Column
Assisted dying
Care
Comment
4 min read

Proposed euthanasia safeguards insult our NHS

We must defend a collective sense of care and generosity.

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

A gable end mural depicts a nurse in scrubs and a mask turning and looking towards the viewer.
A mural of an NHS nurse during COVID, Manchester.
Mural Republic

It was, I believe, the late political satirist Simon Hoggart who coined the Law of the Ridiculous Reverse, which held that, if the opposite of a statement is plainly absurd, then it was not worth making in the first place.  

This law comes to mind when Labour MP Kim Leadbeater promises that her Assisted Dying Bill will have the “strictest safeguards in the world”, one of which is that those patients who have ordered their fatal dose “would be allowed to change their mind at any time.”   

Where, exactly, has it ever been suggested that an individual, having asked for an assisted death, would not be allowed to change their mind? I’m just wondering which legislator or medical professional has proposed that once a lethal draught has been prescribed then there is no turning back.  

I’m struggling to picture the circumstance in which a terminally ill patient is pinned down and killed, the last words that they hear being: “I’m sorry Mrs Simpkins, but everyone’s gone to a lot of trouble. You asked for it and you’re jolly well going to get it.” 

This is important because, apparently, being able to change your mind about asking for help to kill yourself is one of the strictest safeguards in the world. I hope Ms Leadbeater will forgive me for pointing out that this doesn’t really stack up. 

 And what’s serious about it is that it’s also a massive straw man argument. The clear and rather devious implication is that one of the arguments being made against the introduction of an assisted suicide law is that patients won’t be able to change their minds about it, which I think we can all accept simply isn’t a fact at all. It’s absurd – a Ridiculous Reverse. 

So I’ll defend the NHS with a religious fervour. To my mind, healthcare is a holy mission. We meddle in law with the Hippocratic Oath at our very deep peril. 

It’s also hugely contemptuous of the medical profession in general and rude to the NHS in particular. That’s because there’s a snide impression behind Leadbeater’s comment there may be hundreds of budding Harold Shipman out there, but her powerful safeguards are going to protect us from them. 

We’re in danger of becoming inured to this kind of insult from politicians directed at the NHS. And it’s worth exploring why they might think we need to be protected from unscrupulous doctors and nurses. In this case, one possible reason is that the NHS isn’t being particularly helpful in giving the euthanasia enthusiasts what they want. 

Doctors and their staff have plenty of ethical objections to assisted suicide. But leave those aside for a moment. At the practical level, the NHS has made it clear that it doesn’t have the infrastructure to operate a policy of assisted deaths safely. And it can’t afford to set one up. So a government that introduces assisted suicide is going to have to organise and regulate its own assisted death agency. 

“Oh,” the assisted dying lobbyists seem to exclaim, “we’d presumed you’d do as you’re told.” Just hand out the hemlock. Take your instructions from the legislature. 

But the NHS is better than that. And it’s that kind of high principle that so infuriates feckless politicians. It was the late Nigel Lawson who said, somewhat ruefully, that the NHS “is the closest thing the English have to a religion”. The right wing of politics regularly tells us it’s time to renounce that religion. 

To worship the NHS as a religion would, literally, be idolatrous. But it’s not so to acknowledge its religious qualities. Just look at the word – the Latin religio means something like “good faith”, the essence of who we are, what makes us good. 

The NHS, in its post-war incarnation, has been central to who we are as a people and what defines us. It’s something to do with our collective sense of care and generosity to one another. Its members, like our national Church, make up a single body. 

This is not to co-opt the NHS as the medical wing of the Church. It’s no part of the NHS’s brief to proselytize – rather the reverse; Christian medical staff have been in deep disciplinary trouble for evangelising. It is a profoundly secular organisation. 

So the NHS emphatically isn’t in the business of propagating the gospel. But that’s not to say that we can’t be in the same business. Many priests have stories of their most affirming work being in the company of people of other faiths or of none. 

The NHS’s proud heritage is to offer treatment free to anyone at the point of access. Put another way, it will seek to heal anyone who comes to it. I make no apology for saying that sounds familiar. 

So I’ll defend the NHS with a religious fervour. To my mind, healthcare is a holy mission. We meddle in law with the Hippocratic Oath at our very deep peril. 

And when NHS professionals tell us where we can stick our assisted suicides, I respectfully suggest we give it our solemn attention, rather than patronisingly offering a Law of the Ridiculous Reverse.

Snippet
Care
Change
Justice
4 min read

Four things I’ve learnt from working with prisoners

Here’s why I care about the incarcerated

Daniel is the regional director, Asia Pacific, for Prison Fellowship International.

Female prisoners hug their children who have climbed across a table to them.
Prisoners hug their children during a visit.
PFI.org.

It was my mother who first sparked my curiosity about engaging with prisoners. As a volunteer prison counsellor, she held bi-weekly meetings with incarcerated individuals, listening to their stories, struggles, and moments of hope. Over family dinners, she would share the situations these people found themselves in and how counseling was breaking through the emotional walls they had built around themselves. 

However, for most of my life, such a prison ministry was never something I considered pursuing – certainly not as my career. I’m a Christian and a verse from the Bible had guided me through life: 

“For I was hungry, and you gave me something to eat, I was thirsty, and you gave me something to drink…I was in prison, and you came to visit me.”  

The last part of that verse was the one I had often skipped over. 

Four years ago, this verse resurfaced in my life and this time, it wouldn’t let go. I was convicted of how I, and much of society, including the church, have often overlooked this desperate need within our communities.  

That conviction led me to work at Prison Fellowship International (PFI). I work alongside others who believe in redemption and grace for those the world has forgotten.  

PFI is a movement of more than 120 partner prison ministries worldwide working to restore the lives of those impacted by crime. It does that by sharing the Christian Gospel and God’s love with prisoners and protecting their children from increased risks of trafficking, child labor or following in their parent’s footsteps.  

As I’ve walked this road, I’ve realized why caring about prisoners matters. It’s not just a good deed, but a vital part of caring for the least and forgotten in our society. Here are four truths that have shaped my thinking. 

Compassion looks past the crime to the person 

In a world that often defines people by their worst mistakes, compassion calls us to look deeper. Many individuals behind bars have been shaped by lives of poverty, trauma and injustice who made poor decisions. In places like Sri Lanka and Nepal, I’ve encountered people imprisoned for stealing food to provide for their families living in desperate poverty. These stories reveal a wider context of inequality, where systemic injustices and lack of access to healthcare, education, or employment drive people towards choices they might not otherwise make.  

While I do not excuse nor diminish the harm caused by crime, we must hold space for both justice and mercy. We must choose to see beyond someone's crime and into their heart to recognize their humanity and believe in the possibility of restoration – for them as an individual, for the victim and for our communities as a whole.  

Families are the silent, forgotten victims 

When someone goes to prison, it’s not only the individual who suffers; their families, especially children, often quietly bear the weight of that loss. I recently met 11-year-old Su Lin in Cambodia. Her dad is imprisoned, and her mother left the family in the care of their grandmother. When the burden of caring for them became too great, Su Lin’s brothers were put up for adoption. She doesn’t know if or when she’ll see her father again or whether her mum will ever return. 

Her story is heartbreaking, but just one of millions. Around the world, children of prisoners are shunned by their community for crimes they did not commit and left isolated in cycles of poverty, trauma and often, generational crime.  

Daily, I have the privilege of working with PFI’s network to support children like Su Lin, but so many more slip through the cracks. When we forget prisoners, we also abandon their families, the silent victims who deserve care, hope, dignity, and a chance at a brighter future. 

True justice restores, not just punishes 

I’ve seen first-hand how forgiveness, accountability, and a path to restoration can heal not just prisoners, but entire communities. In the Solomon Islands, a culture deeply rooted in a strong, connected community, this type of redemption is being lived out.  

There, before prisoners are eligible for parole, they are invited to participate in Sycamore Tree Project, a PFI program that aims to foster healing and reconciliation through restorative efforts. When all parties are ready, local religious leaders facilitate a reconciliation meeting between the offender and victim, often joined by their families and community leaders. These difficult yet grace-filled conversations lead to healing, accountability, and forgiveness. 

Our findings have been powerful: reoffending rates in these communities have dropped dramatically. This is what radical reconciliation looks like – messy and challenging, but life-changing. 

Faith calls us to love the forgotten

At the heart of faith is a call to love those whom the world has cast aside, including those behind bars, so often labelled unworthy and left behind. With many correctional systems still prioritizing punitive justice, I believe we are called to deeply reckon with how we can advocate for grace in a society focused on punishment. 

Prisoners are not beyond hope. Their families are not invisible. Their futures are not sealed. Together, we can bring light into the darkest places in our communities and societies. In doing so, we discover the depth of true, lasting justice and mercy.    

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