by Donald Payne 

My mother has always enjoyed having a hard copy of the Daily Telegraph newspaper delivered to her home. When visiting her from overseas in December 2019, I picked up the paper one morning to see a front-page article detailing allegations of inappropriate behaviour by the prominent Evangelical church leader, Jonathan Fletcher. While I was vaguely aware of Jonathan Fletcher, what captured my attention was a photograph of another man who seemed more familiar. This photo of John Smyth spoke to the memory of someone I had not thought about for many years.

I attended my first Iwerne camp, aged 15, in the summer of 1981. One of my closest friends from school was going and had invited me. I was interested in the church, having recently been confirmed as an Anglican, as was the conventional thing to do at the boarding school I went to. When offered the chance to spend ten days away from home during the summer holidays, with the promise of sport every day and an opportunity to learn more about Christianity, I was curious and willing.

The camp was fun. I played a lot of football and cricket, everyone was friendly and I enjoyed the bible teachings. As was standard practice towards the end of the camp, I accepted Jesus as my saviour and was born again. I don’t remember meeting Jonathan Fletcher. I do remember his brother, David, and did not warm to him. Over the last few days of the camp, my group was introduced to another man, who was spoken about with a combination of reverence and awe. This was John Smyth – charming, charismatic, warm and hugely likable. Someone who immediately made you feel special. He gave a talk one evening. While I do not recall the details, I do remember that it was captivating. When the camp was over, we took a minibus from Iwerne to a meeting point, where our parents were to pick us up. For some reason, our particular group took a detour to John Smyth’s house, before heading back to our own homes. At the time it felt like something of a reward. I enjoyed the warmth and hospitality, and the smug feeling that our group had been chosen for an opportunity that was not afforded to everybody. We were special.

The following summer I attended Iwerne again. I had encouraged another of my close friends to attend. Two things stand out about this second visit. One was that the novelty and the excitement that I had experienced the year before began to diminish. In the year between the camps, I had spent time exploring more about Christianity with one of my school chaplains. To my initial dismay, he did not share my obvious excitement surrounding the Iwerne experience. He introduced me to a number of Christian authors, two of whom, the Anglican priest, Martin Israel, and the Trappist monk, Thomas Merton, quickly became my favourites. Looking back, it is no surprise that my attempt to celebrate my enthusiasm for these two particular writers did not go down as well as I expected with the Iwerne leaders.

The other striking memory from that second camp was the absence of John Smyth. We were told that he was very ill and therefore unable to attend that summer. We expressed our concern and sent our love and best wishes to his family. Undoubtedly, we would have prayed for him. As before, the camp was fun. It was summer, we were outdoors and there was a lot of sport. There was little further discussion about John Smyth.

A year later, in the summer of 1983, having done my ‘A’ levels, I was back at Iwerne again. I am not quite sure why I went for a third time. It might have been a way of using up time during a long summer holiday. Having been away at boarding school since the age of seven, I had no close friends who lived near me, so the prospect of two weeks away with people that I still got on with continued to hold some attraction. I had deepened my exploration of Martin Israel and Thomas Merton and had begun to experiment with mantra meditation as a form of prayer (popularised by John Main). However, it was becoming increasingly apparent that the views and practices of other Christian writers had no place within the particular form of theology promoted at Iwerne. During that third camp, my assigned mentor initiated a stern conversation with me about the heretical views that I was always keen to discuss. ‘It makes me question,’ he asked, ‘whether you really have been born again’. The atmosphere of warmth and friendship that I had experienced during my first camp had now noticeably cooled.

Fast forward to that December morning in my mother’s kitchen, seeing John Smyth‘s photograph in the paper. On reading the article, a multitude of memories began to resurface. I then embarked on an exhaustive and obsessive troll through the internet, discovering details of a Channel 4 documentary, the Rushton report, Bleeding for Jesus, Surviving Church and much more. I experienced surprise, disbelief and anger. And yet, I was not surprised. This felt familiar, recognisable. It was also accompanied by a huge sense of relief.

I have continued to follow the story although, more than forty years on, the world now makes more sense to me without God. I maintain a soft spot for Thomas Merton and have, more recently, immersed myself in the music and musings of Nick Cave. And yet I remain fascinated by this episode in my life. The trick that David Fletcher and his colleagues managed to play on us for so long was to target a group of vulnerable, impressionable young men, who had spent many years spent living in total institutions, away from family and all things familiar. The Iwerne hierarchy sold us a vision and a solution to our anxieties. They offered us meaning and, providing we embraced the whole package, a wonderful, liberating experience. Wonderful, that is, until we began to ask questions, to display curiosity and to wonder aloud about the occasional inconsistency in the teaching; until we began to express doubt. Initially, doubt was praised and encouraged. In the Iwerne playbook, transient doubt was a necessary part of the process towards faith. However, doubt that persisted was evidence of a fault – not in the teaching but in the boy. The kindness and encouragement that was experienced in abundance early on continued to be on offer, providing we accepted the message wholeheartedly. But if not, the mood began to change. There could be no discussion about the authenticity and validity of the message; no question that the teaching might not hold up to analysis. This was biblical teaching and the bible is God’s word. For those sinners who, like me, expressed ongoing curiosity and doubt, the fault was ours. At that point, the warmth and fellowship disappeared and was replaced, abruptly, with cold, callous rejection. That camp in 1983 was my last.

This cruel version of the Christian message allows flawed men to flourish. It provides a perfect environment for a charming, charismatic, monstrous man, one who makes you feel special, to hide in plain sight. I am intrigued by the knowledge that there are people, with whom I grew up and knew well in my adolescence, who continue to follow these teachings. There are others who do not just follow the teachings but have made them the source of their livelihood. And it is not just within the Evangelical world that such cruelty lurks. I think of Bishop Peter Ball, who attended services in the chapel at my school, preaching on Sundays and officiating at confirmation. A man who was held up to us as an example of kindness, humility and obedience. There but for the grace of God, go I.