Article
Character
Comment
5 min read

Work isn’t working, it’s killing us

We mistake the nature of work and our purpose within it.
Two people sit beside each other working on laptops, One looks askance to the other who frowns.
Resume Genius on Unsplash.

What is work for? In our individualist society we perhaps might zoom in on the minutiae of the specific role that we fulfil. Work is for the success of the company I work for, work is for building up my CV, work is to earn money enough to live, work is for seeing people I don’t have to live with. But what about work? The burden that humans have always had to gather enough resources to provide for themselves. We are mistaking the nature of work and our purpose within it, and it is beginning to kill us. 

Each of the recent generations have had different, and askew, attitudes to their work. Baby boomers- those who got a job and a sensible haircut in the 60s, conceived work as a contract. They worked well at almost anything and the reward was home ownership, resources to provide for a family, and saving for leisure. The purpose of their work is the lifestyle it creates. To some extent, their successors in Gen X had the same perception and the same contract- stick at any industry and the reward will be generous enough to make the graft worth it. 

But what happens when that contract is broken? When work no longer leads to those rewards? The Millennial answer is to seek out work that gives purpose, to accept the reward will not be fulfilling and so to find the purpose in the end of the work itself. Even if that means a lifetime of renting and scrimping, because the reward is not to be found in the payment. 

A slow generational drift from the true purpose and boundaries of work has left us confused about its point and struggling to engage. 

The Gen Z answer to this broken contract is the most fascinating of all; a reluctance to work at all. There is ‘quiet quitting’ whereby you do as little as possible whilst remaining employed, ‘bare minimum Mondays,’ and, of course, ‘lazy girl jobs.’ The purported aim of this generation is to find jobs where they can work from home, do almost nothing, and still receive a generous salary. Others are living the ‘soft life.’ They move in with mum and dad (usually boomers who have run the rat race and received the benefits of the contract) and do something creative part-time, earning little but doing little. It's a bit of the old baby boomer attitude seeking pleasure outside work but without the corresponding work ethic or career mindset. 

On top of this is the mental health crisis, which prevents many of Gen Z from working, with one in three non-graduates out of work with mental health conditions. Bosses receive calls from parents of those in their 20s explaining that their children are too unwell to work. 

I suggest that these things are linked, and a slow generational drift from the true purpose and boundaries of work has left us confused about its point and struggling to engage. We must look outside ourselves to understand what work was created for. In Genesis, the Christian origin story, God conceives work as a place of dignity and purpose. What Adam and Eve did in the garden mattered- they were the leaders of creation, and God even gave them the responsibility of naming other creatures. Humans were made to have responsibility, made to express this in their work. Even in the drudgery of repeated physical, administrative, or household tasks, we have the freedom to find purpose. We can take pleasure and pride in making things, fixing things, restoring things, even if just to the state they were in when we cleaned last week.  

Find the purpose in the making, fixing, restoring, the very task itself. 

The ‘quiet quitting’ of Gen Z or the dry contract of the boomers will not cut it. Even in jobs we don’t like, or tasks we find overwhelming, the same reframing is needed, perhaps even more so. Work itself brings purpose, and that is worth giving our whole selves to, otherwise listlessness and sadness will get us. We were made to find purpose and joy in the task of whatever is in front of us, no matter how simple. 

Millennials have swung the pendulum too far in the other direction. Yes, this generation have found the importance of purpose in their work. But only in work that has an end outside of itself. Work has been created with an internal, permanent purpose. Suggesting that meaning only comes from employment with obvious altruistic ends means that any other kind of work, domestic or employed, is devoid of this meaning. The same listlessness ensues in any role not found to have such an end. 

St Paul elevates work explicitly even beyond this created place of purpose. In his letter to a church in Colossae, he writes, ‘Whatever you do, work at it with all your heart, as working for the Lord, not for human masters.’ In other words, work is an act of worship, acting as if the task we are completing is for God, and putting the requisite effort in.  

Of course, this is a massive challenge. How many of us put as much work in to satisfy our bosses as we would if they were the ultimate director of our eternal destiny? But it does redeem those moments where we wonder what the point of what we’re doing is, who will see it, and if it is really worth doing properly at all. God sees. God knows. And that makes it worth doing properly. 

Paul also makes it clear here that work is not just what we get paid for. Work is everything we do that is not rest. Whatever we do - employed, at home, inrelation to our families. And this allows those who cannot work, in an employment sense, to take part in God’s purpose for humanity by working in a way in which they can. Whether it’s caring for a relative, nurturing a tiny veg patch, creating a piece of art, or hoovering the carpet. Find the purpose in the making, fixing, restoring, the very task itself. Do it as if God were watching. And feel yourself become more human. 

Essay
Comment
Politics
War & peace
7 min read

What it takes to travel from ceasefire to peace

With Bertie Ahern, Kevin Hargaden explores an unlikely journey.

Kevin is a social theologian studying ethics and economics.

A TV graphic labelled 'ceasefire' lists bullet points
How the news was reported in 1994.
RTE.

August 31st marks the thirtieth anniversary of the historic IRA ceasefire. After decades of effective civil war in Northern Ireland, on this day in 1994, the nationalist paramilitary force announced “the complete cessation of military operations” and declared that they looked forward to a just and lasting settlement with “a spirit of determination and confidence”. While not without interruptions, that ceasefire has led to more than just a cessation of conflict. While still fragile, Northern Ireland has a functioning parliament, closer ties than ever with the Republic of Ireland, and the dissident threat – still present – is marginalised. 

One of the remarkable elements of that day at the end of summer 1994 was how unlikely it seemed just a year before. The intensity of “The Troubles”, as the conflict is called, varied over the years but a series of atrocities in 1993 left an already traumatised population in a state of desperation. In March of that year, the IRA exploded bombs in the market town of Warrington. This callous attack clearly sought to strike terror into the hearts of English civilians – people who had no real connection to whatever injustices had been inflicted on the nationalist communities of Northern Ireland. Two children, Jonathan Ball and Tim Parry, were killed and almost sixty people were injured.  

Another IRA bombing, in October of that year, caused outrage and disgust across Britain and Ireland. Again, hitting a civilian population, the Shankill Road bombing had been intended to target Loyalist leaders but ended up devastating a fishmongers. Ten people were killed.  

Brutal responses followed from the Loyalist side. Five days after the Warrington bomb, the Ulster Defence Association murdered four construction workers and a week after the Shankill Road bombing the same organisation descended upon a Halloween party held in a bar in rural Derry, killing 8 people and leaving 12 with dire injuries.  

Along with many other atrocities, the year ended with most people on the island dreading another generation of pointless violence. But below the surface, intense grassroots efforts and official negotiations were beginning to bear fruit.  

The viewer is bound to see the peace process that emerged as a kind of miracle. How could forgiveness reign in the face of such savagery? How can a society build a future out of the wreckage of such a past? 

This story is told vividly in the BBC documentary Once Upon a Time in Northern Ireland. Spread across five episodes, the show does not intend to offer an encyclopaedic analysis of how the Troubles emerged. Instead, it focusses on the experiences of the ordinary people embroiled – whether intentionally or not – in the conflict. The effect is deeply moving, even overwhelming at times.  

So often, our culture engages with war and conflict as abstract concepts to be debated. Even in the context of active, live battle, we are typically presented with “talking heads” offering expert opinion. But in Once Upon a Time in Northern Ireland you get to hear from the people who planned the attack, or who conducted the arrests, or who were just trying to buy some fish for dinner when a bomb exploded in the shop. This direct testimony from those were caught up in the Troubles allows the viewer a visceral understanding of what is at stake, without having to understand the centuries of colonialism, conflict, and oppression that generated the civil war. That human trauma, that is glimpsed in great poetry or felt as an echo in a folk song is captured in this series directed by the award-winning James Bluemel. 

There is a stubborn misunderstanding that the Northern Irish conflict was “Catholics against Protestants”. Once Upon a Time in Northern Ireland disposes of this myth, if in part by showing how those two groups were never distinct. It was a complex conflict fuelled by land and ideology, traumatic history and conflicting cultures. Religion was a component of course, but expressed through the lens of sectarianism, the almost racial animosity that grew up between the opposing tribes, the marker that differentiated them. When one man, named Michael, is shown tending gently to the racing pigeons he keeps, the effect is incongruous in the extreme because his story is one of unimaginable despair.  

He was raised Catholic; his mother was Protestant. She had ten children. And one day, two women showed up at their home and took his mother away and she never returned. The IRA killed her. It wasn’t because of her views on Papal primacy or biblical authority. Something even more absurd and terrifying was at work here, a hatred that at some point did not even need justification.  

The consequences of each callous and brutal attack rippled outwards, affecting not just the victims but their loved ones and then their community. By the end of the five episodes the viewer is bound to see the peace process that emerged as a kind of miracle. How could forgiveness reign in the face of such savagery? How can a society build a future out of the wreckage of such a past? 

That was their baseline assumption throughout – no one at the table was “happy with the fact that thousands of people had been killed and maimed.” 

This exposes one of the limitations of the format of the series. By placing the perspectives of ordinary people at the centre of the narrative, profound truths are exposed. But the mundane details of how the peace process developed – why it was the IRA agreed to a ceasefire and how things developed from there to the Good Friday Agreement and the years since – are unaddressed. Perhaps a sequel is required where the politicians and diplomats who made that possible are given the chance to tell that story? 

One of the undoubted architects of peace in Northern Ireland is Bertie Ahern, who was the Taoiseach (Prime Minister) of the Republic of Ireland from 1997-2008. I sat down with him to do just that – to hear his recollections of the process that brought about peace. Since his youth, he had always taken a keen interest in Northern Ireland – “I took a particular interest in the Civil Rights movement when we were in school; that was before it got into the violence.” Raised in a Republican family just north of Dublin city centre, once the Troubles began, it was hard “not to be subsumed into everything that was happening on the island.” As he became a political leader, he was keenly aware of how the violent conflict exacerbated underlying problems – even his vision for economic regeneration in the Republic was blocked because “part of the reason that it was difficult to get investment and to get people to come here was the Troubles.” 

As he remembers the process, it would be misleading to think it popped out of nowhere in the 1990s. There had been attempts through the years, notably with the Sunningdale Agreement in 1973 and the Anglo-Irish Agreement of 1985, but also through less publicised conversations between the peacemakers and paramilitaries, like the conversations led by Fr Gerry Reynolds at Clonard Monastery – which began to generate movement. He attributes the ceasefire to the Downing Street Declaration that was orchestrated by the British Prime-minister John Major and Ahern’s then boss, Taoiseach Albert Reynolds, on December 15, 1993. That showed a serious willingness from London to engage, and the 1994 ceasefire was the result.  

But when the ceasefire broke down in 1996, all that work dissipated. “That was a disaster, really.” With the election of Tony Blair, Ahern suggested they “take it up again”. With a concerted focus – “I was nearly doing the Northern stuff full-time” – progress was restored. He remembers that the negotiations involved ten different parties, including the British and Irish governments and the active and influential participation from the American government and “went on practically non-stop from September 1997 to Good Friday 1998.” The strategy sought to be as inclusive as possible – “we would try and get everyone in” – and “to be as comprehensive on the issues” as possible, so that no issue was off the table. Patience and resilience were central. Although there was “a huge amount of conversation and talks up to Christmas, it didn’t really gather momentum until February.” 

With the “totality of all the issues out on the table”, the dialogues began to bear fruit. How draconian legislation might be rolled back, how paramilitary prisoners could be released, how demilitarization would proceed and how the police could be reformed. He remembers that negotiations on that question – the reform of the corrupt Royal Ulster Constabulary police force – went on deep into the Good Friday night, April 10th. When an obstacle appeared, the London and Dublin governments reminded people of the goal of stopping the violence. That was their baseline assumption throughout – no one at the table was “happy with the fact that thousands of people had been killed and maimed.” The second guiding principle was that “you have to try to treat everyone with dignity, regardless of what views they have.” And slowly, rapport was built up between people who had been combatants.  

When the agreement was finalised, a kind of euphoria followed. “That week we were just at it night and day; we had been at it night and day since March.” But the celebrations, as intense as they were, did not linger. The agreement had to be passed by popular referendum in both the North and the Republic of Ireland. And the work continued even after that. Ahern notes that it took years to achieve an agreement “and then another ten years to implement it”.  

But the effort was undeniably worth it. “I think the big success of the Good Friday Agreement was that the Troubles have by and large ended.” And the story of how that happens traces back to a cassette tape released in August 1994 announcing the IRA ceasefire.