In this uncertain time, Associate Research Fellow Greg Smith discusses the existential risks we currently face and wonders whether there is anything we can learn from the biblical notion of sabbath?
There has yet to be a pandemic that is an existential risk to the human species. In the worst recorded pandemic to date, the “Black Death” of the 14th century, about one third of Europe’s population are estimated to have died. The population in England in 1400 was perhaps half what it had been 100 years earlier. Even on the most pessimistic modelling, and without effective measures to control the spread of infection, the current Covid-19 pandemic will have only minor effects on demography. While mathematical models predict anything from 20,000 to 250,000 deaths in the UK directly attributable to the virus, it is worth remembering that there are approximately 500,000 deaths a year in normal times from a variety of causes. Of course, there is a risk that at some time in the future a more cataclysmic pandemic may sweep the globe; other apocalyptic risks are available.
For many of us, especially if we operate in the faith, community or small business sector, the idea of “risk assessment” is at best a necessary hassle, which we undertake grudgingly to stay within the law. At the other extreme, insurance companies and epidemiologists have developed a highly abstract science for calculating and mitigating risk. Indeed, the academic and public health community were fully aware of the risks associated with a viral pandemic. With international public health networks in place, and the unprecedented ease of global information sharing, one could argue that national leaders and policy makers should have been better informed, better prepared and quicker to take appropriate action. However, we are where we are, and one can only hope and pray that unprecedented measures will help the global community get back in control of the epidemic in months rather than years.
As individual human beings, most of us are not very good at assessing risks. This often results in irrational behaviour: for example, I am terrified of air travel (despite knowing that no other mode of travel results in fewer casualties per passenger mile) whilst also continuing the much more dangerous habit of cycling on urban roads. The rumour mill of social media only exaggerates irrational fear, stoking the current panic-buying.
Yet coronavirus does present a real risk which is beyond our personal control. For most of us, there is a substantial probability of a miserable week or so of sickness, from which we will recover. For those of us who are older, suffering from underlying health conditions, poorer, or working on the front line in hospitals, the risk of dying is much increased. Sadly, for some of us it will reduce our “healthy life years”. In the long term, of course, we are all dead, and one thing the virus is doing is making us aware of our own mortality, prompting us to consider and talk about the reality of death in ways we have been reluctant to do in ordinary time.
From the point of view of governments, the major risks can be summarised as: loss of control and then being held responsible for catastrophic failure of policy. The potential breakdown of healthcare systems at the peak of the epidemic is a nightmare for healthcare managers. Doubly so in the UK where one of the few “sacreds” that is still shared across society is the NHS. Politicians must dread the risk to political and social stability.
Economically, the situation has gone beyond risk; it is already a cataclysmic shock to world and national economies. Recovery, particularly in sectors such as travel and leisure will take many years, if not decades, and within a capitalist framework further austerity, growing inequality and extreme poverty seems inevitable. The emergency policy interventions of recent weeks, which would have seemed inconceivable at the start of the year, may be welcome and essential, but are largely unassessed risks of great magnitude. There is no wonder people are beginning to debate whether radical international lock-downs are an over-reaction.
One would hope that Christians, especially as we prepare to celebrate Easter, are in a better place to cope than most. People of faith are those who have taken a punt on the risk that this life is not the end. As people of hope, we may be well placed to offer significant and sacrificial compassionate service. But can our faith withstand the test of fear, chaos, and the threat of death? There are attempts by some to tell the world what God is doing through this pandemic: as judgement on sin, as warning to repent, as an opportunity to pray for signs and wonders of healing, or as a harbinger of revival. Yet there are no easy theodicies; as Tom Wright argues, it is mainly a season for lament. Epidemics merely show that the world is not the way God intended it to be, the way we would wish it to be, or even the way it shall be in the age to come.
As pollution levels and carbon emissions have fallen drastically environmental benefits are already being observed, though we do not know if they will be sustained into the longer term. Despite punditry and predictions the future remains unclear, though there are almost certainly going to be some long-term cultural and social transformations.
Perhaps this pandemic period could lead to a similar Sabbath effect, through which a greater human flourishing, and a respite from the desolation of God’s good earth eventually emerge?
In the wake of Brexit, Greg Smith reviews Graham Tomlin’s call for a more harmonious future. Whilst he approves of the desire for reconciliation, Smith wonders whether Tomlin’s book is really up to the task.
This short book from the Bishop of Kensington responds to the perceived sense that the Church of England can help to reconcile our post-Brexit political polarisation. A polarisation between what David Goodhart has described as the “somewheres” and the “anywheres”, the localists and the cosmopolitans, the nativists and the internationalists. It is undoubtedly a good thing that a key leader of the established church has made an effort to address the identity crisis and political divide triggered by the 2016 referendum, especially since being at least nominally Church of England was associated with the Leave vote. While no one can doubt that reconciliation, or at least civility in continued disagreement, would be welcome, or that Christians and people of faith could play a significant role in addressing that challenge, it seems to me, however, that this book is unable to deliver on what it promises.
First, who is the audience for this essay? Tomlin never defines what he means by the pronouns “we” and “us”. This inevitably presents a problem, since much of the underlying tension in the Brexit debate was about identity—the boundaries drawn between “us” and “them” in a society rendered complex by diversity and intersectionality. One can probably assume that he is thinking of an undifferentiated “English people”—assumed to be Christian. Certainly, the appeal to Christian values is rooted in aspirations to virtue and morality that will be widely accepted. Yet it is almost impossible to believe that “being perfect even as my Father in heaven is perfect” can be understood or even approached without, to put it starkly, the “life transforming power of the gospel”. So, is the call only addressed to the church, the company of believing disciples of Jesus, in the hope that they have something distinctive to contribute to the post-Brexit debate? Maybe, but in a society where Christian belief and practice is the pursuit of a small and declining minority, and where the authority of religious leaders is constantly questioned, even within the church, such a call can only make a small impact.
My second concern relates to Tomlin’s reading of history. Anglicanism makes much of the fact that it has been, and continues to be, a church that bridges Catholic and Reformed traditions and theologies. Almost 500 years ago, in a sixteenth century version of Article 50, Britain made a break from Europe declaring the King, rather than the Pope, the supreme head of the Church of England. However, to suggest that the Henry VIII’s nationalisation of church assets and power, and the subsequent Elizabethan compromise made for peace is far-fetched. It led to 200 years of bloody conflict at home and abroad. Jesuits were hanged, drawn and quartered; dissenters were forced to conform, at least occasionally; and England engaged globally, and on the continent, in the European wars of religion. These troubles became the backdrop for colonial expansion as persecution drove out the pilgrims, and state-sponsored, Church-blessed piracy on the high seas developed into the transatlantic slave trade. The English Civil war brought slaughter on an industrial scale alongside religious anarchy, while, after the Restoration, the persecution at the hands of Anglicans continued as preachers like John Bunyan and George Fox were imprisoned and the Scottish Covenanters were hounded to their deaths. Religious toleration was only established by law in the 19th Century. In other words, Tomlin’s assertion that the “Christian conviction that every person, regardless of wealth, social status, gender or even moral goodness is equal as a recipient of God’s love and attention” has only relatively recently entered into the thinking and practice of the Church of England, and remains imperfect (p. 34).
Thirdly, there is no discussion of the underlying contours of the Brexit vote, which seem to be mirrored in the swing to the Conservatives in the recent general election. Broadly speaking, in both cases, it was old, white, English, provincial males who were more inclined to vote Leave, and now for Boris Johnson. A disproportionate number regarded themselves as culturally Christian and Anglican while the majority of bishops and clergy are, it seems, avid Remainers. Geographically speaking, populist support for Brexit appears to be concentrated in non-metropolitan, white, working-class, post-industrial areas. The mission strategy of the Church recognises, through its changing allocation of resources, that such post-industrial areas are particularly tough going precisely because of Church neglect and failure, while churches that flourish are more likely to be found in Remain voting parts of England. Does the Church have any right to speak of reconciling the Brexit divide before it puts its own house in order?
Finally, there is nothing substantial in this book about the possible economic and social consequences of Brexit. The economic risks, whilst already evident in the short term, are not properly understood in the medium to long term. Moreover, trade unions fear a reduction of workers’ rights and environmentalists fear for the future of the planet. The Brexit narrative about immigration suggests there will be an even more hostile environment, not only towards refugees and migrant workers, but also towards Black, British-born families. As Anthony Reddie has argued, the Church needs to analyse Brexit through the lens of a postcolonial liberation theology. If the consequences of Brexit are as bad as some fear, then Christians will need to cry out more loudly than ever for truth and justice to roll down like the rivers. It will not do for the established church to advocate a vicarage tea party style of reconciliation.
Since time immemorial an unavoidable feature of the human condition has been the formation of groups and the possibility of conflict between them. The tribal nature of humanity is recorded in the Hebrew scriptures, where even the pronunciation of a single consonant in the word Shibboleth could serve as a boundary marker for warfare and even genocide (Judges 12:6). A community which has developed strong reserves of bonding social capital in the absence of bridging social capital is likely to develop a culture of othering, and to hold favourable stereotypes of “us” and negative ones of “them”. When a nationalistic populism is linked to nostalgia for the privilege of Christendom controversy and conflict often ensue. It is in this context that David Fitch (B. R. Lindner Chair of Evangelical Theology at Northern Seminary, Chicago, and pastor of Life on the Vine Christian Community, an Anabaptist missional church in Chicago) offers his new book.
“The Church of Us vs. Them” is aimed at the evangelical Christian market as a popularisation and application of Fitch’s doctoral research and earlier (2011) academic book “The End of Evangelicalism”. There, he offered a trenchant critique of evangelicalism in North America. Drawing on the theoretical insights of Slavoj Zizek he described a section of the church that is fixated on three master signifiers: the inerrancy of the Bible, the need to make a decision for Christ and the concept of the Christian nation. These issues, although so poorly defined as to be empty of meaningful content, become the boundary markers by which evangelicals distinguish themselves from unbelievers—including liberal Christians. The result is a section of the church which rejects science and scholarship; accepts cheap grace without the need for repentance, conversion and transformation of lifestyle; and has fully identified with the policies and programmes of right-wing conservative politicians. Fitch starts the new book as follows:
“… our culture is rife with conflict. Politics is full of strife, antagonisms and vitriol… Meanwhile, the church appears little different.”
Having engaged from time to time on social media in a robust but respectful critique of Christian leaders such as Franklin Graham—who supports President Trump and the campaign to “make America great again”—I can confirm that this is the case. Given some of the names I have been called by extreme, conservative fundamentalists, I am thankful that I am thick-skinned. Nor is such language totally absent from debates amongst Christians in the UK.
Fitch longs for Christians to develop a safe space where we no longer see each other as enemies. He uses stories and anecdotes from his own practice as a pastor to explore the themes of his 2011 book: the misuse of the “inerrant” Bible as a weapon, and the (sometimes, often repeated) “decision” that leads to life as a disciple of Jesus. He exposes the assumption that the USA is a chosen people—the exceptional nation, or a “city on a hill” at the vanguard of Christendom—by highlighting that it is also responsible for much evil around the world and at home. He explores current controversies on sexuality and the “war on terror” and suggests that the priority should be to “make America Christian again”.
The final two chapters and the first appendix are perhaps the most interesting and forward-looking parts of the book. Fitch advocates the idea that “the local church is my politics” and gives examples of transformational church community development, such as the programmes set up in Mississippi by John Perkins and the Christian Community Development Association. He seeks to develop a political theology of presence, drawing on Paul’s concept of the body of Christ as the fullness and centre of Christ’s presence over the whole world. His position is clearly located in the Anabaptist and Mennonite tradition of the church as an alternative commonwealth, set over and against the kingdoms of this world. While I see this as an attractive approach, its general contours seem familiar for someone who has, for many decades, been nourished by the radical evangelical witness of groups such as Sojourners and Red Letter Christians. As someone standing with at least one foot in the William Temple tradition, and frequently reflecting on the incarnation, I think we must engage rather more deeply with secular politics and the other disciplines which shape our understanding of the material and real world. In this respect, I find Fitch’s popular volume less helpful than his more academic book—and, indeed, his very perceptive two-part blog on the political theologies of Cone, Niebhur and Bonhoeffer (part 2 here).
I also wonder how extensive the market or readership is for such a book. Is it too cynical to assume that Christians (whether on the right or left) who take entrenched positions and demonise alternatives simply can’t be bothered to read books, when they can rely on confirmation bias from their favourite social media network silos or polarised cable TV news channels? Even if the message gets through to an audience, will it make any real difference in the electoral politics of these dangerous, populist times? Moreover, the Christian audience is simultaneously shrinking as younger generations on both sides of the Atlantic increasingly identify as having no religion.
In the UK, now in the middle of a General Election Campaign, the polarisation and political paralysis surrounding Brexit make the message of “The Church of Us vs. Them” important food for thought. As Christians we are not immune to taking extreme positions and othering or cursing our opponents. It is possible that the established church has moderated the tone of our politics and prevented the formation of electoral alliances between church and any one political party. Recently, church leaders have echoed some of Fitch’s concerns. For example, the Archbishop of Canterbury has issued a rebuke to Boris Johnson, warning the prime minister that the use of “inflammatory” language risks pouring “petrol” on Britain’s divisions over Brexit. In an interview with The Sunday Times, Justin Welby said Britain had become consumed by “an abusive and binary approach to political decisions” in which Brexit rivals treated their opponents as “my total enemy”. Yet, as always, the Church of England, even at its most prophetic, comes across as gentle, middle-of-the-road and top-down. Perhaps, rather than a sectarian disengagement and formation of an alternative community, or even a critical friendship with the structures of the state, we need to respond to the crisis we now face from the bottom up. This could involve the inclusive populism of the Citizens movement discussed by Angus Ritchie or the sort of liberative approach discussed in Roger Mitchell’s recent blog reviewing Anthony Reddie’s “Theologizing Brexit”.
Associate Research Fellow Greg Smith highlights the persecution of Christians around the world but warns against identity-driven narratives of Christophobia.
The bombings of churches in Sri Lanka on Easter Sunday are an evil act which strikes symbolically at the whole body of Christ across the globe and drags us and our worship back too soon from the joyful celebration of the empty tomb to the darkness and agony of Calvary. On the same morning, the Prime Minister’s Easter message highlights the extent of persecution of Christians around the world; while Jeremy Corbyn’s highlights the fact that many refugees seek asylum from religious conflict and persecution. Following the recent massacre of Muslims at prayer in New Zealand, these religiously inflected atrocities demand a thoughtful theological response.
In the last couple of months, I have seen lots of Facebook posts, blogs and articles deploying the theme of Christophobia. For example:
In an age of identity politics, with a wide range of intersectional overlapping, it is not surprising that the discourse of “phobias”—originally designed to highlight and defend against cultural racism towards Muslims and the othering and exclusion of LGBTQ people—has been appropriated by Christians. Tariq Modood in a recent British Academy lecture spoke of the processes of othering, stereotyping and essentialising of Muslims by white society, whereby it took a long, non-linear history of racialisation to turn an ethno-religious group into a race. Rejecting the commonplace view that all Muslims fail to integrate, oppress their women, support terrorism or engage in paedophilia, Modood argued that anti-essentialism (recognising diversity and individual agency within social groups) is an intellectually compelling idea, and a powerful resource in the cause of equality. He also suggested that living within a hegemonic secularism subtly influences Muslim subjectivity as they react to a perceived marginalisation of faith.
Adopting a similar view of their place in the world around them, many conservative Christians are now claiming a victim status for themselves and for their fellow believers across the world. An analysis of the Christophobia narrative suggests that: some expressions seem to be fair and reasonable criticism; some seem to be less thoughtful; some essentialise both Christians and Muslims; some clearly “other” Muslims and are implicitly or explicitly Islamophobic; some even give support and encouragement to right wing, fascist extremism.
Two legitimate concerns that are expressed are clearly important to many believing Christians.
First, in many parts of the world individual Christians are facing hostility and persecution, sometimes to the point of martyrdom, at the hands of both state and non-state actors. This is particularly the case for people who have made a public profession of conversion, especially from an Islamic background. But persecution of faithful Christians is also well documented in Hindu dominated India, and in atheistic China and North Korea. Jesus himself challenged the religious and political authorities of first Century Judea, who had no other King but Caesar, with his claims about a different Kingdom that was not of this world.
Secondly, there are some conflict situations where simply to be identified as Christian (a member of an ethno-religious group, whether or not the individual believes or practices the faith) puts them at risk of discrimination, terrorism or even genocide. For example: accusations of blasphemy, as in the Asia Bibi case; bombings of church congregations in the Philippines, Pakistan and now Sri Lanka; or as civilian casualties or captives in armed conflicts in Nigeria, Syria/Iraq and Egypt where the enemy is often inspired by Islamist ideology. Inevitably such conflicts, which may involve historic complexities, and are often not helped by Western foreign policy and reactions to it, polarise communities along ethno-religious lines. This makes it easy for Christians to see themselves as victims and rightly convinces many of us to support their cries for justice through our prayers and political action.
But beyond these instances of persecution, there are also other claims being made under the banner of Christophobia. These perceptions, held by many Christians, are open to debate and empirical testing. For example:
That the media favours Muslims and gives them positive coverage by highlighting and criticising Islamophobia but never mentioning Christian persecution or other Christophobia.
That secular Western establishments misunderstand or despise the Christian faith—especially more morally conservative forms of Christianity, which may conflict with liberal equalities law.
Such claims need to be openly debated. And there may indeed be some substance to them: for the media and the elites do have their own agendas and presuppositions. But the proponents of Christophobia often fail to recognise the privilege that is still given to mainstream Christianity. Nor do they account for the fact that much of this hostility towards Christianity is a response to extremist views, fundamentalist theologies, and particular, often deliberately provocative and hateful, statements about gender, sexuality or other faith communities that are in direct opposition to the views of the majority of the public. Fears about Christophobia also resonate with populist and nativist politics, which longs for an imagined age when “Christian England” was a global power and controlled its own destiny.
Some of the more entrenched accounts of Christophobia make un-nuanced assumptions about “Christians” as “good” and “them” as “bad”. Across the Atlantic, where the pro- and anti-Trump culture wars are raging, we see the “othering” of Muslims, LGBTQ people, and “godless” Democrats. In Australia and Britain, some right wing extremists such as Tommy Robinson are using these issues to whip up Islamophobic hatred among Christians. They seek to identify the Christendom tradition of these islands with white British nativism and an ideology that can be defined as Christianism. This has little to do with orthodox Christian belief and practice, or the ethics of Jesus.
Our Brexit context, this populist moment, and the massacres of Muslims and Christians around the world make this a dangerous time. The trading of religious identity politics and “phobia” discourses appears to be an unhelpful path that can lead to destruction and conflict. Indeed, adopting victim status is problematic, as it allows people to blame external enemies. At the same time, it denies us the opportunity to develop our own personal and communal power for change, or even to put our faith in the divine power of self-emptying love that is found in Christ.
Associate Research Fellow Greg Smith delves into the complex relationship between the Church of England and English identity in the light of Brexit.
With Brexit still looming (though perhaps not as soon as we had thought), the government, Parliament, the people and the church remain perplexed as to what to do and fearful of what might happen. Opinion is not so much divided by the binary question of June 2016, but so fragmented that it reminds us of Biblical times when, ‘all the people did what was right in their own eyes’.
While religion cannot account for, or be blamed for, the situation we now find ourselves in, research that Linda Woodhead and I recently published reveals important associations between religion and the patterns of voting. Our exit poll of 3,242 UK adults shows that exactly two-thirds (66%) of voters who identified as Church of England voted to leave the EU. That is higher than for England as a whole, where just over half of voters (53%) chose Leave. Amongst non-Christian faiths—though sample sizes are small—the tendency was to favour Remain. The growing group who report ‘no religion’ also favoured Remain: 53% to 47%. Our statistical analysis showed that being C of E was an independent factor—it was not simply that these voters were older, concentrated in pro-Brexit regions, or disproportionately white working class.
However, for Christians who are more active in the life of the church we found that support for Brexit was reduced. In surveys before the referendum, 55% of monthly Anglican churchgoers intended to vote Leave. Of evangelicals polled in April 2016, 51% intended to vote Remain and only 27% to vote Leave, with 22% undecided. Among evangelicals who supported Brexit it is possible to identify a relatively small core of religiously and politically conservative Christians, concentrated in Pentecostal and fundamentalist denominations, who profoundly believed that Brexit was God’s will for ‘our nation’ and prayed accordingly based on a premillennial eschatology and dispensationalist readings of Biblical apocalyptic linked with contemporary prophetic messages—although some argued their case in more rational terms, invoking sovereignty and secularism. In contrast, most senior church leaders tended to endorse the Remain campaign—with only one Anglican bishop on record as supporting Leave.
The English church therefore seems to reflect the divide between a cosmopolitan elite who favour Remain and a more populist movement among the lay people of England who voted to leave the EU by a substantial majority. This polarisation also seems to be mirrored in a new book, edited by Goodhew and Cooper, that aims to understand the remarkable changing fortunes of Christianity in the capital city. Why is it that—when across Britain traditional measures of church attendance, Christian belief and institutional influence continue to decline—church life in London is vibrant and growing? After reading the book, and attending the book launch, I produced a reflective review, which you can read here.
It is interesting to note that many of the contributors at the launch dated the beginning of desecularisation in London to 1979, the year that Margaret Thatcher entered Downing Street with the prayer of Saint Francis on her lips. Her government marked the beginning of neo-liberal economic policies, the dominance of the market, and the globalisation of capitalism. Alongside growing inequality, this has led to the massive regeneration of London and subsequent population growth. Demography, in itself, is a driver of the numerical growth in religious practice. Added to this is the reality that London, like other great world metropolises, is a global city, with a highly diverse ethnic mix, and a population dominated by the young, mobile, professional classes. In terms of Brexit, London can be described as ‘Remain central’.
At the book launch, Grace Davie asked what is it that attracts worshippers to the growing churches? These successful congregations are mostly evangelical, or serve a particular ethnic group, but also include mega-churches and cathedrals. She suggested that, in a market economy, where consumer preference and individualism are highly valued, and a sense of religious obligation is less common, the ‘customer’ may be attracted by: experiential religion, high-quality music, and the relatively low demands on participation, belonging and ethical behaviour. It is also the case that choosing to belong to a church (even the non-religious Sunday Assembly) confirms the possibility that ‘community’ itself has a market value. In large cities, bonding social capital is often absent and, as the Foundation’s research on spiritual and religious capital has shown, faith communities often help to bring meaning to urban existence.
Meanwhile, there is evidence of substantial ‘white flight’, which has led to new patterns of segregation. The highest levels of ethnic segregation are now in overwhelmingly white former council estates, ex-mining villages, coastal communities, rural areas, and small market towns. Yet, since the millennium, even these communities have experienced European migration, resulting in rapid social change. Within this context, a nostalgic, English nationalist identity politics has arisen, in a form that helps to explain the voting patterns in the 2016 referendum. Populism is not necessarily right wing or racist, but there is no denying that some of the narrative of the Leave campaign was ‘nativist’, as Cas Mudde defines it. In terms of Brexit, such communities are clearly at the ‘leaving edge’.
It is in these communities that the Church of England and other major denominations struggle hardest to survive, with declining and ageing congregations, financial unsustainability, unadaptable buildings and a shortage of stipendiary ministry. In Grace Davie’s terms, there is a lot of ‘vicarious religion’ or, as Daniele Hervieu-Leger would have it, ‘religion as a chain of memory’. Here, the default religious identity is Christian and, precisely because they are English, that means the Church of England. It is the nostalgic world of warm beer, village greens, people on bicycles on the way to evensong, ‘Call the Midwife’, and imaginaries of (in the well know words of Rupert Brooke) ‘an English heaven’. It is not yet, for the most part, the politics of Tommy Robinson, the English Defence League, or the populist right of Trump, Le Pen, and Orban—where ‘Christianism’, described by Ben Ryan as a crude political ideology and the triumph of empty symbolism, is deployed as a counter jihad to the perceived threat of Islamic takeover.
Reconciling these two stereotypes of religion and their communities is a huge challenge for the Church of England, a national church established by law. But where politics and culture has divided, our prayer must be that faith, hope and love may still abide.
Greg Smith wonders how the Christmas message of peace really works out in practice.
I am writing this blog in the week following the centenary celebrations of the 1918 Armistice, but with a view to publication in the week before Christmas. Inevitably this leads one to reconsider the relevance of the angels’ chorus as popularised in Edward Sear’s carol, “It came upon a midnight clear”.
With ongoing wars in Syria and Yemen, and with growing tensions between the superpowers, the realism and the longing of his third verse continues to resonate today:
Yet with the woes of sin and strife
The world hath suffered long;
Beneath the angel-strain have rolled
Two thousand years of wrong;
And man, at war with man, hears not
The love song which they bring:
O hush the noise, ye men of strife,
And hear the angels sing.
In recent weeks I have attended interfaith events and church discussion groups, as well as engaged in social media discussions, where the theme has been: “Is Islam intrinsically violent?” On the anniversary of the end of a war where the “Christian” nations of Europe sent out millions of armed young men to slaughter each other there is a degree of irony in Christians posing the question. Furthermore, given the diversity of both faith communities across the globe, and the multiple ways in which religious texts and traditions can be interpreted it is probably a mistake to claim any aspect as “intrinsic”. Christian writers such as Tim Dieppe of Christian Concern may delve into the foundational texts and early history of Islam and conclude there is a thread of coercion and conquest, which contrasts with the pacifist and suffering servanthood themes of the Gospels and New Testament church. However, a secular or Muslim reader of the Hebrew Scriptures, and indeed the apocalyptic texts in the Gospels and Revelation, might well conclude that Christianity is also intrinsically violent. The current, difficult relationships within and between the faith communities and the nations of the world are probably better dealt with in the realism and messiness of everyday politics, rather than treating theological differences as the essential cause.
The 2016 film “The Sultan and the Saint” written and directed by Alex Kronemer relates the story of St. Francis of Assisi’s journey across the frontiers of Christendom to Egypt at the time of the Crusades. The publicity suggests that this encounter, “can model anew how Christians and Muslims can meet one another in dialogue while also providing a medium to cultivate greater understanding, in a present day when heightened global tensions and angry and debasing discourse bear eerie similarity to the setting in which Francis and al-Kamil met.” While critics have questioned the historical accuracy of the film—and set about debunking the myth of St. Francis as a modern ecumenist on the grounds that Francis was engaged in a mission of evangelism rather than peace negotiation—there is power and hope in the simple, if perhaps naïve, idea that friendship and vulnerability can build relationships and reconciliation across the deepest social gulfs. Indeed, without that hope there would not be much point in anyone celebrating Christmas at all.
In the contemporary Christian world, the spirit of both the Crusaders and that of Francis are still to be found. In a newly published paper, based on a recent survey of UK evangelicals about attitudes to other religions and interfaith activity, I present data which suggests that the large majority tend to the Franciscan view. They are firm in the opinion that there is no way to God except through Jesus Christ, and that the good news and call to follow him must be presented to all people of all faith backgrounds and none. But for the most part they wish to live in peace and friendship with their Muslim neighbours, to allow them to worship and pray in freedom, and to work as allies on certain issues and projects where there are shared values.
Among a minority of British evangelicals—and, one would suspect, among the vast majority of white, US evangelicals who support Trump—the Crusader spirit still dominates. Here, Islam is seen as the enemy: in apocalyptic terms as the beast, to be confronted and destroyed by the saints and the nations whom God has appointed to wreak vengeance. In the more extreme interpretations of Biblical prophecy, Crusaders sometimes conflate and confuse Islam with Russia and the European Union, or the powers and principalities of globalisation personified in Barack Obama and George Soros. Sometimes, an uncritical pro-Israel form of Zionism is tinged with anti-Semitism, while populist politicians such as Trump, Le Pen, Orban and Farage are anointed with Messianic status. Mainstream media is considered as fake news and the global establishment is seen as restricting freedom of speech. The contempt of court case involving Yaxley-Lennon (Tommy Robinson) is cited as a prime example of where “Christians” are not allowed to say what they believe (“the truth”) about Islam.
This presents a dilemma for those of us who adopt the Franciscan approach. We do not want to restrict freedom of expression and we may have to admit that some of the Crusader critique of Islam is sincerely held opinion that does not intend to incite hatred of Muslims. Yet we can only concur with Ben Ryan of Theos, who describes this form of politics as, “Christianism: A crude political ideology and the triumph of empty symbolism,” which has little to do with the faith and discipleship inspired by the Prince of Peace. We need to remember also that most Crusaders supporting these sorts of freedoms want permission to say and write hateful things about Muslims generally, using social media to target an already prejudiced and ignorant audience, and aiming to whip up prejudice and hostility against a particular ethno-religious group. And we dare not forget that in recent weeks we have also marked the 80th anniversary of Kristallnacht, when light was taken out of the world.
We are, however, called to trust that, “the light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it”.
Associate Research Fellow Greg Smith reflects on a holiday hunger programme in Preston and the Biblical principle of manna.
Over the past few weeks, a major part of my work has been to develop a holiday hunger programme as a partnership between Preston City Council, local churches, and schools. This is one of several different initiatives in our city, across the county, and throughout England in which colleagues at the Church Urban Fund Together Network have played a significant part. In our own parish in inner-city, multi-cultural Preston we are delivering weekly holiday markets aimed at families who are struggling in the absence of free school meals.
The markets work in partnership with Fareshare, who gather and redistribute industrial quantities of food that is surplus to the requirements of major supermarkets and food manufacturers. Each week, we order and collect several car loads of produce—including vegetables, fruit, bread, dried goods, and tinned food—and set up market stalls in the back of our church. Local primary schools advertise the service and encourage parents whom they know to be vulnerable to come along with their shopping bags. There is no means test; any family can come and take what they need on the basis that they make a donation as they feel able. Any money collected is then used to pay Fareshare a nominal fee for the food they have provided.
This market model has several advantages over the traditional food bank. First, customers have a choice—albeit a limited one—rather than having to accept a standard food parcel which may include items they would never eat. Secondly, since the market is open to all, there is no stigma in attending. Thirdly, the pay as you feel able principle gives customers some dignity in allowing them to make a contribution. Fourthly, there is an emphasis on fresh and healthy food. And finally, we try to make the sessions relationship based, offering a brew, some conversation, supportive friendly volunteers and a few games and activities for children who come. These principles are now being promoted in the emerging food pantries movement, promoted by Church Action on Poverty, which seeks to offer a more participatory and holistic alternative to the standard food bank model.
Although well over a million people make use of food banks, the food poverty crisis is only the tip of the iceberg in the context of growing food insecurity. News coverage suggesting that the government is making plans to stockpile food for use in the eventuality of a disastrous end to the Brexit negotiations, shows how the dependency on global “just in time” food supply chains has introduced unacceptable risks. The recent shortage of carbon dioxide for fizzy drinks is just one example of what can happen when a complex system breaks down and chaos ensues. While global markets have ensured remarkable consumer choice in foodstuffs, they can also be critiqued. Problems include: damage to local economies, the environmental cost of food miles, the concentration of power and control in the hands of a small number of multinational companies, and the health and well-being impact of reliance on processed food, ready meals and takeaway pizzas.
It may be unrealistic and indulging in nostalgia to advocate a return to the simplicity of former times, where each family ekes out a subsistence lifestyle from food produced on its own wee croft. Yet the possibility of a radical shift in the food economy deserves proper consideration. Local, less intensive agriculture, together with a move away from unsustainable methods of fish, meat and dairy production could bring significant benefits to the global environment and individual health. And a change of attitude, where food is seen as more than a commodity, and eating regains something of a social and sacramental function, could even be good for our souls. As Jesus said, human beings cannot survive on bread alone.
Recent lectionary readings of the story of the feeding of the multitude have reminded us of the manna principle, which is paradigmatic for the Christian understanding of food. Firstly, food is a gift from God, intended to supply the needs of all the people; enough for each and enough for all. There is some work to be done in gathering and distributing the food, but not so much work that one must break the Sabbath day, or year. Biblical wisdom means that there is no need to reap the margins of the field and neglect the needs of widows, orphans and migrants in the land. No-one needs to drive slaves, or employ harvesters, or seasonal migrant labour, at unjust rates of pay. While a Joseph can prudently manage food stocks for the long term, there is no wisdom in entrepreneurs building bigger barns in the hopes of making a fortune when prices respond to scarcity. It may be that applying these ancient principles in the modern economy could lead to a more equitable and sustainable solution for 21st century food policy.
Greg Smith’s latest blog reflects on work at the sharp end of austerity Britain, and theological approaches to change.
“I’ve been working for 38 years, never been out of a job. I want a job – I left the last one because I had to for my own mental health, and now I find I have to wait 32 weeks for benefits. So the money I’ve saved has to last until then.”
“I only get £50 a week, how can you manage on that? We need jobs, more jobs in the town!”
(Unemployed men, Blackpool)
Stories like these are commonplace in conversations that church and charity workers are having every day with people who are at the sharp end of austerity Britain. The accounts of destitution, sanctions, stress and despair captured hauntingly in Ken Loach’s film I, Daniel Blake bring tears to the eyes and angry red colour to the cheeks of even the most hardened and cynical citizens of this land.
Over recent years the whole welfare benefit system, which is the legacy of the welfare state policies developed by William Temple and his circle of friends in the 1940s, has been undergoing radical change. Some of the change could be seen as appropriate modernisation and simplification of what has become an extremely complex system that is scarcely fit for purpose in today’s economy. Policy makers talk of the need to eradicate the culture of dependency and “making work pay” – political messages which play well among “just about managing” voters. Yet it has become increasingly clear that welfare reform has inflicted casualties, and the implementation of key policies is now looking more and more chaotic. In response to growing protests and computer glitches the implementation programme is repeatedly delayed and detailed regulations are tweaked.
At the heart of the welfare reform programme is the national roll-out of Universal Credit, a single monthly benefit that replaces at least six individual conditional benefits that could be claimed by economically inactive and poorly paid households and paid to them typically every fortnight. The key changes are that applications will normally have to be made online and benefits will be paid into a bank, building society or credit union account a month in arrears. This means claimants will need to adopt careful new approaches to budgeting, including ensuring rent is paid to the landlord by the claimant.
If all this is not difficult and stressful enough, many claimants have limited IT and literacy skills, experience of long-term poverty, together with complex needs and chaotic lives as a result of mental health or addiction issues. In areas where Universal Credit has been rolled out there is growing evidence of bureaucratic problems – Lancaster Citizens Advice for example reports delays, mistakes, and sanctions leading to destitution and threatened evictions.
So what was the thinking behind the policy of Universal Credit? It was the brainchild of Iain Duncan Smith, a practising Roman Catholic, who seemed genuinely moved some years before he came into government by his “Easterhouse epiphany” when the late Bob Holman showed him round the neighbourhood on a Glasgow housing scheme. Convinced that people needed to be brought out of multi-generational deprivation and that the key to this was work and taking personal responsibility, the Universal Credit scheme was designed.
There are probably three ways we could seek to frame an understanding of the present state of play.
Karl Popper talked about the way many human decisions have unintended consequences and suggested that policies should be treated as hypotheses to be tested, and then iteratively revised. In this account maybe the government had good intentions but by now the policy as a hypothesis seems to have been falsified by failure, yet might still be reformed.
A more classical Marxist approach could argue that current welfare reform policy is a deliberate strategy to make people impoverished and destitute as a way of disciplining them into work. With the stagnation of wages and the growth of low paid, part-time, precarious work Universal Credit could be seen within a raft of policies that are a roaring success for the capitalist classes.
There is a third option, which in a way is more theological and might fit more easily into the Temple tradition. On this account welfare reform and the current universal credit chaos is a logical consequence of the philosophy and ideology behind it. Neo-liberalism’s project, pursued by most nation states over the last four decades, involves transferring risk and expense from the state on to the individual. In Maggie Thatcher’s slogan “there is no such thing as society.” Here we see a profoundly erroneous and unchristian understanding of human nature, to combat which we need to address the underlying values of our society as Justin Welby has sought to do in his new book “Re-imagining Britain” reviewed appreciatively on this site by Chris Baker.
Among these explanations you pays your money and takes your choice. However, if you are a claimant on Universal Credit you have next to no money as you encounter delays, arbitrary decisions and possibly sanctions. And in destitution when you go to the food bank, if you’re lucky you can make your choice between baked beans or tins of tuna, packets of pasta or packets of rice.
What, then, are we in the churches and communities called to do? In my work for Together Lancashire supporting churches and communities in tackling poverty together, we seek to offer education and to support claimants in a variety of ways, as well as campaigning for change and reflecting theologically on the stories we hear.
For instance, the Genesis account of creation begins with chaos brought into order, first of all by the shedding of light on the universe. Rapid changes in the benefit system is a scenario of chaos and complexity that government is failing to bring into order. Yet the mathematics of chaos and complexity theory suggests sometimes as a result of a small change in certain parameters something beautiful and hopeful may emerge (the so-called “butterfly effect”). Perhaps it could be new co-operative ventures regenerating sustainable local economies and providing work as in the Preston model, perhaps gracious generosity between friends and neighbours such as the emerging Common Change movement, or perhaps a welfare policy based on unconditional basic income for every citizen, which has Christian underpinnings (see Malcolm Torry’s book), would be simpler to administer, cheaper to the public purse, and would prevent anyone from slipping into total destitution.
Greg Smith sheds some light on the culture wars around Christmas, and the messages and mission of church in society.
Christmas is approaching with all its familiar rituals and feasting. Nativity stories loosely based on the accounts of two of the gospel writers, pagan substrata marking the turn from darkness to light at the winter solstice with the decoration of evergreen trees, Dickensian good cheer and generosity, fairy tales of Santa Claus and his reindeer-pulled sleigh all combine with the commercial winter-binge that revives the national economy. And inevitably there are the annual fake news stories of Christmas activities in schools and communities being banned in order to placate Muslims, e.g. the Express and Daily Mail.
In the United States the culture wars revolve around the appropriate greeting for the time of year. This year the populist Conservatives rejoice that president Trump has “Merry Christmas” printed on his Christmas cards in contrast to President Obama’s more inclusive wish that all people would have a happy holiday season. For example Franklin Graham interprets this with the comment “Never in my lifetime have we had a president willing to take a strong, outspoken stand for the Christian faith like President Donald J. Trump has.”
Graham seems oblivious to the fact that in his 2016 Christmas video, and on many other occasions, Obama made more explicit reference to his personal faith in Christ than Trump ever has, and without any reference to the obvious contrast in terms of public virtues and Christian values. Surely “an outspoken stand for the Christian faith” must entail more than a preferred wording on a greetings card.
This Christmas anxiety is clearly a reflection of the widespread discontent with diversity and globalisation which is particularly strong in traditional older white working class communities on both sides of the Atlantic. While some of this can be accounted for by political marginalisation and economic impoverishment, the deeper roots are in nationalism and cultural racism, enmeshed with religious identity, which is not necessarily matched by personal faith or active church participation. In the UK such factors help to account for Brexit where in the referendum 67% of those who identified themselves as Church of England voted to leave. And in the US presidential election 81% of whites who identified as evangelicals helped to win the White House for Trump. Thus on both sides of the pond the Anglo-Saxon world now endures a period of unpredictable, chaotic and dysfunctional government.
However, Christmas traditions should not be too closely identified with the Christian tradition. At different periods of the church’s history there has been profound ambivalence, to say the least, about marking the festival of the Saviour’s birth. The date selected for his birthday, and indeed the year which divides the eras, are largely based on guess work, and Christmas card images romanticise accretions to the gospel narratives such as donkeys, the stable and the Kingly status of an indeterminate number of Magi. The Puritan tradition was far from keen to celebrate any festivals, especially if they encouraged excess and immorality. During Cromwell’s reign as Lord Protector of the Commonwealth (1653-58), stricter laws were passed to catch anyone holding or attending a special Christmas church service; shops and markets were told to stay open on 25 December, and in the City of London soldiers were ordered to patrol the streets, seizing any food they discovered being prepared for Christmas celebrations. More recently, many British Christians have felt revulsion at the commercialisation of the season, and have advocated alternatives such as buy nothing Friday, or gift giving involving fair trade products or proxy charitable donations.
Nonetheless the doctrine of the incarnation remains one of the foundational and distinctive convictions of Christianity, recited in creeds and celebrated in Christmas carols. Emmanuel – the idea of God with us in helpless human bodily form – earths our faith in the real world bringing solace, hope and dignity to ordinary people, and protects us from a Platonic dualism where souls alone are pure and heavenly. As the Message translation puts it “the word became flesh and moved into our neighbourhood.”
This can inspire people to enter intentionally into the mission of God and a fresh encounter with Christ in the tough and low status places of our world. Recently I shared in a thanksgiving and memorial service for the life of my old friend and former colleague Dave Cave. In the 1980s he with his family moved into a ordinary house in Anfield Road in the Shadow of the Kop. There they ministered in the local community and established a new fellowship of followers of Jesus among the least and the lost. Thirty years on, the fruits of that ministry persist in people whose lives were transformed out of addiction and poverty, as they found in following the title of Dave’s book Jesus Is Your Best Mate. In the 1990s Dave moved on to ministry in more conventional church situations in deprived urban areas in Wales. But on retirement he and his wife Tina chose to retire back to Inner City Liverpool and an active involvement in a local church.
This model of incarnational ministry has inspired new generations, for example in the Eden Network and the Urban Expression movement. And yet in the Church of England and many of the other denominations it remains exceedingly difficult to find clergy who will follow the Divine pattern of downward mobility and minister in parishes with smaller congregations in deprived inner city, coastal and social housing estate neighbourhoods, especially in the north of England, and where “be-leavers” are more common than believers. The parish where I worship which has recently advertised for a new vicar and has received not a single application is by no means unique.
So as I wish you “Happy Holidays”, or if you prefer “Merry Christmas” let’s think more deeply about the challenge of what Charles Wesley described as “our God contracted to a span – incomprehensibly made man” and where this may lead us in the life of church and society.
Greg Smith considers white, male privilege and the role of the Church in a world still beset by racial inequality.
Since the recent events in Charlottesville, North Carolina, we have heard widespread condemnation of President Trump and of many of his white evangelical supporters for their failure to condemn and stand up against this revival of ugly racism. In the UK and especially in the churches, reaction has largely been along the lines that “surely we are not as bad as they are.” However, mindful of the gospel story of the tax collector and the Pharisee who went up to the temple to pray Luke 18:9-14 I believe we need to examine ourselves more rigorously. And for me the “we” includes me as a white, ageing, well educated, male who still considers himself an evangelical Christian.
In all the economic and social hierarchies in church and society being Male, White, English, over 50, university (especially Oxbridge) educated, affluent, Christian (ideally Anglican -or possibly secular) and London-based gives a person significant privileges over all others. I score on all these indicators, although it is now fifteen years since I moved from the capital to the North of England. And though for the last forty years I have lived, worked and worshipped in multi-cultural communities and churches, and been an advocate of racial, economic and social justice, I still feel ashamed that so little has been achieved in the struggle against oppression and the legacy of colonialism and slavery, and that people like myself have remained silent when there are signs of the re-emergence of racism in its many forms.
It is true, of course, that there has been some progress over the last forty years. In the UK we now have equalities legislation, significant numbers of black and ethnic minority people have risen to positions of leadership or prominence in politics, business, sports, the media and even in the church. Some of the earlier forms of prejudice, discrimination and representation of minorities are no longer tolerated and racist remarks such as the recent ones by Geoffrey Boycott are publicly challenged, even if they do not always lead to disciplinary action.
There is a strong public narrative especially among younger people in urban areas that Britain is a happily thriving multi-cultural society as evidenced in the recent Fear and Hope survey. Yet there has undoubtedly been a white English backlash, stoked up by some sections of the tabloid press, which is demonstrated at its most extreme in the activities of the English Defence League and in a more nuanced way in the voting patterns on Brexit. The new racism takes a more cultural form replacing the old binary distinctions between white and black (or “coloured” as it was turned in the vocabulary of the 1960s). It is more complex because of greater diversity that has resulted from globalisation and more recent European immigration. It is further complicated by the multi-layered nature of identity politics, where religion, gender, sexuality and most recently the “somewhere-ness” of a marginalised, post industrial English working class, make competing claims for recognition, equality and justice. It is also true that “othering” takes place across and between these various identities.
Despite all the enquiries and reports, and equality and diversity policies, institutional racism remains in place and life chances in education, employment, income, the criminal justice system, health and housing are significantly higher for white middle and upper class people living in the south of England than for any of the minority ethnic communities. Violent hate crimes are frequent and tend to peak when political events give permission for racist thuggery, verbal and online abuse goes on unchecked and subtle forms of racism expressed in a look, body language or unfavourable customer service are an everyday experience.
But surely things are sweeter within the Christian church where we are all brothers and sisters together in God’s family. It’s true that rabid racist comments or support for the far right are rarely heard from pulpits or even in fellowship times after church. This is probably an improvement over the cold shoulder of fellowship which was experienced by the Windrush generation in the 1960s. Indeed there are numerous examples of warm relationships and Christian love between believers of different ethnic backgrounds in many local congregations. There is also much commendable work in progress offering a welcome and providing support services for asylum seekers and refugees, where Christians, along with those from other faith communities and none are at the forefront. Church leaders ritually condemn far right activity and the appropriation of Christian vocabulary and symbols by the EDL and occasionally are visible alongside minority faith leaders on the streets in peaceful counter demonstrations.
However it remains the case that in major cities Sunday worship is highly segregated as various ethnic groups tend to sift themselves out according to the homogeneous unit principle beloved by Church Growth theory. In multi-racial congregations (including the one in which I regularly worship) leadership and active lay involvement remains largely with white (male English, middle class) people. Conversations about colonial history in white-led evangelical circles often begin and end with a self congratulatory, virtue signalling narrative around Wilberforce and the abolitionists, plus a mention of the great Christian leadership of Martin Luther King and Desmond Tutu. However, today’s Evangelicals usually leave political activity to more radical Methodist and Catholic colleagues. There remains a danger that like Trump and white evangelical leaders in the USA they will by silence signal a moral equivalence between neo-Nazis and their opponents who refuse to say shalom when there is no shalom. The relationships, communication channels and sense of common identity with white conservative evangelicals in the USA could yet lead to more unwelcome and dangerous scenarios.
* Image from an exhibition in Centre Miroir, Liege, Belgium
