The left should embrace religious voters

Contrary to Nelson Jones, Demos's report shows that the faithful are key allies for progressives.

On Easter Sunday, Demos launched the first report in a three part series  on religion in society, community and politics. The first report, Faithful Citizens, looked at the much-discussed relationship between religion and civic engagement. One finding might have been expected: religious people are more likely to be engaged in civic life. Another was not: religious people are more likely to self-identify as left-wing than right.

The report has already caused a stir, running contrary to the expectations of some on the "progressive" left. On the New Statesman website yesterday, blogger Nelson Jones sought to rescue secular politics from the report's findings by pointing to "severe methodological flaws".

One of Jones’s key criticisms was that, contrary to what we claimed, non-religious people were in fact more likely to be left-wing than religious people: 62% of secularists place themselves on the left side of the spectrum compared to 55% of religious respondents.  True enough, but the report didn’t claim otherwise. We argued that a majority of religious people in the UK identify as left-wing or left-of-centre, which is contrary to the common assumption that religious citizens are more likely to be conservative. This misunderstanding on his part does not detract from the report’s central premise (let alone say anything about the methodology): that left-wing progressives should sit up and take notice of the fact that religious citizens in the UK may be their natural allies on more issues than they think.

Behind Jones’s straw man argument, and the misdirection and lazy assumptions that characterise his other two methodological "critiques" (all methodological issues are addressed directly in the report itself and I’d be happy to discuss any questions with readers directly) is a clear desire to airbrush faith out of civic and political life. It is precisely this instinct that risks producing a schism on the progressive left between groups who ought to be allies.

Of course, you cannot put people neatly into a political box and our report does not attempt to. The majority of religious citizens in the UK may be more conservative in some aspects (for example, valuing tradition and institutions), but hold progressive views with respect to those on the vulnerable fringes of society (e.g. immigrants).  They are also more likely than non-religious citizens (as a proportion of the total) to value equality over freedom – a traditional left-wing view. Many on the left have been uncomfortable if not hostile toward the religious.  However, as our research suggests, those on the left can not afford to isolate religious citizens as they are likely to form a core component of any election-winning progressive coalition. 

In a way, our report reveals just as much about the breakdown of traditional political divides in the UK and Europe as it does about religion.  Faithful citizens are more likely than non-religious citizens to prioritise the principle of equality over freedom, but less keen on ‘equalising incomes’ if it means sacrificing work incentives.  They also overwhelmingly – along with non-religious citizens – think that individual responsibility should be privileged over state responsibility, and that competition is good rather than harmful: both of which are traditionally arguments of the political right.  And yet – despite holding specific views that would put them on the political right – the majority consider themselves on the political left.  These are the nuances behind present debates over everything from welfare reform, to creating a "big society". But the last point – that a majority put themselves on the left – should nonetheless galvanise the progressive left into embracing faithful citizens as key allies, much it seems to the dismay of the likes of Nelson Jones.   

The second and third reports, forthcoming this summer, will look at the role of faith groups in delivering public services, and the role of faith in politics more generally. They will, no doubt, provoke similarly strong reactions.

Jonathan Birdwell is Head of the Citizenship Programme at Demos and the author of Faithful Citizens.

Archbishop of York Dr John Sentamu baptises a local church goer in a water tank during an Easter Saturday ceremony. Photograph: Getty Images.
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The Tinder dating app isn't just about sex – it's about friendship, too. And sex

The lines between sex, love and friendship are blurrier than ever, as I found out quickly while using the app.

The first time I met someone using Tinder, the free dating app that requires users to swipe left for “no” and right for “yes” before enabling new “matches” to chat, it was an unqualified success. I should probably qualify that. I was newly single after five years in a committed relationship and wasn’t looking for anything more than fun, friendship and, well, who knows. A few weeks earlier I had tried to give my number to a girl in a cinema café in Brixton. I wrote it on a postcard I’d been using as a bookmark. She said she had a boyfriend, but wanted to keep the postcard. I had no date and I lost my page.

My Tinder date was a master’s student from Valencia called Anna (her name wasn’t really Anna, of course, I’m not a sociopath). When I arrived at the appointed meeting place, she told me I was far more handsome IRL (“in real life”) than my pictures suggested. I was flattered and full of praise for the directness of continental Europeans but also thought sadly to myself: “If only the same could be said about you.”

Anna and I became friends, at least for a while. The date wasn’t a success in the traditional sense of leading us into a contract based on exclusivity, an accumulating cache of resentments and a mortgage, but it had put me back in the game (an appropriate metaphor – people speak regularly of “playing” with the app).

According to Sean Rad, the co-founder who launched Tinder in late 2012, the service was invented for people like me. “It was really a way to overcome my own problems,” he told the editor of Cosmopolitan at an event in London last month. “It was weird to me, to start a conversation [with a stranger]. Once I had an introduction I was fine, but it’s that first step. It’s difficult for a lot of people.” After just one outing, I’d learned two fundamental lessons about the world of online dating: pretty much everyone has at least one decent picture of themselves, and meeting women using a so-called hook-up app is seldom straightforwardly about sex.

Although sometimes it is. My second Tinder date took place in Vienna. I met Louisa (ditto, name) outside some notable church or other one evening while visiting on holiday (Tinder tourism being, in my view, a far more compelling way to get to know a place than a cumbersome Lonely Planet guide). We drank cocktails by the Danube and rambled across the city before making the romantic decision to stay awake all night, as she had to leave early the next day to go hiking with friends. It was just like the Richard Linklater movie Before Sunrise – something I said out loud more than a few times as the Aperol Spritzes took their toll.

When we met up in London a few months later, Louisa and I decided to skip the second part of Linklater’s beautiful triptych and fast-track our relationship straight to the third, Before Midnight, which takes place 18 years after the protagonists’ first meet in Vienna, and have begun to discover that they hate each others’ guts.

Which is one of the many hazards of the swiping life: unlike with older, web-based platforms such as Match.com or OkCupid, which require a substantial written profile, Tinder users know relatively little about their prospective mates. All that’s necessary is a Facebook account and a single photograph. University, occupation, a short bio and mutual Facebook “likes” are optional (my bio is made up entirely of emojis: the pizza slice, the dancing lady, the stack of books).

Worse still, you will see people you know on Tinder – that includes colleagues, neighbours and exes – and they will see you. Far more people swipe out of boredom or curiosity than are ever likely to want to meet up, in part because swiping is so brain-corrosively addictive.

While the company is cagey about its user data, we know that Tinder has been downloaded over 100 million times and has produced upwards of 11 billion matches – though the number of people who have made contact will be far lower. It may sound like a lot but the Tinder user-base remains stuck at around the 50 million mark: a self-selecting coterie of mainly urban, reasonably affluent, generally white men and women, mostly aged between 18 and 34.

A new generation of apps – such as Hey! Vina and Skout – is seeking to capitalise on Tinder’s reputation as a portal for sleaze, a charge Sean Rad was keen to deny at the London event. Tinder is working on a new iteration, Tinder Social, for groups of friends who want to hang out with other groups on a night out, rather than dating. This makes sense for a relatively fresh business determined to keep on growing: more people are in relationships than out of them, after all.

After two years of using Tinder, off and on, last weekend I deleted the app. I had been visiting a friend in Sweden, and took it pretty badly when a Tinder date invited me to a terrible nightclub, only to take a few looks at me and bolt without even bothering to fabricate an excuse. But on the plane back to London the next day, a strange thing happened. Before takeoff, the woman sitting beside me started crying. I assumed something bad had happened but she explained that she was terrified of flying. Almost as terrified, it turned out, as I am. We wound up holding hands through a horrific patch of mid-air turbulence, exchanged anecdotes to distract ourselves and even, when we were safely in sight of the ground, a kiss.

She’s in my phone, but as a contact on Facebook rather than an avatar on a dating app. I’ll probably never see her again but who knows. People connect in strange new ways all the time. The lines between sex, love and friendship are blurrier than ever, but you can be sure that if you look closely at the lines, you’ll almost certainly notice the pixels.

Philip Maughan is Assistant Editor at the New Statesman.

This article first appeared in the 26 May 2016 issue of the New Statesman, The Brexit odd squad