Much of my childhood was spent in vicarages, apart from a small stint at a theological college. Emerging into adulthood, I’ve realised that many of the habits that I picked up from years spent immersed in clergy life and the Church of England remain with me. Most fundamentally, it has formed my lasting view of the Church, of politics, and of the world around me.
I am now a member of a congregation in my own right, no longer lurking in the shadows of my parents. Perhaps, for some, I am an ideal parishioner: I will gladly sign up for rotas and pull my weight; for others, perhaps, I am an inconvenient know-it-all, who will gladly correct them when they misquote the Thirty-Nine Articles. But what I am sure of is this: having grown up in a vicarage, my view of the Church has been distinctly coloured.
The biggest challenge facing clergy children, if they remain churchgoers in adulthood, is readjusting to being in the pews. I am aware of what goes on behind the scenes of a church, but now I am no longer privy to those decisions.
Engrained in clergy children is a sense of responsibility for an institution. This is no light thing to carry, especially when this responsibility is often mixed with different emotions of pain and joy, hope and anger, at different things witnessed or experienced. When you grow up in a vicarage, the church becomes an additional family member whom you will inevitably squabble with from time to time, but whom you love despite their flaws.
Good Day!
— John Constable (@JohnConstableRA) December 27, 2018
Eric Ravilious, The Vicarage in Winter, 1935 pic.twitter.com/Uv1hiKWzyy