Religion

Kicked ‘like a football’ were the words used by a Pakistani Christian to describe a brutal assault that left him unconscious outside a restaurant in Derby last month. The victim, Tajamal Amar, claims Muslim men singled him out for offence he’d caused by displaying a cross and two large red poppies on his car, and for being a Kaffir – a derogatory term for non-Muslims. As it happens, the attack occurred towards the end of National Hate Crime Awareness Week, and has been recorded as a hate crime. The British Pakistani Christian Association, a group who’ve been supporting Amar, inform me his wife and daughter have been moved to a new location; he remains in hospital. But is his case symptomatic of a broader anti-Christian sentiment brewing in Britain?

I sometimes identify with something that Evelyn Waugh once said. A friend asked him how come he claimed to be a Christian, being such a cantankerous curmudgeon, such a master of cruel wit. Well, Waugh replied, imagine how horrid I’d be if I didn’t try to be a Christian. There’s something authentically Christian in that answer – an admission that we can never be very successful Christians. Because it demands so much, this religion is an awkward commitment, full of tension and ambiguity. Because it demands so much, we can be honest about our failure. For me, this capacity for honesty is crucial. If I felt there was no room in Christianity for such honesty, I think I would have walked away.

I am marvelling at the resilience of New York City. Yesterday afternoon a real monster visited Lower Manhattan, weaponising a truck in the foul Isis fashion to mow down scores of citizens, killing eight. Yet just a few hours later the streets of Manhattan were thronging with pretend monsters. With vampires, skeletons, witches, Leatherfaces and other fancy-dress freaks, blood-stained and drunk, acting at being menacing but really being merry, gathered in their thousands for the Halloween Parade. Where I watched them stream by, at the corner of Sixth Avenue and 14th St, there were hundreds of people pressed together, a heaving, happy crowd. They whooped and Instagrammed as floats with giant monsters and dancing dead people passed by.

Martin Luther shot to fame five hundred years ago with his protest against indulgences in October 1517. At the core of his message was the straightforward idea that the answer to every religious question was to be found in the Bible, the Word of God, taken in its plain and simple sense. As we now know, it didn’t quite work out. The Word of God just wasn’t as plain and simple as Luther thought. Rival prophets, from erudite theologians down to everyday cranks, read the same Word of God with different and sometimes swivelling eyes, and came to very different conclusions. Ulrich Zwingli, the godfather of the Reformation in Zurich, preached his distinctive brand of Christianity from the pulpit of the city’s Grössmunster church in the 1520s.

Is it possible that London commuters are now unable to tell the difference between the cry of God is Great, Allahu Akbar - a sentiment that unfortunately accompanies every IS atrocity - and the actual Bible? It seems like it from the reaction on the Shepperton to Waterloo service at 8.30am yesterday. As one report put it, 'a man with a rucksack began reciting what seemed to be passages from the Old Testament. He apparently declared homosexuality and pre-marital sex to be a sin.' Or as one commuter put it, 'Some nutter starts reciting verses from the Bible… and causes such panic that some people have forced open the doors and jumped onto the tracks. He recited lines about homosexuality and sex outside marriage being a sin. God gave his only son for our sins etc.

The error of Emma Kelty, the one that cost the British adventurer her brave life on the banks of the Amazon, was a failing all too common in Europeans: she had too much good faith. Raised in comfort and educated in compassion, Kelty had little concept of the savagery that lurks in some souls. Displaying a mix of naivety and conceit, she ignored warnings from villagers and went on her way, even posting a joke on social media mocking the locals' concern for her welfare. Two days later she was murdered by a gang of 'water rats', young men with no regard for human life. What happened to Kelty is little different from what has been happening to Europe in recent years.

You must listen to the feisty new episode of the Holy Smoke podcast, in which Cristina Odone and I ask our guest Jeremy Vine whether, if he were alive in the 21st century, Jesus would have been on Twitter. If so, what would happen to him? Jeremy – whose new book What I Learnt discusses social media – points out that the Sermon on the Mount could easily be sliced up into memorable tweets. Indeed, but you can also fit Jesus's description of the Jews as children of Satan into 140 characters. That would lose him his blue tick, if not cause him to be banned altogether. But all three of us agreed that, if Christ appeared on social media, he'd be a magnet for trolls.

A new report on anti-Semitism in Britain makes uncomfortable reading all round. The study, a joint enterprise by the Community Security Trust and the Institute for Jewish Policy Research, is an in-depth exploration of anti-Jewish attitudes, the role of animus towards Israel, and the prevalence of prejudice in 2017. It is a sober analysis and the researchers tend towards restraint – sometimes a little too much restraint – in drawing conclusions from their data. It is this very interpretive modesty that makes the findings all the more concerning.

For Church of England vicars who worry less about what they will preach on Sunday than whether there will be any parishioners to listen to them, the latest findings of the British Social Attitudes Survey will make grim reading. For years the number of people professing religious belief in Britain has hovered around the 50 per cent mark. Now it seems to have dived decisively, plunging from 52 per cent to 47 per cent in just a year. According to a survey we are no longer a Christian country, but then neither — for all the squeals over sharia law — are we becoming much of a Muslim country, or indeed any other religion. Just 6 per cent of us profess a faith other than Christianity, down from 8 per cent last year. Our established national church is declining fastest of all.

The latest survey says that under half of us (42 per cent) identify as Christian, and that just over half have no religion. Does this show that we have finally turned the corner, and are no longer a Christian nation? Well, it’s a very curved corner – we’ve been turning it for about fifty years. But on one level we remain a Christian nation until a movement comes along that redefines us in explicitly secular terms – and there’s no real sign of it. It might sound perverse, but I think these figures show religion to be surprisingly popular. For consider how little religion there is in popular – or indeed less popular – culture. A Martian who visited Britain and studied our culture would assume that just a few per cent sympathised with religion.

For Church of England vicars who worry less about what they will preach on Sunday than whether there will be any parishioners to listen to them, the latest findings of the British Social Attitudes Survey will make grim reading. For years the number of people professing religious belief in Britain has hovered around the 50 per cent mark. Now it seems to have dived decisively, plunging from 52 per cent to 47 per cent in just a year. According to a survey we are no longer a Christian country, but then neither — for all the squeals over sharia law — are we becoming much of a Muslim country, or indeed any other religion. Just 6 per cent of us profess a faith other than Christianity, down from 8 per cent last year. Our established national church is declining fastest of all.