Theo Hobson

When the government raises big questions about our national values, one has a choice: to see it as an opportunity to say something constructive, to deepen the debate. Or one could respond like a cynical intern at the Guardian, saying, in effect: how dare they try to sound all high and mighty? Where’s some holes we can pick? The Church of England is unfortunately inclined to the latter course, with the archbishops issuing a statement raising concerns that Muslims might be targeted by a redefinition of extremism.  What Michael Gove announced was hardly earth-shattering What the communities secretary Michael Gove announced was hardly earth-shattering.

When does radical religious conservatism become a dangerous bid for theocracy? It’s a question that some American commentators are pondering, in relation to ‘Christian nationalism’. David French has argued in the New York Times that we should be wary of the term ‘Christian nationalism’, which is often attached to Trump-supporting evangelicals. There is nothing very dangerous about Christians wanting their faith to be politically expressed, he says.

Justin Welby has just visited Ukraine. While there he spoke clearly against the false religion that underlies Russia’s ideology, and called Patriarch Kirill, the Russian Orthodox leader, a heretic, a war-criminal and a perverter of the Christian gospel. Alas, only the first sentence is true. Welby has never, as far I can see, called out his Russian counterpart. He doesn’t want to be undiplomatic, I suppose. True, Welby has condemned the invasion in clear terms; almost two years ago he was quick to call it ‘an act of great evil’. He then had a video call with Kirill (with Pope Francis also on the line) where he called the war ‘a great tragedy’ and said that ‘war and violence is never an answer’.

On Saturday, I was in a public library, waiting for an old guy to finish with the Times. But he seemed to be reading every word of every section, and sort of peering at it frowningly in an annoying way. So I did something I hardly ever do: I picked up the Daily Mail.  I had forgotten that I might find Boris here. I wondered what I thought of him these days. One is meant to despise or at least disdain him, of course. But I’ve always struggled to. Oh, I often come very close. I came close the other week, when I read Rory Stewart’s memoir. Politicians should obviously be devoted earnest types, I felt, not semi-charming smoothies like David Cameron, or fully-charming roughies, if that’s a word, like Boris.

Can a dose of moral earnestness revive Tory fortunes? This is the question raised by Rory Stewart’s recent memoir, Politics on the Edge: A Memoir From Within, which sits on top of the bestseller charts more than three months after it came out. Another question the book raises is this: is Stewart’s brand of moral earnestness the right one? His politics is rich in old-world honour, like that of a John Buchan hero. The reader half expects him to uncover a plot to sell Britain to China, and then be chased by soulless technocrats through moonlit moorland. On one level, it didn’t work: when he stood for the leadership against Johnson and others, he seemed too intense, too eccentric. But maybe the party wasn’t ready for him.

The battle between New Atheism and religion was never likely to have a clear winner. It was never very likely that the arguments of Richard Dawkins and co would topple the towers of theology. Nor was it likely that the atheists would provoke the sleeping giant of faith into rising up and crushing the impertinence for good. I suppose atheists can claim that their cause is making steady progress, with organised religion continuing its gentle decline in the West, but the more honest among them might admit that the energy of their movement fizzled out long ago. Secular idealism opted for identity politics instead, making the pontifications of white male know-it-alls sound dated and uncool. Believers, on the other hand, are likely to be more bullish.

At the Church of England’s General Synod on Wednesday morning, I had a good view of the sign-language person. In a bored moment (sorry for the puerility), I tried to see what the sign for ‘sex’ was. I failed to discover this, but happened to be watching him while an evangelical spoke of progressive teaching leading people to hell. He made a pleasing little one-handed goat-horn sign. The whole debate could have been summed up in a couple of gestures. Maybe a sad face and heart sign, for the progressives’ tireless emphasis on the pain and exclusion of homosexuals, and the need for loving acceptance. For the evangelicals, maybe a clenched-fist hold-fast sign, plus a Bible, followed by the old goat-horns.

I will not be attending the silent disco that is soon to be held in Canterbury Cathedral. I will not witness ‘some of the UK's best 90s DJs playing all your favourite tunes in the stunning, illuminated surroundings of Canterbury Cathedral’. I will not be among ‘100s of like-minded 90s fans singing their hearts out whilst wearing state-of-the-art LED headphones’. Why not? Isn’t this the sort of trendy gimmick that a trendy liberal like me approves of? Don’t I often express the view that the Church should be open to the culture around it, and find ways to tempt arty agnostics into its orbit?

The Russell Brand story shows, once again, how sexual morality is only usually debated in relation to allegations of abuse made against male celebrities. I’m tired of the way this happens – and think it’s a pity that ethics around sex aren’t talked about more widely. The status quo means that the scope of the discussion is narrow, and its tone self-righteous.  To widen the scope is dangerous, of course. It means admitting that our culture is in a major muddle about sex, and it’s a muddle that affects us all: there’s no enlightened camp. We don’t know what sex is. Can it be safely separated from committed relationships? Can someone have a lot of casual sex and also be a decent person?

Justin Welby is not my sort of Anglican. Or maybe he is, in a way. I’m not really sure who he is. And I don’t mean that entirely negatively. When he was appointed Archbishop of Canterbury, the Church seemed to be opting for cheesy banality after the intellectual roller-coaster of his predecessor, Rowan Williams. It was a slightly dangerous roller-coaster, to be sure, with some alarming rusty bits, and stomach-plunging drops, but always interesting.  Welby looked like a beta male from the Alpha course, the slick evangelical outfit led by public school officer-class types. I had my gripes about Williams, but he seemed a Hyperion to this satyr. I have moved to a more nuanced view. Welby might not be an illustrious theologian, but he is no fool.