Review
Culture
Economics
Politics
10 min read

The book Keir Starmer says you must read

Will Hutton’s This Time No Mistakes surveys the thinking that could solve Britain’s ills.

John Milbank is a theologian, philosopher and poet. A co-founder of the Radical Orthodoxy movement, he is an Emeritus Professor of the University of Nottingham.

Kier Starmer sits on a sofa, leaning forward and holding papers he is reading. Rachel Reaves sits and looks on.
Starmer and Reeves.
Labour Party

In the aftermath of a historic election, one could do worse than read Will Hutton’s second big ‘state of the nation book’, recently published. This Time No Mistakes is worth reading just for the succinctness and clarity of its politic-economic history of the United Kingdom since the industrial revolution, which it provides in its central chapters. Indeed, Keir Starmer says it is a ‘brilliant book... read it if you haven't already It may well take a sophisticated journalist to be able to do this so well: too often, even the best of academics cannot see the public wood for their private-obsessional trees.  

But it is doubly and mainly worth reading for Hutton’s prognosis of our ills and his recommendations for solving them. The new Labour government could do far worse than try to carry through Hutton’s proposals, which almost anyone of common sense and goodwill (including all Tories) ought readily to endorse. Indeed, if the next government managed to initiate even a half of what he suggests, this country could be placed back upon the right tracks.  

As to the history, which is crucial to the ultimate diagnosis: Hutton contends quite simply that Britain has been self-deceived by the peculiar nature of its industrial revolution, which was the first in history. It was largely a matter of private enterprise, partly enabled and later cushioned by empire, whose possession encouraged us to support an unqualified doctrine of free trade.  

However, all other nations, including the United States, both when they sought to catch up with the steam and rail revolution, and when they later co-pioneered the ones based on gas and electricity, and ultimately on nuclear and digital, from the outset depended much more upon state intervention to promote needed expertise, education and investment. The United Kingdom, by contrast, remained captivated by the mythical glory of its initial take-off.  

As a result, not just Conservative governments, but also Labour ones, right up to the New Labour one, and including the catastrophically misguided work of Margaret Thatcher (Hutton is admirably unqualified here) remained far too captivated by the norms of economic laissez-faire, ‘balancing the books’, a primacy of finance over production and obsessive Treasury concern with money, rather than productive wealth.  

The exceptions to this were the pre-World War one Liberal government and the post World War Two Labour one. Yet all the strong ideas implemented by the latter came from ‘New Liberal’ thinkers and not Labour ones: notably from Keynes and Beveridge. Labour on its own, by comparison, has tragically and disastrously oscillated between a desire to replace capitalism with some sort of command economy on the one hand, and simply leaving capitalism as it is, with a bit of welfare tinkering, on the other. More recently this has been seen in the contrast between Corbyn and Blair. 

It is at this juncture that Hutton proceeds to complement his political-economic diagnosis with a more purely political one. The split on the ‘progressive left’ is a catastrophe that has kept the Tories unfairly in power for much of a century. This split is both caused by and has prevented any reform of the first past the post voting system, which urgently needs to go.  

For this reason then, political economy and constitutional reform go together.  

As to the latter, we need proportional representation which would allow more reasoned debate instead of the inter-party squabble, alongside legally guaranteed local government and a different kind of informed, rather than overweening executive.  

As to the former, we need flexible planning, public-private partnership in investment, a national wealth fund, sectional trade union bargaining, the breaking up of cartels and monopolies and required social purpose and stakeholding, for every business and financial enterprise. 

One is tempted just to say hurray! But there are some historical and theoretical questions to be posed that may have hidden practical consequences.  

Better than trying to ‘balance’ the private and the collective, as if the self and society were in rivalry, is to take the more Continental (and early Blairite!) course of stressing that we are always ‘persons in relation’.

Hutton now backs Tawney besides Keynes. But do they say the same thing? For the latter, capitalism is a wild, amoral and dynamic beast that can nonetheless be politically tamed. In certain phases of the capitalist cycle only (as Hutton rightly sees) this will be about boosting demand, but in others it can mean lessening it and temporarily hurting workers.  

But Tawney, and Hutton clearly agrees with him, wanted a market economy permitting only useful and not merely acquisitive wealth. Given this ethical purpose it was for him possible for the market, aa a socialist market, to reach equilibrium, beyond extrinsic and always precarious state ‘management’.  

Just how precarious was seen in the 1970s. For Hutton, the lapse of Keynesianism in this decade was simply a matter of the triumph of the wrong ideas. To a large degree this is surely right, and yet it is not the whole story. Were it the latter, then neoliberalism might not have spread beyond Anglo-Saxon lands to Europe and South America.  

The other aspect is surely the reality that capitalism of its nature, as driven by the amoral search for profit, resists any prospect of a stable, social market. Achieving that and extending the corporatist order of negotiation between state, business and unions would have been the alternative way, instead of Hayekianism, to deal with ‘stagflation’. Rather than a competition between capital, labour and consumer for money that wasn’t there at the time, a fair division of spoils could have been consistently instituted by legally and culturally re-framing the firm and the market, something that would have immediately favoured a renewed degree of growth.  

Really, almost everything that Hutton writes indicates agreement with this sort of thing, including the recognition that of itself, capitalism is not actually dynamic (that comes from technology and culture) but tends to build up sterile finance in the interests of the few, rather than productive growth in the interests of the many. But in that case ‘ethical socialism’ is not just a set of ideals, as he tends to imply, but a mode of achievable practice.  

Similarly, a general mutualist national insurance approach to welfare, which he rightly favours, was not just a New Liberal advocacy as he claims, but deeply rooted in co-operative socialism and in Christian (especially Anglican) social thinking whose influence -- except silently in the case of Tawney -- goes unmentioned. Yet the very phrase ‘welfare state’ is Archbishop William Temple’s and Tawney’s social analysis, intended for the general public, concluded with an unabashed High Church ecclesiology! 

It is relevant here that Hutton speaks of the need to combine the ‘I’ with the ‘We’ and yet he clearly does not endorse just any old exercise of ‘individual agency’, even if he sometimes appears to do so, when defining the operation of the price mechanism as necessarily ‘wild’, after Adam Smith’s exclusion of commercial transactions from the immediate operation of social sympathy. Better than trying to ‘balance’ the private and the collective, as if the self and society were in rivalry, is to take the more Continental (and early Blairite!) course of stressing that we are always ‘persons in relation’ – at once within and outside each other, in a constant creative weave.  

Nothing could be further from Keynes’ despising of the proletariat and favouring of learned leisure, that John Ruskin’s revolutionary mystique of the artisanal. 

There are two deeper questions about Hutton’s approach. First, his excessive ‘idealism’, as with his analysis of the Seventies switch, may still underrate the difficulty of overcoming the power of entrenched interests – the need indeed not so much for class, as for popular warfare against plutocracy.  

Secondly, he tends to underplay a theoretical tension between secular and materialist thinkers, including New Liberals, on the one hand, and religious and Idealist thinkers like the first ‘New Liberal’, T.H Green on the other.  

The latter was much more like Alasdair Macintyre or Michael Sandel than like John Rawls, as Hutton claims: for by human ‘self-realisation’ he meant the ‘positive liberty’ of pursuing the objectively true ends of human flourishing: religious contemplation, artistic creation of genuine beauty, active citizen participation.  

By contrast, the secular New Liberals, including Keynes, tended to reduce the ethical good to the negative liberty of rights, private friendship and utility – often leading them to favour eugenics and to indulge in racism. Nothing could be further from Keynes’ despising of the proletariat and favouring of learned leisure, that John Ruskin’s revolutionary mystique of the artisanal.  

Hutton tends to express surprise that a Tory like Ruskin, or a reactionary like Carlyle, should have favoured the cause of the worker – and indeed in Ruskin’s case also espoused ‘communism’, as Hutton elides from the picture. But this is to fail to see how Tory Radicalism and even paternalism is actually a third strand in the kind of transformative thinking that we continue to need, was always a crucial influence on Labour and was a crucial element of the postwar settlement.  

If these thinkers indeed favoured ‘hierarchy’, then that was in part because they wanted more interpersonal and mediated chains of command, rather than brutally centralised and mechanical ones. Surely Hutton wants that also, as his excellent reservations about the use of Artificial Intelligence would indicate? 

There is a recognition that economic individualism usually ‘on the right’ is actually matched and encouraged by a cultural individualism usually ‘on the left’. 

This is perhaps the limit of talking in terms of ‘progressive’ versus ‘conservative’. Hutton harks back to the norms of the Enlightenment. Yet, as Richard Whatmore has shown, all the great British enlightenment thinkers came to think that pure enlightenment was failing.  

They saw its anti-religious fanaticism stance as challenged by the rise of new secular, nationalist and direct democratic fanaticisms, as supremely with the French Revolution. By ‘populism’, as we might now say! 

But they also already recognised that the breakdown of a rational peace had been encouraged by excessive consumer greed and by the over-implication of commerce in state borrowing (whose pre-enabling of industry in Britain, Hutton does not mention) and so also in war and empire.  

It was exactly in this context that the enlightenment thinker Edmund Burke began to consider the virtues of the longer-term embedding of enlightenment in Christianity and the importance of the medieval ‘gothic’ legacy of a corporate order binding social body to social body, rather than individual to individual via contract, mediated by the market and backed up by the state.  

In Burke’s wake, for example with the radical William Cobbett, much of the Nineteenth Century critique of economism, to which Hutton is the heir, was of a ‘Romantic’ and often ‘neo-medieval’ rather than purely enlightenment cast. (Hutton at times wrongly reads medieval ‘feudalism’ as ‘absolutist’ – a specifically early modern phenomenon.) This matters, because this tradition contains a stronger recognition that the centralising state (which the Enlightenment favoured as a substitute for the Church) can be just as alienating and anti-social as the uprooting market – even if, as Karl Polanyi later saw, one needs the power of the state today in order to restore the primacy of the social and of inter-human fellowship.  

Within the same current, there is a recognition that economic individualism usually ‘on the right’ is actually matched and encouraged by a cultural individualism usually ‘on the left’. And here Hutton is perhaps inconsistent – he definitely sees this, mentioning the dubious overriding of the universal by identitarian concerns,  and yet also recognises it somewhat uneasily, as it challenges certain ‘progressivist’ assumptions. 

 As a result, he rather disallows the validity of some populist concerns – ironically rather like the incomprehension of the older enlightenment in the face of the new revolutionary era. For example, concerns with the normative primacy of the heterosexual family and the enabling of family and children, with regional and national identity, with the academic ‘woke’ trashing of the entire Western legacy, with the exploitation and cultural disruption of excessive immigration, with ecological policies that simply override current human needs while doing little to assist the future of nature.  

The danger of these partial blind spots could be a continued failure of the roughly ‘communitarian’ Left, or the sensible Right, to win over the mass of the people to their cause. For they must be won over if not just the United Kingdom, but humanity as a whole, is to have a decent future.  

Towards building that future, no one has contributed more, or more valiantly, than Will Hutton.  

  

 

Essay
America
Comment
Politics
Race
13 min read

A raging election and the haunting of American memory

Civil War lessons on what ‘we the People’ choose to remember or forget.

Jared Stacy holds a Theological Ethics PhD from the University of Aberdeen. His research focuses conspiracy theory, politics, and evangelicalism.

A US flag flutters under a dark brooding cloudy sky.
Roger Hoover on Unsplash.

Foreboding. That’s how my friend described the time between now and the election in America. It’s everywhere, and nowhere. It’s felt, it’s lived, it’s immediate. And it’s true, there is little reason to carry ourselves as though this election will be anything other than consequential—immediately so—for at-risk communities across the United States, from hurricane survivors to Haitian-Americans.   

We would do well to pay attention to this. And for me, as an American citizen, I plan on casting my vote against Trump, for what I wager to be a better path towards provisional freedom. But there’s a part of me that remains attentive to the stakes and the perils that lie beneath the immediate. 

As you survey the landscape of the American experiment, you will find it marred not just by scars of racial hatred and violence, but the shadows of things forgotten and repressed. Looking over it long enough will reveal the chasm between America’s living memory and its history. It’s here, surveying that great landscape, the gap emerges between what “We the People” choose to remember and what we’ve deigned to forget. And this memory—as much as the polls and the data predict—will influence what is to transpire these next few months. 

As we bear witness to the events unfolding before us, we would do well to remember how “We the People” have never truly resolved our Civil War. Our memory of the war is both hallowed and haunted.  

If onlookers and participants alike want to understand—really and truly—the crucible of this American election you have to descend to the depths of American memory, into its distortions and attempted preservations. You have to understand not just the Civil War itself, but its ongoing aftermath, from a period called Reconstruction to the century later Civil Rights struggle, and on to today. Recently I heard historian Jemar Tisby share an anecdote of something uttered by a Gettysburg battlefield tour guide, “The north won the war,” he said, “but the south won the memory.” 

Who has time for a history lesson? I would submit the stakes are too great, and the need too earnest, to ignore. 

Memory is a fickle thing. But it is also a moral thing. Memory gathers the resources from which individuals become a “we.” That is the point where everything begins to change, observes John Steinbeck. That move from “I” to “We,” he called it. Memory can create a people. From it, a “we” can draw strength, clarity, and courage for the present, it can also reap the whirlwind.  

Theologian Stanley Hauerwas captured the stakes when he observed, “memory is a moral exercise.” And in a moment where the American social fabric seems to be rending at the seams (not at all an unprecedented event), I think part of staying the course involves turning again to the moral power of memory. To remember what we’ve forgotten, to surface what has been buried.  

But in the middle of an election cycle endlessly bombarding Americans with hate, disinformation, and propaganda, the turn to memory might seem little more than idealism. Who has time for a history lesson? I would submit the stakes are too great, and the need too earnest, to ignore. The problem is: the American memory is distorted and divided. 

Ruby Bridges visits Barack Obama at the White House to view 'The Problem We Have To Live With' on its walls, 2011.

Barack Obama and a middle aged black woman look at a picture of her when she was a child walking between guards protecting her.

In 1960, a six-year-old girl by the name of Ruby Bridges became the first African American to attend William Franz Elementary School in New Orleans. She walked into the school that day surrounded by armed guards, assigned to protect her from public fury in the wake of a federal court order enforcing integration across New Orleans Public Schools. 

Ruby became an icon of the Civil Rights struggle of the Sixties. She was canonized by artist Norman Rockwell in a piece aptly titled, “The Problem We All Live With.” Between that painting and hundreds of photographs that captured her bold yet innocent stride up those school steps with books in hand, Ruby Bridges was impressed into American memory.  

Consigned to these mists of memory, Ruby Bridges appears as perpetually six years old to many white Americans. But one fact pierces the mists of memory: Ruby Bridges has an Instagram. Though her memory in white America reduces her to an image frozen in time, she is a woman alive today in her sixties with an incredible ongoing career in advocacy and activism. The cries of “woke!” that emerge in every conversation about justice and equity in America cannot silence the reality of time: the Civil Rights struggle is not so distant as white Americans often insist it was. What we remember is tragically the result of what we’ve tried to forget. 

But whenever the church settles to serve as a chaplain of empire, it soon confuses the privilege and luxury it secures with its own freedom.  

We tend to think of history as objective, as a set of facts. And this obscures how our own memory of history can be distorted and warped. Consider this past month that former US President Jimmy Carter turned 100 while in hospice care. His birthday made mainstream news. An impressive lifespan to go with an incredible legacy as a husband, father, and public servant. But the American memory is strange. Strange because Carter, the oldest living US President, is still with us. Making it all the more startling to remember that the Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King was born 5 years after President Carter. That, if not for an assassin's bullet at a Memphis hotel balcony in 1968, Dr. King could have been celebrating his 96th birthday this coming January. Memory can be distorted, warped, and pressed into service of propaganda. 

Too often, the white church in America has made itself fit for service as a chaplain of empire. Willingly producing, baptizing, or consuming memories which obscure the truth that brings about reconciliation. In so many words, we have in America today a more reactionary and partisan element of the church. One that cannot take the moral responsibility of memory seriously because it finds itself too invested in its role of reifying and deifying America. And whenever the church settles to serve as a chaplain of empire, it soon confuses the privilege and luxury it secures with its own freedom. Because many white churches confuse this power with freedom, the memory of America is captive to its own ends. It is not free. It does not know the freedom which liberates the church to the moral task of memory. 

I think here of Dietrich Bonhoeffer’s claim that the church can never take immediate or “direct” political action as church because, as the community of God’s people it “does not know the necessary course of history.” The church does not possess special access to the ideas of the future, nor does it consign the world to fate. What the church is, it is as witness. It testifies in the bread, the wine, the water of the liberating presence of God. But when the church acts apart from this vocation it risks becoming what Ernst Kasemann called the “anti-church” which replaces the cross with power. 

I find this a broadly accurate depiction of what the white American church presently offers to the American public. It is not the beloved community and conscience of the nation to which Martin Luther King Jr. spoke, rather it is a chaplain of empire. And in this role, the church finds itself both a producer and consumer of a distorted memory, filled with a mixture of sentiment, propaganda, and raw fact. A story of America in service of a particular vision of America which never existed. 

Is this not too political for the church? Mustn’t we keep religion and politics separate? All theology is political. That is, all human talk about God involves consequences—for good or ill—concerning fellow human beings. James Cone puts it more directly: “Any talk about God that fails to make God's liberation of the oppressed its starting point is not Christian.” The difference then is not whether the church is political, but rather whether its talk about God is indeed talk which remembers in a living way the God of Jesus Christ, and whether or not it opens itself up to the critical examination of its own god talk. And this is where we find a good deal of the white American church today. 

Even the mention of the “white church” in America should stir up the paradoxes and contradictions which persist in the field of American memory. But perhaps we too easily confuse “history” with “memory.” Memory is living, fluid, and potent. I like how Robert Jenson puts it, “so long as a people is alive, there will be an exchange between how it remembers its history at any given time and its needs, concerns, and goings-on in the present. There is thus usually a difference between a people’s own living memory…and the accounts constructed by historians…” Jenson was talking about the Old Testament. Here, we reflect a bit on the American experiment.  

I remember in 2020, as a pastor, I sat in a prayer night at the church where I served on staff. But there was not much praying. Instead, we were shown a video selected by our senior pastor. The video was a tour of Washington D.C. highlighting all the Christian imagery and inscriptions scattered across the American capital. I’ll never forget the words that came from my pastor: “The next time,” he said, “anyone tells you America isn’t a Christian nation, you tell them about what you learned here tonight.” And that was it. The video never mentioned many of the buildings were built by the hands of people enslaved in an institution justified by a most bankrupt faith. 

I’ve come to understand that every church in America, even with the Christian story on its lips, tells a story about America, too. And the memory of that story carries with it theological consequences. After all, there can be no quicker way to discredit human words about the God of Jesus Christ than to attach those words to a false memory of America masquerading as dogma.  

The statute of General Longstreet, Gettysburg battlefield.

An equestrian statue of an American Civil War general wheeling his horse.

Stranger still was realizing the church I served was constructed on a piece of land in Virginia’s Spotsylvania County lined with historical markers. One identifies the land as the camp site of Confederate General James Longstreet during the Fredericksburg Campaign of the Civil War. Tellingly, Longstreet’s own life and legacy gives witness to the enigma of memory and also the possibility of change that arises from the wedding of truth and reconciliation. 

Longstreet was long known as General Robert E. Lee’s right-hand man. He devoted himself to the Confederate cause in defense of slavery. And stood by Lee till the end of the war, joining him at Appomattox, Virginia, where he was reunited with his foe and friend, Union General Ulysses S. Grant. Instead of imposing harsh penalties on the Confederates, Grant proved reconciliatory in ways that Longstreet never forgot, according to his biographer, Elizabeth Varnon.  

In fact, Longstreet became an ardent supporter of Reconstruction policies and Civil Rights, including the vote, for formerly enslaved people. His transformation made him an enigmatic figure that attracted the bitter hatred of fellow former Confederates seeking a scapegoat for the South’s defeat. They found their sacrifice in Longstreet. 

After the war, Longstreet settled in New Orleans for business. In 1872, there was a disputed election between pro-Reconstruction Republican governor and the Democrats. Longstreet answered the call from the Republican governor to lead a “mixed” regiment of African Americans and white Americans against a renegade paramilitary force comprised mainly of disgruntled Confederate veterans. These paramilitary groups opposed the African American vote and Reconstruction policies in general to the point of violence. 

In a historical episode that echoes January 6, 2021, Longstreet, a former Confederate General, led this Reconstruction regiment against white paramilitary insurrectionists seeking to subvert the election and install their own governor. The clash became known as the Battle of Canal Street. But its original name was given by the nearly successful Confederate paramilitary: “The Battle of Liberty Place.” This was the name affixed to a monument erected in 1891, which stood in New Orleans until it was removed under cover of darkness for fear of political violence in 2017. 

The stark transformation of Longstreet’s life and career does not make the man a saint. He clung to racist ideologies until his death. To emphasize his support of Reconstruction is not to canonize him as much as it is to highlight the enigma of American memory. That, in the wake of the Civil War, the conflict over Reconstruction proved so destructive that eventually whites from the North and the South opted to reconcile at the expense of Civil Rights. In the contested Presidential Election of 1877, Republicans accepted the Presidency in exchanged for the Democrat’s demand for an end to Reconstruction and a withdrawal of Federal troops. The dealings of 1877 made Jim Crow America possible, and forestalled gains of the Civil Rights movement for nearly another century. And the question remains open: will America ever deliver on its promises? This is the appeal made by MLK and others. 

And our failure to remember as Americans is, surely, part of the task of the church in America. For a witness to the Christian story surely involves a freedom to speak truths of our common life and history which make for reconciliation. For me, as the election nears, I’m thinking of the enigma of Longstreet and the distortion of American memory. 

For in the very church that claimed America was a “Christian nation” merely by virtue of slogans fixed atop our public buildings, there was along with it a willed ignorance to matters of race in our own community. I experienced enforced silence on just how far a pastor might talk about race before being “too political” or “divisive.” I found there is a tragic irony of failed memory in gathering to worship on land once occupied by Longstreet’s camp, the man who supported Civil Rights and resisted an insurrection. After I left, I learned the church’s parking lot was made available for busses attending the event that metastasized into the January 6 insurrection. And just this past month, thousands of evangelicals descended once again into Washington DC, praying and declaring Trump’s victory against Harris. Here too, the whitewashing of January 6 has its own consequences. 

Amid the raging fury of an American election cycle, memory can help provide perspective, so long as we are willing to incriminate ourselves with the sins of forgetfulness and short-sightedness. There are events forever etched into our collective memory, to be sure. We have slogans for them. Like “Remember Pearl Harbor” and “Never Forget” for 9/11. But even here, amidst cries to remember, our memory persists in a state of perpeutal division and distortion. The slogans we create to remember the tragic dead too easily become transformed into a license for our unflinching commitment to the myth of redemptive violence. 
Again and again we see, memory carries moral power. And without truth in our memory, there can be no reconciliation. But I remain hopeful precisely because I do not worship fate. The confession which binds Christian community speaks of the God who reconciles. This reconciliation is received as a grace by the truth of Jesus Christ.  

Whether or not “We The People” renew our capacity to speak the necessary truths, to live in that light, and so prove reconciliation to be a lived reality not mere sentiment, depends in no small part on the willingness of Christian community in America to take up the fuller and deeper ministry of reconciliation bound up in our confession. Such a ministry cannot be one of external compulsion, of endorsing authoritarian politics and programs in the name of another crusade. Rather, it is one that begins and ends with the question of whether the church will be the church. Whether or not America continues as America does not rest on the church. And freed from this strange, alien imposition, the church may find itself all the more fit to help America remember and so tell the truth and reconcile together. 

So long as we Americans allows ourselves the freedom to recognize the inherent relationship between truth and reconciliation, perhaps we can carve out a higher vantage point from which the stakes and perils of this election become a bit clearer and stir in us a bit more courage to persevere in what Lincoln spelled out over a century ago, a new birth of freedom and government of, by, and for the people…all the people. And may the church stand to testify that this temporal freedom is only a fleeting harbringer of a freedom which comes to all humanity through the scandal of a cross and empty grave.