Last week, a revelation that rocked my faith left me grappling with shock and sorrow. The spiritual leader I once held in high regard, Archbishop of Canterbury Justin Welby, has stepped down amid the harrowing echoes of a sexual abuse scandal. It feels like a betrayal—not just of the Church, but of the trust we placed in its highest shepherd.
The scandal centers on Welby’s failure to act decisively against abuse that took place under his watch. An independent investigation revealed that despite being informed as early as 2013, Welby failed to ensure police were promptly notified of the serial physical and sexual abuse carried out by a volunteer at Christian summer camps. The abuse spanned years, leaving countless young lives shattered. Welby assumed the authorities had been contacted and that a resolution would follow, but the report concluded otherwise, suggesting he should have taken far more assertive steps to seek justice.
In his resignation statement, Welby admitted his failure, taking personal and institutional responsibility for the agonizing delay between 2013 and 2024. “I believed wrongly that an appropriate resolution would follow,” he confessed. But for the survivors, those words may feel like too little, too late. For over a decade, victims endured silence, inaction, and a retraumatizing wait for accountability. How many children were robbed of their innocence while those in power hesitated?
While some have praised Welby’s decision to step down, calling it an act of integrity, others are not so quick to absolve him. Bishop of York Stephen Cottrell commended Welby’s efforts in improving safeguarding measures. Yet one cannot help but wonder: if real progress was made, why did the Church fail its most vulnerable for so long?
Mervyn Roberts, a retired vicar from Warwickshire, voiced a sentiment many share. Speaking to the BBC, he expressed a mix of relief and vindication. “In many ways, I feel a little bit sorry for the way this has unfolded, but it was basically waiting to happen,” he remarked. For too long, the Church has allowed abuse to fester in the shadows, cloaked in silence and bureaucracy. This wasn’t merely a failure of leadership; it was a betrayal of the very values the Church claims to uphold.
Yet, the shockwaves of this scandal do not end with Welby. Bishop Helen-Ann Hartley recently disclosed receiving “coercive” messages from Welby and Cottrell, pressuring her to reinstate Lord John Sentamu, the former Archbishop of York. Sentamu had been banned from ministry after a report criticized his handling of a child abuse allegation. Bishop Hartley resisted these pleas, displaying the courage that has been sorely lacking elsewhere in the Church.
Ironically, despite the gravity of these revelations, no one has yet suggested what must be done to prevent such horrors in the future. If no light appears at the end of this dark tunnel that continues to tarnish the sacred image of Catholic and Christian church organizations, the damage may be irreversible.
For me, the impact of this scandal is deeply personal. My faith in the institution has been shaken, perhaps irreparably. I once revered Justin Welby as a moral compass, but now, I’m left grappling with disappointment. How many more leaders will fall before the Church truly embraces its duty to protect the vulnerable? Welby’s resignation might bring some closure, but it does not heal the deep scars inflicted by years of neglect and silence.
