Oh dear. It turns out I’m in favour of the marginalisation of religion in public life. People talk about this as though it’s a bad thing. But I’ve had a decent think about what I’m in favour of and — hmm, bit of a surprise —it’s definitely that.
Take gay marriage. Support it, don’t support it, what do I give a damn? I think it’s wrong to be against it, as it happens, both logically and morally, but if you aren’t indulging in actual hate crimes, then that’s your business, not mine. Or rather, it should be. But for some reason, when you’re a church, it isn’t. And it’s annoying.
You’ll have heard about this letter, which was read out in every Catholic place of worship last Sunday, which railed against coalition plans to let chaps marry other chaps? Of course you have. We all have. It was a very big deal. But why? I literally do not know a single person who was in a Catholic church on Sunday to hear it. No, wait, that’s not true. There was a woman from work who wrote an article about it; I know her. But that’s it. So why do I have to care? So, the Catholic church has issues with gay marriage? Fine. Why is this my problem? Indeed, why is it anybody’s problem, except for theirs?
Hold that one, and consider St Paul’s. A bunch of folk camp outside a cathedral, as a protest against inequality. Or City greed. Or something. A bit incoherent, sure, but a timely debate. But then the Church (a different church this time) gets involved. There follows agonised editorials, resignations, priestly hand-wringing and all the rest of it. Suddenly nobody is talking about the City any more. Everybody is just talking about the Church. What is it with these people? Why does it always have to be about them?
Look, don’t get me wrong. I’m irreligious, sure, but I’m not anti-religious. I’m no Dawkinsite. I think religion is a force for good far more often than it is the opposite. Indeed, I think that’s a truth so obvious that it’s hardly worth saying. I think it’s entirely right, moreover, that Goddish types want to speak out on matters of social and national import. Often they’re very good at it, because that’s basically what they are for. But they should do so from the margins. Effectively, indeed, they already do.
My clarity on this, I suppose, is informed by my own experience. I hail from a religion which rarely seeks to convert, and which looks in, rather than out, and is generally happy leaving everybody else alone. Doctrine aside, I struggle to grasp the justification for any religion behaving in any other way. Last month, Sayeeda Warsi wrote of her fears that religion was being ‘sidelined, marginalised and downgraded in the public sphere’. It sounds bad, that, but only until you think about what religion is. It does not saturate most lives. It does not occupy most waking thoughts, as most go to work, work, and come home again. It simply doesn’t. When the Archbishop of Canterbury complains that the government treats those with faith as ‘oddities, foreigners and minorities’ he’s ignoring the great truth that stares him in the face — which is that this is exactly what people with faith are.
Personally, I’m quite in favour of oddities, foreigners and minorities. I like hearing from them and I often find their perspectives refreshing. But they should not claim to be speaking from the centre ground, because that’s not where they are. This, essentially, is what Richard Dawkins meant last month, when he declared that most people who claimed to be Christians actually weren’t. It wasn’t an attack on the self-identifying many, who as far as I’m concerned can identify any way they please. It was an attack on the few who claim wrongly to speak for them. The faithful are a powerful lobby in this country, and long may they remain it. That’s all they are, though. A loud voice in the crowd. It’s not like they own the place.
•••
Back on planet earth, a word about Ken Livingstone’s taxes. I’m writing this at a wonderful point on the trajectory of this story — the point at which he looks like a hypocrite and hasn’t yet convincingly explained why he isn’t one. In brief, he directs his freelance earnings into a limited company, from which he pays corporation tax (at 20 per cent) rather than income tax and national insurance (at up to 59 per cent combined). And, while doing this, he rails against ‘rich bastards’ who don’t pay their full share of tax.
Livingstone claims not to have profited by this, and that it’s all because he needs to pay staff. Given that his company took in almost £300,000 last year, and that he only has a researcher, a press officer and a typist (his wife), I’d frankly quite like to work for him.
Only if he pays me freelance, though, through a limited company. Do you do this? Do lots of people? I pay full tax on everything; I feel a right mug. I thought it was only bankers who didn’t, but if even Ken Livingstone is doing it…
That’s the thing about life in a godless nation; you take your moral bearings where you can. A tax dodge that’s good enough for Ken Livingstone? Good enough for me.
Hugo Rifkind is a writer for the Times.
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