Article
Christmas survival
Comment
4 min read

Challenging OCD on Christmas Eve

A night without usual fears allows faith to be reclaimed.

Paula Duncan is a PhD candidate at the University of Aberdeen, researching OCD and faith.

A nocturnal snow-covered scene of a tree, chapel and Christmas tree casting shadows.
A chapel in Krün Germany.
Andreas Kretschmer on Unsplash.

The display on my car tells me that it’s just gone 11pm on Christmas Eve, and the temperature is below freezing. It’s the sort of cold that catches your breath the minute you step outside. The trees are glittering with frost. The stars are sharp and clear in the sky. Everything feels still and clean. In the carpark, I can hear the muffled notes of the organ playing familiar Christmas carols. People in Christmas jumpers are trickling in through the main church door. I can see Santa hats, some reindeer antler headbands; some kids have woolly hats tugged down over their ears. I haven’t been to a Christmas Eve service since I was a child.  

I take a deep breath and try to let go of some of the anxiety about being here. My Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder doesn’t take a break for the festive season. I have previously written about my experience with OCD: the way that it impacts my experience of faith and how it makes going to church feel difficult. I find it a challenge to sit with the doubt and uncertainty of not being 100 per cent sure that I believe in God but badly wanting to. I struggle with not knowing what verses of the Bible will be read and how I will feel. I worry about something sparking my OCD and then being held hostage by my own intrusive thoughts. This always feels worse when I’m tired, too. I am far more likely to engage with the intrusive thoughts my OCD offers up when I’m not well rested. But I’m here. Despite feeling nervous, I am happy to be here. The warm glow of the light inside the church is welcoming and the low hum of happy voices feels reassuring as everyone discusses their Christmas plans.  

There is a flurry of chatter as we are all invited to wish one another a ‘merry Christmas!’ and then we fall into a restless and expectant silence as Christmas day begins.

I don’t have the usual fear of the unknown today. We are here for the carols and the watchnight service – eagerly awaiting midnight and the dawn of Christmas Day. I might not know exactly what the structure of the service will be, but I can almost guarantee that the reading will begin with words from the Gospel of Luke. We’ll be told of the census of the Roman world, and we’ll hear that Mary and Joseph would have to travel to Bethlehem. There will be no room in the inn. The baby Jesus will be born, and laid in a manger.  

This story is one that I heard at childhood Christingle services. It’s the one that we were told every year in primary school with abundant colourful crafts to help us to remember the key points. I’m reminded of nativity plays – watching them and being part of them, and the slightly off-key renditions of ‘Away in a Manger’. I remember doing the reading as a Girl Guide – nervously practicing beforehand to make sure that I could pronounce all the words correctly. I remember being proud of myself for standing up and reading at all.  

Armed with those memories as I cross the carpark, I know there is going to be nothing unexpected in the Christmas Eve service. My OCD still finds ways to make its presence known – I insist that I get to sit at the end of a row because that’s where I feel most comfortable. I read the order of service a few times to check that everything there is as I expect. I make some concessions to anxiety for the sake of being able to turn up at all. But I am here, and I feel safe.  

The readings are exactly as I expected. I know all of the Christmas carols that we sing. At midnight, there is a flurry of chatter as we are all invited to wish one another a ‘merry Christmas!’ and then we fall into a restless and expectant silence as Christmas day begins and we wait for the minister to say a few words about what this means. I am with my family and there are familiar faces in the congregation – people I know from various places. It’s nice knowing that we are all here for the same reason and with the same intention.  

There are many cheerful Christmas wishes as we leave the church and I’m proud of myself for being here. Maybe my faith is something I can reclaim from my OCD eventually, however slowly. For now, I look up to the sky as we head back out into the carpark and smile at the stars twinkling down at us. I feel perfectly fine.  

Since that year, lockdown excluded, my family have been to the watchnight or the Christingle services most years. As a theology student, I sometimes feel a little self-conscious about how infrequently I go to church. I sometimes joke about being a Christmas Christian in terms of my church attendance and certainly in how I engage with the Bible. I like to read a little on Christmas day and I love watching the televised service on the BBC on Christmas morning. It’s the time of year where I am perhaps most active in my engagement with my faith. I look forward to going to the Christmas Eve church services now. It’s the one time where I don’t have to battle with anxiety about going to church and know that plenty of other people are here as infrequently as I am. My OCD comes along with me, certainly, but I feel safe to be here just as I am. 

Article
Comment
Migration
Politics
Romance
5 min read

Families like mine are impossible now, thanks to the idol that is the net migration target

Politician priests are making pointless sacrifices on the altar of numbers

Joel Pierce is the administrator of Christ's College, University of Aberdeen. He has recently published his first book.

A Border Force officer wears body armour with Immigration Enforcement written on the back
UK Border Force.

Let me tell you a love story. Eighteen years ago, in a time before politicians had taken to immolating their values on the altar of the semiannual net migration totals, I fell for the pretty Scottish bridesmaid at my sister’s wedding. The romance presented some challenges for an American like me, but none that were insurmountable. She found a year-long internship near me in Seattle and, just before she returned home, I popped the question.  

The process of applying for a UK visa was just another bit of the tedious logistics of an overseas move, the kind of thing a romantic comedy skips over with a ‘One Year Later’ movie subtitle so that it can end with a joyous wedding ceilidh in a picturesque Scottish locale. Our first few years together in Edinburgh were lean ones. Having takeaway coffee more than once a week felt like a scandalously indulgent luxury. Even so, I was able to progress seamlessly from my marriage visa to indefinite leave to remain, to citizenship.   

None of this would be possible if we were young twentysomethings in love today. We would fail every test of what the Home Office now considers to be acceptable romance.  

During our first year of marriage, the stipend my wife received while training for ministry would have been well short of the £18,600 income threshold introduced in 2012 for a sponsoring spouse, let alone the £29,000 required now. While we did have some savings, they were nowhere near the £88,500 now needed to waive the income requirement, and, in any case, would have been substantially drained by the £5,000 in fees and health surcharges that a two-and-half-year spouse visa now costs. It is little wonder Brits who have found love abroad, even ones in a substantially better financial and professional position than we were then, are now finding it impossible to move back to the UK.  

What is the cause of these new barriers? A hint can be found in the title of a recent Guardian article about recommendations for a slight relaxation of the income threshold to between £23,000 to £25,000. ‘Lowering UK’s income requirement for family visas ‘would increase net migration’, the piece was headlined. When even the most left wing major daily in Britain can’t report on the possibility of things being marginally easier for Brits who have the temerity to love a non-citizen, without framing it in terms of net migration, it’s a sign that we have all fallen captive to this singular statistic.  

Net migration is a number created by humans and yet it has come to play the role of an angry god which demands sacrifices every time it is reported. The right of working class people to marry a non-citizen spouse, the economic viability of our universities, and the proper staffing of the NHS are all victims its politician-priests have offered up in hopes that they would satiate its hunger. Net zero maybe next. 

There is no particular reason to think totting up the total number of people who arrived in the UK with the intention of staying here for a year and then subtracting the total number who left with the intention of staying abroad for a similar duration is a particularly meaningful exercise. It conflates people like me, who came here with every intention to settle and start a family, with students coming for a one-year master’s, doctors filling vital roles in NHS with children try to stay with with a migrant parent and Afghan refugees seeking long-term sanctuary with oil workers serving time in Aberdeen before moving on to Calgary or Brunei.  

The dominance of this statistic in our discourse has warped our moral discernments. 

There are perfectly legitimate reasons to think carefully about how much of each form of migration to allow, but when they are all grouped together under this single measure a peculiar logic sets in. Want to do the right thing by welcoming refugees from Ukraine and Hong Kong? Well, then, we’ll have to offset that with restricting visas for overseas students and throwing our higher education sector into chaos. Need more highly skilled programmers working in banks in London? Well, maybe we can balance that by demanding care workers abandon their kids if they want to look after someone in Nottingham. There is no reason to weigh the needs of these different sectors against each other, and yet the logic of this statistic demands that we do. 

The Bible has a word for human-made things which take on their own singular, violent logic. It calls them idols. While that word may conjure images of golden calves, the accusation which biblical writers consistently make against idolaters, that their idols blind them to what is really important and numbs their critical thinking, applies equally well when the idol is a statistic. The dominance of this statistic in our discourse has warped our moral discernments. It has made us unable to say what should be said without glancing nervously at its imposing shadow. It causes us to say things that should never be said and not notice how absurd they are. 

Instead, we should be able to celebrate that hundreds of thousands of people want to come to study at our universities (the vast majority of whom return home after finishing their studies)  and, hopefully, someday also be able to celebrate when hundreds of thousands of refugees are able to return to a peaceful and liberated Ukraine without having to calculate that the former will raise and the latter lower our totals. We should be able to welcome easing of income restrictions on spouse visas without noting that it will lead to a marginal increase in net migration. We should be able to see that sending an eight- and eleven-year-old back to Brazil without their parents is not, in the words of a Home Office official, “a degree of disruption in family life” which is “proportionate to the legitimate aim of maintaining effective immigration control”, but rather a gross violation of human decency. 

Migrants are not just numbers on a balance sheet. The diversity of our lives, what we give to the UK, what we receive in return, cannot be summed up in a single annual figure. And yet every six months, as the figure comes out, politicians express disappointment and announce measures to put that little bit of extra pressure on us, so that maybe a few more of us who can leave will. In the process they are sacrificing to this idol not just the peace of mind and the economic well-being of many migrants, but also much of the vitality of the nation as a whole. The Bible has a solution for idols. They are only fit to be melted down, destroyed, and forgotten. It is time to consider giving this one a similar treatment. 

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