Article
Comment
Economics
Nationalism
Politics
4 min read

Millions of children go hungry in a country that dares to call itself godly

The gospel of national greatness is less about grace and more about political grit

George is a visiting fellow at the London School of Economics and an Anglican priest.

A sand drawing shows an unhappy child's face with the tide coming in from below
A sand drawing for a child poverty campaign.
Barnardos.

If anything, the UK – and more specifically England – is becoming a Christian country again. But not necessarily in a good way. The rise of Christian nationalism mirrors the American experience, with Christian symbols such as the cross weaponised against asylum seekers and the knuckle-draggers under them, marching as to war. 

But there are still many non-belligerents who would stake a claim to our Christian nationhood. Wiser counsels such as the historian Tom Holland. Or Danny Kruger MP, who spoke to a near-empty chamber in parliament recently, before defecting from the Conservatives to Reform UK, about a Christian restoration, envisioning a "re-founding of this nation on the teachings that Alfred made the basis of the common law of England." He may need to explain that slowly to Nigel Farage. 

But by what measure do we claim to be a Christian country? Here’s one: Child poverty. It’s very hard to make a case for a state being foundationally Christian in principle if significant numbers of its children go hungry. And the UK shamefully ranks among the worst of the world’s richest countries in this regard, with our children’s poverty rates rising by 20 per cent over the past decade – defined as those living in a household with less than 60 per cent of the national median income, so currently less than about £19,000 a year.  

That’s some 4.5 million living in poverty, or 9 in a typical classroom of 30. Unless action is taken the number will push five million by 2030. Anecdotal evidence from teachers is truly shocking. Children arrive hungry at school with empty lunchboxes to fill and feed family at home. The UK ranks below poorer countries such as Poland and Slovenia, which are currently cutting their child-poverty rates, and well ahead of other wealthy nations such as Finland and Denmark.  

It’s a national disgrace. Christologically, it also fails the minimum threshold for a nation that supposedly holds that the kingdom of heaven belongs to children. In damp and sub-standard housing this winter, lacking nutritious diet and prone to ill-health, heaven will have to wait for these British children. 

The same gospel tells us that the poor are always with us, which may make us resigned to it. But political complacency won’t do. If there is always relative poverty against great riches, then the true measure must be what we’re trying to do about it. The damning answer to that seems to be very little. 

It’s actually worse than that. The circumstance is one of our own deliberate, political making, exacerbated by the then chancellor George Osborne, who introduced the two-child benefit cap in 2017. That limited benefit payments for families claiming Child Tax Credit or Universal Credit for more than two children. It was part of Osborne’s pantomime wicked-squire act, as he repeatedly told us with a straight face that “we’re all in this together”. It was also borderline eugenics, because one of its effects was to limit the breeding of “lower orders”, the benefit cap disproportionately hitting the budgets of working and ethnic-minority families. 

With Osborne’s selective austerity and social-engineering drive long gone, it’s well past time for a Labour government to do something to rectify such social injustice. Current chancellor Rachel Reeves must abolish the two-child benefit cap in her November Budget. With other welfare cuts prevented by Labour’s summer backbench rebellion, the question inevitably squawked by right-wingers is how that will be paid for. 

 Opposition parties relish the prospect of Reeves welching on pre-election promises not to raise taxes on working families. And abolishing the two-child welfare cap could cost £3.5 billion a year. 

There are creative ways and means. Veteran chancellor and former prime minister Gordon Brown – the unsung hero of the 2008 worldwide financial meltdown, without whom we wouldn’t have an economy to do anything with – proposes fairly taxing the excess profits of the £11.5 billion gambling industry, which enjoys VAT exemptions and pays just 21 per cent tax, compared with 35-57 per cent in other industrialised  countries. And if more money is needed then remove some of the interest-rate subsidy enjoyed by commercial banks when they deposit money at the Bank of England. That is what social justice looks like (gambling also costs the NHS £1 billion-plus in harms, so it’s time for the industry to pay up). 

That points to some fiscal answers. There are other actions that must be taken this autumn, at political conferences and on any platform available to those with a public voice and conscience. It’s good to see Stephen Cottrell, Archbishop of York and stand-in primate of England in the absence of Canterbury, laying into the two-child limit and benefit cap. 

Both Cottrell and Brown tell heart-breaking stories of children’s poverty in the UK. We must fight it and ensure that Reeves’ forthcoming Budget does so. As the children’s commissioner for England, Dame Rachel de Souza said recently that millions of children are living in “almost Dickensian levels of poverty”. The irony is that in Dickens’ time we were called a Christian country. 

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Article
Books
Comment
Film & TV
Morality
6 min read

Murder we wrote: how cosy crime and psycho-thrillers carve our minds

Our reactions have changed from heart-wringing cries to merely puzzle-solving

Theodore is author of the historical fiction series The Wanderer Chronicles.

Elderly amateur sleuth stand by their pinboard.
The Thursday Murder Club convenes.
Netflix.

We love murder. 

That seems to be the only reasonable conclusion when you look at the sales figures of Richard Osman’s record-busting murder mystery series, which opened with The Thursday Murder Club back in 2020. In UK sales alone, it sold over a million copies within the same year as its release, something no other book has ever done.  

This was more than a bestselling debut novel, this was a cultural event in UK publishing. And no doubt Netflix are hoping for something equally seismic when their film adaptation of The Thursday Murder Club goes live. 

The combination of light humour, a clutch of charismatic octogenarians, tea and cake, and the odd violent death or two to keep them entertained, seems to have struck the motherlode of British cultural appeal. I can only imagine the stellar cast they have assembled for the film adaptation, led by Helen Mirren and Pierce Brosnan, will take the series’ success to new heights. 

As an author currently puzzling my way through my own contemporary murder mystery, I can only look on at the phenomenon in wonder and sigh for what may yet be.  

But murder has always been a tricky one for me as a) an author, and b) a Christian. Do those two facts mean I have to be a “Christian author”? And if so, what kind of limits does that put around what I should be writing about? It may not sound like much of a conundrum to you, but honestly I have wrestled with this question for a long time. There is darkness in the world: how much darkness should I explore in my books? (So far, if you ever read any of my historical novels, you’ll see the answer is: quite a lot.) 

Maybe I’m taking it all too seriously and murder is mere light entertainment now. Death is to be enjoyed with a nice cup of tea; evil, with slice of Victoria sponge cake. 

But somehow, I don’t think so. 

Recently, I was helped in my moral quandary by another crime author, Andrew Klavan. In his book, The Kingdom of Cain, published last month, Klavan explores the question of evil and specifically murder in what he terms a ‘literature of darkness’. It is a fascinating, if unusual, book. His approach is to take three murders that actually happened, and demonstrate how each has influenced a long succession of murder novels (and movies) up to the present day.  

Through this exposition, we witness the changing attitudes to murder over the last century and a half and in particular how those changes seem strongly linked to the ebbing tide of Christian faith in the West. 

For example, Dostoyevsky’s great novel, Crime and Punishment, was published in 1866. The double-murder, central to the plot, is carried out by a young student named Raskolnikov. He is an intellectual who is seeking to prove that the moral boundary beyond which murder lies is nothing more than a mere concoction, a social construct (or worse, a religious one) which he, being of superior intelligence, can transcend and therefore ignore. The entire novel is the story of how his conscience will not allow him to get away with this. Near the end, he confesses his crime to the young prostitute, Sonya, who responds to his confession in fearful horror: 

“What have you done? What have you done to yourself?” 

The second question is key. 

Dostoyevsky based the plot of his novel on a real axe-murderer, a Frenchman called Pierre François Lacenaire, who went to the guillotine in 1836. Lacenaire became an international sensation when, in court, he aired many of his own pseudo-intellectual justifications for his actions – that the murders he committed were a strike against the injustice of the elites and the iniquitous power structures of the day. Rather than what they appeared to be: a grubby little double murder for the sake of a few francs. Lacenaire set the tune which many still whistle today, I’m sorry to say. 

But Dostoyevsky was prophetic. He foresaw long before Nietzsche and others who would follow, that the tide of Christian faith was going out in Western civilization. And so it continued to do through the back end of the twentieth century and into this one. 

Before that, the notion that murder is wrong because every human being is made in the image of God was a long-held axiom, going back arguably to the first chapters of Genesis. And in killing the image of God, any image of God, this may therefore be the closest we can come to killing God himself. Seen in that light, murder is sacrilege on an appalling scale.  

But there’s the rub. That light has dimmed. The secular philosophies of the nineteenth and twentieth centuries have turned down the dimmer-switch, so that it is no longer axiomatic that humans possess an inherent sacred value. Instead, in varying guises and to varying degrees, the conclusion has been that humans are nothing but self-conscious lumps of meat. We (the state, the law) may ascribe them some value. “We are all equal,” yes - but as George Orwell anticipated, “some are more equal than others.” (Is intersectionality, for example, anything but the manifestation of that prediction?) 

Maybe this explains how the horror of murder has diminished from Sonya’s heart-wringing cry, into something more akin to a crossword puzzle. Don’t get me wrong, I love a good Agatha Christie. But her murder mysteries don’t waste much time on the philosophical implications of, say, the local doctor bumping off the parish priest. 

And from there, the genre of the murder mystery has split into two strains. On the one hand, we get the psycho-thriller, in which the horror of the act of murder is of less interest than the dark psychological state of mind of the killer themselves. But if that’s too dark, don’t worry. We can do light, too! And so on to cosy crime blockbusters, in which, if a murder was committed, it was because the victim had it coming – so let’s all calm down and have another slice of cake. 

There is no space here in which to explore how, as a culture, our collective historical experience may have helped to steer us in this direction, as well as our changing philosophy. But there is no doubt where we have ended up. We see death cults all around us. We see legislation being passed in our Parliament which would have been unthinkable until very recently. We see social justice where before we saw crimes.  

Think about how often the arch-crimes of history have been perpetrated on the ground of viewing the “other” as less than human, and certainly less than sacred. Then ask yourself, why should we see any human as more than a lump of meat? At what point does the rubber hit the road? - as surely it will. 

What have we done? What have we done to ourselves? 

I do wonder where all this goes. And yet, if the spiritual bellwethers are to be believed, perhaps we have reached low tide at long last – certainly it has revealed some pretty ugly creatures lurking at the bottom of the rock pool. Many, myself included, must hope that the tide of faith is truly on the turn. Let’s see. Certainly, if this proves to be the case, it seems to follow that our attitude to murder will change with that on-rushing tide. And so with it, the literature of darkness. 

Beyond The Thursday Murder Club, there may yet be other great stories told of murder; they, like Crime & Punishment, will be far truer, and in a paradoxical sense, far more beautiful. After all, at the heart of the gospel, there lies a murder. If God himself can take such a dark event and turn it into light, then, at a far inferior level perhaps, as His image-bearers, so might we. 

Which reminds me… back to my draft.

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