Article
Assisted dying
Comment
Justice
5 min read

Will clinicians and carers objecting to assisted death be treated as nuisances?

The risk and mental cost of forcing someone to act against their conscience.
A tired-looking doctor sits at a desk dealing with paperwork.
Francisco Venâncio on Unsplash.

After a formal introduction to the House of Commons next Wednesday, MP’s will debate a draft Bill to change UK legislation on Assisted Dying. Previously, a draft Bill was introduced in the Scottish Parliament in March 2024, and is currently at committee stage. Meanwhile, in the House of Lords, a Private Member’s Bill was introduced by Lord Falconer in July and currently awaits its second reading. These draft Bills, though likely to be dropped and superseded by the Commons Bill in the fullness of time, give an early indication of what provision might be made on behalf of clinicians and other healthcare workers who wish to recuse themselves from carrying out a patient’s end of life wishes on grounds of Conscientious Objection.  

There are various reasons why someone might want to conscientiously object. The most commonly cited are faith or religious commitments. This is not to say that all people of faith are against a change in the law – there are some high-profile religious advocates for the legalisation of Assisted Dying, including both Rabbi Dr Jonathan Romain and Lord Carey, the former Archbishop of Canterbury. Even so, there will be many adherents to various faith traditions who find themselves unable to take part in hastening the end of someone’s life because they feel it conflicts with their views on God and what it means to be human. 

However, there are also Conscientious Objectors who are not religious, or not formally so. Some people, perhaps many, simply feel unsure of the rights and wrongs of the matter. The coming debates will no doubt feature discussion of how changing the law for those who are terminally ill in the Netherlands and Canada has to lead to subsequent changes in the law to include those who are not terminally, but instead chronically ill. The widening of the eligibility criteria has reached a point where, in the Netherlands, one in every 20 people now ends their life by euthanasia. This troubling statistic includes many who are neurodivergent, who suffer from depression or are disabled. It is reasonable that, even if a Conscientious Objector does not adhere to a particular religion, they can be allowed to object if they feel uneasy about the social message that Assisted Dying seems to send to vulnerable people.  

“You will often find that legislation that provides a right to conscientious objection is interpreted by judges these days in a way that seems to treat conscientious objectors as nuisances” 

Mehmet Ciftci

  Conscientious Objection clauses can themselves send a social message. A response to the Scottish Bill produced by the Law Society of Scotland notes concern over the wording of the Conscientious Objection clause, as it appears to be more prescriptive in the draft Bill than in previous Acts such as the Abortion Act of 1967. In the case of any legal proceedings that arise from a clinician’s refusal to cooperate, the current wording places the burden of proof onto the Conscientious Objector, stating (at 18.2):  

In any legal proceedings the burden of proof of conscientious objection is to rest on the person claiming to rely on it.  

The Bill provides no indication of what is admissible as ‘proof’. Evidence of membership of a Church, Synagogue, Mosque or similar might be the obvious starting point. But where does that leave those described above, who object on grounds of personal conscience alone? How does one meaningfully evidence an inner sense of unease?  

The wording of the Private Member’s Bill, currently awaiting its second reading in the House of Lords, provides even less clarity, stating only (at 5.0): 

A person is not under any duty (whether by contract or arising from any statutory or other legal requirement) to participate in anything authorised by  this Act to which that person has a conscientious objection. 

Whilst this indicates that there is no duty to participate in assisting someone to end their life, there remains a wider duty of care that healthcare professionals cannot ignore. Thus, a general feature in the interpretation of such conscience clauses in medicine is that that the conscientious objector is under an obligation to refer the case to a professional who does not share the same objection. This can be seen in practice looking at abortion law, where ideas around conscientious objection are more developed and have been tried in the courts. In the case of an abortion, a clinician can refuse to take part in the procedure, but they must still find an alternative clinician who is willing to perform their role, and they must still carry out ancillary care and related administrative tasks.  

Placing such obligations onto clinicians could be seen as diminishing rather than respecting their objection. Dr Mehmet Ciftci, a Researcher at the McDonald Centre for Theology, Ethics and Public Life at the University of Oxford comments:  

You will often find that legislation that provides a right to conscientious objection is interpreted by judges these days in a way that seems to treat conscientious objectors as nuisances who are just preventing the efficient delivery of services. They are forced to refer patients on to those who will perform whatever procedure they are objecting to, which involves a certain cooperation or facilitation with the act. 

This touches everyone, even those who (if the Bill becomes law) will still choose to conscientiously object. Therefore, it is important to consider that the human conscience is a very real phenomenon, which means that facilitating an act that feels morally wrong can give rise to feelings of guilt or shame, even if one has not been a direct participant.  

Psychologists observe that when feelings of guilt are not addressed, if they are treated dismissively or internalised, this can significantly erode self-confidence and increase the likelihood of depressive symptoms. But even before modern psychology could speak to the effects of guilt, biblical writers already had much to say on the painful consequences of living with a troubled conscience. In the Psalms, more than one ancient poet pours out their heart to God, saying that living with guilt has caused their bones to feel weak, or their heart to feel heavy, or their world to feel desolate and lonely.   

If the Conscientious Objection clauses of the new Bill being proposed on Wednesday are not significantly more robust than those in the draft Bills proposed thus far, then perhaps that is something to which we should all conscientiously object? There is much to discuss about the potential rights and wrongs of legalising Assisted Dying, but there is much to discuss about the rights and wrongs of forcing people to act against their consciences too.  

Snippet
America
Comment
Trauma
3 min read

Why Charlie Kirk’s murder shook me so much

When violence hits close to home, we search for answers

Will Fagan serves as a minister in the Episcopal Church in Birmingham, Alabama.

Mourning students at a vigil hold a sign about Charlie Kirk.
Students at Texas Tech hold a vigil for Charlie Kirk.
X.com/OldRowOfficial.

Unless you've managed to avoid all news this week, you’ll have heard of a series of unconnected violent attacks in the United States, the most recent being the assassination of 31-year-old conservative political activist Charlie Kirk during a speaking engagement at a university in Utah. 

Every time there is a shooting in my country – whatever the motives – I become physically sick and had a similar reaction this week. I cannot watch the news; I delete social media and avoid the topic in conversation as much as possible. Our present and public culture of violence coupled with the resultant news cycle is simply too much, too fear-inducing, and leaves one with the helpless thought of, “what would happen if I was in a situation like this?” I’m sure I’m not alone in this response. 

I do not agree with Kirk’s politics (though as an ordained minister, I wouldn’t tell you if I did), yet what I can tell you is that his death has gripped me in a way I couldn’t have foreseen, nor expected, becoming strikingly close to home. Kirk was 31 with a three- and one-year-old child. I am 32 with a three- and one-year-old. The idea that this could happen, period, followed by the thought of a prospect of never seeing my own children grow up completely undoes me.  

This is undoubtedly a common response to when tragedy strikes individuals with whom we can readily identify. I doubt I have to list examples (were you 37 years old when Princess Diana died?; etc). because you’re probably thinking of certain instances right now in times where tragedy has hit, even metaphorically, quite close to home. 

As I write this not from a gun control perspective, nor a political one at all, what is the theological answer to why events like this continue to happen? It is a question that I have been asked, unprovoked, by three young fathers (of diverse political persuasion) this week who have been gripped similarly to me.  

What continues to come to mind is a blanket statement written by the Apostle Paul in his first century letter to the Galatian churches in which he calls the backdrop of our lives, “This present evil age.” It is a harsh statement, and it is unpleasant, but I also think it is true. How, you ask, can I apply this first century statement to 21st century life?  

For one, Paul is writing about the time before Jesus Christ returns, a time that Christian teaching states that we presently occupy, so the statement does apply. But perhaps more importantly, when I look around, I confess that, especially in weeks like this one, “this present evil age” is an existence that I recognize. It is an existence that tragically we can largely expect, an existence that cannot be fixed politically, personally, or corporately as much as we would like to. 

Rather than depressingly stripping us of agency, how is this helpful? I find it helpful in two key ways: First, this present evil age as a descriptor is helpful because it helps answer, “Why?” to my despondency, confusion, and nausea at senseless tragedy. It helps me put those feelings somewhere and begins to, if only slightly, give the nonsensical a name.  

More than that, though, it forces me to look beyond this world, and to a power greater than the seen forces here – a power that I cannot see, a power that is good, merciful, and just, a power that will one day, and hopefully soon, make all things new.  

Of course, we cannot make sense of senseless and violent and sickening tragedy. We weren’t meant to, and that is grievous. So might we only call on the name of the one who has come to this present evil age before, and that he might come again – soon.   

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