Weekend essay
Comment
Royalty
8 min read

Fanfare for the familial: what the coronation really showcases

The culmination of family saga or a snapshot of the universal family? John Milbank analyses the wider meaning of the coronation.

John Milbank is a theologian, philosopher and poet. A co-founder of the Radical Orthodoxy movement, he is an Emeritus Professor of the University of Nottingham.

King Charles and Prince William hold a tree sapling upright.
The family tree. King Charles and Prince William with a Queen’s Green Canopy sapling.
The Royal Family.

Nothing rivets our attention more than a family drama played out in public. Currently we are fascinated, either avidly or guiltily, by the tensions surrounding Harry’s attendance and Meghan’s absence at the coronation of King Charles III.  

Monarchy is popular and comprehensible in a way that law, finance, mercantile logistics and military strategy are not, just because it involves real persons and their relationships. This translates great matters of state into terms which resonate with the ordinary person - however terrible, besides consoling, those matters may turn out to be.  

Yet for many of the more formally educated this is not right at all. We should not be confusing the private with the public, the intimate with the objectively open.  

Familiarity, and still more the familial, is thought to contaminate the ethical.

Fairness is, today, supposed to require a lack of association with the parties involved, such that increasingly the interviewers of a candidate for a job are not allowed to have any previous knowledge about her. Familiarity, and still more the familial, is thought to contaminate the ethical, which suggests that ideally appointments should be made by artificial intelligence and all judgements be systematically computed.  

Already our individual assessments are no longer trusted, along with the quirkiness of intuition and all tacit knowledge acquired by direct acquaintance. Instead, we are expected to act as much like robots as possible and to reach verdicts only by box-ticking according to pre-assigned criteria.  

For such an outlook, monarchy is a supreme anomaly: the subversion of public process by private whim rendered hereditary. It surely enthrones not just a man but corruption and forms the capstone for the continuing operation of a decadent inherited establishment.  

Yet there is another way of looking at all this. Is it any accident that King Charles, who has not arrived at his position by following due process or pandering to the needs of faction and fashion, has consistently been able to argue for and to promote more serious long-term concerns of the common good than have most politicians? Our built environment, the stability of nature, the sustaining of craft-skills and the training in disciplined virtue of the young, whatever their class origins, all matter supremely, and yet it is the Crown and not Parliament that has been most freely able to point to these things and to do something about them.  

Where do any of us first learn to obey, to share and to sacrifice, besides how to exercise our positive creative talents? Always within the bosom of the family, in whatever conventional or unconventional way this may be constituted.

More fundamentally, there are reasons to doubt the simple association of the private with interested corruption, and the publicly abstract and objective with ethical disinterest. Where do any of us first learn to obey, to share and to sacrifice, besides how to exercise our positive creative talents? Always within the bosom of the family, in whatever conventional or unconventional way this may be constituted. Moreover, within this bosom, rivalry and even competition are actually discouraged, even though they inevitably arise. Our parents want us to succeed, but not at the expense of our siblings. Self-expression and self-realisation are fostered rather than suppressed and yet they are not permitted to overrule cooperation.  

Within the family we learn that nothing is possible for us alone and that we have a part to play in a greater whole. School expands this vision and yet to some degree it already undermines it. We are now openly and almost shockingly encouraged to compete and to outperform; the less successful children are effectively abandoned by their new surrogate parents. The Victorians deliberately tried to counteract this by encouraging also house and school loyalty and a genial competition in sports and debating with other schools and colleges.  

Yet when we leave school and university and join a workplace of whatever kind this geniality starts to vanish, and the competition becomes more cut-throat. We now need to help undercut rival operations and even systematically to exploit our clients or customers. In consequence, evil gets ever more reduced to crime: we are allowed to do some pretty bad things so long as they stay within the rules and we, and above all our employers, stay out of jail.  

Some of us will go on to become politicians or will have pursued that career from the outset. Now things get worse: in the international context even the rule of law becomes patchy and shaky. Even where the international rules are followed, it is understood that national self-interest prevails and is wholly legitimate. It would be beyond shocking for a parent to tell their children that they must pursue selfish family interests at school, and work to sustain that at the expense of all other people, by whatever means possible. It’s just such an attitude that defines the mafiosi or the camorra. And it would still be shocking for a businessperson to tell their employees that they must pursue profit at the expense of their own town or country, even if this is often what covertly pertains.  

Yet a politician can readily get up and say that the interests of Britain or whatever other country come, for her, first and last. Even the claim to be fighting for freedom and democracy (or some such) cannot survive if it is seen to clash with the interests of the nation: despite everything Biden has had to concede to Trump on this one.  

The very selfishness and ruthlessness that is excoriated at the domestic hearth is ultimately encouraged in the public citadel.

There thus results something that has perplexed me ever since I was a child. The very selfishness and ruthlessness that is excoriated at the domestic hearth is ultimately encouraged in the public citadel. Does this mean, as the French philosopher Henri Bergson suggested, that most ethics really exists just to ensure the solidarity and efficiency of a war-machine; that what we take to be ‘moral’ is little more than an ethnic survival mechanism? 

Bergson accordingly suggested that real ethics must be global and universal. But as we are discovering today, that seems too abstract and unrooted for most people. We cannot really love everyone effectively and equally. That is why Augustine suggested instead an ‘order of love’ whereby we extend our love in ever-widening circles from the closest to the most far-off, while allowing that our sympathy with remote people has to take the form of some support for those who are truly close to them.  

The only way, therefore, to counteract the tendency of morality to mutate into disguised crime the nearer one reaches the boundaries and the margin of society is to extend the familial principle, such that all are variously sisters and brothers, mothers and fathers, daughters and sons (as indeed we truly are as constituting a single race). At the same time, one big human family can only be an effective family if it is also a family of cooperating families – a vast extended family if you like, on a principle of covenanting cousinship.  

The world religions, and especially the Christian religion, have exactly operated this principle of an extension of the familial across all borders which can alone ensure that ethical action is both immediate and real, and yet not the mask of a collective egoism. Beyond the merely political community, the Church like the family is all-inclusive in its purpose: it offers at once citizenship, educational formation, reconciling process and collective cult, linking us to the divine.  

At the most ultimate boundary of the human race it can also ensure that humans respect other natural creatures. And at the most ultimate boundary of all, that of finite reality as such, it can ensure that the principle that reigns is not mere utility or survival but our love of God who is in himself inner loving relation.  

The aim of the ethical as love is itself relational connection and it is only the latter that puts a break on our worst instincts which we cannot always for ourselves override. 

Such covenanting cousinship, or dividing only in order to link, always puts relationality at the centre, instead of mere self or collectivity. The aim of the ethical as love is itself relational connection and it is only the latter that puts a break on our worst instincts which we cannot always for ourselves override. Family members check each other, as do citizens, and as also should corporate bodies, if they seek finally organic cooperation rather than unlimited competition.  

It not only should be but also actually is the same with nations. As the German philosopher Friedrich Schelling declared, it is in the end nations interacting with other nations that put a brake on tyranny arising within nations -- something that no mere constitution or inner balance of power can curb forever. For a nation thinking of itself alone always risks descending into a shared ruthlessness that will typically be exercised both within and without.  

The Church as an extended family is not a democracy but a ‘mixed constitution’ involving single headship, the wise advice of a few and the popular consent and modification of proffered norms by the many.  From a Christian perspective a good social order, as familial, should echo this, and that is why constitutional monarchy would appear to be a suitable, though by no means the only possible form, for a Christian country to take.  

An aristocracy ought in theory to be the opposite of a mafia: not the subordination of public interest to family but a particularly strong and sacrificial association of person and family with public interest

Its mixed constitution involves some role for ‘aristocracy’ or wise leadership in the widest sense. An aristocracy ought in theory to be the opposite of a mafia: not the subordination of public interest to family but a particularly strong and sacrificial association of person and family with public interest. This is one crucial and political way in which the familial principle of the order of love can be constituted and rendered real. Of course, today, what we have instead is rather the covert extension of the rule of the mafiosi as big moneyed crime undercuts law and even operates outside its sway altogether. 

As a seeming anachronism, monarchy stands at the apex of the aristocracy and yet also transcends its concerns by a more direct linkage to the whole population, to whose attitudes and needs it needs to be especially alert. I have already mentioned just why and how King Charles performs this role effectively and in such a way as to counteract existing trends which more and more make a mockery of ordinary morality and decency, reducing it indeed to discipline for the mass troops, corralled into the service of armed power.  

Charles instead continues to serve the religious (and not just Christian) principles of the extended familial, of the order of love and covenanted cousinship, upon which alone the survival of ethics depends. Not only is there no salvation outside the Church (thus understood) -- there can be no genuine moral life either.  

For these reasons the coronation, which we eagerly await, will be indeed a truly Christian event and sacrament: an influx of grace in these unprecedentedly darkening times.  

Article
Comment
Purpose
Sport
5 min read

So we won the Ryder Cup. At what cost?

When beer flies and etiquette dies, maybe we’ve mistaken sport for something else

Graham is the Director of the Centre for Cultural Witness and a former Bishop of Kensington.

A video still shows a beer can thrown at a golf amid a crows
The beer flies towards Rory McIlroy.

Phew. The Ryder Cup was an epic. After a couple of days of European dominance, fans on this side of the pond looked forward to the Sunday one-on-one single matches as a formality, only needing a few more points to wrap up the Cup, only for the American team to suddenly discover they could play a bit after all. It turns out Europeans play better together (the matches on Friday and Saturday all involved teams of two playing against each other) but the Americans excel when they're on their own. The latter nearly pulled off a famous comeback but finally fell short as the gritty Europeans stumbled across the line, Shane Lowry holding his nerve to sink an eight-footer on the 18th, and Tyrell Hatton sealing the win with a nerveless par on the last.

Much of the talk afterwards however was not about the match but the behaviour of the American fans. The European golfers, especially their talisman Rory McIlroy, were subject to some pretty vile abuse throughout the three days. His wife was drenched by a beer thrown in her direction, insults were shouted as he prepared to play a shot (you just don’t do that in golf) and some idiots seemed more keen to abuse their opponents than support their own players. It seemed strange that Keegan Bradley, the American Captain made no effort to call out his own errant supporters. Yet it was perhaps not surprising in a country where public models of leadership hardly encourage moderation and restraint.

Of course, we are used to this kind of thing in football stadiums in the UK, but golf has somehow always felt different. Football is a fast-paced, hectic game with players running full tilt for just 90 minutes and so it’s understandable that emotions get high and passions flare. Golf is more measured. It takes time, has always laid a great stress on etiquette, following the rules and respecting your opponent. Yet none of that seemed to matter in the bearpit of Bethpage.

To be fair, European fans get pretty partisan when the Americans come here - yet they do seem to stop short of personal vitriol. It seems every time the Ryder Cup is played, the rivalry just gets a notch higher. You just have to hope they rein it in in Adare in Ireland in two years’ time. As the match reached its climax, players (on both sides) leapt about like wild things, thumping their chests like cavemen on winning a point. The crowd hollered their lungs out, or continued hurling insults at the opposition.

I found myself wondering why all this seemed to matter so much? Why were grown (mostly) men reduced to appalling behaviour or breaking down in tears over hitting a small white ball around a field?

Maybe I’m just getting old and nostalgic, but Ryder Cups in the early days were different, with those grainy black and white photos of players in baggy plus-fours and tartan socks. It was the same with Wimbledon before the Open era, Wembley Cup finals back in the day, cricket matches with baggy flannels and thin bats. At the end of titanic struggles there would be a gentle skip towards the opposition, a polite shaking of hands, a wave to the cheering crowds and the presentation of the cup, which was held aloft briefly, before everyone went home. Yes, of course, people got steamed up about sport back then. The 'bodyline' cricket series in Australia in 1932 got the blood boiling between Aussies & Poms, but it was precisely because the English team were playing unfair. There were street parties and public joy when England won the World Cup in 1966, yet there is the famous story of Geoff Hurst after scoring a hat-trick in the Final going home and mowing his lawn the day after. Hard to imagine that today.

Nowadays, the presentation ceremony goes on forever, with microphones thrust into players’ faces with the most boringly predictable question: “how do you feel having won (or lost)?” asked every single time. Emotion pours out everywhere. Superlatives are expected and duly uttered.

My mind went back to something the theologian James K. A. Smith said to me in a conversation some time ago. “When there is no longer any Ultimate”, he said, “the Penultimate seems to matter so much more.” His point was that in the absence of a general social belief in God, or a divine order above us, with little sense of any social or divine sanction for, frankly, atrocious behaviour, then things like politics or sport become more and more charged with meaning.

When there is nothing higher than politics, electoral victory becomes all-important. And anything goes in silencing the opposition. When the most significant thing in life is a sporting achievement - even vicariously as a fan - then winning is everything. Where there is a more pervasive sense of belief in God, or an afterlife, where the death of friends or neighbours is a more common occurrence throughout life, or even the task of putting food on the table is a daily struggle, such things matter less. Activities such sport, which were once seen as mildly significant, a pleasant diversion from more onerous tasks, found their true place as something important, but not that important.

Blaise Pascal once wrote: “People are bored stiff with their normal lives and so they need perils and excitement.” He thought that we crave distraction to stop us looking into the abyss, or up into the heavens, to contemplate the ultimate meaning of our lives, the reason why we are here in the first place, and our final destiny. It is classic displacement activity. It is why we pay entertainers more than doctors, vicars or philosophers - because we need the distraction.

The Penultimate begins to matter too much when we no longer have an Ultimate to relate to. Sinking a clutch putt to win a game is satisfying. Yet it is not the reason why we exist. Sport is a great diversion. But it is just that, and realising that might make us behave a bit better towards our opponents and help us to focus on the things that really matter – the questions of meaning and purpose that humans have always asked since the dawn of our race.

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