Some sympathetic commentators have sought to water down this statement. They suggest that a combination of the Coronation Oath, the Establishment of the Church of England, historic literary and cultural influences, and "tolerance" for diversity of opinion make the case. It is a nice idea. But two things need to be said.
First, none of these elements can be considered, in today's conditions, as defining the identity of Britain. They are either relics of Britain's exclusive Protestant (and anti-Catholic) past, with which the heir to the throne has already indicated unhappiness — notably in his objection to the term "Defender of the Faith". Or else they are of remarkably little import to most people — they are, as Dr Rowan Williams described them, merely features of "cultural memory". Or else, finally, they are not identifiable with Christianity at all. Tolerance, for example, with which the names of John Locke and John Stuart Mill are principally associated, was developed as a guiding political theory in explicit opposition to orthodox Christianity, which both men disliked. There is, indeed, no reason to think that faithful Christians are likely to be particularly tolerant, though, unlike the practitioners of some other religions, they are unlikely to be self-righteously murderous.
The second objection, however, is that it is not nowadays possible to define Britain (or England) by what the nation believes. The Telegraph's poll taken at the height of the controversy showed that 56 per cent of the population did indeed, when questioned, regard Britain as a Christian country. If Britain is a not a Christian country, what is it? It is hard to say. But it is a leading question all the same. Significantly, only 14 per cent said they were practising Christians, while 41 per cent said they were not religious. Quite what a "non-practising" Christian is, in a country where church attendance on a Sunday is not widely regarded as essential, is a moot point. But, in any case, what the figures suggest is that there is no solid ground of faith upon which to assert a Christian identity (or "status", to use Cameron's even stronger word). When most people say Britain is Christian, they really mean that they don't wish it to be anything much at all. This view can be defended. But it means that the notion of Britain as a "Christian country" is as insubstantial as Cameron's own religious convictions appear to be.
So why did the Prime Minister share his thoughts at all? The answer is, of course, that, as always, he was acting politically. He is deeply worried about the rise of UKIP, which he thinks may lose him the general election. Having used, to counterproductive effect, a series of gaffes by UKIP candidates, to blacken the party's reputation, and still not able to escape the consequence of his description of it, in 2006, as full of "fruitcakes, loonies and closet racists", he is trying to display his traditional conservative credentials. And what is more reassuringly conservative than to pose as the champion of a faith-lite, aesthetically pleasing, socially inclusive brand of Anglicanism?
This, though, goes to the heart of David Cameron's problem. It is a political quandary, to whose solution religion provides no more than a useful prop. The Prime Minister's ideology of modernisation has caught up with him, and it threatens to consume him. His view of the Conservative Party is, indeed, much like his view of the Church of England. It is of an institution without meaning or interior substance, a framework which can be filled with any set of fashionable notions as long as they are dressed up smartly. This is how intelligent revolutionaries always behave. But it usually happens that even the clever ones get carried away, and this is what happened in the Conservative Party. The Tory modernisers went too far. They showed their iconoclastic zeal too early. It was reaction against it that mainly led to the rise of UKIP.
First, none of these elements can be considered, in today's conditions, as defining the identity of Britain. They are either relics of Britain's exclusive Protestant (and anti-Catholic) past, with which the heir to the throne has already indicated unhappiness — notably in his objection to the term "Defender of the Faith". Or else they are of remarkably little import to most people — they are, as Dr Rowan Williams described them, merely features of "cultural memory". Or else, finally, they are not identifiable with Christianity at all. Tolerance, for example, with which the names of John Locke and John Stuart Mill are principally associated, was developed as a guiding political theory in explicit opposition to orthodox Christianity, which both men disliked. There is, indeed, no reason to think that faithful Christians are likely to be particularly tolerant, though, unlike the practitioners of some other religions, they are unlikely to be self-righteously murderous.
The second objection, however, is that it is not nowadays possible to define Britain (or England) by what the nation believes. The Telegraph's poll taken at the height of the controversy showed that 56 per cent of the population did indeed, when questioned, regard Britain as a Christian country. If Britain is a not a Christian country, what is it? It is hard to say. But it is a leading question all the same. Significantly, only 14 per cent said they were practising Christians, while 41 per cent said they were not religious. Quite what a "non-practising" Christian is, in a country where church attendance on a Sunday is not widely regarded as essential, is a moot point. But, in any case, what the figures suggest is that there is no solid ground of faith upon which to assert a Christian identity (or "status", to use Cameron's even stronger word). When most people say Britain is Christian, they really mean that they don't wish it to be anything much at all. This view can be defended. But it means that the notion of Britain as a "Christian country" is as insubstantial as Cameron's own religious convictions appear to be.
So why did the Prime Minister share his thoughts at all? The answer is, of course, that, as always, he was acting politically. He is deeply worried about the rise of UKIP, which he thinks may lose him the general election. Having used, to counterproductive effect, a series of gaffes by UKIP candidates, to blacken the party's reputation, and still not able to escape the consequence of his description of it, in 2006, as full of "fruitcakes, loonies and closet racists", he is trying to display his traditional conservative credentials. And what is more reassuringly conservative than to pose as the champion of a faith-lite, aesthetically pleasing, socially inclusive brand of Anglicanism?
This, though, goes to the heart of David Cameron's problem. It is a political quandary, to whose solution religion provides no more than a useful prop. The Prime Minister's ideology of modernisation has caught up with him, and it threatens to consume him. His view of the Conservative Party is, indeed, much like his view of the Church of England. It is of an institution without meaning or interior substance, a framework which can be filled with any set of fashionable notions as long as they are dressed up smartly. This is how intelligent revolutionaries always behave. But it usually happens that even the clever ones get carried away, and this is what happened in the Conservative Party. The Tory modernisers went too far. They showed their iconoclastic zeal too early. It was reaction against it that mainly led to the rise of UKIP.
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