It’s a pleasure to be here this evening. I’m grateful for the invitation to speak on the theme of this year’s conference – Just Politics.
It’s a theme that immediately poses a question. Is it ‘just politics’ – a fairer politics, a politics of integrity which pursues a Christlike justice?
Or is it just politics – merely politics, only politics? Often I hear the phrase, with a shrug of the shoulders – ‘well, it’s just politics, isn’t it?’ Encoded within that is a dismissal. The speaker has assessed the manoeuvres of a political party, for example, or a politician, and found it lacking in substance or integrity, or the ability to create real and lasting change.
If you Google ‘just politics’, the first page of results is littered with links to the hit podcast ‘The Rest is Politics.’ The podcast is, arguably at the very high end, of the current proliferation of chatty media outputs which daily or weekly follow the pinball of parliamentary gossip- who’s in and who’s out, what’s up and what’s down. For the most part these programmes are heavily focused on personality, rather than policy. Of course, personality can make a big difference to the actual process of policymaking, but all too often, political commentary and discussion descends into pure personal gossip. I think that’s often what people are talking about when they dismiss so much of what happens in Westminster and beyond as ‘just politics.’
The two ‘justs’ are two ends of a spectrum. A just politics has to transcend the gossipy cliques which are such a profound turn-off for so many. A politics which places personality over policy – party over people – is exactly the sort of politics which causes people to shrug, disengage, and say – ‘but isn’t it all just politics?’ Indeed, trust in politics is at a forty-year low right now. Might that in part be because people view politics as merely a power struggle without a purpose? Many, in recent times, have seen very little to give them hope in their day-to-day lives, even though the faces at the top of the Westminster tree keep changing, and now with an entirely new Government in post.
The question I’m hoping we can ask ourselves this evening is how we can transform the disengagement and apathy of ‘just’ politics into the pursuit of a truly just politics. Politics can shape everything in the world around us. Everyone has a stake, and we need everybody in. Proper, widespread and sustained participation: that will be both the hallmark of a just politics beginning to form, and a necessary requirement for fair and righteous government which represents everyone’s needs.
But before we get into the details of democratic participation, I want to pose a question which will shape what I go on to say. This is a gathering of politically engaged people of faith, and I speak to you as an Anglican Bishop with an ex officio role in the House of Lords. It’s clear that the Church and the State have something to say to each other. But what? What can the Church offer politics today? Or perhaps it would be better to ask – what should the Church offer politics today?
We live in uncertain and changing times. A new Prime Minister is installed in Number 10. There’s a ground war in Europe and far right politicians are making gains across the western world. Some people in the UK are anticipating this coming parliamentary term with hope. But many are worried about what the future holds nationally and internationally, whoever sits in Number 10.
My own understanding of our politics in the UK is shaped by my experiences in the centralised bubble of the Palace of Westminster. As one of the Lords Spiritual, I’ve seen Westminster politics at its best and at its worst. At its best, it’s a powerhouse of change, where brilliant individuals work together to make the world better. At its worst, it’s a dysfunctional, partisan mess where much is discussed – but very little gets done. [It’s probably best not to unpack the metaphor of our country’s main political proceedings taking place in a crumbling, leaking building.] Of course, Westminster is not the be-all-and-end-all of politics in the UK, but it’s one of our most visible and powerful beacons. The example set there trickles out into the rest of political and public life.
Navigating the House of Lords and the Church of England simultaneously can present challenges. The two institutions are complex, at times opaque. Westminster, in particular, is governed by often unwritten rules of convention, which you transgress at your peril. Recently I accidentally referred to a fellow member as ‘the noble Minister’ while asking a question in the House of Lords. I could hear people tutting around me and before I’d even left the Chamber three peers had approached to correct me. I should (of course!) have said ‘the noble Lord, the Minister.’ There is a reason for this naming convention, of course, and – to some extent – convention is important. But I was asking a question about conflict in the Middle East in the wake of 7th October attack, and couldn’t help but wonder if, on this occasion, the substance of the question was more important than the way in which I had delivered it.
That’s a small example, but governing Westminster via convention – often convention that is barely even written down, let alone officially codified – can have more corrosive effects. We have seen that recently. To give just a couple of examples – a Prime Minister prorogued parliament to circumvent the will of the democratically elected Chamber. At the end of the last parliamentary session, there were more MPs sitting independently than there were Liberal Democrat MPs. Whatever the reason for those MPs losing the whip – lobbying, leaking, sexual misconduct or bullying – it’s clear that expecting unwritten conventions to police democratic and decent behaviour is no longer a particularly effective method.
So, what is the responsibility of the Church in all of this? Who should it represent, who should it serve? How can it best serve politics?
The Lords Spiritual try to play a distinctive role in the House of Lords, offering moral intervention which stands apart from party politics. Ideally, our benches would offer steadfast, prophetic words into the House where these would not otherwise have an obvious place. It’s harder than it looks, not least because it’s easy to get caught up in the push and pull of everyday politics, and we don’t always get it right. But I hope there might be some reflections and lessons I can offer from my, albeit limited, experience of around 3 years in the House of Lords, while seeking to answer the question of what the Church might distinctively offer to a just politics.
I am going to try to answer this question by outlining a series of three contradictions, or tensions, which I believe we must reckon with in order to engage with and shape politics in a Christlike way. They are tensions which the Church as an institution and us as individuals must recognise, weigh up and balance. I don’t believe they are tensions we can always neatly resolve, or indeed that we should necessarily try to answer easily. We’re seeking Christ in a fallen world: there are always going to be contradictions between the morally ideal and the politically possible.
A new and an old song
The first of these contradictions is the tension between constant renewal and seeking relevance, on the one hand, and theological and moral constancy, on the other.
I recently had the privilege of hearing Sister Moira O’Sullivan preach as I welcomed and installed her as an Honorary Ecumenical Canon at Chelmsford Cathedral. Sister Moira is a member of the English Community of Canonesses of the Holy Sepulchre and was one of three Ecumenical Canons admitted during the service. The Canonesses are a Catholic order who work primarily in very deprived areas in England and across the globe – I am sure many of you know them.
Sister Moira preached about the invitation of Psalm 96 – ‘sing to the Lord a new song’ – and posed the question, what is this new, or alternatively, renewed song? She suggested it is a song that is rooted in the needs of the people, it is a relevant song which gives voice to the otherwise voiceless. It should be full of hope, peace, inclusion and justice. Crucially, it should put the needs of people ahead of attachment to institutions – whether the Church, or indeed Westminster politics.
I agree: we need a constantly refreshed song which seeks continuous relevancy – or perhaps resonance is a better word – to the conditions in which we find ourselves and the reality of our lived experiences. Of course, that’s inherently political: politics creates the world we see around us and can shape our society towards more or less Christlike ends. Just two weeks into a new Government, there couldn’t be a more pressing time to speak about renewal and change – a new song.
At the same time, I’ve been revisiting Bishop George Bell’s essay, The Church’s Function in Wartime. It’s nearly 100 years old, written in the first few months of the Second World War. The essay is an important reminder that a ‘new song’ cannot mean that the essence of our belief and morality changes in the light of new or difficult contexts.
‘It is the function of the Church at all costs to remain the Church.’ That is Bishop Bell’s argument in the essay: there is something essential and unchanging about the function of the Church, and the contexts of wartime shouldn’t sway its purpose. Bell states that the Church ‘is bound to proclaim the realities which outlast change.’ There is, after all, ‘no special wartime gospel. It is the gospel for human needs in all times and countries.’
The essay mostly defines the function of the Church in opposition to the function of the State. The two bodies must remain distinct and independent. Bishop Bell puts it like this: ‘The state is the guarantor of order, justice and civil liberty. It acts by the power of restraint, legal and physical. The Church, on the other hand, is charged with a gospel of God’s redeeming love. It aims at creating a community founded on love.’ We could argue about the definitions which Bell has chosen, but the point remains: Church and state are distinct.
Of course, it’s complicated. Bishop Bell and I have in common that we both sit or sat in the legislature as representatives from the UK’s state-sanctioned religion. Church and State in the UK are muddled together after centuries of integration, even though we can track the decline of Anglicanism among the general population to the lowest level we’ve ever seen. For the first time ever, less than half the population described themselves as ‘Christian’ in the most recent census. In practice, the Lords Spiritual very rarely cast deciding votes in the House of Lords, so to some extent the point is an academic one. But the fact remains – it’s not as simple as Bishop Bell would like. Church and State are not always constitutionally distinct in England.
Anglican Bishops who sit in the House of Lords therefore try to offer something unique into the debate. It’s a privilege to sit in the legislature, contributing to and shaping public debate, and it’s a privilege which the Lords Spiritual take seriously. Our presence represents the blurred lines between Church and State, so it’s all the more important that the bishops offer something distinct. We’re not just 26 extra Peers. We need to stand for ‘the Cross, the gospel of redemption,’ as Bishop Bell puts it. That’s the distinct function and message of the Church, and it cannot change. It cannot be flexed to accommodate context.
So, we are called upon to be always new and always the same. Sing a new song, that is nonetheless always received from the unchanging Christ and addressed to the unchanging Christ. Engage with the realities of the world, but not at the expense of the core message of the Gospel.
Bishop Bell didn’t just write these ideas in high-minded tracts. He spoke out in the House of Lords repeatedly, criticising the policy of area bombing and, later, the Cold War. In 1944, he gave a powerful speech in the House of Lords about the need to preserve the lives of civilians – even in enemy states – and questioned the policy of blanket bombing. Drawing on international humanitarian law, as far as it existed at the time, he said of the bombing of Berlin: ‘the policy is obliteration, openly acknowledged. That is not a justifiable act of war.’ He proffered a powerful series of questions: “Why is there this blindness to the psychological side? Why is there this inability to reckon with the moral and spiritual facts? Why is there this forgetfulness of the ideals by which our cause is inspired? How can the War Cabinet fail to see that this progressive devastation of cities is threatening the roots of civilization? How can they be blind to the harvest of even fiercer warring and desolation, even in this country, to which the present destruction will inevitably lead when the members of the War Cabinet have long passed to their rest? How can they fail to realize that this is not the way to curb military aggression and end war?”
It was clearly a countercultural view. Viscount Fitzalan of Derwent responded bluntly: ‘I cannot possibly agree with what I understand to be the views of the right reverend Prelate […] I am an out-and-out bomber.’ The policy of area bombing remained in place till the end of the war. But Bishop Bell spoke out at a moment when the public pressure to fall in behind the view of the Government was overwhelming. That’s a good example of the Church, at all costs, remaining the Church.
In his essay, Bishop Bell warned that during the First World War the Church had ‘failed to sound the super-national note’. The national Church institutions of various warring countries had been, in his view, enticed by convenient nationalist narratives. It was easier to fall in line with the view of the governments of the day rather than challenge them; it was easier to give in to a nationalist streak than it was to build international solidarity. I wonder what he would have made of Coventry Cathedral and all that it came to represent in the second half of the 20th century. He died four years before the new cathedral was consecrated. The new building rises like a phoenix out of the bombed-out ruins of the old – those who have visited will no doubt agree that standing in the giant, barn-like atrium, flooded with coloured light, is a profoundly moving experience. But it’s more than just a symbol – the Community of the Cross of Nails, based out of the cathedral, is a worldwide network of 260 organisations including churches, retreat houses and schools, which advance positive peacebuilding and reconciliation projects. The majority of the partners of the project are in Germany. The community is guided by the words ‘Father, Forgive.’ When we too place forgiveness at the centre, reconciliation is possible.
The UK is not currently at war, but war does rage around the globe and, unthinkably is present even in Europe. In such times we must seek to be more fully the Church. There is a great need for global solidarity with the downtrodden. History shows us that it is easy to turn to jingoism in difficult times. But a just politics can’t stop at our own borders.
Bishop Bell paid a price for his intervention on area bombing – unpopular among many well-known faces including Winston Churchill and the then Archbishops, his outspoken approach may well have knocked him out of the running to be considered as the next Archbishop of Canterbury. And following Christ, even where his message is extremely counter-cultural, might well cost many Christians more than a promotion. It’s a new tune, but it’s an old song – the oldest.
Conviction versus openness
Some Peers listening to George Bell’s speech against area bombing thought that he was being thoroughly inflexible, and that such inflexibility would actually lead to more suffering. The responding Minister said that he appreciated the Bishop’s sincerity, but that his ‘high motives’ would in fact lead to the prolonging of the war, and therefore more death. To me, that epitomises the second tension which I want to turn to now. How can we balance our moral convictions with the need for pragmatism, flexibility, openness, a willingness to learn? How do we know when to be persuaded and when to stick to our instinctive views?
I’ll illustrate this with a personal experience. I was recently called to appear in front of the Home Affairs Select Committee as part of a one-off evidence session about asylum decision-making and conversion to Christianity. The session was called in the light of a series of media reports about a so-called ‘conveyor belt’ of baptisms being performed by churches for asylum seekers. The accusation was that churches were being overly credulous, performing baptisms which were sought by asylum seekers purely to support their claim to stay in the UK.
I welcomed the opportunity to speak about the media reports with the MPs on the Committee. I didn’t recognise the picture of industrial-scale baptisms and, along with two ecumenical colleagues, I wanted to have an open, honest and transparent conversation about the role of the Church in welcoming asylum seekers and refugees, which may well be different to the responsibilities of the state in processing asylum claims. I wanted to get beneath the skin of the headlines and the polarised debate. Select Committees should, in theory, be a good place to do this – they are composed of a politically representative group of MPs who dedicate a good chunk of time to thinking more deeply about Home Affairs issues.
Unfortunately, I was disappointed. The majority of the Select Committee didn’t turn up, possibly becuase it was a one-off session called at short notice. For the most part, those that did attend had clearly come with their minds already made up. I didn’t feel they were trying to get to the bottom of the issue and work collaboratively with the Church towards a better, integrated approach to how we treat asylum seekers on our shores. I felt they wanted to attack the Church of England, in particular, and prove that there was something afoot in the way we with asylum seekers. Vicars who baptised asylum seekers were demonised. Churches were portrayed as at best, naïve, and at worst, dishonest and somehow in on a wider conspiracy.
In short, the majority of MPs Committee came to that session with an agenda and their minds already firmly made up. We weren’t there for a conversation, we were there for a confrontation.
We can probably guess why. The bishops’ benches in the House of Lords have been consistent in speaking against the previous Government’s Safety of Rwanda Bill, which sought to send asylum seekers arriving in the UK to a different country permanently – not for processing, but before their claim had even been heard in the UK. We didn’t block the Bill, because we recognise the supremacy of the elected House – and while we believe in justice for asylum seekers, we also believe in democratic principles. But many of us spoke against the bill and tried to improve it through bringing amendments. I did and do oppose the Bill, now an Act of Parliament, and it remains to be seen what the Labour Government will do with it. On the Select Committee it was easier to attack the bishops as a group of ‘woke lefties’ than engage with the moral reasons for our opposition.
There are real consequences to this inflexible conviction. At the Select Committee hearing, the Revd Steve Tinning, from the Baptist Union, spoke near the end of our session with powerful words about one of the churches which he’d been working with. The church had been caught up in a media storm after baptising a group of asylum seekers housed on the Bibby Stockholm barge. Tinning spoke of their fear and sadness after receiving hate mail – and read out one email that included the ominous phrase ‘brace yourself’ in reference to possible backlash. It’s a small church community trying to express kindness towards a vulnerable group. The fixation of some high-profile political leaders on discrediting asylum seekers and those who work with them led to frightening, real-life consequences for this church. And that doesn’t even begin to cover what asylum seekers themselves are suffering as they are repeatedly demonised by some high-profile political figures.
I came to the Select Committee with collaborative intentions and hoped that we might have a productive conversation. After all, I did have in common with the MPs who were quizzing me that we all wanted to see an end to dangerous channel crossings. But while I found it frustrating that we couldn’t find more common ground, I’m absolutely certain that the MPs I spoke to felt the same way about me. I have to recognise that the moral conviction of the MPs who were questioning me was just as solid as my own opposing conviction. I see speaking out for the rights of the marginalised, including asylum seekers, as an integral part of my calling as a faith leader. But I needed to be prepared to listen to those MPs just as much as I wanted them to listen to me.
This situation begs the question, are there times when we should balance our moral convictions against an openness and a desire to listen prayerfully to opposing viewpoints, however much we instinctively disagree with them? I think there are – but how can we ensure that openness to listen doesn’t become spinelessness and flipflopping? And how can we ensure that moral conviction doesn’t become unwillingness to listen in the face of genuine disagreement?
I’m sure we can all call to mind examples of inflexible conviction in our own lives and work. For my part, I recognise it in the conversations we as the Church of England are having about same-sex relationships. All too often there is no proper dialogue – we come to discussions polarised and we leave feeling just as embattled and embittered as before.
It’s easy to point out the problem of inflexibility but it’s much harder to address it, not least because everyone believes in open dialogue in principle but I suspect that most people want to see others ready to change their minds without having any intention of doing so themselves. At times it can feel as though – in both Church and public life – we are speaking completely different languages. That’s why the first principle here has to be about active listening and a genuine commitment to seek to understand the deeply held beliefs of those whose view points seem completely opposed to our own.
For listening to be effective, we need to speak a shared language. My experience at the Select Committee showed me that some MPs’ understanding of the Church – its structures, policies, and fundamental beliefs – were completely at odds with my own. And when we have contentious discussions in the Church itself, I’m not always convinced that we have a shared understanding of terminology. We haven’t always devoted the necessary time to develop a mutual understanding of – for example – people’s different interpretations of terms like sex, gender, or sexuality. No wonder we sometimes struggle to have productive conversations.
Spending time developing a shared language should form the foundations of a meaningful conversation. Only then is it possible to start looking for points of similarity and difference. At the Select Committee, we all wanted the same thing – to see dangerous channel crossings stopped. We’ve got different ideas about how to get there, but if we had started from this point of agreement and worked backwards, we might have had a more useful conversation.
Only once we have a shared language and starting place can we begin to formulate positive policies which have human need at their heart.
During the election season, I spent time praying for moderation in language – for good disagreement, gentleness, and kindness. It’s a prayer which I will continue with into this next parliamentary session. Moderation, positive listening, and good disagreement are some of the principles that Bishops try to bring to the House of Lords and to public life in general. We want to take some of the heat out of discussions which have become so polarised that it’s impossible to be constructive and seek proper solutions. It’s something I think the Church can offer into public life, even if we don’t always get it right ourselves. It’s only through listening and through prayerful reflection that it is possible to balance personal moral conviction alongside a culture of listening to views which seem so alien to our own.
I ought to say that active listening and good disagreement shouldn’t always lead to the lowest common denominator – a kind of midway-point agreement that doesn’t end up pleasing anyone. A prayerfully considered opinion shouldn’t be discarded lightly. As a starting point, I would say any worldview or policy proposal which isn’t prioritising or even considering the need of the vulnerable and marginalised is not one which is in line with the teachings of Christ. It’s important to know when to stick to your moral guns, to use a metaphor Bishop Bell probably would have hated.
The Community of the Cross of Nails has the Litany of Reconciliation at its heart. The words ‘father, forgive’ run throughout the prayer as a response. To get to the point of respectful discussion and open listening, it will sometimes be necessary to start with reconciliation.
The Church is big. It’s messy and broad, and we don’t always agree. Certainly in the Anglican tradition, that has always been the case and always will be. It’s a fool’s errand to seek a Church without disagreement – a Church which is so homogenous that there is no room for doubt or discussion. Not only is it an impossible goal, it would also destroy much of the richness of our Churches. But we must find a way to have respectful disagreement and rigorous debate without the anger and the inflexibility.
Knocking from the inside and knocking from the outside
A few minutes ago I asked the question ‘what should the Church offer to politics?’ I’ve also just been talking about developing a shared language, so perhaps I should get some definitions straight here. What is politics, and what is the Church? It’s clear that politics has got to go beyond the Palace of Westminster, just as the Church needs to go beyond the four walls of the building – or indeed, the larger national structures.
When she preached, Sister Moira quoted Pope Francis warning that the Church institution itself might be ‘stifling the cries of our prophets.’ Pope Francis said this – “In Revelation, Jesus says that he is at the door and knocks. Obviously, the text refers to his knocking from the outside in order to enter, but I think about the times in which Jesus knocks from within so that we will let him come out.” It’s what the Pope calls a ‘self-referential’ Church – one which lives within itself and for itself rather than one which is for the world – dedicated to evangelism and public life. Does the Church seek to keep Christ inside, or do we allow Him to get out into the world?
It’s a challenge which reminds me of another institution. If you’ve heard the term ‘the Westminster village’ you’ll know just how insular the political class can be. Our central parliament is a vast machine. It’s got a hairdresser, several bars and restaurants, fairly decent barista coffee, a post office. Everything is set up to ensure that people who work there don’t have to leave the estate. I can see the appeal for busy parliamentarians and staff for whom convenience could mean an extra case load ticked off the to do list.
But Westminster is supposed to make decisions about how to make the UK a fairer and more equal country. The people there make decisions on behalf of everyone, including those who feel that the palace of Westminster is somewhere completely alien.
I started by speaking about the insular “cliqueiness” of Westminster which has turned so many people off politics. In the last twenty years, general election turnout has been consistently lower than in the 20th century, peaking at just under 70% in 2017. That was still a full 30% of people who didn’t feel motivated to use their vote, and this July it was 48% who didn’t turn out. So many people think that Westminster politics isn’t ‘for them.’ And it’s generally younger people, those with fewer qualifications, from lower socio-economic backgrounds, and from ethnic minority groups who are least likely to vote in the UK. In short, it’s the groups who don’t feel served by electoral politics who seem least incentivised to turn out. And it becomes a vicious circle: low turnout leads to a weak political offer for groups who are already marginalised, who are then even less likely to head out to their local polling station.
UK general election turnout peaked at an all-time high in 1950. It was the visionary post-war period, where both main parties were trying seriously to engage with the needs of the country as a whole – there was mass house-building, the dawn of the welfare state, and an ambitious programme of rebuilding and modernising the UK’s war-torn infrastructure. Of course, lots of factors influence turnout, but where there’s an offer for otherwise disaffected and disengaged people, they do come out to vote. And voting is just an indicator of wider engagement with elected representatives.
Of course, politics goes way beyond what happens in Westminster. But there is still huge power in our national parliament. It’s a body that should be – to borrow from another struggling democracy (India) – of the people, for the people, and by the people, and it’s important that people can see it’s working for them. There’s a Church in pretty much every community in the UK. That’s a huge opportunity for us to play a role in encouraging democratic participation and shaping the tone of the debate in local and national communities.
I think we’ll know when we’ve started to achieve a just politics, because people won’t feel so disincentivised and disengaged. People from all corners of our nation and society will know that their voice is being listened to. They will feel like a just society is not only possible, but that it has started to take shape; that politics is not only something which could work for them but something that has already started to create the change needed to equalise our society.
We need a multi-directional shift: Westminster needs to get out more, with parliamentarians, ministers and staff actively spending more time in local communities with an open, listening ear. But communities also need to get into Westminster – through voting and other methods of engagement. There should be knocking from both inside and outside, and I believe the two will be mutually reinforcing. We can work to eliminate the barriers which cause many people to believe that Westminster is entirely isolated from the people. We can create a politics which serves every community – a just politics.
I’ve talked a lot about Westminster and of course we’ve already acknowledged that it’s not the only kind of politics. Not only are there other elected bodies across the country, making decisions which have a huge effect on people’s lives, there are also the everyday political acts which shape our communities. A group running a Foodbank; a community rallying round to save a beloved local meeting place; an individual choosing to avoid buying goods unfairly produced and traded – these are political acts, so often with a Church community at their heart, and they do make a difference.
Asking the wrong question
So as I begin to draw to a close, let me remind you that I’ve spoken about a number of tensions or contradictions between conviction and openness, between internal and external politics, and between singing an old and a new song.
At their heart, these are all the same tension. They are the tension between being simultaneously of Christ and of the world, being in the world but not of the world. The tension between what we want to see and what we feel is possible in a broken world. The tension between relevancy (or resonance) and conviction, between pragmatism and idealism. We are striving for justice – or the Kingdom of God – in a world where Jesus himself told us we would always have the poor among us. That’s one of the many paradoxes of Christian faith.
And we’ve got to hold the paradox lightly. There aren’t any easy answers or cheat codes, and seeking justice in a fallen world is always going to be an uphill battle. But we trust and we hope in Jesus that change is possible: we must not give up. And we have a clear instruction to act justly, to love faithfulness, and to walk humbly with God – even when that feels difficult.
To answer my original question, ‘what should the Church offer politics?’ I think we can offer the hope of Christ that a more just world is possible.
But I’m increasingly coming to the conclusion that perhaps I’ve been asking the wrong question. The Church and politics aren’t separate. It’s not right to pitch them as two separate things and ask how the two might talk to each other. The distinctive function of the Church – seeking justice and peace and sharing the good news of Christ – is inherently political. Christ came to free the captive and bring good news to the poor – that was a political act. Sister Moira put it like this: ‘The world as God made it is good – and the Gospels speak of a world where all are welcome and fed; where there is hope – where there is no hint of injustice or exclusion; a sacred world where impossible though it may seem, we love our neighbours as ourselves.’ To seek such a world is a bold political choice.
Bishop Bell wanted the Church to be more fully the Church, but he himself proved that to embrace the peace-loving mission of Christ is to be compelled to political engagement. The distinctive voice of the Church is political. To heal division, to pursue peace, to seek justice: that, to me, is a just politics, and not ‘just politics.’
