Article
Comment
Loneliness
Mental Health
5 min read

What Bobby Brazier, Jo Marsh and Eleanor Rigby have in common

A public health campaign asks influencers if they are lonely.

Belle is the staff writer at Seen & Unseen and co-host of its Re-enchanting podcast.

a young man looks pensive as he answers a questuon while sitting in a fancy room.
Bobby Brazier at 10 Downing Street.
NHS.

‘Loneliness. It’s a part of life. Let’s talk about it’  

That’s the new slogan offered by the NHS in partnership with the Department for Culture, Media and Sport. As part of their campaign, they recently invited young influencers and TV personalities to Downing Street to do just that – to talk about loneliness.  

With those aged between 16 and 29 now twice as likely to report feeling lonely as those over 70, these celebrities were tasked with answering a few of the questions most asked by people within that age group. Their questions went along these heart-wrenching lines:  

Why am I so lonely?  

Is it normal to feel lonely?  

Will I always be this lonely?  

And while their answers to such questions were a little ‘meh’ (whose wouldn’t be? They were given seven seconds to answer some of humanity’s deepest questions), it doesn’t much matter, their answers weren’t really the point. Rather, viewers were presented with a handful of popular, successful, lovable (looking at you, Bobby Brazier) and happy looking people doing something notoriously difficult: admitting loneliness.  

And I think that may be the point.  

I am of the firm opinion that admitting to feeling lonely is one of the hardest things a person could do. I have certainly never had the bravery to do it.  

I remember watching Greta Gerwig’s 2019 adaptation of the beloved 1868 novel, Little Women, for the first time; I was always going to love it, I had decided as much before even stepping foot in the cinema. But there was one scene that felt as if it literally took my breath away. I was left winded in row C.  

It is toward the end of the film, and Jo Marsh, the feisty, strong and independent protagonist, is giving a feminist monologue  for the ages (albeit to her mum) as she stands in the attic of her childhood home. Jo speaks of women’s minds and souls, their ambitions and talents, she explains how sick she is of being underestimated, getting more impassioned with every word. That is, until she tearily ends her speech by declaring – ‘…but I’m so lonely.’ 

This isn’t in the book.  

This final line was written by Greta Gerwig specifically for this adaptation. And the only person who seemed to be more taken aback by Jo’s words than me (an owner of more editions of the novel than is cool to admit), was Jo herself, who instinctively clasped her hand to her mouth as if she couldn’t believe that she’d just said such words aloud.  

As far as filmmaking goes, it was genius. As far as human nature is concerned, it was, well, true. 

Not only do we find loneliness acutely painful, but we also tend to find it near impossible to admit to, so much so, the government currently feels the need to step in. Why is that, I wonder? Why does ‘lonely’ seem to be the hardest word? 

Those who admit to their own loneliness are wading into profoundly vulnerable waters. 

Part of it is certainly because there is a social stigma attached to feeling lonely. Ironic, isn’t it? How loneliness has social connotations. Nobody wants to be Eleanor Rigby, nor Father McKenzie, nor any of ‘the lonely people’ that Paul McCartney so pities, for that matter. It’s one of the only Beatles songs you wouldn’t want to have been written about you. Loneliness feels like a failure somehow, and so we struggle to admit it, even to ourselves. A failure because, we’re supposed to be self-sufficient, independent, free-thinking, emotionally-sturdy individuals (which is the operative word, of course). That’s what individualism has taught us, isn’t it? And so, how do we reconcile that with the piercing pain of isolation? How do we admit that there’s a deep crack within us that can’t be papered over by success, or wealth, or another episode of our favourite podcast? How do we go about admitting such a lack? A lack, which despite individualism’s best efforts, has us naturally wondering why it’s there in the first place; are we unpopular? Unattractive? Unlikable? Or worst of all, unlovable?  

Those who admit to their own loneliness are wading into profoundly vulnerable waters. And most of us are utterly unwilling to follow them there, lest we be spotted by a budding Paul McCartney and our loneliness be immortalised.  

And then, of course, there’s the other side of the coin: what does our loneliness say about the people who we are in relationship with? Nobody wants to unleash the panic and guilt tucked away in that can of worms (which, I must note, is unnecessary panic and guilt - there could be any number of reasons you’re feeling lonely, despite your very rich relationships).  

And so, we just don’t say the word. And that’s what appears to be making the NHS and, rather randomly now that I think about it, the Department for Culture, Media and Sport so nervous.  

We need to admit when we’re lonely. We have to pull a Jo Marsh and say it out loud. We must give language to the lack that we feel.  

To be known and loved is my deepest and truest need.

One of the things that I find myself most consistently thankful for when it comes to my Christian faith (you know, apart from the most obvious aspects…) is that it gives me such language. At the risk of sounding annoyingly self-centred, it dignifies the feelings that I find hard to even acknowledge. It offers explanation, and therefore, a comfort that I could never find anywhere else; a comfort rooted in truth.  

It may sound nuts, but I have come to understand the reality of loneliness, not through influencers on a sofa in Downing Street (although that’s great), and not even through Jo Marsh’s monologue (which is even greater), but through an ancient Hebrew poem. This poem tells me that to be alone is ‘not good’.  

Not good. Not right. Not as it should be.  

That’s God’s point of view at least – that to be alone, properly, completely and permanently alone, goes against the very fabric of the world. It is at odds with human flourishing. I’ve come to deeply value how concrete that is. I’ve also learnt to relax into the knowledge that not only is loneliness ‘normal’ (referring to one to the questions referenced at the beginning), it’s natural, in every possible sense of the word.  

To be known and loved is my deepest and truest need. I was designed for relationship, with God and with people. And therefore – with all the complex ways that life unfolds - to be lonely, is to be human.  

So, with all of this in mind, I’m tempted to end where we began, to come full circle and once again borrow the government’s words: 

‘Loneliness. It’s a part of life. Let’s talk about it.’  

Essay
America
Comment
Conspiracy theory
Nationalism
9 min read

Christian nationalism: an uncontrollable ideological fusion

Dissecting the ideology of Christian Nationalism, when cross, flag and nation fuse.

Jared holds a Theological Ethics PhD from the University of Aberdeen. His research focuses conspiracy theory, politics, and evangelicalism.

Christian Nationalism

If you follow US politics, you’ve likely heard the term “Christian Nationalism.” According to Google Trends, the phrase peaked in popularity last summer, right around the public hearings of the January 6th Commission. But its popularity often obscures a near total lack of consensus on what it means. 

Today, “Christian Nationalism” has political potency because it taps into primal identities, theologies, and moralities. You hear about it because commentators and academics need a way to narrate the social and political world. Tribes need it too. Yet, there are deniers. Evangelist Franklin Graham claimed that “Christian Nationalism” doesn’t exist. Many have come to understand it as a liberal dog whistle, either to discourage Christians from political activism or as a form of persecution itself. Still others, like Republican Representative Marjorie Tyler Greene, embrace it for themselves and campaign on it. For all its popularity, we need particularity.  

Which Christian Nationalism? 

When you say “Christian Nationalism” my response is “which one?” There are sociological, historical, political, ideological, and theological ways to define this term and their relation. The definition I prefer is the theological confusion of “white” with “Christian” and “Christian” with “American”. This confusion marks a transformation of theology into ideology, with social and political consequences. We won’t unpack that here. I’m using it as a starting point to show the variety of approaches to understanding the term. 

Sociologists Andrew Whitehead and Samuel Perry describe “Christian Nationalism” as “a cultural framework—a collection of myths, traditions, symbols, narratives and value systems that idealizes and advocates a fusion of Christianity with American civic life.” Their study, published in Taking America Back For God, surveyed Americans on five questions. Questions included whether or not the government should declare the US a Christian nation, or whether it should allow prayer in schools. Based on the responses, they were able to categorize responders into types that reflected adherence to their definition. These types were Rejectors, Resisters, Accommodators, and Ambassadors.   

What Whitehead and Perry describe as “Christian Nationalism” I would have called mere “Christianity” in my American upbringing in evangelical spaces. We can see here the germ of confusion over the term. What sociology names as “Christian Nationalism” can be understood as mere “faithful” Christianity within particular Christian communities.  

It’s not that we ought to pick one over the other. It’s that we need to engage with multiple disciplines in sketching these borders, including theology. The problem that exists in the void of sociological or political accounts is how the idea of faithfulness to the church has been tied to and conditioned by socio-cultural norms and ideological commitments.  

American Christians may need to distance themselves from the American Jesus

Christian Nationalism in history

Theologian Stanley Hauerwas puts his finger on this problem. He argues that, in the United States, white American identity and Christianity come together as “an identity without difference”. This fusion occurs when churches are determined by the story of America, a particular telling of its history. He writes,  

When Christians in America take as their fundamental task to make America work, we lose our ability to survive as church. We do so because in the interest of serving America the church becomes unwittingly governed by the story of America… that story is meant to make our God at home in America. 

Hauerwas helps us turn to the historical in understanding Christian Nationalism. Here, we are met with a persistent historical idea of a “Christian Nation” and its influence on the United States.  

This idea preceded the United States and is as old as Christendom itself. Puritan minister John Winthrop called the Massachusetts Bay Colony as “City on a Hill” in 1630. Winthrop’s application to the Puritan colony has been stretched to its limits. Today, it still shows up in political rhetoric referencing the United States. 

The historical idea of a “Christian Nation” has always been politically potent. But it has a distinct American flavour through the Constitutional disestablishment of religion in the Bill of Rights (the first 10 amendments after its adoption in 1787).  

In his remarkable judicial history of religious freedom, David Sehat argues that while the Federal government rejected the idea of a State church, there was significant State level establishment of Christianity well into the 19th century. Beyond that, Sehat shows there was a significant socio-cultural movement of evangelicals which functioned as a de facto Christian establishment amidst de jure disestablishment.  

In the Fifties, the Supreme Court under Chief Justice Earl Warren ruled to prohibit teacher-led prayer and enact integration in Jim Crow America. Sehat’s account interprets these rulings as a significant blow to the presumptive moral establishment. Today, you will hear constant appeals to a Judeo-Christian morality as the necessary proviso for a functioning democracy. These appeals often contain the claim that, at some point, the US has departed from this contract. My point is that this historical idea of a Christian nation is complex. But it is also a live question, actively shaping the political situation in every era. 

300 years after Winthrop, Rev. Gerald L.K. Smith used the term “Christian Nationalism” in the 1930’s and 40’s as part of his “America First” and “Christian Nationalist Crusade” political movements. Smith was in many ways fascist-lite, especially in his anti-semitism and in his advocacy for a near theocratic Christian capture of the State. His preaching & activism featured a mix of blood & soil nationalism, conspiratorial narratives, and Christian moral teaching. In many ways, Smith stands as a historical harbinger of the political situation today. 

Covert and overt Christian Nationalism 

Today, you are more likely to hear US Christians sympathetic to the ideas associated with Christian Nationalism claiming the Founding Fathers were all practicing evangelical Christians, not Enlightened deists. You will hear nostalgia for an American past marked by Judeo-Christian values. You won’t hear nuanced historical narratives like Sehat. 

Much of this is diffused through culture today through the widely discredited work of pseudo-historian David Barton. Barton has been associated with right wing figures and politicians like Ted Cruz and Glenn Beck. His New York Times bestselling book on Thomas Jefferson was retracted by a Christian publisher for historical claims “not adequately supported.” 

The theo-political claim that America ought to be a Christian nation today is fueled by the historical claim that it was a Christian nation. This history is complex. As are the theologies and corresponding politics which emerge from them. Though various political orders exist, how the church relates to the State is never a settled question. 

In the US today, there are two main streams, two understandings of “Christian Nationalism” which are converging with great political force. I call these the covert and overt forms of Christian Nationalism. 

Overt Christian Nationalism is most concentrated in the ideas and practices of the New Apostolic Reformation. This movement, though lacking institutions or hierarchal organization, is called by some of its advocates as a “Fourth House of Christendom”. It emerged from the teaching of C. Peter Wagner, who was one of the founding advocates of Church Growth techniques at Fuller Theological Seminary.  

In the last stages of his career, Wagner used spiritual warfare paradigms and Pentecostal theology to both narrate the success of his church growth techniques in the past, and envision their expansion into the social and political world. Wagner’s ideas coalesced into a new expression of Dominion Theology married with the prosperity gospel. This theology fuels the Christian capture and control of what Lance Wallnau calls the “Seven Mountains of Influence”. Media, entertainment, business—these are all mountains of influence for the church to rightfully claim as it combats darkness in the world. 

Covert Christian Nationalism is most concentrated today with Reformed, magisterial Protestants like Douglas Wilson and Stephen Wolfe. Both have recently published books advocating for, among other things, the construction of a Christian political and social order.  

Historically, much of these ideas emerged from Christian Reconstructionist thought. What makes these ideas covert is the strategies used to realize their Christendom. And what is significant is the way disestablishment (religious liberty) is central to this strategy. Gary North, a key figure in the Religious Right best summarized covert Christian Nationalism in 1982:  

“we must use the doctrine of religious liberty to gain independence for Christian schools until we train up a generation of people who know that there is no religious neutrality, no neutral law, no neutral education, and no neutral civil government. Then they will get busy in constructing a Bible-based social, political, and religious order which finally denies the religious liberty of the enemies of God. Murder, abortion, and pornography will be illegal. God’s law will be enforced. It will take time.” 

Wilson, in line with the covert strategy, has created something of a moral enclave in Moscow, Idaho. It is Christendom in a microcosm, and harkens back to the Magisterial Protestantism that prefigured the modern State. The New Apostolic Reformation, through prosperity preachers like Kenneth Copeland and prophecy figures like Lance Wallnau seek Christendom in macrocosm. If covert Christian Nationalism builds moral enclaves, overt Christian Nationalism rides the waves of new media, it seeks wealth and purchases the inside access to Trump’s evangelical court. 

The political host 

To understand the political potency of Christian Nationalism in the present, we have to recognize first that it is diverse. Both overt and covert forms of Christian Nationalism are theologically at odds in several ways. But theological diversity does not rule out political unity. This unity comes through utility, in the concentrated form of a willing political host.  

Both overt and covert expressions of Christian Nationalism are often unified by and concentrated in willing political hosts. These variations of Christian Nationalism, reflected by Christian communities and increasingly by mere social groups with little or no religious affiliation, can always converge around and concentrate in a political host.  

This is why foreign observers of the United States might just equate Christian Nationalism with the rise of Donald Trump. Trump, both his candidacy and his presidency, makes possible the paradoxical unity between overt and covert Christian Nationalism. Either expression can narrate his rise to power as accomplishing their goals, serving their purposes, in their way. There’s something to be said for treating this utility as a form of idolatry. 

But the idea that Christian Nationalism will simply vanish if Donald Trump is incarcerated or fails to win the election ignores its historical persistence and its theological claims. Sociological attempts to name Christian Nationalism, and political or social attempts to contain it, like the January 6 commission, are helpful but are also provisional. This is because they are unable to disrupt the theological claims which fuel it.  

A final word 

Which brings me to the primary problem I believe Christian Nationalism poses. This article has tried to connect its social and historical reality to its current political potency. But its main error seems to me to be its move towards supremacy. Jesus’ rejection of political power in the wilderness and his resistance to political power through the Cross are lost in the rising tide of Christian Nationalism.  

Catholic Church historian Fr. Hugo Rahner notes that the church has always given a “yes” and a “no” to the State. We need more thinking on what should properly be the church in America’s “yes” and “no”.  

Christians have no natural or divine claim to authority over others on the basis of their confession. If the Church in the United States aims to address the political reality of Christian Nationalism, it must begin here again, as to what Jesus’ rejection of and resistance to political power actually means today. And in order to do this, American Christians may need to distance themselves from the American Jesus, only then to discern the things they have picked up and called “Biblical” which are merely ideological. Disillusionment proceeds divestment. Without this disillusionment and divestment, perhaps the political hosts of Christian Nationalism will continue to rise with the sanction of certain forms of Christianity in the United States, and around the world.