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14 min read

Tim Farron: our politics is fragmenting, not polarising

Responding to Christian nationalism and the politicisation of religion

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

Tim Farron stands on a conference stage with arms wide
Farron addresses the opening rally of the Liberal Democrat Conference.

This is a transcript of a recent conversation between Tim Farron MP, former leader of the Liberal Democrat party in the UK and Graham Tomlin, Editor-in-Chief of Seen & Unseen

Graham Tomlin: I read a book recently by Bijan Omrani called God is an Englishman. It makes the case for Christian faith as having hugely shaped English life - our legal system, our literature, our poetry, music, language, landscape and everything. The point he makes is that the probably the biggest social change in the last 50-60 years is the decline of Christianity as a publicly recognised set of assumptions. Do you think that's true? And does it matter? 

Tim Farron: I think there's certainly some truth in it. I do subscribe to the Tom Holland thesis, which is that Western liberal democracy owes its existence, and therefore the West in terms of values, to the gospel. What do I mean by that? I mean a sense that all human beings are awesomely made in the image of God, and therefore are of enormous value - every single one of them. that justice matters, that no one should be above the law. Likewise, a kind of more negative view of humanity, which is we're all sinners, and therefore we shouldn't be concentrating the power in the hands of too few of us. And so, I think Western liberal democracy definitely owes itself to Christianity. I'm speaking to you from the Houses of Parliament where there are chapels everywhere, and there are relics, shall we say, of the Christian faith all around. Indeed, the day in Parliament, including this day, begin with prayer. And good prayers for that matter. So, I I certainly do take his point.  

Is it significant that over the last 50-60 years that has been a declining influence in our politics? Yes, of course it's significant. I think again to quote other people, Oz Guinness's line that we live in a ‘cut-flower society’ is one I really think is true. The reality is that so many of the values that we hold to in Western societies, in the UK in particular, are grounded in faith in Christ, in what the gospel teaches us. And if we've now two or three generations into Christianity formerly being the established religion, but in reality not, then after a while, you lose. Cut flowers look nice and pretty for a while, but eventually they die because they're not attached to the roots.  

The image I've heard recently that is that that of a dying tree. A cut flower doesn't take long to die off. But a dying tree, where the roots have shrivelled up takes quite a long time. It can still look like a very flourishing tree, but over decades, it begins to wither above the surface as well as below.  

Bede, in the eighth century, was probably the first to really identify the English nation as a as a united entity linked into kingship and Christianity. We had the Coronation recently, which was a deeply Christian event. We have bishops, the succession of the monarchy is Protestant. The King is the Supreme Governor of the of the Church of England. But does all that make Britain a Christian nation? Would you call it a Christian nation? 

TF: I'm always quite wary about referring to anything as a Christian nation. Nations aren't saved. Individuals are. I don't think we are ever encouraged in the Bible to think that people or nations are saved by conquest. I'm not just talking about invasions and crusades. I'm talking about elections. We know that all human beings are sinners, that politics is not ultimate. I think there's plenty of guidance for us in the Bible to tell us that politics matters, that we're meant to seek the welfare of the city in which we've been placed, that we're meant to care for those around us, to love our neighbour in practical ways, not only in spiritual ways, but in physical ways as well. I think we're to engage in politics. But politics is not ultimate, and we should be careful about seeing the advance of the Kingdom as something you do either with the rifle or the ballot box. 

We’ve just had the Unite the Kingdom march through London with Tommy Robinson and friends. At that event, there were people holding crosses, hymns were sung, there was a chant of “Christ is king”. What do you make of all that does it? Does it worry you?  

Yes, it does worry me if I'm honest with you. I can see some silver linings, but the appropriation of Christianity by one political movement troubles me. Well, let's put boldly - it is heretical. Christ should shape our politics. Our politics should not be shaping our faith.  

I think there are two forms of Christian nationalism. I'll pick one of them – it is the idea that we should be a kind of clerical state. All the laws should be Christian, and we should act like a Christian nation, almost like a Christian version of some of some Islamic countries.  

On the other hand, you've got the marches run by Tommy Robinson - a kind of Christian nationalism where Christianity is seen as a symbol of Englishness and of Britishness, to be appropriated to wear as a badge. It's Land of Hope and Glory, ‘green and pleasant land’, St George, myths of our past flags and all the rest of it. And it's all kind of like a pot-pourri, a minestrone of things that make us British. I don't want to poo-poo that, but that's not Christianity and so my worry is that whenever a political party seeks to appropriate Christianity, then by definition, the other half of the culture war will have their fingers in their ears when it comes to the gospel, and that's a really bad thing. And also, the way in which it is spoken of, it's not spoken of lovingly, gently. It's not spoken of in a way of where we're seeking to bring people into relationship with Christ, but as a kind of a as a badge or as an emblem. 

Jesus will not endorse your politics. If you have grabbed hold of the cross and Christianity as motifs of your patriotism, your nationalism, it's not Christianity. Jesus will not endorse you. He won’t endorse people on the other end of the spectrum either. He will disturb you. He will contradict you. And if you want to come into a living relationship with Jesus Christ, be prepared to put all of that in the bin because he will ask you to. 

Theologians and sociologists often use a distinction between thick and thin religion. Thin religion is an identity marker which can be used as a bit of a stick to beat people with, but thick religion is where you really take seriously the teachings of the faith. You go deeply into it, develop a life of prayer, attending church, really taking this seriously.  

There were genuine Christians on the Tommy Robinson march and I'd love to speak to some and understand where they were coming from on all of this. On my podcast through the whole party conference season, I'll be interviewing Reform people, Lib Dems, Conservatives, Labour - and so I don't condemn anybody for their political views. I do think there’s something about the whole kind of Tommy Robinson cabal, which is just especially ungodly, but that doesn't mean that he's not tapping into concerns that are legit.  

What’s the silver lining?

In Christian nationalism, you've got a bunch of people who think they like Christianity. They may never have heard it properly, but they think they like it. And so, there's a good chance they might come into the door, and if they come into the door and the right person is behind pulpit, they might hear the gospel as well.

I'm doing various talks at the Lib Dem conference. Two of them are specifically Christian and in the first instance I'll have to do battle with “isn't Christianity bad? Isn't it all made-up and not true anyway?” And those are two hurdles before I can then even begin with the gospel. When somebody thinks Christianity is part of being English and we should reclaim it, then at least I'm over those first two hurdles! And I can then get into the gospel, which will be equally shocking to them. Equally shocking. It is a very big hurdle. Jesus Christ is the cornerstone that you will trip over because he will tell you that you've got to love your enemy. He will tell you to love the unborn, and he'll also tell you to love the refugee. He will tell you to abide by, traditional sexual ethics, and he will also tell you that racism is an outrageous sin. He will tell you that the package of beliefs that you signed up to - tear them up. 

I always like to remind myself of something David Steel said a few weeks after I joined the Liberals when I was 16 at the first conference of my membership. He said any liberal that doesn't disagree with at least ten per cent of Liberal policies isn't really a liberal. And I like that. But I think that with Christians, it should be even more so. You know, you're joining a band of sinners. You know that because you're one of them. And so you're going to join imperfect group of people who are seeking. 

Political parties being that is something we maybe accept, but the culture war seems to flush us into trenches which are far more neatly cut, where there is so much more hostility. And I would argue that Christians need to stay out of the court. You can join a party. Don't get in a culture war trench.  

What about the rise of Reform? It does seem to tap into a kind of deep unease that is around middle Britain. You will hear people in that movement talking about the increasing prominence of Islam or ‘woke’ ideology. And they see that as a sort of threat to the Christian character of the nation. Are they right to feel threatened by that? 

One thing we should say first and foremost: Christ is on the throne. The battle is won. Don't panic. With regard to Middle England or Middle Britain, I want to be really respectful about Muslims and accept their rights to think different things. And I think Islam is just another world view. That's not Christianity, so is atheism, so is agnosticism, so is nominal Christianity. And so, I don't feel especially threatened. I mean, as a Christian I don't feel threatened at all because the victory is Christ’s. It's won and God does not need our help.

Do I think Islam is true? Carefully, I would respectfully think it isn't. I think atheism is untrue. I think agnosticism is untrue. I think modified versions of Christianity where we've added or taken stuff away from it is untrue. Yet I will die in a trench to defend people's rights, to think all of those things.

And I think Christianity is true and Jesus is who he says he is. And so what I do think is that we should have the right to respectfully disagree. And that's the thing that I've think we may have lost in the last 20 or so years, and some people will put that down to woke ideology. But nobody who is ‘woke’ ever uses the phrase ‘woke’! If you use the word ‘woke’, you've turned lots of people off. If you think you're anti-woke entirely, then you're anti-Christian. If you're entirely woke, then you probably are as well. As I said earlier on, if you are following Christ, you should be concerned for the rights and the life of the unborn child, and should be equally concerned for the right to the refugee. And so what are you, woke or not woke? You are above all that. That's what you are. If you're complaining about wokery, you've got a problem. If you're massively woke, you've got a problem, in a very gentle and gracious way. You should be above all. 

  
It seems to me that both kind of conservative and progressive elements or instincts have their roots in Christianity because, you know, the progressive element knows very deeply that the world is fallen. It's broken, it needs justice. Things need changing. We can't just assume everything is fine. But the conservative approach gets that not everything is up for grabs, that there are some things that is given to us. We just simply have to accept the nature of reality that God has given to us. And so, you've got to be a little bit of both if you're if you're being authentic to Jesus? 

I think that's right. And I think that's one of the reasons why it's completely legitimate for Christians to belong to different political parties.  

I want to ask you about the Conservative MP Danny Kruger joining Reform. 
Some would say that our politics is getting more polarised and there's not much space left in the midd
le.

It is polarised. I think there's an awful lot of anger. You hear some of the language of the Tommy Robinson characters and some others talking about civil war as if they want it, a language you just wouldn't have heard, at least not from the right. You might have heard it from the revolutionary Communists and the Socialist Workers back in the day when I was a student. But then again, let's be careful not to have rose-tinted spectacles about on about the past. The political and ideological difference between Margaret Thatcher and Michael Foot was colossal including, of course, that Margaret Thatcher thought it was stupid to not be in the European Union and Michael Foot wanted to leave! So too over nuclear defence, who we're allied to, who should own the means of production - massive, difficult decisions and divisions between the two parties back then. Today no-one's really arguing about who controls the means of production, or what level of taxation there should be or any of that stuff. These days it’s all about identity. Somebody once said that the lower the stakes, the more ferociously over which they are fought. And it seems now that we're arguing about stuff that - oh, forgive me - doesn't matter. 

As for Danny Kruger, he's intellectually credible. That's something Reform haven't got a lot of. And now they have with Danny. And the Labour Party just feels hated. And so, the parties that are not Labour and the Tories are doing well. Reform appear not to be held back by the need to present ideas that are based on evidence, and therefore they can say anything, and therefore they're on 30 per cent of the poll and we're on a mere 17 per cent and the Greens are on nine or 10 per cent. 

But I think where we're at is that there's a real detachment of people from the parties they've always supported. And that's been going on for some time. You could say it sort of started the 60s and the 70s, but it's absolutely got turbocharged since Brexit. That certainly seems to be where we are on the timeline and so people who had always voted Labour are now not doing so, those who always voted Tory, not doing, it's incredibly fluid. 

I guess what you're pointing to is not so much the polarisation of political discourse, but the fragmentation of it. After all. 400 years ago we were on the brink of a civil war. That's polarisation! If we're living in a very fragmented world, what is the role of the church in such times? And – can we call Britain a Christian nation in any sense? 

I think the role of the church is to model Christ. We should love Jesus internally and we should be pointing to him and making him known externally. And that's our job really. I'm not convinced we do that enough.  

I think we should be modelling Christ in his servant-heartedness in loving our communities in a practical way. And that means doing things like supporting refugees, supporting people in living in poverty, making sure that we make best use of whatever property the church might have to meet social need, but always, always put in the gospel at the centre of it.  

The story of the account of Jonah really resonates with me because of how he is towards Nineveh. Jonah ends up in the belly of the fish because he's legged it, he's gone literally in the opposite direction to where God was wanting to send him. He was going to go to Nineveh, to speak to these terrible people that he really did not like at all. Jonah was meant to tell them that they need to repent and believe. And Jonah knew God is a good and almighty powerful God, and unless he preached the word of God, they never would repent. He hated Nineveh. So he legs it to Spain and ends up in the belly of a fish. But the point is this. We've all got a Nineveh. 

Who is it for you? Is it Tommy Robinson? Is it Jeremy Corbyn? Who's your Nineveh? And whoever they are, you pray for them and reach out to them and love them. You do not need to agree with them. You should not agree with them. This models the utterly radical nature of the gospel and holding out the possibility of salvation, a relationship with the living God to absolutely everybody, including the people you do not like. To love your enemy. It's the most radical thing that you can do, it's the heart of what he did because he did that all the way through to the cross. 

Tim, thank you so much. It's always good to talk with you. It's always very illuminating, inspiring, encouraging. 

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7 min read

I was angry and you called me Gammon: Gary from Blackpool, Charlie Kirk, and all these flags

A triptych of three faces of wrath poorly heard and poorly expressed

John is a Salvation Army officer and theologian,

Marchers carry British, English and Israeli flags
Unite the Kingdom marchers.
Met Police.

William Blake once warned: 

I was angry with my friend; 
I told my wrath, my wrath did end. 
I was angry with my foe: 
I told it not, my wrath did grow. 

Blake understood that unspoken—and, more precisely, unheard—wrath does not wither. Left untended, it grows. Its bitter roots tentacle around grievance; neglect waters it, and violence ripens as its fruit. Much like Blake’s tree, the wrath spreading through towns in this nation, and beyond, springs from seeds of anger. It is not irrational. It is cultivated in betrayal, frustration, and systemic disregard. 

This essay is a triptych. Three panels, three faces of wrath poorly heard and poorly expressed. In England, it riots in the streets and hangs from lamp posts. In America, it narrows into bullets. These are not isolated curiosities but variations on the same Western fracture — anger left unheard, curdling until it explodes. 

Wrath, of course, is not the same as anger. Anger is a natural passion, a flare of the soul in the face of injury or injustice. It can be righteous when governed by love, as even Christ was angry at hardened hearts. Wrath, by contrast, is anger left to harden — anger unspoken, unheard, or indulged until it festers into a vice. Scripture names it as both the fire of God’s judgement and, in humanity, a deadly sin. Wrath is anger that has ceased to heal and has become scar tissue. 

Panel I: Gary from Blackpool 

Enter “Gary from Blackpool”. 

He was a London commentator’s caricature of provincial ignorance—“1 GCSE, two brain cells, and three teeth.” 

A screenshot of a tweet.

The tweet was deleted, but not before the sneer had spread. Gary was a meme. He doesn’t exist, and yet he does; there are loads of “Garys” in Blackpool. 

And Gary is angry. 

His wrath first erupted in St John’s Square in the summer of 2024. When he raised a St George’s flag on a roundabout, it was not swaggering nationalism but a pathetic attempt to claim a place in a nation that no longer cares about people like him. 

Blackpool’s collapse has been much-storied: once thriving, now one of the most deprived. Reports and documentaries measure poverty, chart prospects, and speculate on futures. The town is endlessly narrated. 

Gary is not. 

Yet his story mirrors that oft-told collapse. Poverty has scarred him visibly: the teeth, failing health. Gary’s life expectancy: 69, more than a decade shorter than elsewhere. He’s scarred invisibly too, in narrowed hopes and disillusion. These are not individual failings but markers of systemic neglect: underfunded schools, crumbling services, an NHS that doesn’t reach him. Dentist appointments in Blackpool are rarer than hens’ teeth, which are in better condition than Gary’s. 

The England Gary remembers is gone. In its place stands a society he no longer recognises: multicultural, politically sensitive, shifting away from its past. A Daily Mail headline once told him, “Garys are heading for extinction” while Muhammad, in all its spelling variants, had become the most common baby name

And then the boats. Images looping on his screen: more change he cannot control. His Brexit vote promised to take back control; his refusal to vote ever again, a gesture of resignation. 

Because they don’t care about him. They hadn’t even cared for the girls. Now he saw the same system ushering them into clinics to become boys. 

Gary and those like him, through their anger, reveal a politics that has abandoned them, economics that offer no hope, and a culture that makes them strangers in their own country. Rioting is no cure; it tears open wounds without healing. But the response is illuminating: in 2011, they prompted soul-searching; in 2024 and 2025, they brought only ridicule. The tweet exposed a national reflex: to mock rather than listen. That sharpened the bitterness. 

Wrath here does not whisper or wait. It riots. 

 

Panel II: Charlie Kirk 

Gary may never have heard of Charlie Kirk, but Kirk’s rhetoric channelled the very anxieties that defined Gary’s world—about loss, displacement, and neglect. This resonance helps explain how his voice travelled so widely. 

I didn’t watch Charlie Kirk either. His reels surfaced on Instagram or YouTube now and then, but it wasn’t my algorithm that latched onto him. It was my four nephews’—aged sixteen to twenty-two, two in Kent, two in New Zealand—imagination he captured, even if not always their agreement. Young men across the globe, caught in the fast cadence of an American voice. 

When I saw the news, my reaction surprised me. It was strangely visceral for someone who had never featured in my life in the way he had theirs. I felt sick. Because he was dead. Because he wasn’t a politician behind glass or a general behind medals. He was public, certainly, but also strangely normal. And he had children, both younger than my youngest, and a wife. 

And he had the guts to speak to people. Theo Von said he “tweeted with his feet.” How many of us can say we say what we believe as vociferously face to face as we might be brave enough to do on social media? He was visible. Accessible. Flesh and blood with people, not just pixels. I think this is partly why he appealed to my nephews. I’ve seen Facebook friends of their generation posting tributes, then engaging courteously and constructively with those who insisted on quoting Kirk out of context. For them, defending him has not been rage but dialogue. 

And then the gun. 

Charlie’s killer pulled a trigger. Wrath had narrowed into single, precise bullets with slogans on them. But this was not justice, not even protest. It was wrath corrupted into murder; an execution. 

Wrath here does not riot. It narrows into bullets. It turns cannibal. 

What will this spilt blood birth in those who listened, watched, believed? 

 

Panel III: Flags in Hartlepool and Horden 

And here, in England, it is the flags. 

In America, flags are furniture. They’re on every porch, every school, every stadium. But in Hartlepool and Horden, when flags multiply on streetlights, and red crosses are painted onto white roundabouts, they do not feel ordinary. They are a display of patriotism that feels out of character here. They feel ominous. 

They do not shout; they whisper. Every day. A slow, stubborn signal of belonging and defiance. Not the riot of Gary. Not the bullet for Charlie. But something quieter, somehow more enduring. Wrath sewn into fabric, taking root in silence as surely as Blake’s tree, its persistence echoing Gary’s resentment, its quiet endurance unsettling in a way different from the bullets that struck Charlie. When they thicken in certain places, when they layer and cluster, they become atmosphere. 

A Union Jack flag on a lamppost.

Union Flags made it onto some streetlights I walk past with my daughter in Newcastle, on the way to the swimming pool. “What do they mean?” she asked. For some, pride. For others, threat. For most, perhaps nothing at all. And then they were torn down, leaving a frayed seam, a dangling strip of tattered cloth still tied to the upright metal. That felt even more ominous. Not simply a sign of division, but of reaction. And do you notice, where they are hung only as high as a ladder will reach, they look almost like flags at half-mast? As if beneath the defiance there lingers a subconscious grief. 

And so the question lingers: what will come of it all? What future is being staked out? Are these new buds on Blake’s poisonous tree? 

Some flags are celebrated, raised over civic buildings as sacraments of a new national creed. 

Other flags are torn down, left to fray on lamp-posts, almost threatening in their persistence. 

Wrath here does not riot or narrow. It takes root. 

This is England, isn’t it? 

 

A benediction: I was angry 

And how might anger, left unheard before it hardens into wrath, speak with the voice of Christ? 

I was angry, and you called me gammon. 
I was angry, and you called me woke. 
I was angry, and you heard only your politics, 
not my pain. 
 
I was angry, and you argued about tribes and sides. 
I was angry, and you measured me as vote, as threat, as cause. 
I was angry, and you did not really listen to me. 
 
Truly I tell you: 
when you saw the angry and called them only left or right, 
you understood nothing. 
You did not know me. 
 
And these will go away still unheard, 
their wrath growing strong in the shadows, waiting to erupt. 
 
But those who bore the anger of the poorly heard, 
who listened without contempt or fear, 
This too is England. I am found there. 

 

This article was first published on John Clifton’s SubStack. It is reproduced by kind permission of the author.

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