Theo Hobson

Middlemarch, which a Guardian poll of 'experts' has named as the best novel ever, is overrated. I enjoyed reading it when I was seventeen. I probably re-read it in my twenties. Then I grew up. I became a bit more sceptical of the para-religious sentimentalism-on-stilts that defines George Eliot’s ouvre, and this novel in particular. This is a pile of nonsense with a grain of truth in it Of course I was in love with Dorothea Brooke as a teenager. So high-minded, and considerate and so wisely accepting of her misfortunes, and rather pretty too. But nowadays she strikes me as a blue-stocking bore (I far prefer the feisty Gwendolyn from Daniel Deronda (partly thanks to Romola Garai’s portrayal of her). Let’s put it simply.

So Prince William is a good Anglican after all. He has told the Times, through an aide, of his commitment to the Church, on the eve of attending the installation of the new Archbishop of Canterbury. But does he consider himself a Christian believer? The statement awkwardly dances around that question. It leaves the impression that he does not really consider himself a Christian, but knows that he must keep this semi-veiled. We then hear that ‘his relationship with the Church will “evolve” from that of previous monarchs, whose strong faith underpinned their reigns.’ The statement is difficult to analyse because the words are not quite his. They come from an aide; he presumably signed them off, but there is an air of vagueness and deniability in such a not-quite-statement.

I approve of the large Muslim prayer meeting held in Trafalgar Square on Monday. But I would not want such a thing to happen more than once a year. I do not agree with Nick Timothy that it was an 'act of domination'. But I am glad that his comments have caused a debate: we should be thinking about these things without fear of censure. We should admit that public religion is problematic and ponder why. Timothy says that Muslim prayers should be confined to mosques: 'They are not welcome in our public places and shared institutions.' The Prime Minister responded with indignation: various religions are allowed to stage celebrations in Trafalgar Square, so why should Muslims be treated with suspicion?

Is there anything much to say about Sarah Mullally, the Archbishop of Canterbury? It seems that she is a very nice, Christian lady. She used to be Britain’s top nurse. Um, she is a brilliant manager. She is good at washing people’s feet, both for practical and ceremonial purposes. She has an awesome work-ethic. She can show emotion: she cried when telling the Church of England's Synod about the micro-aggressions that female clergy suffer. She seems to embody the Church’s official line on the gay issue: in favour of greater inclusion, but not wanting to change the doctrine of marriage. Would the Church really risk antagonising the liberal majority, and prodding this dormant crisis into life? To help me out I have just read a very brief biography by Tim Wyatt.

Our public morality has two parts. Part A: people are free to do what they want, even if they do things that most people disapprove of, like getting drunk a lot, or sleeping around. Unless you harm others in some tangible way, you can do what you want. This is good, in my opinion. Andy and Mandy are scapegoats. We condemn them with special force, in order to reassert the moral code that unites us Despite this, our culture is not amoral. Part B: we value some forms of life over others. We value people who help others, who are trustworthy, faithful to their spouses – people who are not selfish and greedy. But the second part of our public creed is difficult to articulate. It sounds preachy to say: ‘People should be community-minded, not selfish’.

For quite a while now, intellectual movements have been nebulous things. This started with postmodernism, which everyone was talking about in the 1980s, but no one could quite define. Or maybe it started a bit earlier, with the New Left, a mix of Marxism and any other trendy shiny thing. But at least that was decidedly left. You might suppose sensible mainstream theologians have been calmly refuting such reactionary posturing. If only In our day, it is ‘post-liberalism’. For about fifteen years now, the term has attracted academics and pundits who want to sound edgy. At first, it was the iconoclastic banner of a few theologians and philosophers; then a few think-tank types took notice.

One of the most effective British politicians of recent years is a household name only in the most policy-wonkish of households. I mean Nick Gibb, the schools minister who worked alongside Michael Gove. Gibb kept a lower profile than Gove and so managed to stay in the Department for Education longer, bedding in the reforms that everyone except the odd Marxist lecturer deems highly successful. Let’s have a few more politicians like Gibb: limelight-shunning iconoclasts who leave off grandstanding and quietly fix stuff Gibb has co-written a book that will not do much to lift his obscurity. Reforming Lessons: Why English Schools Have Improved Since 2010 and How This was Achieved is a rather dry affair, low on Westminster gossip and high on graphs.

Please remember not to talk about religion or politics over the turkey this Christmas. It can cause terrible rows. One of the functions of the BBC, especially Radio 4, is to host such discussions, so that we don’t have to. The Moral Maze is still worth a listen, from time to time. This week, some of the panel and some of the guests were half-daring to discuss a profoundly difficult question. Is ethno-nationalism something we should condemn? Or should we be realistic, that it is an inevitable component of politics? We are schooled in the evasion of this question. The evasion is largely benign. For there is a fine line between brave honesty and racism.

So Tommy Robinson is inviting us all to have Christmas with him. The far-right activist has announced that there will be a huge open air carol concert in central London on 13 December, a seasonal Unite the Kingdom rally. The aim, he says, ‘is to put Christ back into Christmas.’ Hmm, isn’t that what thousands of church services already do? Robinson is saying: we should be proud of our national religion. Is he wrong? Yes and no So what is Robinson's motivation for wanting to stage a very large and very public Christmas event? Well, he makes it pretty clear. ‘We shouldn’t have to put this on’, he says. ‘There should be a massive Christmas event put on by our government – did you see Poland’s this year? Did you see the Christmas market switch-on?

The dust is settling on the BBC's latest crisis over its sloppy editing of a Donald Trump video, but it won't be long before the next blunder. The reality is that every BBC crisis is epiphenomenal: the anger that periodically flares up against the BBC is rooted in our frustration that it fails to do the impossible and provide cultural order and unity. This is hard to articulate, so we magnify secondary issues like the pay of its top presenters, and perceived bias in the news. In doing so, we ignore the real problem: that the BBC can't win. We can no longer trust the BBC to shelter us from the winds of the international entertainment industry Providing common culture in a diverse nation has never been easy. In its formative decades, the BBC succeeded in pulling off this juggling act.

Dame Sarah Mullally's appointment as Archbishop of Canterbury is not a normal story about a woman being appointed to a certain position for the first time. The difference is that the Church of England never made a clear decision about the legitimacy of women clergy. Here, at last, is its clear decision. The word decision has ‘cut’ or ‘kill’ in it. It means killing off the alternative course of action. This the Church failed to do. Over thirty years ago, it chose to allow opponents of women clergy to stay, and to effectively form a sub-church, with its own bishops. It has always spun this as a brave and open-minded path: look how we model diversity, was its intended message. In reality, it has seriously undermined the morale of the Church.

This feels deeply inappropriate, I thought, as I started watching Erika Kirk’s hagiographic eulogy. I am watching a grieving widow in order to analyse her performance, and pass judgement on her message. Her husband was brutally murdered just ten days ago – let her grieve. Don’t use her as journalistic material. But anyone who chooses to speak of the most serious matters, in whatever circumstances, is subject to criticism. Being a victim of some terrible act of violence is no exemption. Victim status does not authorise one to tell a nation what the essence of Christianity is, for example, and expect one’s account to be unchallenged.