The current rash of policies across universities (aided by disastrous successive government policies on Higher Education) closing departments of Theology and Religious Studies, let alone other subjects in the Humanities, will one day be an interesting subject for some sociological analysis. Apart from the fact that their view of ‘religion’ is so misinformed so as to evacuate a number of social and political systems of any meaning, they seem to be totally oblivious to the implications of our deeply uncertain and fluid international situation at the moment, where it would be very unreflective (to put it mildly) not to engage with the study of religion and theology. Part of the problem of course is that for a great deal of people around, although religion seems to be very much back in the public domain, ‘religious belief’ is still considered by many to be a private matter, and as such, an anomaly in a vast ocean of human rationality; therefore, it is often considered as faulty, or irrelevant and weak. In some circles, a greater emphasis is put on what is called ‘worldviews’ or ‘spirituality’ without engaging with how these terms actually work.
Very few people can deny that we have moved on from the 1960s analysis of Harvey Cox’s The Secular City and Bryan Wilson’s Religion in Secular Society, when there was an overly optimistic view that religion has become irrelevant. The sustained influence and increasing visibility of religion in the United States led some observers to believe that secularisation was unique to Europe. Meanwhile, historical research into religious developments in individual countries over the last two or three centuries has revealed that patterns of religious expansion and decline frequently do no match the expectations of secularisation theories. Although most Western societies have experienced secularisation, its scale and underlying causes are still unclear. Recent research by Professor Stephen Bullivant at St Mary’s University suggested that secularisation may have peaked in Britain too.
Shifts of opinion on matters that were taken for granted has been evident in different ways. The Brexit referendum ten years ago here suggested a broad frustration with supranational institutions such as the EU; the credibility of the UN has also been under strain with the dominance of a single power, such as the USA. Fast forward ten years on, as America attacks Iran, the dominance of this single power is now itself under question as Britain seeks closer ties with its European neighbours; this is partly because sovereign states are increasingly aware that global crises such as the environment, terrorism and migration cannot be solved by detached states alone, even if these states dislike global jurisdictions. So, the first lesson we have from these initial remarks is that we cannot see the world around us in arbitrary single-eyed ways. There is no one way of understanding the world, which any fool is going to easily discover. We need to develop a range of skills that enable us to make connections and understand one event by viewing it through the perspective of other phenomena.
The American/Israeli confrontation with Iran cannot clearly be understood only through the lens of pure politics. America’s project of deposing Middle Eastern tyrants with the hope of turning their states into ‘Switzerland’ has failed miserably. This is a project that united both the politically Liberal Right and the European liberal Left. Both assume that Enlightenment liberalism is the evident creed of rational human beings, whilst many such Liberals are unconscious of the fact, as Tom Holland’s book Dominion argued, that the historical development of Liberalism is not possible without Christianity. Liberalism is, otherwise, inexplicable. The cultural and religious varieties in play between Europe and the Middle East are not superficial private matters that can easily be ignored.
The Iranian regime thinks of itself as ‘the virtuous city’, to use the term of the Arabic philosopher Al-Farabi (reshaping some Platonic terms); in practice, it is more a group of sad old men leading a rather dysfunctional constitutional model; it appears to be a contradictory combination of public representation with the absolute rule of the Jurist cleric. The assumption for this kind of regime is that the common good is obvious, and any sensible Shi’a Muslim must surely agree with the same policies and vision of the religious rulers. The Ayatollah figures are there to guide and direct everyone in the same direction. When ‘democracy’ was finally imposed on Iraq after the American invasion in 2003, the same type of constitution (under American supervision) was developing in a context where Shi’ites formed the majority and religious leaders had to play a role in the decision-making process.
Understanding Islamic law and society here is important. Scholars of Islamic law, such as Wael Hallaq, have pointed to the ‘impossibility’ of establishing a modern Nation State based on Sharia as statutory civil law, simply because Islamic law is not meant to be a centralised system in a bureaucratic state; as such, the concept of a civil law, or civil society, where ideas of natural law and reason as fundamental human properties, are historically alien to traditional Muslim societies. Liberal democracies have not been possible in most of the countries in the Middle East. Whilst there are some contemporary Muslim thinkers, such as Abdullahi An-Naim and Anver Emon, who are trying to engage with these questions, the Middle East has oscillated between secular despotism and the so-called Islamist rule. In Iran, it seems, those who question the authority of the jurist cleric and his ability to interpret the divine will are bound to suffer.
Islam of course is not monolithic. However, one might argue that it is a great deal easier to develop this illiberal view when the religious tradition understands the Quranic revelation as hegemonically frozen in time. This is different from the historical evolvement of doctrine that St John Henry Newman talks about in reference to the Truth as a dead man on the cross, when the saeculum of St Augustine of Hippo sits between the Incarnation and the Parousia. Khomeini, the founder of the Islamic Republic of Iran, like Martin Heidegger, believed in a particular understanding of union or annihilation in Being; for Khomeini, this is based on a type of Sufi thought and practice, solving the Cartesian riddle of mind/body at a stroke. But as we know, Heidegger was a Nazi.
Therefore, the assumptions made about democracy in the Middle East suggest a good level of ignorance about the history of where the liberal democratic tradition comes from. The justification for the offensive against Iran as regime change is vulnerable to the kind of unhistorical optimism which characterised the American invasion of Iraq.
However, if you thought that was enough religion to engage with, Tim Stanley added in one of his Telegraph op-eds recently, with his characteristically good satirical humour, how ‘Trump’s reckless Iran war is underpinned by bad theology’, namely eccentric American Christian Fundamentalism. Similarly, in a recent Spectator podcast, the former Archbishop of Canterbury, Lord Williams, spoke of America’s ‘demonic’ political climate, adding his voice to Pope Leo’s critical interventions, the Pope being someone who got to his position at a very challenging time in international relations indeed.
How can one distinguish between good or bad theology? First, it is important to remember that contemporary American Christian fundamentalism is essentially modern. As George Marsden pointed out, the fundamentalist conception of truth is derived from a scientific age. It is formed on the analogy of natural science as seen in the Newtonian mould. Therefore, fundamentalists tend to have a ‘scientific view’ of the bible; a series of ‘hard facts’ apprehensible by the ‘common sense’ of the sincere believer’.[1] It is an interesting fact that this movement flourished in North America more than in any other traditional context.[2] Its foundational method of reading the Bible is not dissimilar to the foundation of modern America with its disregard for history, local tradition, and law. The immigrant whites came to consider America as the new free land, where they can do what they wish with total disregard to the local traditions and no sense of belonging to the indigenous culture.[3] This formative narrative, one might suggest, is fertile soil for eccentric fundamentalisms. It has allowed America to look in the eyes of Middle Eastern peoples today as a counter ‘Jihad state’. Indeed, Trump’s foreign policies are not new American policies. When I visited Washington DC in February/March of 2025, I was told by those who should know better that Donald Trump looks back to the example of the 25th US President William McKinley (1897-1901), who had similar expansionist and tariff policies.
If Tump and some of his Right-Wing allies like to talk of the Christian heritage of the West, we need to ask what this means; for this is not simply about Christianity being the dominant faith. Rather, it is more importantly about remembering that the history of the Church and its engagement with political powers in Europe made it clear that political power in Europe was to be argued about; political leaders were always answerable to justifying their legitimacy before the law and before God. This much we can learn from the medieval text of Thomas Aquinas too. Without denying the Church’s illiberal past, many contemporary thinkers remind us that the Enlightenment protests that shaped modern Europe did not come from nowhere; much of it rests on theological arguments that would not have been possible if the Church were not a distinctive body in the society challenging those with various interests and agendas vying for power.
Both the Trumpian model and the purely secular rhetoric in Europe have left us vulnerable to different types of unhistorical optimism, because both of them either disregard the Church as an enemy (Trump vs the Pope) or at best consider it a private institution; this has allowed our assumptions about liberal modernity to turn into an absolute, tyrannical, pseudo religious ideology, not dissimilar in fact to radical political Islam. The rise of what some regard as unwelcome elements in European politics comes with the gap created by this total disregard to this aspect of the Christian history of Europe; a forthcoming book by Dr Michael Bonner, The Crisis of Liberalism, argues that without faith in God, Liberalism faces an existential crisis.
The challenge in the West, therefore, is to be able to engage critically with this history, preserving a European distinctiveness in the midst of all of this requires that we ask what is the specific moral and European substance that shaped European history and that can engage with the world of Islam in a clear and productive manner. In the absence of any such clarity, many religious and non-religious thinkers have warned, we find ourselves in the postmodern dilemma of competing relative narratives vying for power without any clear perception of the wider common good; not to have a clear moral and spiritual foundation today means being trapped in violent reactions.
The challenge in the Islamic context, whether in the Middle East or in Europe is to go beyond the dangers of essentialising the text and turning it into a system. There are limits to the Quran’s claim to textual finality, as a purer account of the divine. As a friend scholar of Shi’ite thought once noted to me: ‘A divine voice that seeks to remain aloof to the complexities of history risks falling victim to it’. Is it possible for an Islamic tradition to raise anything equivalent to the biblical argumentation with God, as opposed to the power play of who can provide a better exegesis of sacred texts? This is not only characteristic of Iranian religious institutions. It’s also there in other Sunni establishments.
As I noted elsewhere before, the path forward in Muslim contexts lies in focusing more on certain elements of Islam’s mystical dimension and the quest for a “humbler” position where the revealed text’s contingency and human limitations are more clearly recognised. It might be a difficult position to take given the insecurities of the post-colonial Muslim majority states. But it is this kind of acknowledgment that will encourage a culture of argumentation and intellectual humility that the best of the Enlightenment brought. Whilst there are complicated and rich debates in classical Islam on questions of Theodicy, God’s law and justice, it was my medieval Muslim friend, al-Ghazali who came closer to the Christian understanding of natural law, albeit not entirely the same either. Without this exploration, or perhaps even transformation, ‘the common good’ of the Middle East is going to end up simply being defined by tyrants of different types.
The challenge for us here in Britain is how to revive greater engagement with theology and religious studies for the common good so that our universities can be havens for arguments and a better culture of political negotiation; the government has a responsibility to promote such collaboration for universities and indeed fund it. Theocracies, or pseudo theocracies as well as ideological secularism provide a final claim that might be functionalist, but they are an escape from the complexities of history, and they see the world with one eye. The society deserves better, and they won’t get there if the focus lacks engagement with theology, because, as Aquinas noted, theology is the sort of subject that relates to everything; its pedagogy is that of wholeness, inviting us to an entire process of engaging with all the sciences through our participation in wisdom. We ignore it at our peril.
Rev’d Dr Yazid Said is a Senior Lecturer in Islam at Liverpool Hope University. After being ordained an Anglican priest, he completed his PhD at the University of Cambridge (2010) on the medieval Muslim theologian Abu Hamid al-Ghazali (d. 1111). His research is focused on medieval Muslim political and legal thought and on Christian-Muslim theological encounters, with reference to the manner in which Greek philosophical thought was appropriated in both Christian and Muslim texts.
[1] Marsden, George, Fundamentalism and American Culture, pp. 7-8.
The world, we are told, is in “polycrisis” – a mutually compounding collapse of socio-economic, environmental and geopolitical security on multiple, interlinked fronts. We have overwhelmingly many reasons, you would think, to lament.
But we won’t get anywhere with that sort of attitude, we are also told.
According to social critic Barbara Ehrenreich, the US is locked under the grip of a diversely-expressed “positive thinking ideology” that, at minimum, imposes positivity as a moral obligation and, in the extreme, ascribes it magical powers. She traces the emergence of this ideology to the 19th century New Thought movement, whose eclectic ideas about mental states manifesting in the material world helped to birth the self-help industry. Early self-help writers extended New Thought’s predominant focus on bodily health to matters of material prosperity and social status, inviting readers to “Think and Grow Rich,” per the title of Napoleon Hill’s 1937 classic of the genre. President Trump’s childhood pastor and life-long mentor, Norman Vincent Peale, propelled the idea towards ubiquity with his 1952 book The Power of Positive Thinking, which taught methods for receiving power from God through visualisation and the repetition of Bible verses. Twenty-first century belief in a supernatural “law of attraction” that rewards positive thought is most archetypically represented by Rhonda Byrne’s The Secret (2006), (in)famously favoured by Oprah Winfrey. Following a trend within the genre, Byrne appeals to quantum physics in an effort to boost the scientific legitimacy of her proposals.
But not all expressions of positive thinking ideology take such ritualised mystical forms as “visualisation and declaration” practices, or presume religious, spiritual and/or pseudo-scientific mechanisms for success. Proposals for the efficacy of positive thought have also been offered on the basis of psychological and sociological factors. Positive psychology has become a flourishing research field, providing a more academically respectable case for positive thinking, and thereby helping to secure its ideological diffusion. As Ehrenreich notes, its claims are not uncontested and are often overegged (Smile or Die, chapter 6), but its reach is widened and strengthened by press coverage that itself is biased towards amplifying positive findings, and by its serviceability to corporate interests.[1] Workers who have internalised the belief that upbeat resilience is the key to their personal success can be made to work harder and to endure cost-cutting erosions of working conditions and rights without complaint. As such, the motivational industry readily finds a large and wealthy business market for its books, conferences and training courses. Positive thinking also serves the interests of corporations and wealthy elites via neoliberal politics: it is much easier to secure consent for austerity policies from voters who are willing to blame their own and others’ lack on a lapse in resilience or a failure to “think and grow rich.”
The UK might seem – on its sardonic, self-deprecatory surface – to have spurned this particular US export. But the caricatured “stiff upper lip” that commits Brits to “Always Look On the Bright Side of Life” can be similarly harnessed towards victim-blaming narratives that deflect attention from structural injustice and help to normalise austerity and worker exploitation. Moreover, one sphere in which US-style positive thinking has taken overt hold is (I suggest) UK Christian culture. In neocharismatic circles like my own, internationally-influential groups like Bethel Church encourage habits of self-policed thought, selective information intake, and declarative prayer that bear strong resemblance to quantum mystical techniques for manifestation. But even within the wider mainstream where such teachings remain controversial we have bought in to the idea that good vibes get good results (as measured in audience numbers and customer satisfaction). We can see this in the way that Christianity is “marketed” to outsiders – promo videos that intersperse stunning aerial cinematography with soundbites from beautiful successful people whose happiness was made complete by an Alpha course. We see it in our filtered fragmentation of Scripture (Lamentations 3:22-23 fridge magnet, anyone?) and the worship songs that get popularised (if there’s always and only “Joy In the House of the Lord” where are our grieving and hurting household members to go?) We also see it in the way that “bad news” stories, including abuse revelations, are covered up – leading to perversions of justice, further traumatisation of victims, and continued safeguarding failures. As one CofE priest told the Makin investigation into the four-decades-long open secret of John Smyth’s abuses, “I thought it would do the work of God immense damage if this were public.” And we see it, on the flip side, in our uncritical enthusiasm for “good news” stories that are more complex in reality than we choose to investigate.
For example, even in the act of retracting the much-celebrated Quiet Revival report due to the recent discovery of flawed data, Bible Society has been keen to preserve the optimistic message at its heart. But the question marks over that research have, since its publication, been qualitative as well as quantitative. Granting a perceived atmosphere of increased openness to the Bible and to Christianity, particularly among young men, there is a pressing need for cautious discernment regarding the source, form and implications of this openness. Because not only does the apparent increase coincide with the emergence of a Christianised far right, attracting much the same demographic; it has also been associated with at least some of the same prominent influencers. Jordan Peterson, for example, is mentioned in the original report as a “key public figure” whose open engagement with Christianity has encouraged interest among his many followers. He has also been described as part of the pipeline to the far-right, and played an instrumental role in growing the support base of islamophobic former-EDL leader (and recent Christian convert) Tommy Robinson.
None of this is at all to say that churches should withhold welcome from those whose curiosity for Christianity has been kindled by the likes of Tommy Robinson and Jordan Peterson. But the twin tasks of encouraging them to disentangle faith and Scripture from ideological baggage, and standing in solidarity with those victimised by that baggage, are going to take stronger stuff than positive thinking. They’re going to take the type of courageous realism that is only possible from a place of deep, God-trusting hope. Because the so-named polycrisis that the far right is leveraging to mobilise support is real, even while their scapegoating deflections of blame are absurd. And for the church to feign cheerful ignorance or pious innocence or naive optimism is to treat the “wounds” that we helped to inflict carelessly; to say ““peace, peace,” when there is no peace,” like the false prophets of Jeremiah’s day. People (those being radicalised, those being victimised, those experiencing loss from a diversity of more or less entitled starting points) need a place to go with our grief that is neither hatred, nor despair … nor either the immobilising self-deception of obligatory positivity that the Christian mainstream all too often seems to mean by “hope.” As Walter Brueggemann recognised, true hope begins in lament: the courage and honesty to grieve like Jeremiah did, discerning the heart of God, breaking the numbness of denial, offering and inviting solidarity, and making way for new beginnings – even ones we don’t yet have the imaginations to “visualise” and “declare.” For the sake of ourselves, our neighbours, and the living world we share as home, it’s time we turned away from the bright side.
Carolyn Whitnall is a PhD student with the Centre for the Study of Bible and Violence. You can find out more about her work here: https://www.carolynwhitnall.co.uk/
[1] This is not to deny the potential for positive psychology, in both its clinical and popular forms, to have real psychotherapeutic benefits for some individuals when appropriately matched with needs and circumstances.
The world right now can feel like it is falling apart. Power dynamics that have existed from long before I was born are changing. Many of the institutions in which people have put their hope have weakened, collapsed, or been shown to be toothless. The political parties which have held sway for generations have lost vast amounts of support and new, radical leaders are trying to take their place.
When the Church Father Jerome heard about the sack of Rome in 410 CE, he was distraught. Rome, the greatest city in the world, the symbolic head of an empire that had ruled the known world for hundreds of years had been pillaged by an army of Visigoths. In Jerome’s eyes, “the bright light of all the world was put out, or, rather, when the Roman Empire was decapitated, and, to speak more correctly, the whole world perished in one city” (Preface to Book 1 of his Commentary on Ezekiel). He could not comprehend that Rome had collapsed and many of its people forced to flee and seek refuge throughout the empire. (Prefaces to Books 3 and 7 of his Commentary on Ezekiel).
Jerome represents a view that had become common amongst the Christians. Since they had gained a significant level of political power they had wrestled with how to understand their new role and responsibilities, and more importantly how to understand how God was working. They often arrived at a very close association between the outworking of God’s will, and the continued success and triumph of the Roman empire.
The view held by Jerome is epitomised by the Christian historian Eusebius. Eusebius argued that Constantine was God’s instrument to bring the known world to Christ. He was a conqueror who brought the Kingdom of God through military victory. (Life of Constantine Book 1 Chapters 4 and 6). There was a clear association between the Roman state and the Kingdom of God. They were inextricably linked. Eusebius interpreted the predictions in Psalm 72 and Isaiah 2:4 that wars would cease when God’s Kingdom would come as having been fulfilled in the Pax Romana, the ‘Roman peace’, an idealised understanding of the world Rome had created. (Preparation for the Gospel Book 1 Chapter 4).
These interpretations were taken up by other prominent fourth century theologians like Jerome’s mentor Ambrose. Ambrose argued that the defence of the Roman Empire was necessary for the defence of the faith and was prophesied in scripture.(Exposition of the Christian Faith Book 2 Chapter 16). Like Eusebius, he associated the peace of God with the Roman Empire, and the defence of that peace with the maintaining of God’s Kingdom. The Roman Christian poet Prudentius described the empire extending its boundaries into the heavens now that it was under a Christian emperor. (Reply to Symmachus Book 1)
In all these Christian thinkers there was an interweaving of the political and the eternal. God’s salvation plan was seen as being worked out through Roman political power, through Roman conquest. They were operating within the ancient classical view of the state, where the political institutions were at the centre of the society and were seen as the place where human flourishing was brought about.
But, if the state is seen as synonymous with the outworking of the Kingdom of God, how then does one respond when the empire’s stability crumbles, when its security seems uncertain, and the symbol of its unchanging might is sacked by an enemy army.
Another student of Ambrose was Augustine. Much of his theological reflection took place after the sack of Rome, where the widespread Christian political understanding had been severely shaken. Augustine challenged the traditional classical understanding of the role of the state and how it related to the divine. He saw in classical Roman thinkers the argument that a state was united by a shared understanding of what was right, of what was just. (The City of God Book 19 Chapter 21).
But Augustine believed this to be impossible. He understood humans to be fallen, our desires disordered, so that we would not choose what was right; we would not choose power over peace, or loving God over love of self. (The City of God Book 19 Chapter 13). In an earthly state, true justice is impossible and injustice is unavoidable.
Augustine argued that only through the transforming power of Jesus’ sacrificial, humble love could humanity’s desire be reordered so that God was our supreme concern, and we could seek and understand true justice. In light of this there were two groups of people, the Heavenly City and the Earthly City. The Heavenly City were those who were in Christ and had had their desires reordered, and the Earthly City were those who were not. The Heavenly City were defined by love of God and care for others, whilst the citizens of the Earthly City were focused on themselves and sought to dominate others. (The City of God Book 14 Chapter 4). Whilst Augustine used the word ‘City’ he was not referring to physical political entities like the Roman Empire. Augustine saw the time in which he lived as the saeculum, a period where the members of both Cities were intermingled on earth and inhabited the same social structures. Whilst we live in the saeculum, no human society can fully realise true justice, no nation or institution can be considered the embodiment of the Kingdom of God.
Augustine does not argue that political structures and engagement in legislative affairs are unimportant. Where he lived in North Africa, most of the Church was made up by a Christian group called the Donatists. They were a separatist Christian movement who wanted a clear division and segregation between the Church, the people of God, and Roman society and politics, because they believed the holiness and internal integrity of the Church was primary. Augustine disagreed. In the saeculum no such divide between the Church and society could exist. But more importantly we have moral duties to our neighbours. Politics may cause us great upset because it can sometimes lead to harm, and justice will not be perfect. But Christian participation in political rule, in seeking temporal good is something we are obligated to do. (The City of God Book 19 Chapter 6). Augustine understood the role of a Christian as to preach the Christian gospel and advocate to the state policies which reflected the Kingdom of God. If this was done it would be to the benefit of the state. This can be seen in Augustine’s engagement with the pagan former official Nectarius. Augustine sought to convince Nectarius that Christianity was better for social reconciliation than his pagan philosophy (Letter 91). The example Augustine used to demonstrate a Christian engagement with the state was not Eusebius’ Constantine, but Theodosius I’s public atonement in AD 390 for the massacre of many of his own people. This repentant figure was portrayed as the opposite of those who sought their own glory. (The City of God Book 5 Chapter 26).
In the Augustinian understanding no political party or social movement can truly save. It would be naive to believe an ideal society can be created through human effort. But this does not mean that Christian’s should not seek the common good and protect the marginalised and oppressed. Whilst we await Christ’s return, and the restoration of all things, those who follow him are called to faithful witnesses to the God and King we profess to follow.
Alex Smith is a Parliamentary Researcher and an Ambassador for Christians in Politics.
Democratic politics in Japan and the UK are entering a period of instability. Populist movements are gaining ground, established parties are losing authority, and political debate is marked by anger, resentment, and distrust toward political elites. In Japan, the ruling Liberal Democratic Party (LDP) has repeatedly faced allegations of corruption and political funding scandals, as well as controversial ties with the Unification Church, widely described as a religious cult.[1]
Yet the outcome was striking. In the February 2026 general election, the ruling LDP secured a landslide victory, winning a record two-thirds majority in the House of Representatives. Under Japan’s electoral system, however, a vote share of only around thirty percent was sufficient to produce an overwhelming parliamentary majority. Opposition parties, including centrist parties that presented themselves as moderate alternatives to the ruling party, suffered heavy defeats.
‘Sanae Takaichi’s Liberal Democratic party won two-thirds of the seats in the lower house in the Japanese election’. Photograph: Yuki Sato/AP. Source: The Guardian.
Meanwhile in the UK, confidence in the established parties is weakening as both the Conservative Party and the Labour Party are expected to face significant losses in the forthcoming local elections, while the right-wing populist party Reform UK’s national vote share could rival or surpass that of the major parties.[2]
At the global level, instability has taken an even more violent form. The recent joint airstrikes carried out by the United States and Israel against Iran exemplifies this. Geopolitical rivalry can rapidly escalate into large-scale military confrontation.
In such an atmosphere, what spreads through society is not hope but anxiety and cynicism. Another temptation emerges: accelerationism, the idea that the collapse of existing institutions should be welcomed – or hastened – to clear the ground for a new social order. Accelerationism is often accompanied by a cold political cynicism: institutions are corrupt, society is already collapsing, so why not hasten the breakdown and prepare the way for renewal? Yet this posture, while it may appear intellectually sharp or daring, serves to justify the abandonment of ethics. To surrender to such thinking is to participate in the logic of destruction; what follows is not renewal but further violence. The radical ethical command of the Gospel becomes relevant again.
It is precisely in such circumstances that the command to “love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you” (Matthew 5:44) acquires renewed significance. At first glance this command appears almost impossibly demanding, and it has often been reduced to a principle of personal morality. Yet biblical scholarship – most notably that of Albert Schweitzer – has long recognised that this teaching carried a far more radical meaning within a historical situation in which the end of the world, the imminent expectation of the eschaton, was understood as a concrete and pressing reality.
As Albert Schweitzer famously argued in The Quest of the Historical Jesus, the ethics of Jesus did not arise from historical optimism. Rather, they emerged within an imminent eschatological expectation. In what Schweitzer described as Jesus’s ‘consistent eschatology’, the ethics of Jesus appear not as moderate moral advice but as uncompromising ethical demands, recognising that history would not be completed through human effort. For the Matthean community, ‘enemies’ were not distant moral but referred to the concrete reality of life under Roman imperial rule – a world marked by humiliation, oppression, and persistent political tension.
In some contemporary Christian responses to political crisis, emphasis is placed on the importance of presence with others in situations of suffering and conflict. Such language rightly stresses solidarity. Yet when presence itself becomes the primary theological response, Christianity risks drifting back toward an older moral optimism. Nineteenth-century liberal theology, especially in the tradition associated with Albrecht Ritschl, portrayed Jesus primarily as a moral teacher guiding the ethical progress of history. Schweitzer’s historical scholarship famously challenged this interpretation, showing instead that the radical ethics of Jesus emerged from an imminent eschatological horizon rather than from confidence in historical progress.
What, then, might this command mean in our present political circumstances? ‘Enemies’ cannot simply be identified with particular far-right populists, the parties associated with them, or the voters who follow them. Nor should such voters be dismissed as merely foolish, ignorant, or morally inferior. The ‘enemy’ may lie elsewhere: not in particular opponents, but in the political atmosphere itself – an atmosphere in which anxiety, resentment, and the imagination of violence increasingly shape public life. In such a climate, people cease to encounter one another as persons and eroding personal encounter in public life.
In such circumstances, the danger is that political life becomes governed entirely by impersonal logics of hostility and suspicion, in which individuals are no longer encountered as persons but reduced to positions within a conflict. It is precisely within such a climate that the command to ‘love your enemies’ must be reconsidered. In this sense, this command does not mean beautifying one’s opponents, abandoning political confrontation, or staging a forced reconciliation. Rather, it calls for a refusal to be drawn into the discourses of fear and hatred that flourish in desperate circumstances. Nor does it mean forcing oneself to love those who cannot honestly be loved, or pretending that hatred or fear do not exist. It means deciding not to adopt the logic of violence, and refusing to become complicit in its atmosphere.
Consequently, love appears here not primarily as a feeling but as an ethical decision. It is not a strategy for political victory, but a form of ethical preparedness for a world that may have to begin again after collapse. From an eschatological perspective, history is not necessarily accomplished through human effort. Politics fails, institutions decay, and societies sometimes collapse; refusing to abandon ethics becomes preparation for the future. When the moment arrives in which society begins to rise again from its lowest point, what will be needed are not those who have surrendered to cynicism and destruction, but those who have refused participation in the surrounding atmosphere of violence.
In an age of collapse, the command to ‘love your enemies’ does not mean political non-resistance. Rather, it signifies a deliberate refusal to surrender to the political discourses generated by fear and hatred. Accelerationism seeks to hasten the collapse of institutions in the hope that a new order might emerge from the ruins. The ethics of the Gospel, by contrast, refuses to compete in the race toward destruction. Instead, it demands that we sustain both ethical commitment and reason for the sake of a future that is yet to come. The direction of history is never guaranteed; refusing participation in the logic of violence and sustaining ethical responsibility may be the only condition under which a renewed social order remains possible. To love one’s enemies, in this sense, is not to soften conflict but to prepare ethically for the world that may begin after the collapse of the present one.
Loving one’s enemies is not sentimental ethics.
It is a strategy for surviving an age of political collapse.
It may be the last form of hope once optimism has vanished from history.
[1] The Unification Church is a religious movement founded in South Korea by Sun Myung Moon in 1954. In Japan the organisation developed extensive links with conservative politicians during the Cold War, through networks associated with former Prime Minister Nobusuke Kishi, the grandfather of Shinzo Abe. Abe’s assassin stated that his family had been financially ruined by the church and that he believed Abe had supported the organisation through these political connections.
Masko Hayashi is a social welfare theorist and theologian specialising in welfare state theory, Christian social thought, and theological ethics in social policy. Her research focuses on the social ethics of R. H. Tawney and British Christian Socialism. Her work examines how theological concepts shape social institutions, especially the welfare state and the third sector. She has held visiting research positions at Goldsmiths, University of London and Wesley House, Cambridge, and was a recipient of a doctoral fellowship from the Japan Society for the Promotion of Science. She teaches social policy and comparative welfare state theory at Rikkyo University (Tokyo).
Life on the Breadline: Theology, Poverty and Politics in an Age of Austerity
Chris Shannahan
SCM Press, 2025, 226 pp., pbk, £26.00.
Review by Dr Joseph Forde, Honorary Research Fellow in Historical Theology, Urban Theology Union, Sheffield.
Drawing on detailed in-depth empirical fieldwork across the UK, ‘Life on the Breadline’ was as a three year (2018-2021) research project that analysed the nature, scope and impact of Christian engagement with urban poverty in the UK, set in the context of the austerity drives stemming from the 2008 financial crash. It was also the first academic, theological analysis of Christian responses to UK poverty during that period. [1] Chris Shannahan was a core project team member and the project’s lead researcher. In this book, he provides an authoritative, accessible and illuminating exposition of the theological influences that shaped the project, and that he argues have sown the seeds of an austerity-age theology of liberation. He also provides a summary of the project’s core findings.
In chapter 1, he analyses the, ‘nature, causes and impact of contemporary poverty’ (p. 4). Chapter 2 focuses on the project’s methodology; what Shannahan describes as, ‘the ‘nitty-gritty’ grounded approach to hermeneutics’ (p. 5). In chapters 3 to 6 he analyses four approaches to Christian engagement with austerity age poverty. The first, is what he calls the ‘Caring’ approach, which emphasises the Church as being a servant community, motivated by a theological vision of the common good and human flourishing as central to meeting the needs of those experiencing poverty. The second, is what he calls the more politicized ‘Campaigning and Advocacy’ approach, which he connects with God’s ‘preferential option for the poor’ and, ‘the framing of the Church as a liberative movement called to speak truth to power’ (p. 6). The third, is what he calls ‘The Self-help and Enterprise’ approach, which emphasises self-reliance and aspiration as being key motivators necessary for transcending poverty. The fourth, is what he calls the ‘Community Building’ approach, that sees the Church as ‘a companion community’ and that emphasises ‘grassroots solidarity and relational Incarnational spirituality as the building blocks for a holistic engagement’ (p. 6) with poverty and its causes. In chapters 7 and 8, he draws on the arguments he has developed to begin to shape what he calls, ‘the methodological and thematic foundations for an austerity-age theology of liberation’ (p. 6).
A key theological theme running through his analysis is that poverty is structural; hence, systemic in its origins and causes. This is in line with the way Gustavo Gutiérrez, the father of Roman Catholic liberation theology, in his seminal work of 1971:‘A Theology of Liberation’, described it as being a result of structural sin. Thus, while Shannahan acknowledges, ‘As individuals we are accountable for our actions and decisions’ (p.18), he argues we are not accountable for, ‘the structural injustice that limits our opportunities and the choices we make’ (p.18). Therefore, from his perspective, in an age of austerity, a credible theology of liberation must, ‘move beyond flawed analyses that divorce poverty from its structural roots and apolitical visions of the common good’ (p. 18). Hence, for Shannahan, poverty is political, and, for an austerity-age theology of liberation to be credible and effective, it must be a political theology, capable of speaking truth to power and of bringing about changes that address the structural causes of poverty. Shannahan sets his analysis in the period of austerity that began in the UK in June, 2010 with the austerity budget, passed by the then Chancellor of the Exchequer, George Osborne, that saw significant cuts to public expenditure, including to the funding of the Welfare State. This, and later legislation, such as the Welfare Reform Act of 2012 that brought in cuts to welfare benefits, resulted in a deepening of inequality and a consequential rise in poverty levels. From Shannahan’s perspective, ‘such policies rupture the social fabric of British society and a shared commitment to the common good’ (p. 21). Indeed, he sees poverty as, ‘an insidious form of violence that can suffocate the life out of us.’(p. 22). In the struggle to overcome and eliminate poverty, Shannahan is unambiguous in his view that each of the four theological approaches to tackling poverty which he examines, have a role to play in shaping our response to it; hence, a role ‘in the forging of a new austerity-age theology of liberation’ (p. 199). However, he is more sympathetic to the ‘Community Building’, ‘Caring’, and ‘Campaigning and Advocacy’ approaches, than he is to the ‘Self-help and Enterprise’ approach, seeing the latter as being capable of deepening, ‘inequality by addressing individual poverty without challenging the structural injustice that causes it’ (p. 120).
Shannahan’s analysis is particularly strong in the skilful way in which he handles the historical contribution that Christian theology has made to tackling and reducing poverty. In this regard, his summaries of the contributions that traditions such as Catholic Social Teaching, the Social Gospel Movement, Christian Socialism, Christian Realism (of the kind espoused by Reinhold Niebuhr and Archbishop William Temple, Ronald H. Preston and John Atherton), and, more recently, the Christians on the Left movement, are informed, accurate and relevant. Again, he is of the view that all of these traditions can and should contribute to sowing the seeds of an austerity–age theology of liberation, and offers suggestions for how this might be achieved. He also touches on the British Liberation Theology tradition developed by Revd Dr John Vincent at the Urban Theology Unit (later renamed as the Urban Theology Union) in Sheffield, though with important contributions from Professor Chris Rowland and others. I would have liked to have seen more on the contribution that urban theology has made (and can make) to the alleviation and reduction of austerity-based, urban poverty. However, this does not in any way reduce my admiration for the comprehensive way in which Shannahan’s analysis covers so much ground, in ways that are clear and apposite.
Shannahan concludes the book by identifying a number of challenges he considers are essential for developing and sustaining a ‘rigorous and contextually authentic austerity-age theology of liberation and [to] ensure its traction within and beyond the academy’ (p. 199). These cover inter alia the work of the theologian, the church, the role of charities, the need for theological reflection, the need for a more proactive and sustained commitment from all participants in poverty alleviation by engaging in the political arena and with political purpose, and a need for solidarity to become a key feature of this movement for change. Roman Catholic values that place an importance on every person’s dignity, agency and the capacity for achieving solidarity in the field of human endeavour, feature prominently, in what is a call for action. As he puts it: ‘For the sake of all whose lives have been lost to the slow systemic violence of austerity-age poverty there can be no more delay’ (p. 206).
Shannahan has produced an important book on poverty, especially poverty caused by austerity, and the consequences for those who experience it, as well as on possible ways of overcoming it. It is a book that is based on a considerable amount of qualitative and quantitative research, which has benefited from a project group methodology that has been characterised by a multi-disciplinary approach to its information gathering and analysis. I have no hesitation in recommending it to all who share an interest in poverty, its causes and consequences, and possible ways of overcoming it.
Notes
[1] ‘Life on the Breadline: Christianity, Poverty and Politics in the 21st Century City, a Report for Policymakers in the UK’, is available for download via a Google search.
Hospitality Vulnerability and Resilience. The foundation has recently launched an online course to help people of faith to engage reflectively with community work among asylum seekers, refugees, and other migrant communities. This blog reflects on some of the issues covered in the course.
Immigration, asylum seekers, and small boats continue to make the headlines. Opinion polls suggest that immigration, especially the trafficking of people across the Channel is one of the most salient issues for the electorate. No one would deny that uncontrolled immigration, and the concentration of new arrivals in particular localities leads to tensions and issues around resources ( housing, schools, health service etc.), and over integration and learning English. However, it is possible to make the case that over the last half century these have been tackled successfully and many people would argue diversity has enriched our society.
Sadly, the narrative has been fuelled by misinformation, in the right wing media, amplified by social media and populist politicians. The public has fallen for the nativist narrative. Two thirds believe immigration is rising, when there has been a substantial fall, and most overestimate the numbers of people involved. In reality Government statistics show, that of 81600 long term visas issued, asylum claimants (110.00) represent a small proportion of immigrants, and with small boat arrivals at 46,000, over half of claimants are people already here on other types of visas. Undoubtedly there are asylum claimants who have little or no valid reasons to support their claim, who are using the (dysfunctional and chaotic) asylum process as a way of extending their stay in the UK following the expiration of student or work visas. There will also be a proportion of claimants who are in reality economic migrants, although the fact that over 60% are eventually found by the Home Office to have a well grounded fear of persecution or oppression in their home country suggests the numbers are small.
The politics around the issue are toxic, and intertwined with racism, Islamophobia, English (and now Christian) nationalism and the understandable discontent of working class people in “left behind” communities. In 2024 there were violent disturbances following the murders in Southport, falsely attributed to a Muslim asylum seeker, and in 2025 there were demonstrations outside hotels where asylum seekers were being housed, generally in miserable conditions. In the summer and autumn of 2025 a campaign to fly the flag led to union jacks and St Georges flags festooning lamposts in many parts of England. Reform under the leadership of millionaire racist Nigel Farage, advocating extreme policies hinting at Powellite style repatriation of long standing legal immigrants, appeared to be polling high, especially among white working class men. The toxic narratives were further enflamed by propaganda flowing from across the Atlantic, endorsed by the White House and the plutocrat who controls the social media channel X.
The Labour government rather than standing up to the racist narratives has followed populist policies of tightening immigration control and enforcement of rules about overstaying and illegal employment. They have suspended family reunion processes and made the routes to permanent settlement and citizenship more lengthy and more difficult. Income thresholds for bringing dependents and spouses into the UK have been significantly raised. They are making slow progress at reducing immigration numbers, and closing asylum hotels, but have neither sorted out the chaotic and slow bureaucratic system in the Home Office, nor convinced the public they are achieving their aims, nor provided an effective deterrent that convinces people wishing to enter the UK to turn back. In fact the harsher regime may have reduced the number of overseas students applying to UK universities, and the number of foreign doctors, and health and care staff willing to apply for, or extend contracts, jobs in Britain. The result is an institutional crisis in Higher Education, and a staffing crisis in the NHS.
Similar issues around immigration have fostered a rise in populist and nativist political movements across Europe, and in other countries such as Australia and the Gulf states. Perhaps the most frightening example is the USA under the democratically elected neo fascist MAGA regime of Trump. For people of faith the Christian nationalist underpinnings of this abhorrent politics present a profound theological challenge.
To satisfy my own curiosity I asked Chat GPT to produce a blog by artificial intelligence about a Christian approach to asylum seekers and refugees in the UK. These bullet points summarise what it said, and I hope we can all agree with most of it.
Radical hospitality and welcome is the norm and a spiritual issue for Christians
In 2024, more than 120 million people worldwide were forcibly displaced due to conflict, famine, or persecution.
The UK receives a lot of asylum seekers: many find themselves facing new challenges: navigating a complex asylum system
They come from countries such as Afghanistan, Syria, Ukraine, South Sudan, and the Democratic Republic of Congo—places where violence and instability have made ordinary life impossible.
Thousands of refugees and asylum seekers are currently living in temporary accommodation such as hotels or hostels. These environments are often isolating, and individuals may remain in them for months or even years while waiting for decisions on their asylum claims
The UK Church has a unique opportunity to respond with practical hospitality.
Hospitality is not an optional add‑on to Christian life—it is woven into the very fabric of Scripture. Hospitality was not merely about offering food or shelter; it was about recognising the image of God in every person and creating space for them to be seen, known, and loved.
A network of Welcome Churches help in navigating the complexities of building a new life in the UK. Without community, the journey from survival to flourishing becomes even harder.
Despite the challenges, churches across the UK are stepping into this space with creativity, compassion, and courage. A recent report from Theos Think Tank highlights the “distinct and crucial role” churches play in helping refugees integrate into British society.
Some churches are becoming official “Churches of Sanctuary,” part of the wider City of Sanctuary network, which encourages congregations to stand in solidarity with those seeking refuge and to challenge injustice wherever they see it.
Christian hospitality is not simply social work. It is a spiritual discipline that shapes both the giver and the receiver.
Hospitality also disrupts fear. In a cultural climate where refugees are often portrayed as threats,
Moreover, hospitality is transformative. Many churches report that their communities have been enriched by the presence of refugees.
Personally I have been involved now for over 50 years, starting with community work and informal English classes for East African Asian refugees who arrived in East London in the early 1970s. Through the 1980s and 1990s community work included campaigns offering support and sanctuary for people threatened unjustly with deportation. In the last decade with Preston City of Sanctuary (see history document) and churches offering support and community English classes. I and most of the Christians, Muslims and people of other faiths, and none take this approach for granted.
However, faced with the current hostile environment, this feels somewhat out of date. A much graver crisis is upon us. The international toxic politics needs a political and a profoundly theological response. We must become combative, fearless and prophetic in what we say, write, and do to oppose the harsh narratives and policies that dehumanise our brothers and sisters. In the USA Christians are divided, but some are taking a stance against the heresy of Christian nationalism and even putting their bodies in the way of the armed terroism of ICE and the Federal government, in order to protect the strangers who have become their neighbours. Pope Leo is providing a significant lead in this battle and sanctuary type resistance has a long history in the USA
In the UK we may yet be able to affect the outcome and bend the arc of history towards justice by democratic means. . Krish Kandiah leads the way with many graciously but pointed Christian critiques of the right wing narratives about sanctuary seekers in various media channels.
Today we must always be aware of the dangers of fascism and racism, and should a populist and racist movement ever come to power in the UK, the Church, Christians, other people of faith, and all progressive democrats will face a profound political and theological crisis, a Kairos moment. What will we then do?
‘We should love our family first, then our neighbours, then love our community, then our country, and only then consider the interests of the rest of the world.’ These, the words of J.D. Vance, the Catholic Vice President of the United States, sparked controversy within the Church. Writing to the U.S. Bishops in February 2025, Pope Francis then framed the ‘true ordo amoris as… love that builds a fraternity open to all, without exception.’ We find here the central question: is the right ordering of loves, in accordance with God’s good design, exclusive or inclusive? Does a hierarchy of loves necessitate love contracted by category, or is love that images the divine necessarily universal?
We must begin, as so many good things do, with Augustine. The early Church Father differentiated between caritas (divine love) and cupiditas (disordered love), contending that the latter emerges when humans love other things above God (De Doctrina Christiana, I.27-29). Thomas Aquinas systematised this, framing right ordo amoris as: objects of love ordered in accordance with their proximity to God as they share in His goodness; informing the order of charity which places God, then ourselves, neighbours, and enemies in that order; a cosmic, moral order that structures creation to reflect God’s wisdom. Aquinas develops Augustine’s abstract ontological hierarchy of goods– originally a personal and spiritual orientation – into a systematic principle of virtue. Human loves are thereby ordered according to their participation in the divine good, that it might inform caritas (here, charity). The ordo amoris has been repackaged many times since. C.S. Lewis, in The Abolition of Man, reframes it as a pedagogical and cultural, not theological, principle: he contends that we must rightly train our affections that we may ‘feel pleasure, liking, disgust, and hatred at those things which really are’.
But if love must be rightly ordered, what do we mean by ‘love’? Without labouring the subject, human love should be here understood as a participation in God’s own love that issues in acts of mercy; it is more an affection or adoration for an object but extends into the willing of the true good of others (De Doctrina Christiana, 1.27-29; Summa Theologica II-II, q.23-26).
This offers one of the best accounts for ordo amoris. Whilst we can will good to all, we cannot do good to all; our finitude necessitates a theology of caritas, or love-based action. Yet this also brings us to a crucial question. Augustine teaches that our love for neighbour flows from our love for God; we love ‘for the sake of’ God because He enables, exemplifies, and sustains that love (De Doctrina Christiana, I). But how can our love image God’s when His infinite nature allows Him to love all people equally as His image-bearing creations (Genesis 1:27; Galatians 3:28)? We simply were not created with such capacity.
It will not be a surprise that we must turn to the example of Jesus. Christ’s loves were perfectly aligned with the Father’s will (John 6:38), and yet this divine love was manifest within human limitations. Whilst incarnate Jesus loved all, His caritas was only directed towards a few, determined seemingly through proximity and encounter. However, what we do not find in Jesus is a Thomistic taxonomy of the rightful ordering of action.
This is exemplified in Jesus’ telling of the Good Samaritan parable (Luke 10:25-37). In responding to the question of who constitutes a neighbour, His reply dismantles the idea that neighbourliness is bounded by creed or kinship. Rather, we find a caritas of proximity that disrupts worldly hierarchies of belonging. Ordo amoris here appears dynamic and relational, rather than fixed in the stasis of predetermined identity. Traditional boundaries of animosity do not diminish neighbourly responsibility; in fact, the command to love your enemy (Matthew 5:44) extends that responsibility precisely into the dynamics of hostility. Such love reorders the affections not by convenience or similarity, but by participation in divine patterns of disruptive mercy. This is a pattern that Aquinas later echoes when he exhorts us to help those ‘who have greater want… rather than to one who is more closely united to us’ (Summa Theologica II-II q.31, 9).
When Vance argues that rightly ordered love requires privileging national loyalty over global responsibility, he echoes Aquinas only in part. Aquinas’ ordo amoris orders our loves but does not restrict them. Two other Thomistic principles point to a better reading. The universal destination of goods determines that created goods are designed for the good of all; the bonum commune (common good) as transcendent asserts that the good of any nation finds its true end in service to the universal good of humanity (Summa Theologica I-II, q.90, a.2; q.109, a.3). Through this lens, nation is not ultimate, and love, even in a domestic context, is not exclusive. As Revd. David Cassidy frames it, ‘America First can never mean America Alone’.
If God has created humans to be finite and material, it would indeed suggest that proximity is a necessary – and right – constitutive factor of ordo amoris. It is less apparent that this ordering should be exhaustive, rather than a non-exclusive prioritisation. Ordo amoris does not remove universal obligations, and nor does it align with social identifiers.
Moreover, our theology of proximity must be recalibrated in accordance with our times. While for Aquinas, proximity was localised, the globalised and increasingly technological world order necessitates a reconfiguring of our understanding of proximity. As the reach of our consumption, communication, and ecological impact broadens, so does our moral proximity to those we may never meet. Ordo amoris may be rightly interpreted as relating to proximity, but proximity can no longer be interpreted in spatial or tribal terms.
If the proximate now includes those bound to us through globalised systems, and if a biblical reading of ordered affections subverts identity-markers, then the ordo amoris cannot be credibly invoked to defend exclusionary immigration policies. Rather, it demands that our moral and political framework expands in proportion to our interdependence.
Pope Leo’s recent call for ‘deep reflection’ on U.S. treatment of migrants perhaps affords Vance the opportunity to re-open his Bible. Luke 10 might be just the place to start.
Victoria Paynter is a Parliamentary Assistant in the House of Lords and the Communications Officer for the William Temple Foundation.
Interested in exploring these questions in more depth? Our part-time, accredited online course Hospitality, Vulnerability and Resilience: An Introduction to Working with Refugees and People with Lived Experience (19 January–6 February 2026) brings together practitioners, faith communities, and people with lived experience to develop more just and resilient approaches to hospitality. Learn more and book your place.
The Foundation has long entertained the idea of reconnecting with its roots and re-building its programme of lifelong learning as a ‘College without Walls’ to address the challenges of contemporary world.
The original ‘bricks and mortar’ version of the William Temple College was founded in 1947. The theological college trained lay men and women to relate Christian faith to the realities of the secular world. As we launch this month our online platform for the William Temple College, the following passage from a letter by E. M. ‘Mollie’ Batten (she was a principal of the College and a key contributor to the syllabus) offers an imaginary bridge between the past and the present.
‘[…] Lay folk are called to lead their fellows in thought and action, both in Church and in society, and they must have opportunity to undertake such studies […] for the length of time and at the level which will help them to carry out their responsibilities as well as be persuasive to their fellow men. When the Church of England and other churches take this modern situation seriously, we believe that William Temple College will be seen to have ventured to some purpose and will be found ready to fulfil the tasks‘ (Batten, Letter to Dr Vidler, November 1964).
In 1971, the College became the William Temple Foundation – focusing on training programmes, research and publishing in the field of Christian social ethics. Since then, the Foundation has widened its contribution to public debates within an increasingly diverse and multicultural public sphere, bringing in a wider range of perspectives. Its main objective – to connect faith in the public square with the realities of the secular world through education, research, and dialogue – has remained unchanged.
The College without Walls – like Abraham’s Tent open on all sides to welcome strangers – offers an ideal environment to experiment with pedagogical approaches, to test new ideas and explore interactive formats. Building on the launch of the Virtual Festival of Theology in the summer of 2024, we continue this work with the development of online courses.
In today’s world marked by divisions and hostile attitudes towards sanctuary seekers, there is little time or space to reflect on practices of refugee welcome and support. We invite you to join our first cohort of participants to learn together, strengthen your impact and examine case studies and practical strategies from the City of Sanctuary UK, HIAS+JCORE, Preston City of Sanctuary, PAN Intercultural Arts and William Temple Foundation.
Drawing on William Temple’s ecumenical approach to associational life – where diverse groups, perspectives and beliefs collaborate, co-exist and flourish – the course will equip you with tools for critical reflection and inspiring examples of faith and civil society activism, empowerment and social justice. It is a perfect opportunity to exchange ideas and find new partners for innovative projects. Each week, you will engage in individual learning and collaborative work – you can complete each module at your own pace and in your own time.
Hospitality has become a widely-used, though contested concept (Farahani 2021). And yet both theological and secular accounts of ‘welcoming the stranger’ emphasise the relational aspect of engaging across different faith traditions, cultures and communities. These narratives are also shaped by personal and collective accounts of migration and humanitarian motivations to alleviate injustices of the asylum system and welfare provision.
As we welcome newcomers, we are reminded of the need re-negotiate the boundaries between hosts and guests to create more reciprocal and dignified relations. It is about recognising sanctuary seekers as experts by experience and celebrating their individual and collaborative contributions to local communities.
This work calls for collective welfare support and campaigning to re-imagine hospitality and integration as a two-way process, rather than a two-tier model – one that too often prioritises those considered ‘deserving’ of our hospitality.
The question is hardly new: it must however be posed and reposed in every generation – not least our own, in which the Church in question appears ever more diminished, and at a moment when the concept of England is in danger of ‘capture’ by a new faction. Whether or not ‘religion’ or more precisely ‘Christianity’ is part of that takeover is a complex issue. That said, those involved are likely retain a Christian identity if not a Christian belief, and crosses are wielded in processions alongside flags. Like it or not, religion – Christianity even – is part of that package.
Faced with this conundrum, Linda’s presentation gave us 5 Ps and a B: these were parishes, presence, prayer, place, the past and beauty. I found this an intriguing way to start the conversation and will expand on two of them: prayer and place.
The first caught my imagination in so far as Linda stressed the accessibility of prayer as opposed to the disciplines of worship, whereas I had always assumed the reverse: that, at least in my youth, relatively large numbers of people went to church, but only the keen ones prayed – or so I thought. More than half a century later, churchgoing has declined markedly but given an opportunity to pray, significant numbers of people respond positively. But what should they say and to whom are they speaking? Do they do this alone or does the propensity to pray generate (unseen) communities? Either way, how should the Church respond?
With respect to place, Linda underlined the shared ecclesiologies of Northern Europe’s Protestant churches, most of which have a ‘national’ resonance as opposed to the universalism of the Catholic Church on one hand and the denominationalism of the United States on the other. I agree, but the Church of England is distinctive within this category for number of reasons. Its theology is Anglican rather than Lutheran and it has no concept of membership in the sense that this is not only understood but paid for in the Lutheran churches which – unlike the Church of England – have been virtual monopolies until relatively recently.
Even more important is the so far indissoluble link between the Church of England and the Anglican Communion. In much of the Communion, Anglicanism is not only growing fast but is conservative in both doctrine and culture, and thus, out of sympathy with significant sections of the Church of England and the society of which it is part. Put differently, it is hard to see a way forward for Living in Love and Faith while the Archbishop of Canterbury remains the assumed head of the Anglican Communion as well as the English Church. Might the Anglican Consultative Council find a positive way out of this impasse at its forthcoming meeting in Belfast (June-July 2026)? And where might it look for inspiration? To the rather more flexible Lutheran World Federation, possibly.
John Denham took a different approach, addressing the complexities of nation, nationhood and nationalism at a time of considerable sensitivity, provoked at least in part by Brexit, but even more by the arrival of significant numbers of migrants into Europe, including England. The migrant issue has proved hugely consequential: prompting new political parties all over Europe, at least some of which merit the term extremist, which have in turn promoted the kind of demonstration referred to above.
Where do/ should Anglicans stand on this matter? I was challenged to think deeply about this question when reviewing The Church, the Far Right, and the Claim to Christianity, edited by Helen Paynter and Maria Power.[1] The editors reject the notion that the ‘Christianity’ displayed by the far right is something distinct from Christianity per se, thus letting ‘real’ Christians off the hook in terms of their responsibilities for what is happening. In parenthesis, exactly the same question can be addressed to centre-right political parties vis-à-vis their more extreme alternatives. In both cases, a line must be drawn between what is and is not acceptable, but where? Even more urgent is the need – indeed the duty – for all Christians to understand better those groups in society who for a variety of reasons are attracted to populist parties. There are good grounds for being disillusioned with the mainstream.
Putting these various points together, I am minded to return to an idea that has grown in my mind over several decades of reflection about the Church of England vis-à-vis its comparators in Europe: that is to recognize – and then to build on – the advantages of a weak ‘established’ church. It is abundantly clear that strong state churches run the risk of being both excluding and exclusive. A weaker, but nonetheless, established church has different opportunities. Discerning its strengths from a distinctive past – that of a partial monopoly – it can use these imaginatively (just as Linda suggests) to welcome rather than exclude, and to encourage rather than to condemn.
Take, for example, the still evident convening power of the Church of England, which can be seen at national, regional and local level. Might this be deployed among other things to foster a better quality of conversation about ‘religion’ in English – indeed British – society. The ‘problem’ – an ill-informed and ill-mannered debate – is easy enough to identify but harder to resolve as diminishing religious practice necessarily undermines not only the knowledge but the sensitivities required to generate constructive discussion about religion in public life. At the same time, and as John Denham reminded us, growing numbers of migrants from many different parts of the world demand that such discussions happen almost on a daily basis. Anglicans can and should take a lead is speaking well about religion, both our own and that of others.
A response to the launch of “Towards the Conversion of the Church of England by the Rest of England”
As necessitated by its name, a lot of the discussion surrounding the William Temple Foundation’s “Towards the Conversion of the Church of England” project has been focused on the difficult position the Church of England is in. Falling congregation sizes, internal debates, impending national irrelevance if the Church does not act soon. The Church faces imminent threats to its survival.
However, in recent months we have also seen a degree of hope emerge about the Church’s future. The Bible Society’s infamous “Quiet Revival” report showed a growth in Church attendance, albeit not yet for the Anglican Church. As Professor Linda Woodhead referenced in her reflections on the project, many people are becoming more open to spirituality in England. In these changing times, and with a new Archbishop, the Church needs to look to the future with initiative and action. Yet the question remains: what action does the Church of England, in all its diversity, need to take?
Professor Woodhead, in her response on the “Towards the Conversion of the Church of England” series, rightly cited the importance of parishes in the future of the Church of England, as well as the fact that there is no one-size-fits-all solution due to the varied and multifaceted nature of each congregation. Local parishes best know how they can serve their own communities, in ways that the national Church couldn’t imagine. If we want to see a Church of England that is thriving, perhaps we need to let local parishes do more of the talking.
In my own reflection on “Towards the Conversion of the Church of England”, I have found myself turning to the Letter to Diognetus – an ancient depiction of the early Church. The writer describes Christians as not being
“distinguished from other men by country, language, nor by the customs which they observe. They do not inhabit cities of their own, use a particular way of speaking, nor lead a life marked out by any curiosity… Instead, they inhabit both Greek and barbarian cities, however things have fallen to each of them. And it is while following the customs of the natives in clothing, food, and the rest of ordinary life that they display to us their wonderful and admittedly striking way of life.”
The early Church of the New Testament existed in their own communities, testifying to their own faith through actions and service. They were distinct, set apart, in their lifestyles. The writer goes on to reproach against Christian complacency:
“The soul is dispersed through all the parts of the body, and Christians are scattered through all the cities of the world. The soul lives in the body, yet is not of the body; Christians live in the world, yet are not of the world.”
It seems that the Church of England has forgotten its missional call to be set apart, and in doing so has become a cultural chameleon, blending in to the backdrop of modern society. As the national Church, intricately entwined with the state, complacency is an easy trap for the Church of England to fall into. Yet its established role within institutions of government also affords the Church one of its greatest opportunities. In the reflections he shared at the book launch for “Towards the Conversion of the Church of England”, John Denham discussed the role the Church can play nationally in shaping the values and direction of our country. The beautiful dichotomy of the Anglican Church, he reflected, is that it is parochial, but it is also national. It can be invested in local communities whilst also playing an important role in providing firm guidance and hope during a period of deep political turmoil.
But crucially, that would require the Church of England to become much more purpose driven. In recent years, the Church seems to have lost its distinctiveness. This is an argument that has been popularly made by the historian Tom Holland, who has frequently argued that the Church needs to be “weird” again. The Bible Society’s “Quiet Revival” report found that growth was seen mostly in Pentecostal and Roman Catholic churches. Whilst they are two drastically different traditions, they are both united by passion and drama. They unashamedly believe in mystery and spirituality, something beyond the physical world.
We are standing at a pivotal time for our country. In our postmodern society, we have deconstructed value and truth down to a meaningless oblivion. The result, as we are seeing up and down the country through the so called “Quiet Revival”, is a country that is crying out for purpose. This is the moment the Church needs to step up and embrace its strength as a purveyor of guidance. The Church needs to remember its purpose: to serve the world and share the good news of the gospel, and to not be ashamed of what it believes.
As I think about the future of the Church of England, I’m reminded of a Church I’ve recently visited in South London. Balancing two markedly different Church services and congregations, the Church has managed to grow and serve its local community. The first service is a more traditional, “high Church” Anglican service, featuring liturgy, robes and processing the Bible. But if you were to return a few hours later, you would find the same vicar and same sermon, but a much “lower” Church affair – charismatic worship and, dare I say, a few ripped jeans. Both services are thriving, and congregations mix in house groups and church events, as well as through serving the needs of the community together. Perhaps this can be a source of hope for the future of the Church of England, in all its variety and diversity. Many parts, united into one body by shared purpose. Living distinct lives that share God’s love with their communities.
By Abigail King, journalist and Parliamentary Assistant in the House of Lords.
