Article
Comment
Leading
Politics
4 min read

Covid inquiry: Johnson, Cummings, and the cost of refusing to grieve

The report exposes mistakes, but our real challenge is learning how to face loss without denial

Jonah Horne is a priest, living and working in Devon.

Boris Johnson sits, giving evidence to an inquiry.
Boris Johnson giving evidence to the inquiry.
UK Covid-19 Inquiry.

I distinctly remember the sheer confusion of January to March 2020. Should we flee our flat in London? Should we cancel the lease on our workspace? Will I be able to continue breakfast with my friend on Thursday mornings? I ignorantly scoffed that a lockdown could conceivably take place and then, stood devastatingly corrected only a few months later. However, the UK Covid-19 Inquiry reveals that this ignorance induced confusion was not restricted to the personal level but instead enacted on a national stage. 

What’s glaringly obvious as you read the recommendations is that the government acted too slowly and too indecisively. If the initial restrictions been introduced sooner, say in January or February, the first lockdown “might have been shorter or not necessary at all.” This, the report suggests, could have saved approximately 23,000 lives. Brenda Doherty, of the Covid-19 Bereaved Families for Justice group, believes her mother could have been one of these. Instead, she and her sister stood by her graveside in March 2020 as her family members waited a few metres back sectioned off by red tape. The report and accompanying evidence call for sombre reading. 

In response, those in charge at the time have understandably launched an attack in their own defence. Boris Johnson has labelled the inquiry "totally muddled,” which ironically sounds like the informal conclusion of his leadership in the report. Similarly, Dominic Cummings has hurled a 2,000-word response into the social media stratosphere, which feels almost as long as the 800-page paper itself. 

What seems glaringly obvious about both men’s responses is the very thing Brenda Doherty displays with such elegance: grief. There is, in these men’s retorts, a stunning omission of any sense of responsibility or indeed any willingness to admit defeat. And what frightens me most, as we look towards the future, is our refusal to grieve over the things of the past. The threat on Europe from Russia is growing. AI’s disruption on our workforce seems to be being enthusiastically brushed aside. And another, potentially much more violent, pandemic is unsettlingly likely. 

However, in the face of these disruptive forces grief is a remarkably generative power. Without grief we remain, much like Johnson and Cummings, frozen in time. Immovable in our ineptitude and ignorance. Grief, I’d argue, is the very thing that enables us to recognise our shortcomings and, when mixed with hope, energises us towards a future which lies on the other side of sorrow. Yet, when we exist in a place of fragility, the idea of imagining that life lies beyond my incompetency, if only I grieve it, is frightening. Devastatingly though, for us humans, this may be the only way to learn and move forward.  

Our future and redemption is undeniably bound up in our ability to grieve. Grief is inherently futural. By grieving our ineptitude, we inevitably witness to the places that require growth, mercy and grace. When we fail to grieve, we remain frozen in time—precariously hiding behind the illusion of our infallibility. This is a deeply fragile state. From this position, any assault or critique on our mistakes becomes a personal attack rather than invitation to redemption. We find ourselves lashing out in fear, terrified of being exposed. Johnson and Cummings embody this predicament to a tee.  

This situation however is not unique to the Covid iquiry and our late-prime minister’s response. Another character who lashes out in fear is St Peter, one of Jesus’s friends and disciples. There is a rather poetic story that illustrated this at the end of John’s gospel in the New Testament. One of Jesus’s friends Peter rejects him as he’s taken to be murdered. Peter attacks a guard, cuts his ear off and Jesus famously disarms him and heals the man. Moments later, Jesus is taken, Peter flees and we find him standing in a courtyard, by a fire and where claims not to know his friend and master Jesus. To make matters worse, he rejects him not once, but three times. However, when Jesus returns from the grave, he meets Peter again, at a fireside on a beach, and asks him “do you love me?” Not once but three times. The thing that I think is particularly remarkable about this meeting is that Jesus recognises Peter’s future in bound up in the redemption of his past mistakes. Jesus takes Peter to the place of failure, a fireside, and gives him an opportunity to declare his allegiance and love for him, the same amount of times he had rejected him. He reminded him of his wound to heal him for his future.  

If we are to take seriously our response to the Covid-19 inquiry, we must take responsibility for our errors. Not begrudgingly but with a grace filled grief. Our future, one that is filled with hope, does not come to us without a confession of past errors. Instead, a hopeful future may only come to us when we confess, recognise and grieve our mistakes. Indeed, to freely grieve over my failures is to grieve believing in life beyond my defeat. 

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Review
Books
Culture
Economics
Politics
5 min read

Abundance and the attempt to build a better world

Is this policy the antidote to the zero-sum game of politics?

Josh is a curate in London, and is completing a PhD in theology.

Construction worker climb a steel framework.
Josue Isai Ramos Figueroa on Unsplash.

What do you do when more money won’t solve a government’s problems? Abundance: How We Build A Better Future, the new book by Ezra Klein and Derek Thompson is an extended polemic against a form of government—particularly as practiced by US liberals—that stymies policy delivery. However technocratic that sounds (and the book often is), it forces readers to confront deeper questions about the nature of politics.  

At the heart of the book is a critique of what the authors, drawing on the film Everything Everywhere All At Once, call 'Everything Bagel Liberalism'. In the film topping are added to bagel to the point that it becomes a blackhole. So too, Klein and Thompson suggest, with so much well-intended policy, in which in seeking to tick every possible box and satisfy a range of regulators it becomes a delivery blackhole and little is actually done. The authors ask whether parties of the left are focused on measuring spending to the exclusion of measuring what gets built.  

The first chapter gives a good sense of their approach.  It tells a familiar story about the way in which so many are being priced out of cities because of a lack of affordable housing. However, in doing so, it highlights a surprising harm: that geographical proximity remains an important enabler of technological innovation so a lack of affordable housing in cities means a loss of creativity. 

The diagnosis is perhaps even more surprising coming from American liberals. Special interests—including those seeking to protect the value of their own houses—weaponize interlocking sets of well-intentioned legislation to prevent homes being built. Subsequent chapters apply that similar logic—regulation and a lack of focus resulting in inaction—to infrastructure, government capacity, scientific research and the implementation of new inventions. 

The book's strength is that it is not particularly detailed in its policy proposals. Klein and Thompson instead offer abundance as a lens through which policy development can be viewed: what do we need more of and how do we get it? This lens can be applied from within a wide range of ideological frameworks. It is not itself a worldview but a challenge that any politics should be obsessed with effective delivery not simply desiring the correct end-state.  

The book is unapologetically focused on America and the failures of progressive governance, particularly in California. (One of this book's peculiar legacies will be to leave many who have never been there perpetually invested in California's struggles to build high-speed rail.) Nevertheless, the approach already has its advocates in the UK - for example, the Centre for British Progress which set out its stall last week, and it is not hard to see how an agenda here that could be seized by a less hesitant Starmer government.  

Any plausible political analysis must hold together the reality of scarcity and abundance. Losing sight of either unmoors us from the actual world we find ourselves in.

Indeed, perhaps the book might feel more realistic if it had other countries in mind. Reviewing Abundance, Columbia economist Adam Tooze describes the book as painful to read, characterising it as a manifesto for the Harris presidency that never was. Indeed, according to the authors, the book was originally scheduled for release in summer 2024 to influence the Democratic platform leading up to the 2024 elections. Instead, it appears in 2025 amid Trump's assault on institutions, Tooze's Columbia among them.  

In an interview on Pod Save America, the authors argued that the book is still relevant, offering a framework with which Democrats can oppose Trump. Thompson described the Trumpian view of politics as fundamentally shaped by scarcity. He suggests that behind 47th president's policies—most notably the tariff agenda—is the conviction that every interaction is zero-sum; for you to gain, I must lose.  On this analysis, the way to oppose a politics that pits groups against one another over limited resources—housing, trade, jobs—is to figure out how the government can provide more and argue for it. In its critique and its hopefulness, Abundance offers those who believe in institutions a way to navigate—even work with the grain of—the anti-institutional temperament of contemporary politics.  

There might be something to this messaging, but scarcity plays an unmissable role in Klein and Thompson's argument. Remember that they characterise what they oppose as "Everything Bagel Liberalism", policy that tries to achieve every outcome and loses focus in doing so. They may conceive scarcity differently to Trump, but their book is a warning policy cannot deliver as much as we think. It is a call for us to oppose, to compete against those special interests—whether they be residents’ associations wanting to hold up house prices or politicians wanting to cut research grants—whose policy priorities overload the bagel.  

At heart, the book is a reminder that ultimately the salient scarcity in politics is not housing or trade or even money. It is time. Abundance cautions governments that unfocussed policy yields the time entrusted to them by the governed.  

Humans cannot lead politics completely beyond its zero-sum logic. The world is so often a violent competition over resources and government must restrain that violence while avoiding being co-opted as a means of exploitation.  And yet, politics is also—even primarily—an avenue through which communities answer a primal summons to be fruitful, abundant.  

Ultimately, any plausible political analysis must hold together the reality of scarcity and abundance. Losing sight of either unmoors us from the actual world we find ourselves in. Yes, there is so much broken and warped to reckon with, and we must grapple too with our finitude’s bluntness, but so too is creation replete with goodness, among them our capacity to invent and deliver what we need together. 

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Graham Tomlin
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