Friendship and its problems…

Arguably, like everyone else, I’ve been interested in friendship for as long as there has been a me. That’s why, at first blush, there’s not much of interest to be said about friendship. For most of us (there are exceptions, some of which are due to pathology) friendship just happens in childhood. We don’t particularly plan it or reflect on it, it’s just a part of life. But, as with much else, friendship soon becomes a bit more complicated. So complicated in fact that it has long been the subject of scholarly effort and debate, stretching all the way from Aristotle’s “Ethics”, to rather more recent brain scanning experiments. So on the one hand it would seem that friendship is a fairly basic and widespread aspect of human experience, but on the other that it’s more complicated than just a fact of our experience. And with complication comes a degree of controversy.

Writing in a column entitled “Why you don’t need friends” (Psychology Today, 2019), Daniel Marston argued that while “[S]ocial interactions are important” this was mainly so that we could meet our basic needs (by which he meant basic biological and practical needs). Beyond this is was “not essential that the social relationships move beyond that point” to what we might recognise as friendship. As it happens, Aristotle classified precisely this sort of utilitarian relationship as a form of friendship, although of a fairly inferior type. But Marston is not alone in thinking friendship might not be necessary, and even that it might not be helpful. It turns out that Christians, or at least the theologically minded among them, have historically had something of an ambivalent “relationship” with friendship. Strangely this is because of the importance of love.

Friendship in the ancient world, or at least the higher forms of friendship, always had an exclusive air. One could be real friends with only a relatively small and select (and ideally selected) group. There was considerable discussion of exactly how many friends it was wise to have. Aristotle thought that the highest form of friendship (the friendship of virtue) was very rare and would only be found a few times in one’s life. Actually, it was rarer than that because in Aristotle's world only educated (which meant rich), connected, virtuous men were capable of such friendships. Cicero (who mainly channelled Aristotle to the Roman world) agreed that real friends of the highest quality were rare. Plutarch, who wrote slightly later in time, noticed that in antiquity what stood out was friendship between pairs (of men) and that perhaps we should aim to have just one, true, friend (our “bestie” in modern parlance). More than this was likely to be tricky and would probably only serve to dilute the quality of friendship enjoyed. But all of this talk of exclusivity is in stark contrast (so it was argued) to the love for even enemies that was said to mark the Gospel. Hence the tension.

Much more recently Robin Dunbar argued that we can probably maintain some sort of friendly relationship with up to about 150 individuals. He arrived at this number just over 30 years ago while “pondering a graph of primate group sizes plotted against the size of their brains” and this has since become known as Dunbar’s Number. Again, how friendship is defined matters. Dunbar was talking about the number of individuals one might recognise well enough to pass 15 minutes with while sitting in a station waiting room. Within this larger number he reckoned that 3-5 was the number of close friendships that were maintainable. It turns out this does seem to be roughly how the numbers shake out in actual surveys. But what is really interesting is that Dunbar’s work implied that friendship was about more than culture or education. The patterns that he observed were argued to persist through time and across cultures. It’s was almost as though the need to have and the ability to form friendships was designed into to us.

Then again, I would argue that it is. More heat than light has been generated over the years over the meaning of the opening chapters of the Bible. My view (for what it’s worth) is that, as has long been taught, these chapters tell us in outline, and in the absence of the biological (or cosmological) nuts and bolts, how we came to be and what we are basically like. And interestingly we were created by a community, to be a community. We are created by an “us” to be a “them”. While it is true that such community is partly achieved by marriage and family (and beyond that clan, tribe and nation), we miss something if we don’t see friendship as playing a role in expressing this aspect of our constitution. A culture in which the importance of the individual is constantly elevated and stressed, and more collective expressions of our humanity are downplayed or even suppressed, is likely to be one in which cracks eventually appear.

Others have charted the rise of narcissistic individualism and diagnosed it as a current and acute problem (see Carl Truman's “The Rise and Triumph of the Modern Self”). But more recently A.N. Wilson lamented (in his column in the Times) the demise of male friendship in particular, and beyond that the absence of friendships from the lives of those who only really know relationship in the form of the nuclear family. Both the US and UK governments have expressed concern at the impact of loneliness on the health and flourishing of communities on their respective jurisdictions. And such concerns are manifest beyond the Anglo-Saxon sphere. Friendship is not the whole answer to the problems thus identified, but it is probably part of the answer. In general we need to reverse the remorseless focus on I and me, and rediscover we (in all its various forms), but particular in the form of friendships.

Perhaps the biggest problem we have with friendship is simply a lack of those we can truly call friends.

End of a (shortish) era….

 

I am not sure what period of time an “era” is supposed to cover. One dictionary defines and era as “a long and distinct period of history”. But words like “long” and “distinct” are themselves a matter of interpretation. And history implies nothing more than a period that has passed. However, as far as my personal history is concerned, an era that began back in the pandemic has now come to an “official” end. You’ll have to judge for yourself whether it was either long or distinct.

Back in August 2021, in my “Life in the pandemic #31” post, I reflected on reverting to a student existence, swapping my staff card as Reader in Vision Science in the University of Liverpool for a student ID in the Union School of Theology. For anyone particularly interested in differences between the sciences and theology, I discussed a number of relevant issues subsequently (near the beginning of my journey here and here, and also here). How rapidly time moves on. The pandemic, such a significant event for all of us at the time, seems to have faded from the collective memory so quickly. Maybe this is a testimony to the rapid dissipation of the fear and dislocation experienced at the beginning of the crisis by the development and deployment of amazingly effective vaccines in super-quick time (something else that has rapidly faded from the collective memory). Like many others I altered course as we were emerging from the pandemic (although the two were not particularly connected), and embarked on Union’s MTh programme. But then, a few weeks ago, along with fellow students, staff, families and supporters, we assembled in Bridgend for the annual graduation ceremony, marking the official end of my studies. So, before this too fades from the memory, I thought it would be worth reflecting again.

I had anticipated that it would be quite a different experience from the one that I had enjoyed forty years ago as an undergraduate then a PhD student in the University of Glasgow. Apart from anything else I was "all growed up” (at least in theory), and was a proper adult learner. The inevitable angst of my late teens and earlier twenties were long departed. I confess that I had thought that this might mean that this time round learning would be more of a solitary occupation. Although the MTh was composed of a number of modules that required attendance at “intensive weeks” on campus with fellow students, most of the time was actually spent toiling back at my desk in my own study. And yet the best learning is always done in community. So I had the privilege of making new friendships on campus, which once we were away from the campus were sustained by the now-obligatory WhatsApp group. Indeed we had two of these – one official and the other our “100% unofficial” group. While it would be nonsense to pretend this was the same as sitting in a library with a group of like-minded dedicated scholars for months, it turned out to be quite a good way of maintaining the group vibe. Would I have preferred a more complete campus experience? Perhaps. But us adult learners tend to accumulate lots of connections and responsibilities that make upping and relocating to a new place of study basically impossible.

All of us bar one were undertaking our studies part-time, and most of my student colleagues were combining their studies with ministry or other forms of employment. Again, this made the distance option the only viable option. I was in the privileged position of not having to worry about such matters and was glad I didn’t have to divide my time with lots of other things. My observation is that worked fine provided they were able to maintain study time, and that they paced their studies to fit into the time they had available. Where study time was encroached upon, then learning was impacted. What mass education rather obscures is that real learning cannot be rushed, it takes as long as it takes. And because we are all different, we learn in different ways and at different speeds. This has nothing to do with basic intelligence, and a lot to do with interest and discipline. Where all that is desired is a piece of paper, disconnected facts, a vague knowledge of the  propositions of others and the odd incoherent opinion, then study can be squeezed into odd pockets of time. But none of us were interested in this. And it would have ill-served the church at large that many of us had in mind as the eventual main beneficiary of our efforts.

We were, of course, all highly interested in these particular studies (theology isn’t called a vocation for nothing). For all of us, returning to such study was a demanding step, and for some a sacrificial one. We were highly motivated. Many of us had already read and thought quite widely in generally theological ways. And yet I think we all found that wide vistas of new material opened up before us under the guidance of those who taught us at Union. But in our exploration of these new lands (some much less familiar than others) we were able to explore together, indeed in a fellowship. This provided encouragement, comfort and stimulus. Lots more material to blog about in the future.

And a word too about our teachers. Having been one in another life, it would be remiss of me not to mention the high quality of teaching we benefited from. Across a series of taught modules, I had the impression of being taught by people who knew what they were talking about. People who have lived and reflected on the material they were passing on. One can tell. I have no doubt there is some Masters level teaching going on in UK institutions being delivered by put-upon postgraduates who would rather be doing something else. There is certainly room for postgraduates teaching Masters students. The good ones do it well, and we all had to start somewhere; this is no criticism of them as a group. But when it occurs simply because too many students have been recruited to a particular programme (usually for financial reasons), and someone has to teach them something, it is largely a waste of everyone’s time. And when it is really bad it becomes a disincentive to any real learning. We had none of that. We were well served by well-prepared and thoughtful lecturers, who clearly took their task seriously. As a result, the MTh was often what education at its best is – inspiring. And it generated that desire to know more.

There were challenges of course. Some of my colleagues who had been away from academia for a while were rather freaked out by some of the requirements that had to be met. Chief among these were the assignments that were required for assessment. There is no doubt that academic writing is a skill that has to be mastered. Some essentials, such as appropriate referencing, strike normal human beings as overly prescriptive and time consuming to no good end. But there is a good end, primarily the clear citation of sources so that they can be checked and consulted. There is nothing worse that reading a really good argument, in which really interesting material has been analysed or synthesised (or both), and then being completely thwarted in investigating further because the sources haven’t been referenced properly or fully. This simply subverts proper inquiry. And it also  denies those who have preceded us of their proper recognition. While there are good pragmatic reasons for referencing, at root it is a matter of integrity. So while I would not claim that I was exactly happy to have to spend the odd afternoon grappling with the requirements for the citation of sources in the Chicago Manual of Style (17^th Edition!), I recognised its necessity. And I think some of my colleagues came to as well. But this was a minor wrinkle, the memory of which is more than matched by so many more interesting incidents and experiences.

So, farewell Union chums. But rather than the end of an era, it is perhaps more like the inauguration and early stages of a new one. And one that I’m now better equipped for. More theology to come then....

In need of better songs….

We all sing. In terms of musicality some of us sing well, some not so well. But much more important than the tunefulness of the melody is the meaning of what we sing. Admittedly this is apparently contradicted by the lyrics of many of the most popular songs. I am often bemused by the words folk are happy to belt out at the top of their voices, even on those occasions when I actually understand the words that are being used. The aim of song writers often seems to be to provide a diverting overall sound rather than any sense or message. There will be the odd half phrase perhaps hinting at what a song is “about”. On that basis one might be able to classify it as happy or sad, or whether it’s about life or love or loss. But meaning and message are often lost among slush and filler. And some songs seem to be “about” nothing. There are interesting exceptions.

In this city (Liverpool) there is a particular song sung as an anthem that has taken on a particular significance. Collectively we (if I might number myself among the Scousers) have become known for it. “You’ll never walk alone” is a show tune from Rogers and Hammerstein’s “Carousel”. The actual words are, largely, nonsense. If taken as advice on what to do in a given set of circumstances (“When you walk through a storm, hold your head up high”), they would lead to disaster or at the very least stinging eyes and a severe headache from flying debris. And some of them are flat wrong and not true to life (“At the end of the storm, There’s a golden sky, And the sweet silver song of a lark”). At the end of some of life’s storms it often seems that there’s more storm. And usually the larks have more sense than to hang about; rather than singing sweetly they swiftly relocate to sing elsewhere. But we all innately understand metaphor, and where a lyric chimes with our hopes we suspend our disbelief. When sung by thousands of Scousers at Anfield, in the context of remembered disasters like Hillsborough, with their attendant multiple injustices, the song takes wing and does seem to make sense after all. Then the sound of singing fades, and we’re left with what? Well, not a lot. Perhaps a warm fuzzy feeling. But this too doesn’t last. How we need better songs.

Last week, Week 3 of the Keswick Convention, in the morning Bible readings Vaughan Roberts was considering just such songs. They are the collection of 150 songs nestling in the middle of the Old Testament, the Psalms. But no random collection this. Like every other book making up the Bible, these particular songs were not just thrown together. Although they were accumulated over a long period of time, the book of Psalms has a structure and trajectory;  as VR put it “momentum builds up”. So, day by day we traced the pattern that leads from the sweeping introduction of Psalms 1 and 2, through the succeeding books, from struggle and lament, via hope to the praise due to the God of covenant promises, whose individual, global and cosmic purposes will not be thwarted. Here are the better songs we need. Songs worth singing. And VR drew our attention to the effect of singing these songs.

The analogy he used to illustrate his point was the scene in "Casablanca" when Victor (the hero unless you’re a big Bogart fan), outraged by a bunch of Nazi officers singing their Nazi songs, tells the band to strike up the Marseillaise. Up to that point the non-Nazi denizens at Rick’s had looked weak and befuddled, compared to the apparent strength and confidence of their new overlords. But led by Victor the crowd picks up the words of the song of their homeland. Lungs fill, backs straighten and soon tears flow with hope of better days to come.  That is the effect of such songs (partly captured by “You’ll never walk alone” too). But there were no guarantees that this hope would not be crushed.

Not so those songs in the Psalms, even when sung by exiles. For the whole of creation has a goal set for it and Heaven’s King will one day be vindicated. Those who take refuge in Him will be saved and safe. This state of affairs has never appeared believable to fallen humanity, so taken with themselves and singing competing songs. The hope in Psalms appeared even less believable when the long-promised King was executed on a Roman cross. And of course if that was the end of the story, then these songs too would simply be about pious but ultimately frustrated hope, with no real purchase on reality. But it was this King who could not be held by death, and who was raised to demonstrate the inexorable progress of His Kingdom. Even so, at the time it didn’t look much like progress. The ancient world was not impressed. After all, how can a crucified God be any kind of God at all? And yet the Psalm of the sufferer (Ps 22) becomes the Psalm of the Sovereign (Ps 24). And although what is ancient is past (obviously), the good news of Jesus the still-coming king, continues to spread. His songs continue to be sung.

To be reminded of better songs at Keswick was valuable and refreshing (and the singing was good too). The need for others to learn these better songs has been amply demonstrated by the riots that broke out in the UK a week ago and appear to be continuing. The rioters have their songs of course, songs of hostility and hatred. These, it turns out, are also old songs. But they have never achieved anything except to provide an accompaniment to destruction and heartache.

I know which songs I’d rather sing.

Keswick from the inside…

For the last few summers we’ve headed to Keswick in the English lakes for our summer holiday, to of all things, a Christian convention (I’ve written previously about the apparent strangeness of this). The Keswick convention now extends through three weeks of the English summer, and provides Bible teaching, seminars and other things to about 3000-5000 people per week. It is not small, and it is not new; next year will mark its 150^th anniversary. But in previous years we have been here as punters (or customers as someone suggested I should call participants). We have turned up to morning Bible readings (that is just a meeting at the centre of which is effectively a sermon) and evening celebrations (just a meeting with a slightly shorter sermon), and in between we’ve walked and read, eaten ice cream, snoozed, met up with friends and so on. Just a happy and relaxed way to spend a week of summer. But this year is different.

Keswick runs on volunteers as well as being supported by the voluntary giving of those who attend (and probably others). This year I think the estimate was about 700 volunteers over the three weeks. We had obviously heard the of the need for volunteers when we attended in previous years. But this year we took the plunge. So, months ago we filled in the requisite forms and named the appropriate referees. There are various teams that make up the volunteer body (tech team, welcome team, catering etc). Having followed a process of elimination (i.e. what would I not enjoy?) I applied for the BaseCamp team. I should explain that BaseCamp is what the Convention calls an area that houses the café, bookshop and various exhibitors from Christian organisations. It also provides an overflow for the main tent where meetings take place, providing live streaming of the as well as a slightly less formal vibe. I had a rough idea of what BaseCamp was like having frequented it in the past. But I didn’t really have much idea of what volunteering to serve in it for a week would be like.

This is not to say I was unprepared. Before pitching up in Keswick there was training to do. This was delivered online in the form of videos which covered everything from standards and ethos to safeguarding, as well as more technical stuff like risk awareness training and “radio protocols” (over!). There was a team meeting on zoom before the Convention and a run of emails. So I certainly felt like I was preparing. All of this was completed on the first day we turned up (last Saturday) when we had a briefing in our base for the week, met the team, had a specific security briefing (a sign of the times) and a walk round the venue. I was genuinely impressed at the effort to prepare and support us, an effort that I’m assuming is made with the other teams. Some members of the team were old hands, and some of us newbies, but from the start we were all possessed of a good spirit of getting stuck in. And just as well. Because having had a couple of hours of briefings, followed by a couple of hours of finding our accommodation (which the Convention provides for volunteers) the first evening was upon us and the site was opened to its Week 2 denizens.

And so here we are now in the middle of the week. My feet and back are bit sore it is true; the hours have been quite long, and a good part if it is spent standing up. But my enthusiasm is undimmed. Our role has been slightly odd in that while we are certainly interested in the Conventioneers we also have a bunch of exhibitors to engage with. We have a basic responsibility for everyone’s safety and security (which today meant getting security to remove an unattended bag), and a sort of pastoral interest in all those who come through our doors. This is particularly the case for those who might be here on their own and appreciate a chat. But there are also  questions to be answered and directions to be given. Keswick attracts wide spectrum of ages and theological outlooks if obviously  concentrated on that part of the spectrum that might still be labelled evangelical. Some come as part of a group, others knowing that they’ll be meeting old friends. Some come alone but know they’ll be welcomed and supported. Some are perhaps lonely. But in Basecamp there’s been time and space for some of our team to sit and chat at our tables with care and sensitivity. Hopefully all those who arrive alone don’t feel alone for too long.

But we also have about 30 exhibitors to look after. Because this was Week 2, their stands were already set up, even if there was a change in personnel. We had the happy task of talking to them and making sure they had what they needed. But this was no chore. They are a very interesting bunch of people, with a passion for the tasks that their organisations undertake. So talking to them isn’t a problem. And many of them have really interesting back stories and experiences as individuals that make for interesting listening. There’s also a real variety of organisations represented, from straightforward missions (if there is ever such a thing) to specific areas and groups, via support agencies of various kinds to theological educators and trainers.

So this has turned out to be a very people focused week. Many interactions may be trivial, but many are not. And there is the possibility that some will be truly significant. Maybe we will facilitate the call of someone to the mission field. That’s not just about classic missionary service overseas (still vital) but also about opportunities on our doorstep. Maybe we will have the privilege of providing encouragement to someone who turned up feeling downtrodden and depressed. Maybe helped by a conversation in BaseCamp, they’ll be enabled to return home with renewed vigour. I was impressed with the level of preparation and it’s been a real pleasure serving alongside my teammates. Seeing things from the inside, and doing things on the inside, has been a great experience.

Might even do it again…..  

On ritual, signs and symbols…..

We do ritual so well in this country. Case in point, the state opening of Parliament. More robes than you could shake a stick at. And on the subject of sticks, near the beginning there’s the ritual of Black Rod (or more technically the Lady or Gentleman Usher of the Black Rod, currently Sarah Clarke). Black Rod is sent from the Lord’s to the Commons, only to have the chamber door slammed in her face. She then uses her stick (the eponymous “black rod” of her title) to bang on the door. Once she gains entry she requests the members of the Common to attend the King in the Lord’s chamber. It is, of course, a complete pantomime, while at the same time being symbolic of the struggle of the Commons’ to assert their practical authority over the Crown. While most of this is lost on the modern TV audience, we did once in our history fight a civil war over these issues (and one or two others). So the symbolism is not without significance. If you were starting with a blank sheet of paper and designing the mechanisms of government, no doubt there would be no place for poor old Black Rod (or a Monarch, or the flummery of the state opening of parliament or much else that we have). But of course, our system did not start with a blank sheet, and all this ritual has evolved and continues to evolve (if too slowly for some).

It is also interesting that even if you do start with a blank sheet, you don’t end up with an absence of ritual. It is still present, but is slightly less colourful and steeped (or dipped) in a shallower history. Those two beacons of republicanism, the US and France, are hardly without ritual. Of the two, the US, at least until recently, was the more stable. In a conscious bid to break with monarchical tendencies and principles, their head of state is not addressed as a “majesty” or a “highness”, but simply as “Mr”. And yet is anyone seriously going to claim that there is no ritual surrounding the US Presidency? The myth is that he (and of course so far they all been a he) is simply a common citizen raised up for a time by his fellow citizens, eventually returning to being a common citizen. And yet even if you believe that any of them begin their journey from ordinariness, they certainly don’t return to it. And as President they wield far more executive power than most of our recent monarchs. It even turns out, according to the US Supreme Court, that the republican myth that everyone is equal before the law, is a myth. The office comes with its rituals, and a number of those stick with even an ex-President. It’s not even a particularly good system for selecting the brightest and best for the top executive role in the state, as the current options in the current electoral cycle amply demonstrate. Here in the UK (or at least in England) we have undoubtedly had some dodgy monarchs in our time. But the hereditary principle has served us pretty well as a means of generating heads of state for the last 150 years, and arguably longer. This may well go some to explaining why republicanism continues to fail to gain traction in the UK. Even in Scotland, at the time of the independence referendum back in 2014 (was it really a decade ago?), the SNP were very keen to stress that they expected Scotland to remain a constitutional monarchy under Queen Elisabeth. That love of ritual runs very deep in us.

And of course ritual is present not only at the level of the State. Summer is a time of graduations. We all get dressed up in hoods and gowns, to process in strict order, to receive our degrees and certificates. It is the final validation of our hard work. I graduated for the third time last weekend. Although everyone says it’s a faff and a fuss, most of us must actually enjoy it (otherwise why would it endure?), and the (small) degree of public recognition that goes with it. So from the oldest of ancient educational establishments, to the newest of colleges, there will be a final ritual to be completed. And it is even spreading to our schools, who in the American fashion (as with that other import, the school “prom”) are increasingly organising “graduation” ceremonies for their departing senior pupils. Then there are lots of private and personal rituals. The sportsman who follows the same process and wears the same left sock as he enters the field of play. The academic who before any major international conference presentation goes through the same ritual as they take to the stage. Ritual is something basic to us personally, even if we often don't call it that.

There is something here that provides more evidence that it’s not just the stuff we can see, hear and feel that is important to us. There are other things that matter; there other levels of reality that matter. They come to us in sign and symbol. Some of these point back into history (national and personal). They point us to things that have enduring relevance even if we’re largely oblivious to their significance. That is certainly true of Christian symbols and rituals. What now is most familiar to us in the form of silver jewellery, the crosses worn by many for adornment, was actually a form of political, social and judicial humiliation. The central ritual celebrated by churches worldwide points to that same event, the death of Jesus on a Roman cross. But just as with the state opening of Parliament, much of the significance of the cross is lost on us. We can trace back symbols and signs to the things symbolised and signified. There might be some value to investigating the symbols in use this week in Parliament. There is certainly value in investigating what was going on when Jesus died on a cross.

The problem, indeed the tragedy, is that we often get stuck on the sign. And not understanding what is really going on we eventually come to undervalue them. But important signs, and important rituals, invite us to consider the things signified. Don’t get stuck on the cross as a symbol and miss the underlying reality.

Election reflection….

Democracy is much misunderstood both by its practitioners and critics. It is undermined by its more autocratically inclined opponents, and occasionally by those who should know better (whose narrow interest is that some of us who can vote, don’t vote). It is routinely taken for granted by those of us who have the privilege of participating in it as evidenced by generally relatively low turnouts here in even general elections in the UK and in the US. Democracy is often an aspiration of those who are never asked who should hold power over them, and it is more valued by those who have only recently come to experience it (as evidenced by the long queues in the recent South African election). It is often messy, it necessitates compromises (either within or between groupings and parties), and it is often peppered with hypocrisy and dissembling (and occasionally flat-out lying).

It was Churchill, speaking in 1947 in the Commons in a debate about amending the 1911 Parliament Act, who said: “Many forms of Government have been tried, and will be tried in this world of sin and woe. No one pretends that democracy is perfect or all-wise. Indeed, it has been said that democracy is the worst form of Government except all those other forms that have been tried from time to time…”. This is the bit of the quotation that is familiar. But he continued “..there is the broad feeling in our country that the people should rule, continuously rule, and that public opinion, expressed by all constitutional means, should shape, guide, and control the actions of Ministers who are their servants and not their masters.” That “broad feeling” remains strong more than 75 years later, long after the demise of both Churchill and his original audience. Funnily enough, in the current UK election campaign, it is the leader of the Labour opposition who has seemed more in tune with Churchill on this score than his supposed political heirs and successors, talking about putting public service at the heart of politics. After a long periods in power politicians (on both ends of the political spectrum) seem to forget they are the peoples’ servants. So it is to Sir Keir Starmer’s credit that in the final stages of the election campaign he has put service at the centre of his philosophy for government. Time will tell if he is sincere and strong enough to resist the temptations of political pragmatism and competing agendas. But if it turns out to be just another sound-bite, another ruse to attract votes, he’ll have to face us all again in a few years. That’s the beauty of elections. They provide a reality check, a sort of political gravity. It can be ignored for shortish periods, but eventually it exerts itself usually followed by the thump of former high flyers impacting terra firma.

So we duly wandered round to our polling station this afternoon, to put a simple pencil “x” against a particular name. An election is always a great leveller. MPs and ministers stopped being that when the election was called. The power drained away from them and flowed to us. So they were in effect brought back to our level. The power has lain in our hands over the weeks of the campaign. But elections also remind all of us that we are on the same level too. My vote counts as much as your vote, no more, no less. And our mass participation in the same simple act for us all (with the single exception that we may put our crosses in different boxes), reminds us of the broader community to which we belong and contribute and for which we are jointly responsible. It doesn’t matter our occupation (or whether we have none), our age, social or ethnic background, bank balance, preferred TV channel or style of music. For one day we’re all the same, while also being different and diverse.

There’s one other thing that I’m very grateful for. There are real differences in the offers that the different parties have been making during the campaign. Most of those who align with those different parties do so precisely because there are sincerely held differences of view between them. I admit there will be those who will perhaps have more base motives, using their alignment strategically to advance their own interests. But I think that this remains a minority pursuit. And yet, by and large, the discussion of these real differences has remained within civil and civilised bounds. On the margins there may have been intimidation, and perhaps even threatened or actual violence. But this has been vanishingly rare. We should be grateful. I cast my vote this afternoon calmly and freely.

One other thing I’m fairly certain of: whoever loses this election will not be found protesting in Whitehall or Downing Street tomorrow morning, trying to whip their supporters into a frenzy with incoherent and unsubstantiated accusations of the election being stolen. Power will flow from the people, back to the politicians, probably quite a different group of politicians, relatively smoothly. We used to think that such transitions were just part of the normal democratic process. But of late we’ve learned that it is dangerous to take this for granted too. It turns out that it is more fragile than we thought. And as the change unfolds tonight and into tomorrow (and if the exit poll is to be believed it is a big change), we should breath a sigh of relief and be thankful. Thankful that somehow democracy, for all its faults and messiness, has worked again. Then we can all get back to the business of moaning about how horrible our political system is and arguing about which particular collection of incompetents are messing it up.

At least we will have had the privileged of putting them in the position of messing it up. 

 

Faith, at least in some quarters, had almost become a dirty word, such that to call someone a “person of faith” was to question their intellectual adequacy and to suggest an unreasonable commitment to the implausible and non-empirical. This attitude was typical of that particular element of the “anti-faith” brigade that held that science was the all-conquering, all-sufficient means of answering any and all allowable questions. They of course claimed for themselves the authority to decide which were the “allowable” questions. They had a habit of ruling as unallowable those questions that they didn’t like or which their methods of choice couldn’t cope with. Theirs was always a highly questionable (and questioned) approach and it has not aged well. At least in its “New Atheist” form, its influence does seem to have ebbed somewhat.

Perhaps this was the inevitable consequence of the post-modern fashion of arguing that as nothing was true, anything might be. Truth became merely a personal perspective with no interpersonal authority. Therefore even “faith” could not be criticised too harshly, particularly when held, practised and discussed privately, away from the tricky and pressing issues that are the focus of public dialogue. But although largely relegated to the private sphere, faith began to become at least semi-respectable. Mind you, this kind of faith was an odd, unattractive, sort of beast. It had no purchase on, or relevance to, anything that apparently mattered.

More recently there has been another development of note, for the post-modern tide has also receded  (mainly because in its strongest forms it was self-refuting). Some commentators, particularly, but not exclusively, on the political right, have begun to argue that in the West faith (specifically in its Christian form) had bequeathed us all certain cherished values and views. They traced back to a faith-based heritage important concepts like human dignity and equality, tolerance, pluralism and more. But because for the best part of a couple of centuries these very foundations had not just been rejected but thoroughly trashed, they had noticed that some of these concepts and values themselves, not merely the soil from which they sprang, have begun to be questioned. First in the academy, then in institutions and finally in the culture, values like equality before the law and human rights were seen as being in danger to everyone’s detriment. Consider the value of truth and speaking the truth. Once, both in the UK and the US, it was a basic assumption that in public as well as private life being honest and speaking the truth was a “good thing”. This came directly from the ninth (of ten) commandments, and commitments flowing from it. Why were such directives worth paying attention to? Because they were an aspect of health creaturely living and came backed by the authority of the Creator of the created. But having relegated said Creator to the role of remote first mover and tinkerer with watches, and then having spent a long time denying His existence at all, this scheme loses much of its force. Maybe such notions are not as “true” or as useful as was once supposed. They can be dispensed with at no real cost.

Currently, on both sides of the Atlantic we appear to be testing this to destruction. So we find ourselves mired in untruth but have discovered some of the costs. Scepticism quickly turns to cynicism, and trust is rapidly eroded. At least in the UK our political system managed to remove one of our most-noted untruth tellers of recent years. Boris is, at least for the political moment, no more. He is playing no obvious role in our current general election campaign. What did for him was his propensity for being less than honest, presumably on the basis that the rest of us either wouldn’t notice or wouldn’t care. However, it is worth noting that as well as having a semi-detached relationship with truth and integrity, he also turned out to lack basic competence when it came to running a government. Perhaps if he had done his day job better he would have got away with his truth problem. But the Boris episode, has tended to reinforce the old joke about how you tell when a politician is lying – his lips move. While funny, this used not to be particularly true. There were always exceptions, and there was a degree of obfuscation and hypocrisy involved. But by and large politicians knew that while they might get away with claiming grey that was either black or white they had to avoid insulting our intelligence by claiming that white was black (or vice versa).

On the other side of the Atlantic, even the small crumb of comfort one might take from Boris’ demise is striking in its absence. Trump has largely been exposed as suffering from the same disease that afflicted Boris (or possibly it’s the other way round) and yet he is very much still around. A large slice of his electorate, including a lot of “evangelicals”, seem to prefer myths to truth. Reasons keep being found for why what once would have made him unelectable (his flat out lies, his abuse of the law not to mention his legally established abuse of women) turn out not to be that big a problem. Truth has become tainted while rank mistrust (occasionally accompanied by politically inspired violence) are all too observable. All this in what once had been thought of as a stable and (largely) prosperous democracy one that could be depended upon to uphold commonly accepted values of decency and integrity. Now even that hallmark of a democracy, the peaceful transfer of power, has been attacked and is under attack.

Spend several centuries dismissing what underlies the values that have shaped our culture, specifically faith in the God who reveals Himself in Scripture, and prepare to loose those values. Perhaps other foundations can be found, but most of the replacements that have been tried do not appear to have worked. Some no doubt celebrate the prospect of the demise of values that might loosely be called Biblical. For them the values themselves, as well as the foundation one which they were built, may have been the problem all along. And some have argued that we are seeing the fruit of a concerted campaign to undermine what had been widely accepted as valuable. Maybe might is right after all and human beings have no inherent dignity simply by virtue of the fact that they are human beings. Maybe inequality is just how things are and beyond that it is how things should be. While I view this brave new world as being intolerable, maybe you don’t.

However, if you feel that something important and valuable (and true) is being lost, much of this argument can be turned on its head. Perhaps the faith that gave rise to what had been valued is worth another look. This kind of reasoning prompted Justin Brierley to discus, first in his podcast “Unbelievable” and more recently in his book “The Surprising Rebirth of Belief in God”, the proposition that faith is making a comeback (or at least its “ebb” has begun to reverse). It is worth pointing out that Brierley is a Christian, and his book is a work of apologetics; he writes to commend the Christian faith as being at the very least worth investigating. It could be he’s seeing a pattern where none actually exists. This is essentially the argument of Ralph Jones in his review of Brierley’s book in “The New Humanist” (but then, to be fair, it would be). But from Douglas Murray to Russell Brand something appears to be stirring.

At least “faith” is no longer a dirty word.