Essay

Belief

Creed

11 May 2023

8 min read

Questioning the question

Seemingly rational questions can suck the oxygen from the room. Andrew Steane was in such a room when it happened.

Andrew Steane

Andrew Steane has been Professor of Physics at the University of Oxford since 2002, He is the author of Faithful to Science: The Role of Science in Religion.

A modern staging of King Lear has the cast across the page. King Lear is front of stage gesturing while the others look on

A 2012 production of King Lear at Hamburg State Opera.

rinkhoff-Moegenburg, professional photographers from Lüneburg, CC BY 3.0, via Wikimedia Commons

We all know that asking questions is important. Asking the right questions is at the heart of most intellectual activity. Questions must be encouraged. We know this. But are there any questions which may not be asked? Questions which should not be asked?

Many a young adult might instinctively say “no: never! All questions must be encouraged!” but when invited to think it through, they will come to realise that there is a little more to it than that. There are, for example, statements which present themselves in all the innocent garb of questions, but which smuggle in nasty and false assertions, such as the phrase “why are blond people intellectually inferior to dark people?” There are questions which mould the questioner, such as “will I feel better if I arrange for this other person to be silenced?”

Questions can serve horrible purposes: they can focus the mind down a channel of horror, such as, “what is the quickest way to bulldoze this village?” Even more extreme examples could be given. They make it clear that not all statements that appear to be questions are primarily questions at all, and not all questions are innocent.

Every question is a connector to all sorts of related assumptions and projects, some of them far from morally neutral.

On reflection, then, it becomes clear that every question you can ask, just like every other type of utterance you can make, is not a simple self-contained thing. Every question is a connector to all sorts of related assumptions and projects, some of them far from morally neutral. This makes it not just possible, but sometimes important and a matter of ethics and duty, not just to refuse to answer, but to raise an objection to the question itself. More precisely, one objects to the assumptions that lie behind the question, and which have rendered the question objectionable.

“Have you stopped beating your children?”

“Tell me, my daughters … which of you shall we say doth love us most?”

“How do you reconcile your rationality with your religious faith?”

In all three cases the question is itself faulty. It is at fault because it has brought in an unjustified and untrue assumption. Such questions have no answer except to object to such assumptions and try to help the questioner see the situation more truthfully.

In the first case, if the question is pressed, and I am hauled up before the judge in a court of law, then I will protest, with a clear conscience and as forcefully as I can, that I never did beat my children in the first place and therefore the question is itself at fault. (Such a question is like the unethical practice called “leading the witness” which a good judge will rule out of order in a court of law.)

The second example is the question asked by King Lear in Shakespeare’s play. The play revolves around the fact that Lear has misunderstood the very nature of love. The one who loves him best will not, and cannot, reply in the way he anticipates. His daughter Cordelia chooses largely silence, and to show her love by her behaviour.

The third question is the one that prompted this article. I have been asked it, either explicitly or implicitly, many times. Every time I have been aware that the very atmosphere of the question has prejudged the issue. It is like being asked whether you have stopped beating your children.

To be fair, it is not as bad as the children example, but I use the comparison to help the reader get some sense of the issue. In the case of faith and reason, for any reasonable person, no reconciliation is required because their faith was never divorced from their rationality in the first place. Rather, the two have walked along together, each moulding the other from the start. Being asked to explain this is like being asked to explain that you are honest.

This is not to say that a dishonest or confused person might well have cognitive dissonances - muddles and inconsistences between what they tried to trust and what they had sufficient reason to believe. So, they would have some intellectual and spiritual work to do. And none of us is perfectly honest and clear-headed so we all have some learning to do. But most of us are not starting out from a place of complete dishonesty or contradiction. In particular, our scientific understandings and religious commitments are not pulling in different directions, as the dubious question seems to assume they are. Rather, the deeper our understanding of each, the deeper our appreciation of their roles as two aspects of a single dance becomes.

I recall clearly a discussion with a friend by the side of a football field where our children were playing in a match. The subject turned to religious matters and, with a view to briefly describing his position, my friend said he based his conclusions on reason, and then gestured to some vague idea that I had something else called faith. The obvious implication was that his conclusions had a basis in reason and mine did not. This was not argued or demonstrated; it was the very starting-point of the way he thought the conversation should operate. This floored me. What could I say? It was like being told you are a sub-species, some sort of childish person who does not appreciate reason and therefore should shut up while the adults are talking. (It was also a bit like an amateur wrestler thinking he could advise Muhammad Ali on how to box).

What about the questions which betray assumptions which are themselves questionable, but which we don’t recognise as such, because of the assumptions of our culture and the intellectual habits it promotes?

Now we have arrived at the point of this article, which is not, I will admit, the general issue of questioning the question, but the specific issue of religion and rationality. I want to focus attention on where the issue of questioning the question really lies. The issue is not, “are there questions which are objectionable?” (we already settled that). Nor is it, “let’s have some intellectual amusement unpicking what is objectionable about some ill-posed question which we find it easy to tell is ill-posed.” No, the heart of this issue is: what about the questions which betray assumptions which are themselves questionable, but which we don’t recognise as such, because of the assumptions of our culture and the intellectual habits it promotes?

For example, where do you start in response to a question such as “how do you reconcile science and religion?”

I think you start by pointing out that if one has a healthy version of both then they are not estranged in the first place.

In order to show this, the discussion has to unpack the difference between a valid and invalid grasp of the nature of scientific explanation, and the difference between healthy and unhealthy religion. It will also include some effort to clarify what a person means by the term ‘religion’. The discussion may include some consideration of the history of science, and the lived experience of a research scientist. It should also bring in the brave efforts of reformers down the ages to realise fairer forms of human society.

In the room when it happens

But in order for this discussion to get going, there has to be some oxygen in the room. I have been in rooms where the question, “how do you reconcile science and religion?” has made me feel every bit as queasy as the “beating your children” one. The hollow feeling of having been pigeonholed before you can open your mouth. The feeling of being in the presence of people whose mental landscape does not even allow the garden where you live. The feeling of being treated like a mental underling - it is all there. My reaction is strong because rationality is a deeply ingrained part of my very identity. It is every bit as important to me as it is to the self-declared ‘rationalists’, so that to face a presumption of guilt in this area is to face a considerable injustice.

On the other hand, religion is a broad phenomenon, having bad (terrible, horrendous) parts and good (wonderful, beautiful) parts, so the question might be a muddled attempt to ask, “what type of religion is going on in you?” It still remains a suspicious question, like “are you honest?” but in view of the nastiness of bad religion, perhaps we have to live with it. Perhaps we should allow that people will need to ask, to get some reassurance, and to help them on their own journey. But we can only make a reply if the questioner does not come over like an inquisitor who has already made up their mind. The question needs to be, in effect, “I realise that we are both rational; would you unpack for me the way that rationality pans out for you?”

We all go forward in our lives with some sort of reliance on the ultimate well-spring of reality, whatever that is. We can’t do anything else.

Faith, in its healthy forms, is a kind of willingness. It is a willingness based on a combination of suggestive evidence, value, and lived experience. We all go forward in our lives with some sort of reliance on the ultimate well-spring of reality, whatever that is. We can’t do anything else. The faith which is called religious may include willingness to acknowledge this ultimate well-spring of reality in personal terms. We may express gratitude, for example, and objection, and we may ask for forgiveness or renewed hope. We thus behave in ways which cannot be addressed to a machine or a mere set of principles, worthy though those principles might be. When discussing science and religion we need the questioner at least to be open to the idea that this willingness can be a thoroughly rational willingness. It can be as subtle and deep as great poetry, not just shallow and thoughtless like greetings-card doggerel. Its relation to reason can be compared to the attitude we adopt when we recognize other humans as agents with aspirations and their own concerns. That is, it is in tune with reason, not unreason, but it is larger than reason. It is larger in the sense of richer, engaging more not less of us, as the arrival of the Nimrod movement in Elgar’s Enigma Variations is larger than a single melody.

This article is a re-write based on one originally written in 2014 for the OUP blog.

Essay

Belief

Creed

16 September 2024

16 min read

The eclipse of Christianity and what it means

Reversing spiritual climate change.

Rupert Shortt

Rupert Shortt is an author, biographer and journalist.

A star burst of light appears to emanate from the eye of a man's head in silhouette.

Gabriel Barletta on Unsplash

The mainstream Churches are faltering – or even at risk of dying out – in their Western and Middle Eastern heartlands. Surveys confirm that only a minority of people in a country such as Britain now claim Christian allegiance. The pattern is being matched in neighbouring societies.

At the same time many opinion formers preach secularist ideology with a self-confidence shading into dogmatism. Others, unsure of their moorings, feel some residual attachment to spirituality, while being sceptical about the existence of God and other articles of belief.

Yet, the wisdom taught by the church to its followers, and that is available to wider society, remains intellectually robust, as well as inspiring a transformative global presence. In a major and wide-ranging international study – both a report on the unsettling consequences of secularisation and a defence of a creed too often belittled by its opponents – Rupert Shortt outlines Christianity’s fading profile in the present, but also argues compellingly that Europe’s historic faith remains critical to the survival of a humane culture.

Where is the world when it comes to explaining what it believes? ‘Are we secular, Christian or Pagan?’, asked theologian Graham Tomlin, after analysing the Paris Olympics. Is one way of thinking about ourselves about to be eclipsed?

***

The philosopher Charles Taylor has distinguished between three kinds of secularism. One involves a whittling away of the religious presence in public life. The output of a public service broadcaster such as the BBC reflects this tendency. Secularism can also be seen in a decline of personal religious practice, often coextensive with a retreat from community into individualism. This move has deeper historical roots. Compare, for instance, Bach’s pietistic audiences in Leipzig during the second quarter of the eighteenth century with the Viennese concertgoers reacting as individuals to Beethoven’s music several generations later. Taylor’s third form of secularism rests on the decline of Churches and other faith groups as sources of norms governing personal conduct.

That Christians are troubled by all three kinds is obvious enough. They should also assume their share of the blame. The Church has plainly fed disillusionment or scepticism at times. But alternative visions should also face scrutiny.

‘Type one’ secularism amounts to telling people of faith that they are free to believe and practise if they choose, but that their convictions must be entirely transcendent and not at all immanent. In other words, religion is acceptable as an eccentric private hobby because both type one and type two secularism involve seeing communities of spiritual conviction in these patronising terms.

As to the question of how secularism fills the hollowed-out public square: opponents of ‘public’ religion have little follow-up to Taylor’s third category. This means that their stance can appear self-contradictory as well as essentially negative. To say ‘No one must assert that their views are normative’ – is itself to make a normative statement. Matters appear murkier still on closer inspection. While presenting itself as a beneficial negative grand narrative, secular rationalism finds itself in an uneasy and unresolved relationship with postmodernism, exponents of which dangerously and/or tediously assert ‘alternative’ facts (Donald Trump) or ‘my truth’ (the Duchess of Sussex). If even an atheist standard-bearer such as Nietzsche predicted that the death of God would spawn nihilism and totalitarianism, then Western society may be in far greater peril than is generally supposed. Perhaps – as Rabbi Jonathan Sacks warned – spiritual climate change should be ranked alongside the environmental crisis.

In demanding that marriage be consensual, the medieval Church also created a climate in which audiences would later sympathise with Romeo and Juliet’s urge to wed against their parents’ wishes.

Little wonder, then, that Christianity is regularly endorsed by the uncommitted as well as by believers, owing to the social blessings that accrue from it. I am not here referring only to goods generated by the prison chaplain or the soup-kitchen convenor or any number of other figures motivated by their faith to minister among the outcastoutcasts. There are also big social trends that we can be barely conscious of, if at all.

Two simple examples do duty for a bigger picture.

An important source of our beliefs about individual freedom dating from well before the eighteenth century is the ecclesiastical ban on cousin marriage, which nourished a more trusting world view opposed to clannishness and thus to xenophobia. In demanding that marriage be consensual, the medieval Church also created a climate in which audiences would later sympathise with Romeo and Juliet’s urge to wed against their parents’ wishes.

Or think of Milton. His defence of free speech, and even his anticipation of the principles of the American Declaration of Independence, are all present in Paradise Lost through the model it offers of genuine mutuality and rational conversation, even against the background of hierarchy and patriarchy.

Christianity served as midwife to advances including the scientific revolution, egalitarianism and democracy; theology fleshes out political accounts of the good life. These, too, are themes with many variations. Both on conceptual grounds and for reasons linked to their rootedness in communities at every social level, the Churches are better placed to diagnose deeper causes and richer solutions when deploring evils such as high inequality.

These causes include the decline of working-class men’s wages (the husband-to-wife income ratio correlates strongly with marriage and divorce rates), the bad side of the sexual revolution (married parents are on balance a huge advantage to children and should preferably be the norm), and prohibition (tighter controls on activities including gambling and drug-dealing are usually effective disincentives).

Just as capitalism cannot survive without trust and honesty, so individual freedom cannot last without some internalised moral order.

Christians and people of Christian heritage also have especially strong grounds for resisting free markets red in tooth and claw. It comes as no surprise that movements including Blue Labour and Red Toryism – along with their counterparts in Continental Europe – do not just present morally charged economic visions.

They also draw explicitly on Catholic Social Teaching. Even Margaret Thatcher’s biographer Charles Moore lamented capitalism’s failings as far back as 2011: ‘A society in which credit is very restricted is one in which new people cannot rise. How many small businesses could start or first homes be bought without a loan? But when loans become the means by which millions finance mere consumption – that is different. And when the banks that look after our money take it away, lose it and then, because of government guarantee, are not punished themselves, something much worse happens. It turns out – as the Left always claims – that a system purporting to advance the many has been perverted in order to enrich the few.’

Moore’s words are quoted in a very valuable essay by Ed West, a Christian conservative whose importance partly derives from his being justly critical of the Tory party. He grants that individualist conservatism, like capitalism, prizes freedom. Yet it was always dependent on established moral codes, and especially Christianity, to encourage good behaviour by force of example. Just as capitalism cannot survive without trust and honesty, so individual freedom cannot last without some internalised moral order. Modern Toryism’s failure is reflected in the appeal to some of atheistic libertarianism, whose exponents envisage ‘a moral bubble which they expect nothing but self-interest to fill’. West draws a piquant lesson. ‘[I]nstead, as we have seen in recent years, once the Church is undermined, the state soon becomes a Church.’

As he also notes, the state alone cannot reduce inequality in the absence of greater social capital – a commodity discussed at length in Robert D. Putnam’s bestseller Bowling Alone. West concludes that unless we see a growth in social capital, ‘in the levels of community involvement, in social trust, in virtuous, selfless behaviour – in short, in relationships – inequality will continue to remain high. As Britain has become more individual-obsessed, as institutions such as the family, the Church, the nation and, though conservatives are reluctant to include them, trade unions have become weaker, this reduction in social capital has disproportionately harmed the poor.’ The same applies to other Western societies of course.

West doesn’t just flag up the undoubtedly grave social problems caused by mass fatherlessness. He also emphasises the converse: that contemporary economies make it increasingly difficult for the proverbial ‘working man’ to support a family. The period known in France as les trente glorieuses (1945–75) was well known for exponential economic growth. That time has passed. A jettisoning of state socialism in China and India since the 1980s inevitably means that the centre of economic gravity has shifted back towards Asia for the first time in 500 years. This in no way discredits West’s message, however.

A more than simply ‘cultural’ Christian commitment could include the following additional elements. There is never going to be a point at which active church members can stop thinking, praying and acting for justice. A follower of Christ must be abidingly restless at some level. After making himself a thorn in the flesh of the Third Reich, the Protestant giant Karl Barth said that Christians are always going to be unreliable political allies. In other words, they will want to confront the powers that be with awkward questions and should never feel happy about signing up to a complete package. A preacher I once heard put it as follows. ‘At the end of the day, what matters most is that sense that the deepest reality in social life boils down to some fundamental issues. Are we acting as a society, as individuals, out of a love of self that leads to forgetting God, or love of God that leads to forgetting self?’

The Church is therefore not a triumphant illustration of what it looks like when social and cultural challenges are resolved. Rather, he added, it is an illustration of what it’s like when people turn to the big questions we confront again and again in repentance and trust, ‘and try to live out a life in which we’re not constantly at war with one another, individually and collectively, and are looking for what it is that we can recognise as allowing us to flourish side by side under the God whose concerned love is for all of us.’

To me, this freedom of conscience and speech is perhaps the greatest benefit of Western civilisation. It does not come naturally to man. It is the product of centuries of debate within Jewish and Christian communities.

Ayaan Hirsi Ali

Granted the viability of these reflections, it is perhaps less surprising than may at first appear that the Somali-born ex-Muslim and feminist campaigner Ayaan Hirsi Ali should have announced in late 2023 that she now counted herself a cultural Christian. Made public in an article for the UnHerd website, the move was nevertheless eye-catching given Hirsi Ali’s past status as an ally of Richard Dawkins and other New Atheist campaigners. She posed two questions. ‘What changed?’ and ‘Why do I call myself a Christian now?’ Her answers are worth setting out at some length.

Part of the answer is global. Western civilisation is under threat from three different but related forces: the resurgence of great-power authoritarianism and expansionism in the forms of the Chinese Communist Party and Vladimir Putin’s Russia; the rise of global Islamism, which threatens to mobilise a vast population against the West; and the viral spread of woke ideology, which is eating into the moral fibre of the next generation.

We endeavour to fend off these threats with modern, secular tools: military, economic, diplomatic and technological efforts to defeat, bribe, persuade, appease or surveil. And yet, with every round of conflict, we find ourselves losing ground. We are either running out of money, with our national debt in the tens of trillions of dollars, or we are losing our lead in the technological race with China.

But we can’t fight off these formidable forces unless we can answer the question: what is it that unites us? The response that ‘God is dead!’ seems insufficient. So, too, does the attempt to find solace in ‘the rules-based liberal international order’. The only credible answer, I believe, lies in our desire to uphold the legacy of the Judeo-Christian tradition.

That legacy consists of an elaborate set of ideas and institutions designed to safeguard human life, freedom and dignity – from the nation state and the rule of law to the institutions of science, health and learning. As Tom Holland has shown in his marvellous book Dominion, all sorts of apparently secular freedoms – of the market, of conscience and of the press – find their roots in Christianity.

Hirsi Ali had had an epiphany around the centenary of Bertrand Russell’s ‘Why I Am Not a Christian’, a lecture later published under that title.

I have come to realise that Russell and my atheist friends failed to see the wood for the trees. The wood is the civilisation built on the Judeo-Christian tradition; it is the story of the West, warts and all. Russell’s critique of . . . contradictions in Christian doctrine is serious, but it is also too narrow in scope.

For instance, he gave his lecture in a room full of (former or at least doubting) Christians in a Christian country. Think about how unique that was nearly a century ago, and how rare it still is in non-Western civilisations. Could a Muslim philosopher stand before any audience in a Muslim country – then or now – and deliver a lecture with the title ‘Why I am not a Muslim’? In fact, a book with that title exists, written by an ex-Muslim. But the author published it in America under the pseudonym Ibn Warraq. It would have been too dangerous to do otherwise.

To me, this freedom of conscience and speech is perhaps the greatest benefit of Western civilisation. It does not come naturally to man. It is the product of centuries of debate within Jewish and Christian communities. It was these debates that advanced science and reason, diminished cruelty, suppressed superstitions, and built institutions to order and protect life, while guaranteeing freedom to as many people as possible. Unlike Islam, Christianity outgrew its dogmatic stage. It became increasingly clear that Christ’s teaching implied not only a circumscribed role for religion as something separate from politics. It also implied compassion for the sinner and humility for the believer.

Yet I would not be truthful if I attributed my embrace of Christianity solely to the realisation that atheism is too weak and divisive a doctrine to fortify us against our menacing foes. I have also turned to Christianity because I ultimately found life without any spiritual solace unendurable – indeed very nearly self-destructive. Atheism failed to answer a simple question: what is the meaning and purpose of life?

Christianity’s radical reservation about ‘the world’ of ‘principalities and powers’ springs from a sense of chronic brokenness in the human condition.

Many assumed that Hirsi Ali’s move amounted more to an acknowledgement of Christianity’s role in securing social progress than an acceptance of the Nicene Creed – though the situation is evidently dynamic. She also writes of learning about the faith bit by bit as she attends church Sunday by Sunday. In any case, although some more orthodox figures responded a bit sniffily to the article, ‘cultural’ Christianity has a long history. Churchill is well known for describing himself as a flying buttress – namely supporting the structure from outside. His leanings are widely copied.

Since her move towards cultural Christianity, Hirsi Ali has started attending church regularly and was recently baptised.* Like other Christians, then, she may now want to push a bit further. The grounds for doing so are philosophical as well as theological. Philosophical, because conserving the Judeo-Christian cultural inheritance should not be confused with ancestor worship. These traditions can and should be justified as expressions of our truth-tracking pursuit of the good, the true and the beautiful. I follow a line extending back to St Augustine and beyond in giving a Christian framing to these Transcendentals. We are naturally not obliged to do so. Latter-day Platonists and perhaps Stoics will share a commitment to allied metaphysical principles. What certainly does remain necessary, however, is a commitment to objective standards of reference, side by side with a universal idiom for articulating them.

And the foundations are theological, because Christianity is not ethics misleadingly encased in archaic myth. It is about faith and hope in a journey from exile through a wilderness to springs of living water. Karl Barth’s political stance sketched above is biblically based. Christianity’s radical reservation about ‘the world’ of ‘principalities and powers’ springs from a sense of chronic brokenness in the human condition, and the corruption of even our noblest ideals. In short, we are marked by original sin, which in turn generates a quest for healing that is re-presented in liturgy. The Sermon of the Mount stands out for me with particular force here. In David Martin’s unpacking of it, Jesus preaches against a horizon of beatitude and promise. The sermon ‘asks how you stand, how you are placed when it comes to receiving, giving and making gestures of reconciliation and inclusion’. Right at the heart of Christian belief stands ‘the blood offering of the Blood Donor, and our loving communion with the Donor.’ Like all pastors worth their salt, Martin brought out the importance of Trinitarian as well as incarnational belief. In holding that the source of all created reality is itself an eternal exchange of mutual self-giving, Christians can infer among much else that differences need not lead to conflict or antagonism but can coexist in harmony and find expression in creativity.

Perhaps the most searching response to Ayaan Hirsi Ali came from Jacob Phillips in The Critic magazine. Aged 25, he converted to Christianity soon after the turn of the millennium while working in the City of London. His office ethos amounted to ‘rough-edged Thatcherism’ – the aim was to make as much money as possible in the shortest possible time. Phillips’s colleagues read Zoo and Nuts (then very popular but now defunct lads’ mags), while ‘popular culture had begun slipping into a level of pornification impossible to imagine just a few years previously’. Employees would disappear into toilet cubicles to snort drugs on Friday afternoons.

Leaving the office to attend Mass during the lunch hour – as Phillips did regularly after his reception as a Catholic – thus felt counter-cultural. ‘Mammon lay slain’ at the church door. ‘In the first few minutes kneeling in the pews, there’d be a radical decentring of all the values the world held dear. I’d return to work feeling reorientated by the uncontrollable centre of human life – the miracle of being restored to our origin out of nothing, after accepting the dereliction and dismay of the world.’

Christian radicalism continues to exert a strong pull on Phillips.

‘I read “when Christ calls a man, he bids him come and die” from Dietrich Bonhoeffer, or St Theresa of Lisieux saying, “I desire only to suffer and be forgotten.” As my colleagues raged through the City’s bars on Friday nights, I would pray a line from Psalm 88: “You have taken away my friends, and made me hateful in their sight.”’

He quit his job a year later to study for a degree in theology.

The move felt more subversive then than it might do in the 2020s. Churchgoers themselves – not just practitioners of civic religion, but also some members of an older liberal generation probably too accommodating of secular fashions – can be among those most surprised to discover the continuing potency of gospel teaching. Like Martin, Phillips sees that the civilisational benefits of Christianity are only by-products (albeit important ones) of faith itself.

Faith is . . . uncontrollable, and it is just as active in despair and dereliction as in the moments of great historical achievement. If your Christianity promises to improve life in a worldly sense, it probably isn’t that Christian.

The apostles didn’t lay down their nets to become fishers of self-fulfilment. The mystics didn’t emaciate themselves through fasting to defend our freedom of speech. The martyrs didn’t die for the good educational outcomes of stable families. At the centre of anything purporting to be Christian must always be the . . . disruptive reality of lives being lived, and societies being led, in ways which are not of our choosing.

These thoughts can be put in a nutshell, as well as endlessly elaborated. The brief version should include an avowal that our lives have a telos or goal. Christianity’s eclipse matters because the Church is the sturdiest vessel for the preservation of values without which civilisation will perish. And because Christian teaching goes further in maintaining that our human search for love and joy is at one with the order and purpose of the world as God’s creation.

Janet Soskice, one of my wisest teachers and a thinker to rank alongside Taylor, sums these thoughts up memorably with the simple comment that Dante was right. ‘In the end,’ she adds, ‘it is love which moves the Sun and the other stars, and which draws us on in our social and moral lives. We just need to be able to see it.’