeply, deeply penitent.

I am finding myself, in this new role, falling to knees in sorrow and shame for what has happened but, more importantly, I want to rise up and be the change and make the change we need to make, which is primarily one of culture but, therefore, must mean that we welcome independent scrutiny and that we get on urgently with the business of reparation.

Getting all this right, Synod, is going to cost us a lot of money. Getting it wrong is going to cost us our soul.

Archbishop Stephen Cottrell
General Synod, November 2020

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