Article
Comment
Film & TV
Truth and Trust
5 min read

Impartial journalism isn’t possible for the BBC – or anyone else

It’s time to give up the ghost and opt for transparency over impartiality

Lauren Windle is an author, journalist, presenter and public speaker.

A wide angle view of the BBC newsrooms show a starm layout of desks
The BBC newsroom.
BBC.

I wrote 3,000 words explaining the differences between a complementarian and egalitarian relationships – loosely these are the two categories that determine a couple’s position on male headship and female submission in a Christian marriage. I have my opinions, sure. But in this piece, I was neutral. I clearly laid out the arguments for and against each, explained the history, context and nuances, all to equip the reader to make their own mind up.  

I proudly handed the piece to my editor highlighting the careful tightrope of neutrality I had walked. She hesitated: ‘Well, I guess. But it’s clear what position you take.’ I was crushed, all the delicate phrasing and open-handed descriptions and I was still as transparent as the Shard on window clean day. 

No matter how hard we try to present balanced arguments, there is no such thing as unbiased reporting. Even when trying to be ‘fair’ in the way we present a story, we always bring our own perception of ‘fairness’ to the table. And without the wisdom of Solomon (in the cut-the-baby-in-half era), we’re not going to consistently get it right.  

I’ve been a journalist for some years but I’ve never worked in an organisation that claims to be impartial, bar a week’s internship at Science in Action on BBC World Service. I have, however, worked for publications that don’t share my political views. And even with the mandate to write in ‘house style’ there are many subtle decisions a journalist can make to skew reporting towards their personal opinion. 

Phrasing is everything. Am I saying they ‘protested’ or ‘rioted’? Is it ‘reform’ or a ‘crackdown’? Are they an ‘immigrant’, ‘asylum seeker’, ‘refugee’ or ‘expat’? Did she ‘splash around in her swimsuit’ or ‘flaunt her curves on the beach’? There is no neutral choice of words or phrasing. Every micro-decision a journalist makes is based, consciously or unconsciously, on the perspective that they have and are trying to impart on you.  

Then there’s choosing which topics to write about in the first place, selecting sources to quote from and statistics to reference and deciding how to frame the headlines. With the vast body of data available online, you can always find a person or stat to back up your belief. None of this can be done without a hint of your own background, culture, and worldview. 

It is through this lens – my belief in the fallacy of impartiality – that I’ve followed the latest fallout at the BBC. After an internal dossier was leaked, it came to light that a Panorama documentary called ‘Trump: A Second Chance?’ that was broadcast not long before 2024’s presidential election, had misleadingly edited a speech he made on January 6 2021. The speech was spliced in such a way as to suggest he had egged on the assault on the Capitol. Shamir Shah, the BBC chairman, acknowledged the fault and said that the editing ‘did give the impression of a direct call for violent action.’  

The BBC has always been plagued by allegations that it is not living up to its Royal Charter legally requiring it to be impartial. Interestingly, there are many examples of these complaints coming in from both the left and right sides of the political spectrum. The term ‘impartiality’ in this context doesn’t mean stripping all viewpoint from its reporting, as the organisation acknowledges the impossibility of that task, but it does say that it strives for balance, fairness and due weight. This is a standard they fell short of in their reporting of Trump’s address. 

In this, it is undeniably at fault. Even the most questionable of news outlets, that do publish quotes out of context, would acknowledge that knowingly editing or adapting quotes and footage to support their own agenda is totally unacceptable. Regardless of a reporter’s own opinion, readers and viewers want to hear a person speak in their own words.  

The wider question this raises for me is: why we are still claiming any news outlet is impartial in the first place? There’s a sense of safety with both right- and left-wing media, that openly acknowledges its own agenda. If you pick up the Guardian, you understand that you are reading about the world from a socially liberal political stance while tuning into GB News where they champion British values and challenge ‘woke culture’ will bring you something very different. 

I think the BBC as an institution is brilliant, important and necessary but not impartial. When people decry the reporting choices or phrasing of BBC reporting as biased, my response is always ‘what do you expect?’. There are important checks and balances, like rights of reply and offering opposing positions, that help round out a story, but they don’t strip it of opinion. I think it’s time to give up the ghost and opt for transparency over impartiality. 

The honest response is to acknowledge that, like every other person who relays a story, the BBC cannot resist the siren call of opinion. To claim it can, when audiences can plainly see the inconsistencies across its platforms, is both disingenuous and outdated. Instead, perhaps they could work to a mission statement along these lines: ‘We are committed to fairness, accuracy, and transparency. We value robust reporting and careful fact checking. We recognise that complete neutrality is impossible, but we strive to reflect the world as truthfully and inclusively as we can.’ This transparency would at least free up 90 per cent of people who write in to BBC’s Point of View to complain about its reporting.  

Years ago, I was in conversation with the deputy editor of one of the big tabloids when he said that, while he thought his paper was great, no one should use it as their sole source of news. I appreciate his transparency. I think if any of us only consume news from one outlet, even if that is the BBC, we are selling ourselves short. Our pursuit of and clamouring for ultimate truth is a God-given and spiritual desire, so the wise would vary their sources. 

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Article
Belief
Church and state
Comment
Nationalism
Politics
6 min read

Danny Kruger, Christian values, and the dangers of thin religion

Thick or thin? Christianity’s role in Britain’s cultural crossroad

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

A backbench MP stands in an almost empty chamber and speaks
Danny Kruger addressing Parliament.
Parliament TV.

In case you hadn’t noticed, a speech given to an audience of about seven people in a sparse House of Commons recently went viral. Danny Kruger’s recent call for a Christian restoration in the UK has generated a lot of attention. 

I've noticed two distinct responses in recent days. On one side, there are three (or more) cheers for Danny. He has been interviewed at Christian festivals, lauded for a brave, deeply considered and soulful appeal to the Christian heritage of the nation. He has been thinking deeply about this for some time as demonstrated in his book Covenant, sometimes seen as a manifesto for a renewed Conservatism based around the claims of family, community and nation, and summarised in this Seen & Unseen article. As one of the most prominent voices against the recent bills to permit assisted dying and the termination of full-term embryos, he is clearly reeling from the impact of these devastating recent votes in the Commons that, more than anything else, seem to demonstrate how far the nation has slipped its Christian moorings.  

Yet it’s not hard to stumble across another reaction. A former Bishop of Oxford called Kruger’s claim that the UK was a Christian nation anachronistic and counter-productive. Others have pointed out that many Jews, Muslims or hardened atheists would not be delighted to be told that ‘it is your church and you are its member.’ Others question whether there can be such a thing as a 'Christian nation'.

Some have picked up on a darker side to all this. Recent riots outside hostels for immigrants in Rotherham and Norwich showed protesters carrying flags of St George, even brandishing a wooden cross. Stephen Yaxley-Lennon, aka Tommy Robinson, and Nigel Farage have recently been speaking much more openly about the ‘Christian values’ on which Britain is founded, and many on the extreme right seem to have latched onto Christianity as at the heart of what they see as a cultural, civilisational war. Kruger’s talk of the gap left by Christianity’s demise being filled by Islam and, what worries him more, a kind of ‘wokeism’ that blends ‘ancient paganism, Christian heresies and the cult of modernism’, sets up a stark opposition. He goes on: “That religion, unlike Islam, must simply be destroyed, at least as a public doctrine. It must be banished from public life.” Does that language stray a bit too close to the aggressive language of more extreme voices on the right?  

Now I have some sympathy with this. I have written before of how I also fear the pagan gods are making a return. Like Danny Kruger, I too believe the recent votes in the House of Commons are a dark and dangerous turn toward death not life. Yet I can’t shake a nervous feeling that, without some careful thought, we might be summoning up shades we might not be able to control.  

The signs – and the solution - lie in the past. For centuries, Christianity, like all other religions, has been used as a weapon in civilisational wars. It happened in the Crusades of the eleventh to thirteenth centuries. It happened in the Balkan wars involving Serbia, Croatia and Bosnia in the 1990s and 2000. It happened in the ‘Troubles’ in Northern Ireland, where your neighbour being Protestant or Catholic was a reason to kill them.  

Theologians and sociologists sometimes talk of ‘thick’ and ‘thin’ religion. ‘Thin’ religion is simply a badge of identity. It often blends religion, politics and nationalism and serves as a motivation to unite people around a cause, such as Hindu nationalism, Muslim victimhood, or Christian supremacy. It is religion seen purely as a label, a badge of tribal identity over against other religious identities, however deeply felt. It is often nostalgic, ranged against enemies who are determined to destroy it, denigrating those who are not part of the religion as less deserving of value. It sees the Christian god as one of many gods – our god – which we must fight for against other gods, rather than, as Christian theology has always taught, the one true God who sits above all other gods, the God of the whole earth. It is paradoxically a manifestation of the kind of the kind of culture that Danny Kruger hates: “a return to the pagan belief that your value is determined by your sex, race or tribe.” Tommy Robinson’s faith seems as good an example of this as any. This is ‘thin’ religion.

I propose a simple test. If someone advocates Christian values and regularly goes to church, then they have a legitimate voice. 

‘Thick’ religion, however, is different. It is not just a badge of identity, but entails a set of distinct beliefs and practises. It means submitting yourself to the disciplines of the faith. In the Christian context, it a belief in God as Father, Son and Holy Spirit, that Jesus is the Son of God, that he died for the sins of the world, rose again on the third day and will return one day to judge the living and the dead. It involves a serious attempt to live the Christian life, to love your neighbour, and even your enemy, helping the poor and vulnerable, praying regularly, being consistently present at church worship and so on.  

Christian hymns have always had a fair amount of militant imagery, from ‘Onward Christian Soldiers’ to ‘Fight the Good Fight’, and more contemporary ones about God ‘fighting our battles’. Yet this has always meant a serious fight against enemies within – pride, greed, anger and spiritual lethargy. When it became focussed on human enemies, as it did in the Crusades, a line was crossed from ‘thick’ into ‘thin’ religion. 

It's not always easy to tell the difference between those who adopt thick and thin Christianity. I propose a simple test. If someone advocates Christian values and regularly turns up at church, then they have a legitimate voice, and are worth a hearing. If they turn up weekly to hear the Bible being read, to take part in Holy Communion alongside other people, regardless of their ethnicity, wealth or background, pray regularly, then, we can assume, they are serious about it. They are submitting themselves to the discipline of learning Christian faith, seeking to love their neighbour and trying as hard as they can to love their enemies. They may fail from time to time but these are the signs of someone who has grasped the grace of God which is the heart of Christian faith. Danny Kruger passes that test. Tommy Robinson and Nigel Farage, as far as I know, don’t.  

If some shout loudly about Christian values, about the danger of losing the heritage of our civilization and yet show no interest in going to church, living the Christian life, praying or even trying to love their enemies, then we should take what they say with a large pinch of salt. They have no skin in the game. 

When the heart of Christianity is hollowed out, it becomes moralism. It becomes the law not the gospel, as Martin Luther would say. The cross literally becomes a stick to beat others with. Paradoxically, it is only ‘thick’ religion that ends up founding and changing cultures. Early Christianity, the kind that converted the western world, was definitely ‘thick’ religion. It was not just a badge of identity. It had a whole set of distinct beliefs and practices that marked Christians off from the pagan world around them. It did not set out to advocate for political causes in the power corridors of Rome, build a Christian civilisation, lobby Caesar for ‘Christian laws’. It set out to produce people with ‘a sincere and pure devotion to Christ’ as St Paul put it, loving God, neighbour and enemy. And they changed the world by accident.  

Thin religion is a dangerous thing. It uses religion as a tool for dominance and conflict. It makes sceptics think we need less religion in public life. Thick religion is good religion. It forms good people. It builds healthy societies. It’s the kind we need more of, not less.  

Support Seen & Unseen

Since Spring 2023, our readers have enjoyed over 1,500 articles. All for free. 
This is made possible through the generosity of our amazing community of supporters.

If you enjoy Seen & Unseen, would you consider making a gift towards our work?
 
Do so by joining Behind The Seen. Alongside other benefits, you’ll receive an extra fortnightly email from me sharing my reading and reflections on the ideas that are shaping our times.

Graham Tomlin
Editor-in-Chief