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General Election 24
Morality
Politics
3 min read

The morality of defection

Why I respect 'traitors'.
A man sits in a TV interview, below him is a captions stating 'Mark Lognan. Former Conservative MP
Mark Logan explains his move.
BBC.

Defection is a dirty word. 

It evokes feelings of treachery. Betrayal. Backstabbing. 

All in all it leaves a bad taste in the mouth. 

  

Defectors always carry with them a whiff of suspicion. 

Are they genuine, or are they just opportunists? 

Who do they really work for? 

What do they get out of it? 

Have they truly renounced their old ways? 

  

There has been a lot of defecting going on in UK Politics over the last few weeks. For good or ill, a number of political parties have members who, up until recently, wore rosettes of a different colour. 

The defections have been dramatic – and public.  

Think of the recent defections from the Conservatives to Labour. Two in a fortnight. 

First Dan Poulter and then Nathalie Elphicke crossing the Commons floor with moments to spare before Prime Minister’s Questions. Then Mark Logan last week. 

Perhaps one encouraged the other. Defections and resignations in politics always seem to arrive like buses.  

And each of these defections was accompanied by a public story about why they’ve changed their minds. A testimony, if you will.  

It was these stories which drew the most fire, from both former friends and new allies. In most cases, it hasn’t taken a lot of digging to find statements made when these people had a different allegiance which call into question the truth of their supposed conversion.  

Conversion, though, is just the right word.  

And this service to a higher power is often experienced by others as a betrayal.

Christianity knows a lot about defection.  

Right at the heart of the Jesus story is a moment of betrayal.  

Judas turns Jesus over to be crucified. 

The price to betray the saviour of the world? A few silver coins. 

 

But in Christianity, defection is not always a bad thing. 

If defection is a dirty word, repentance and conversion are a positive counterpart. 

Saying Jesus is Lord in a world where Caesar is Lord is an act of subversion. 

It is a recognition that the authority of Caesar, of any government, has its limits. 

Christians are called to serve and love their communities and nations – but they only ever have a provisional allegiance to any earthly power or government.  

And this makes Christians untrustworthy.  

 

On a deep level, to be a Christian is to have defected from an allegiance to a world which values power and money to service of the God of love. 

And this service to a higher power is often experienced by others as a betrayal. 

It is little surprise then that from time to time, governments across the world have treated Christians with that same whiff of suspicion reserved for defectors.  

But in the United Kingdom, religious freedoms afford believers with the same luxuries afforded to MPs. They can defect publicly – they can tell their stories. They can encourage others to cross the floor. 

  

Can a bird change its feathers, or a leopard change its spots? 

The Christian story says yes. 

  

As the election campaign draws on and as people defect from one party or another and as people ask those questions of defectors 

Perhaps it is time to focus less on others, and instead ask those questions of yourself. 

  

Are you genuine? 

Who do you really work for? 

What do you get out of it? 

Have you truly renounced your old ways? 

  

Defection can be a good thing. 

Will you tell your story? 

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Culture
Film & TV
Politics
Royalty
2 min read

Would you rather live in Wolf Hall?

Monarchy and deciding who's really in charge.
A TV production set shows Henry VIII at a masked ball.
Daniel Day-Lewis digs his claws into the role of Henry VIII.
BBC.

Viewers of Wolf Hall: The Mirror and the Light may well have breathed a sigh of relief: thank goodness we don’t live in such times. Henry VIII, depicted by Damian Lewis with lionesque intensity, flexes and pouts at his Privy Council, prepared to send even his own daughter to the axeman’s block. He is unimaginably powerful, capricious, and easily offended.  

Meanwhile, almost four-thousand miles away, we have just witnessed a democratic election in a nation which wanted nothing to do with kings. Donald Trump has won a second term in the White House - whatever one thinks of him, a sitting President is contained by counterpoised checks and balances. Congress. The Supreme Court. Here, at least, are some features that would have usefully reigned in Henry VIII’s absolute power. 

Kings are perhaps cutting a rather pathetic figure right now, even without a sulky, fur-clad Damian Lewis to damage their PR. A few weeks ago, King Charles was heckled by an Australian Senator during a trip to Parliament: “not my King!” yelled Lidia Thorpe. Lately, King Felipe VI of Spain had dirt hurled at him as he walked through Paiporta, to examine the damages of recent floods. So much for a royal welcome.  

So, is this just the way things are going? Farewell to tyrants. Humiliated, shouted at, mud-splattered and powerless - will we finally decommission them like old submarines? 

But the question of “who’s really in charge here?” is one that all human societies have to face squarely. For our ancestors, there had to be something real behind a legitimate government. It could not just be a useful or appropriate way of organising ourselves - there had to be something copper-bottomed to give authority its clout. Only the gods could prop up a leader. In the pagan world, a philosopher like Aristotle would add that it is just the case that some people rule, some are ruled. 

The UK constitution - though few would speak of it in this way - is premised on the idea that the King represents the people of this country to God, who alone can vouchsafe his legitimacy. A monarch in this sense is not absolute. They are contained - contained by the most comprehensive and eternal power that can be conceived. No tyrant gets away with it, on the Christian view. 

All societies seek this real basis to power, whether that is “self-evident truths”, or the “will of the people”. The question is: which of them provide for a flourishing community for the longest? King Felipe may have been abused, but he did not flee to the refuge of a car like the Prime Minister. Here was a man of immense privilege reaching out to his subjects. Despite their pain and anger, he wanted to show he really cared - indeed, that he was born to care. For as long as monarchies seem like a reasonable and compassionate answer to the issue of legitimate government, they may endure yet.