Anthony Trollope at General Synod

General Synod is currently meeting in York (you can watch the proceedings live on the Church of England YouTube channel), and the debates can vary from the sublime to the ridiculous. Everything is improved with a sprinkling of humour, and to that end I asked ChatGPT how Anthony Trollope might describe the opening of Synod. This is set in London in February.

It was a Tuesday morning of uncertain weather—neither quite rain nor dry, as if even the sky had not yet resolved its opinion—when the General Synod of the Church of England was declared open, and the assembled clergy, laity, and bishops entered their allotted seats with all the solemnity of Parliament, but somewhat less decorum and rather more coffee.

The Archbishop of York, the Most Reverend Stephen Cottrell, stood (or perhaps wavered) at the rostrum with the expression of a school prefect asked to oversee a particularly rowdy debating society. A small man—not in mind, it must be said, but in manner—he surveyed the hall with a look that managed to be both anxious and affable. His voice, unfailingly courteous, implored the Synod to seek “unity in diversity,” though one could tell he suspected—quietly, and with the nervousness of a man aware of his own irrelevance—that both were in short supply.

In the third row, impeccably dressed in navy tweed and a hat of unassailable moral fibre, sat Miss Prudence Daley, a spinster in the best sense of the word, whose spiritual convictions had ossified gloriously in the liturgical amber of 1956. Her eyes, as sharp as her tailoring, narrowed each time the word “inclusive” was uttered, and though she seldom rose to speak, when she did so, it was with the precision of a scalpel and the effect of a guillotine. Many a progressive clergyman had withered under her correction.

Not far from her was Dr Andrew Atherstone, an earnest Oxford man who carried more papers than most carried convictions. He took furious notes in a lined notebook and occasionally raised his hand with the tentative hope of being recognised by the chair—an honour rarely granted. He was intelligent, certainly, and diligent beyond reproach, but his interventions had the misfortune of sounding like footnotes read aloud, and thus went unheeded by those who preferred their doctrine in shorter, sharper doses.

Canon James Blandford-Baker, meanwhile, could be seen near the centre aisle, exchanging sotto voce bon mots with various bishops and laymen. An evangelical of great wit and greater charm, he managed to disarm even his opponents with what could only be described as Anglican geniality. Though he rarely spoke at length, his remarks—often beginning with a light jest and ending with a serious point almost imperceptibly made—had a habit of being remembered long after longer speeches were forgotten.

Lurking just behind the diocesan representatives, looking simultaneously aggrieved and ready to speak, was Dr Charlie Bell, who had come prepared with several pages of scathing rhetoric and half a dozen quotations from Judith Butler. His countenance bore the conviction of one who had come not merely to disagree but to indict. Alas, when he finally secured the microphone, what began as a denunciation of structural heteronormativity became a muddle of abstraction and anecdote, through which he stormed with great fury but little force. The Synod, accustomed to theatricality, applauded out of politeness.

And then there was Bishop Philip North, seated with what can only be described as a mischievous serenity. A traditionalist of the highest Anglo-Catholic pedigree, he had the disarming quality of making the most provocative arguments while smiling warmly, often causing his adversaries to laugh before they realised they had been thoroughly skewered. He spoke seldom but with effect, and his speeches had the dual quality of being both theologically sound and dangerously entertaining. Even those who disagreed with him found themselves wondering, against their better judgment, whether he might be right after all.

And so, with prayers uttered, speeches begun, and factions murmuring like restive choirs warming up in different keys, the Synod was underway. Whether unity would be achieved, or merely spoken about once again in the manner of a distant relative often mentioned and never visited, remained to be seen.

As a variation, I asked ChatGPT to describe Questions in the style of Raymond Chandler.

“The Case of the Missing Clarity”

A General Synod Mystery

By R. Chandler (and a committee that didn’t finish on time)

The room smelled of dry photocopiers and slow despair. It was Questions time at General Synod—an hour when answers were given, but never to the questions asked, and everyone in the chamber had something to hide, even if it was just confusion.

At the front sat Bishop Rose Hudson-Wilkin, chairing with the grace of a tired matador and the temper of a match struck twice. Her gavel hit the desk like the last word in a marriage counselling session. She didn’t suffer fools gladly—and in here, that was going to be a long afternoon.

“Question 47 to the Bishop of London,” she snapped, eyes sweeping the floor like a prison warden with a soft spot for no one. “Would the bishop please respond.”

Sarah Mullally, Bishop of London, rose with the mild panic of someone who had once run an NHS trust but now found herself trying to explain canon law with a briefing note and a prayer. She smiled—pleasant, well-intentioned, and entirely out of theological ammo.

“Um… Thank you… the decision was taken, I believe, in consultation with… um, key stakeholders,” she began, her hands fluttering like pigeons over a lit brazier.

There was a rustle on the far left. Marcus Walker, the dapper foghorn from the high altars of the capital, stood with the smile of a man who’d already laid the trap and was just waiting for the prey to hop in. His lisp gave the room a strange kind of polish, like silver dipped in sarcasm.

“Madam Chair, could the bishop clarify whether any consultation actually happened, or whether this is just another example of what we might call synodical theatre?”

The room chuckled. Rose didn’t.

“This is not a debate, Mr Walker,” she said. “Though Lord knows you’d turn one into a fashion show if given half a chance. Bishop, answer the question, not the mood.”

Mullally blinked, nodded, smiled again, said something about “discernment processes,” and sat down before the edifice collapsed entirely.

Carl Hughes leaned forward next. He didn’t say much—he never did—but when he spoke, the words had balance sheets behind them. He was Finance for the Archbishops’ Council: measured, precise, cool as an iced chasuble. His answers didn’t shimmer—they landed.

“The financial provision was made in Q4 following a risk-adjusted forecast. It’s in the annex.”

You could hear pens scribbling. Or perhaps just people pretending to understand. Nobody asked a follow-up.

Then came Richard Jackson, Bishop of Hereford—tall, slow, voice like molasses in a theology tutorial. He was evangelical, technically, but suave with it—like someone who might tell you about penal substitution over a glass of Malbec.

“In these matters, we must balance grace with truth,” he intoned. “And preferably avoid both.”

There was an existential sigh from somewhere near the front. Possibly the Spirit.

Finally, Alison Coulter, chair of the House of Laity, stood up with the poise of a seasoned diplomat and the eyes of someone who already knew how it would all play out. She smiled—charming, clever, and just dangerous enough to stay liked.

“Might I gently suggest that we publish a digest of Questions beforehand, so we can avoid watching bishops guess their own policies in real time?”

Even Rose raised an eyebrow at that. Then she gaveled again.

“Time is up. We will now move to the motion—God help us all.”

The room exhaled. Somewhere behind the platform, a lowly cleric checked the time and wondered if sanctification was really worth it. And outside, the rain fell gently on the roof of Church House, as if Heaven itself was trying to wash the last 90 minutes away.

It all goes to show that AI has its uses, cool weather has its advantages, and that we all need a GSOH. I hope you enjoyed.