Disestablishmentarianism

A poll of Evangelicals at the last general election revealed that the developing world was at the to

A couple of weeks ago I bumped into a theologian who had just heard me on the radio debating the disestablishment of the Church of England with the Bishop of Liverpool.

To my surprise she told me that the discussion had changed her position. She now supported a separation of church and state. But before I became too caught up in illusions of my own debating prowess, she quickly added that it was the bishop’s lack of any credible argument which had finally persuaded her.

Her view is one that seems to be growing amongst many Christians. In the past it has been proposed that disestablishment would condemn Christianity to the private realm. More are now realising that it needn’t signal the end of the church’s engagement in public life.

An analysis at the composition of the House of Commons reveals that MPs who align themselves with the Christian groupings within the three main parties (the Conservative Christian Fellowship, the Christian Socialist Movement and the Lib Dem Christian Forum) make up around 15% of the House of Commons. Christians who have pursued more democratic routes are disproportionately overrepresented when compared to the church-going population at large.

Outside Parliament too, one of the paradoxes of the last thirty years has been that whilst church attendance has declined, the number of Christian campaign groups has increased exponentially. The end of Christendom appears to be the catalyst for growth in political Christianity.

The reasons for the political engagement vary. For some it is the fear that the culture is becoming ‘de-Christianised’. Often taking on a more conservative or right wing character, these Christians, like their brothers and sisters in the US, tend to focus on issues of sexuality, marriage and abortion – lamenting the supposed decline in Christian morality. From the campaigns of Mary Whitehouse to the opposition to Jerry Springer: The Opera, the groups hit the headlines because of their censorious or reactionary approaches.

But others are experiencing a more positive radicalisation. Finding themselves freed from Christianity’s previous alignment with culture and the social order, they are far more willing to point to injustices in the world around them, and campaign for positive change. Whether it be as part of the Fairtrade movement, the Jubilee 2000 coalition that led to the MakePovertyHistory campaign, the opposition to the invasion of Iraq, initiatives for the rights of asylum seekers or new approaches to criminal justice, their agenda is broad and widening.

And it is this latter movement which appears to be winning the hearts and minds of the churches. A poll of Evangelicals at the last general election revealed that the developing world was at the top of their political priorities, rather than any obsession with sex – a healthy departure many inside and outside the church would observe. Of course it will take time for their new political perspectives to mature. Old habits die hard. But like it or loathe it, Christian involvement in public life seems here to stay – regardless of what happens to the loosening ties that still bind church and state.

Jonathan Bartley is co-director of the thinktank Ekklesia. He lives in Streatham in South London, and when he not discussing religion and politics, he plays in the blues band the mustangs www.themustangs.co.uk
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The dog at the end of the lead may be small, but in fact what I’m walking is a hound of love

There is a new, hairy face in the Hovel.

There is a new, hairy face in the Hovel. I seem to have become a temporary co-owner of an enthusiastic Chorkie. A Chorkie, in case you’re not quite up to speed with your canine crossbreeds, is a mixture of a chihuahua and a Yorkshire Terrier, and while my friend K— busies herself elsewhere I am looking after this hound.

This falls squarely into the category of Things I Never Thought I’d Do. I’m a cat person, taking my cue from their idleness, cruelty and beauty. Dogs, with their loyalty, their enthusiasm and their barking, are all a little too much for me, even after the first drink of the day. But the dog is here, and I am in loco parentis, and it is up to me to make sure that she is looked after and entertained, and that there is no repetition of the unfortunate accident that occurred outside my housemate’s room, and which needed several tissues and a little poo baggie to make good.

As it is, the dog thinks I am the bee’s knees. To give you an idea of how beeskneesian it finds me, it is licking my feet as I write. “All right,” I feel like saying to her, “you don’t have to go that far.”

But it’s quite nice to be worshipped like this, I have decided. She has also fallen in love with the Hovel, and literally writhes with delight at the stinky cushions on the sofa. Named after Trude Fleischmann, the lesbian erotic photographer of the Twenties, Thirties and Forties, she has decided, with admirable open-mindedness, that I am the Leader of the Pack. When I take the lead, K— gets a little vexed.

“She’s walking on a loose lead, with you,” K— says. “She never does that when I’m walking her.” I don’t even know what that means, until I have a think and work it out.

“She’s also walking to heel with you,” K— adds, and once again I have to join a couple of mental dots before the mists part. It would appear that when it comes to dogs, I have a natural competence and authority, qualities I had never, not even in my most deranged flights of self-love, considered myself to possess in any measurable quantity at all.

And golly, does having a dog change the relationship the British urban flâneur has with the rest of society. The British, especially those living south of Watford, and above all those in London, do not recognise other people’s existence unless they want to buy something off them or stop them standing on the left of the sodding escalator, you idiot. This all changes when you have a dog with you. You are now fair game for any dog-fancier to come up to you and ask the most personal questions about the dog’s history and genealogy. They don’t even have to have a dog of their own; but if you do, you are obliged by law to stop and exchange dog facts.

My knowledge of dog facts is scant, extending not much further beyond them having a leg at each corner and chasing squirrels, so I leave the talking to K—, who, being a friendly sort who could probably talk dog all day long if pressed, is quite happy to do that. I look meanwhile in a kind of blank wonder at whichever brand of dog we’ve just encountered, and marvel not only at the incredible diversity of dog that abounds in the world, but at a realisation that had hitherto escaped me: almost half of London seems to have one.

And here’s the really interesting thing. When I have the leash, the city looks at me another way. And, specifically, the young women of the city. Having reached the age when one ceases to be visible to any member of the opposite sex under 30, I find, all of a sudden, that I exist again. Women of improbable beauty look at Trude, who looks far more Yorkie than chihuahua, apart from when she does that thing with the ears, and then look at me, and smile unguardedly and unironically, signalling to me that they have decided I am a Good Thing and would, were their schedules not preventing them, like to chat and get to know me and the dog a bit better.

I wonder at first if I am imagining this. I mention it to K—.

“Oh yes,” she says, “it’s a thing. My friend P-J regularly borrows her when he wants to get laid. He reckons he’s had about 12 shags thanks to her in the last six months. The problems only arise when they come back again and notice the dog isn’t there.”

I do the maths. Twelve in six months! That’s one a fortnight. An idea begins to form in my mind. I suppose you don’t have to be a rocket scientist to work out what it is. But no. I couldn’t. Could I?

Nicholas Lezard is a literary critic for the Guardian and also writes for the Independent. He writes the Down and Out in London column for the New Statesman.

This article first appeared in the 28 April 2016 issue of the New Statesman, The new fascism