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Culture
Digital
4 min read

What's good – and bad – about cancel culture?

An ancient story of compassion inspires an ethical response to social censure.

Erin studies and explains modern churches. She is an Adjunct Professor of Biblical Studies at Gordon-Conwell Theological Seminary.

Torn fly posters layered under graffiti on a wall.
Ripped-off posters and graffiti.
Jazmin Quaynor, via Unsplash.

You cannot ignore cancel culture today.  In her 2022 BBC Reith Lecture, the writer Chiamanda Ngoni Adichie called it “social censure”.  Even beyond universities and other public forums, many of us worry about the effects of cancel culture in everyday social settings.  Saying the wrong thing, or trying to respond well when someone else does, can quickly lead to awkward family gatherings, strained meetings, and broken friendships, or awaken the ever-present social media trolls.  In a post-pandemic moment, when people are already struggling to re-establish healthy human interactions, cancel culture can make social engagement seem even more challenging.  How can we navigate this moment well? 

Behind the fraught discussions and growing angst around cancel culture, we can perhaps detect something well worth preserving: compassion.  Some of the most heated controversies today involve language concerning people who have been historically disadvantaged.  Genuine compassion motivates many who want society to speak more kindly, with more understanding, in order to avoid perpetuating harm to people who have already suffered.  People who have been hurt deserve to be acknowledged, and that means taking their pain seriously.  This compassion is an important and noble instinct.  Many faith traditions call us to honor the vulnerable and pursue justice.  

'Silence out of fear of ending a relationship itself ends the relationship.'

At the same time, resistance to cancel culture also includes an element of compassion.  Within the voices expressing concern about cancel culture can often be heard a humble awareness that we all are prone to say the wrong thing at times.  We cannot hope to learn or grow without honest risk and mutual, human grace.  A brief period of silence to let emotions cool can be helpful; ending a relationship permanently seems less helpful.  It might seem easier to say nothing than to risk offence, but silence out of fear of ending a relationship itself ends the relationship.  Seeking to continue a difficult but important conversation can also be an important and noble instinct.  Many faith traditions also encourage humble self-assessment and generous engagement with others.  As the Bible records Jesus saying, “Let the one among you who is without sin cast the first stone.”  None of us is wholly above reproach, and we all need a bit of compassionate grace.   

So how do we balance these conflicting calls of justice and grace?   

This conflict might seem peculiarly modern, but in the story we re-tell every Christmas, we see a young man named Joseph wondering how to balance justice with gracious concern for someone who had deeply disappointed him.  Joseph is engaged to Mary, but she has been found to be pregnant.  Joseph is sure the baby isn’t his.  In their culture, a woman who was pregnant outside of marriage brought shame to her fiancé, her family, and the whole community.  Matthew’s gospel tells us that Joseph was “a righteous man,” which means that he appreciated the demands of justice.  Ignoring her situation meant ignoring the pain they all felt, papering over a grave offense which they wanted no part of.  At the same time, though, the text also tells us that Joseph was “unwilling to put her to shame.”  Like many people today, Joseph wanted to leave Mary some way to move forward with her life, but their culture did not provide people much opportunity to learn from tragic mistakes.  Sometimes, it can feel as if ours doesn’t, either.  If you’re familiar with the story, you already know how it ends, but it’s important not to skip too quickly past Joseph’s dilemma.  It feels strangely modern, Joseph’s desire for justice coupled with his equally strong desire not to see someone condemned because of a single mistake. 

'Courageous compassion creates much needed opportunities to heal, learn, and grow.'

Thankfully, the story also describes a way forward from Joseph’s dilemma: the baby in Mary’s womb, Jesus.  In Jesus, we see the depth of God’s compassion for all who suffer.  Jesus never ignored the painful consequences evil can create. Indeed, he allowed himself to experience the absolute worst of humanity.  As an adult, Jesus was thrown out of his home village and religious community. According to the gospels, he endured one of the most unjust trials ever recorded.  Jesus was tortured, beaten, and sentenced to a cruel death.  When we suffer injustice, we are not experiencing something alien to Jesus, and therefore, alien to God.   

But there is another side to Jesus’ suffering that is equally important: Jesus also demonstrates profound compassion for people have made terrible mistakes.  Jesus never mis-stepped or said a single cruel word, but he allowed himself to experience the full shame and isolation of being cast out of society. Crucifixion was the ultimate censure, being publicly put to death outside of the walls of the city.  Yet even in this moment, Jesus demonstrated compassion for people who had harmed him.  While on the cross, he forgave those who put him there.  Jesus offered forgiveness to the man dying on the next cross to his own, who by his own admission deserved his fate.  In contrast to aspects of cancel culture, Jesus’ actions at that moment of extreme injustice tell us that human redemption is always possible.  Jesus created a compassionate way forward from guilt and shame.  Whatever our situation, we can find life-giving grace and healing in Christ. 

Compassion isn’t easy.  It cost Jesus dearly, and at times it will cost us, too.  Courageous compassion creates much needed opportunities to heal, learn, and grow.  When we suffer and when we err, cruelty and failure do not get the last word.  As it says in the last few pages of the Bible, Jesus is making all things new.  Cancel culture ends conversations and damages relationships, but a better balance between the righteous demands of justice and the need for redemptive grace remains possible.   

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Culture
Mental Health
Music
1 min read

Why we loved Lewis Capaldi’s Glastonbury comeback

We might impress people with our strength, but we connect through our weaknesses

Jessica is a Formation Tutor at St Mellitus College, and completing a PhD in Pauline anthropology, 

Lewis Capaldi sings with eyes closes, holding a mic and its stand
Capaldi hits the high notes.
BBC.

Friday at Glastonbury 2025 saw something more than a musical performance: it saw a homecoming. Lewis Capaldi returned to the stage after a two-year hiatus, and the response was nothing short of extraordinary. His performance in 2023 was emotional as people saw a man struggling with his mental and physical health, which ultimately led him to step back for two whole years. As he returned to the stage, people cheered, and people cried. He cried. I cried. It was not just the return of a singer, but the return of a story we all long for: a redemption arc. A story of coming undone and coming back. 

Capaldi had stepped away from the spotlight for those two years to care for his mental health. When he appeared, he was welcomed with warmth, kindness and compassion. The fields of Glastonbury turned into a sanctuary for a few sacred minutes, as thousands honoured someone not because he had pushed through, but because he had paused. 

I found myself deeply moved. I couldn’t look away. Why was this moment, this man, this vulnerability, so captivating? 

It is because, as humans, we are wired for stories of authenticity. We love a comeback story. The narrative of someone who ventures into the wilderness and then returns speaks to something in all of us. Who is willing to admit their own weakness. To return to the stage in this moment reminded us that the comeback was greater than the setback. This was a moment worth celebrating.  

As part of his return set, he debuted his new song Survive, in which he sings,  

“But when hope is lost and I come undone, I swear to God, I’ll survive.”  

There’s power in that lyric, not in thoughtless defiance, but in the quiet, resolute declaration that survival to keep going is an act of courage. 

St Paul, in his second letter to Christians in the city of Corinth, reminds us of a paradox at the heart of the Christian faith:  

“I will boast all the more gladly about my weaknesses, so that Christ’s power may rest on me.”  

Strength and weakness are not opposing forces; instead, they are intertwined. The bridge connecting them is vulnerability. Strength in weakness provides us with a portrait of actual vulnerability, as sharing our weakness requires great strength. It has been said by many that although we might impress people with our strength, we connect with people through our weaknesses. This vulnerability provides the connection that we are built for as humans. 

In a culture that celebrates performance, progression, and perfection, vulnerability often feels like a risk. But what if it’s our greatest strength? What if this, the trembling voice, the open heart, the tear-streaked face, is what connection is made of? 

Capaldi’s return showed us a part of what it means to be human: to break, to heal, to return. And to be welcomed back. It was a gentle resistance to cancel culture, which tends to hold people captive in their weakest moment, freezing them in failure. But the crowd at Glastonbury chose a different way. They chose empathy and kindness when confronted with another's humanity. This made space for a new story to be told.  

The Christian story has always been one of ashes to beauty. Of life out of death. Of hope in despair. Whether it’s the prodigal son running home, or Peter by the firelight, forgiven and restored, there is room in the story of grace for those who step away, and celebration when they return. 

And so, Capaldi’s return was more than a performance: it was a parable. A living story of what happens when we choose to make space for one another’s pain and honour the quiet courage it takes to come back. It reminded us that sharing our weaknesses is not a weakness at all, but an act of strength, even defiance, in a culture that so often pulls us toward isolation and self-protection. Why was it so captivating? Because vulnerability is powerful. It draws us in, disarms us, and reminds us of our shared humanity. We long to be known, and we ache to belong. In a field of thousands, vulnerability is what ultimately unites and connects us. 

 

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