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Politics
5 min read

Why we need a gentle radical revolution

Our social arrangement needs to prioritise human relationships, argues MP Danny Kruger.

Danny Kruger is the Conservative MP for Devizes.  He is the author of Covenant: The New Politics of Home, Neighbourhood and Nation.

A group of people stand in a field by a fence and a railway footcrossing.
Danny Kruger with a campaign group in his Devizes constituency.

Democracy divides us. The political system best calculated to hold together a diverse society is also one that exacerbates differences and obscures our common opinions and interests. A two-party system - and all Western politics is largely binary, split between conservative and progressive parties or groups of parties - encourages vicious disagreement across the aisle, and polarises opinion in the country.  

The paradox is that, despite our party disagreements, the most popular opinion with the public is that ‘they're as bad as each other’. The view held in common across the country is that ‘they’re all the same’; that ‘there’s nothing to choose between them’. And deep down, the public is right, but in a good way. Fundamentally the parties share a worldview, which derives from our common inheritance as the heirs of the Christian tradition. 

That tradition taught us that individuals are intrinsically, personally, valuable, without reference to the identities of sex, household, tribe or race which, in pagan cultures, gave people their only worth (or for most people, their lack of it). It also taught us that, despite our individual personal value, our mission in life was other-facing. Our object of worship was outside the self. God’s will was made material and meaningful through the institutions of our common life, in what we came to call civil society. These institutions in turn, especially the institution of the law, worked to protect the individual and make diversity safe.  

This tradition split into two parts in the modern age, as an old, anti-Christian idea, which Christianity had expunged, crept back in. In my book Covenant I call it ‘the Idea’, as opposed to what I call ‘the Order’. The ‘Idea’ is that I am god, with the creative power to order reality and decide for myself what is right and wrong. This ancient heresy has been refreshed in our times precisely by the principle of individual rights and freedoms that Christianity gave us. This is because we have steadily degraded the other side of the Christian bequest: the other-facing, institutional life that gave individuals a more textured sense of who they were, i.e. members of a community with something to live for outside themselves. The consequence is both the narcissism of self-worship and the rise of identity culture - a return to the pagan belief that your value is determined by your sex, race or tribe.  

In the age of tech we can create a decentralised, responsive and personalised system that will give us both belonging and agency. 

Individual value and dignity, made safe and meaningful by a social arrangement which emphasises solidarity, peace and care for the stranger - these are the elements of what I call the ‘Order’. They are not absolute principles: even individual rights to life and liberty must be constrained in certain circumstances, and other-facing generosity likewise needs to be limited in order to be sustained. To take a current example, ‘care for the stranger’ does not, in my view, mean offering a home in the UK to anyone who manages to arrive on our shores and claim asylum. It does mean treating every asylum seeker humanely, whether we admit them or remove them, and it means committing part of our wealth and power to preventing, or mitigating the effects of, war and natural disaster in other parts of the world.  

How does such a covenantal politics approach other policy areas? The principles that Graham Tomlin set out in the report he compiled after the Grenfell Tower fire, after listening to local voices, are a helpful guide. We need to ‘humanise welfare’, dismantling the inefficient bureaucracies which see people as units to be managed, rather than as people to be helped and given responsibility and agency, and build instead relational systems of social support. We need to ‘provide homes’, which means so much more than the sterile term ‘housing’: it means attractive, affordable, safe buildings where people can live both with privacy and in community. As this suggests we need to help people ‘become neighbours’, with the means and the motivation to connect with others who belong to different identity groups. We should ‘notice faith’: as happened after Grenfell, it is local community faith groups which more than any official agency provide support, belonging, cohesion, and practical change at a local level.  

And lastly, overall, we need to ‘renew democracy’. In Graham’s words, ‘we need to find ways to enable people, especially in more deprived areas, to have more of a say in issues that directly affect their lives, rather than politics happening at a distance by competing parties remote from local life.’ The sense of this is both deeply conservative (small-c) and deeply radical. Of course, we need power to be close to the people; this was the traditional way of things before the Durkheim and his followers  decided that the centralised state, not local civil institutions, was the proper place for managing human services. In the Middle Ages, according to Robert Tombs’ history of England, fully a third of men, of all classes, played a responsible role of some kind in the management of their neighbourhood. Yet a return to this model would be radical, because it involves upending Durkheim’s assumptions - shared by his heirs in the school of New Public Management beloved of the Blairites - about the proper arrangement of society. 

We need a gentle revolution: a return to some old ideas about social organisation that prioritise human relationships, the organic and the natural over utility, efficiency and equality of outcome; ideas which actually lead to a more useful, more efficient and genuinely more equal system. These are the ideas of what I call the Order, derived from theories of the social covenant that lie deep in our history but which are also best fitted to the modern world.  

In the age of tech we can create a decentralised, responsive and personalised system that will give us both belonging and agency. We can recreate a more localised economy, but this time more fair, equal and capable of supporting a larger and more diverse population than the pre-modern world knew. And we can make a democracy that more closely reflects the principle that we all, whether progressive or conservative, share a common inheritance and belong to a single political community. 

 

Covenant: The New Politics of Home, Neighbourhood and Nation is published by Forum Press. 

Review
Culture
Film & TV
Politics
War & peace
6 min read

Watching Bonhoeffer from below

Does a new biopic capture a compelling and complex character?

David Emerton is Director of St Mellitus College, East Midlands.

Two men, dressed in the style of the 1940s look around shocked.
Jonas Dassler as Dietrich Bonhoeffer.
Angel Studios.

Dietrich Bonhoeffer did not live to see his 40th birthday. 

Sentenced to death in a sham trial at Flossenbürg concentration camp, he was stripped naked, led to the gallows, and executed on the direct orders of Adolf Hitler in April 1945, essentially for treason. Ever since, Bonhoeffer’s life and thought has been subject to projects in wish fulfilment. Bonhoeffer has been secularised, liberalised, radicalised, and popularised by people across the religious and political spectrum, and in ways that evidence only casual concern for historical fact and little (or no) comprehension of his literary estate. Most recently and remarkably—in fact, repulsively—Bonhoeffer’s name has even been used by the right-wing Heritage Foundation to denounce the so-called “open-borders activism” and “environmental extremism” of the American Left in its Project 2025 wish list for the presidency of President-elect Donald Trump. 

It was with mixed feelings, therefore, that I sat down in a movie theatre in downtown San Diego a few weeks ago to watch the new film Bonhoeffer: Pastor. Spy. Assassin. Released by the Christian production company, Angel Studios, and written and directed by Todd Komarnicki (producer of Elf and writer of Sully), the film (coming to UK cinemas in early 2025) is trailered thus: 

“As the world teeters on the brink of annihilation, Dietrich Bonhoeffer is swept into the epicenter of a deadly plot to assassinate Hitler. With his faith and fate at stake, Bonhoeffer must choose between upholding his moral convictions or risking it all to save millions of Jews from genocide. Will his shift from preaching peace to plotting murder alter the course of history or cost him everything?” 

The accompanying image has the pacifist-preaching Bonhoeffer holding a gun. 

Like any big-screen biopic, Bonhoeffer mixes fact and fiction with a healthy dollop of artistic and cinematic license. This license is of course necessary for the screenwriting art: time needs compressing; biography needs enlivening; peoples’ character needs demonstrating; ultimately, the film needs watching. 

There is no doubt that Bonhoeffer spent time at Union Theological Seminary in New York and that whilst there he bemoaned the state of American theology, actively participated in the Abyssinian Baptist Church in Harlem, and became close friends with an African-American student, Frank Fisher. 

But learning to play jazz piano at a Harlem nightclub? Being beaten by a racist hotel owner with the butt of a rifle? And becoming an ardent advocate for African-American civil rights? 

There is no doubt, too, that, as Hitler rose to power, Bonhoeffer spoke out against the dangers inherent in the Führer concept and that throughout the 1930s he steadfastly critiqued Nazism and national socialist ideology. 

But were his words ever these? 

“I can’t keep on pretending that praying and teaching is enough.” “Dirty hands ... It’s all that I have to offer.” Or, in response to being asked by his friend and student, Eberhard Bethge, if Hitler is the first evil leader since Scripture was written: “No. But he’s the first one I can stop.” 

No one is going to dispute, either, that Bonhoeffer led an underground seminary at Finkenwalde to train future pastors of the Confessing Church in Germany; or that he said, “When Christ calls a man, he bids him come and die.” (Even if, in German, he more literally said, “Every call of Christ leads into death”). 

But what is disputable is that (as the film suggests) Finkenwalde was a safe haven from which a plot to assassinate Hitler was launched, and that Bonhoeffer’s most memorable aphorism of Christian discipleship was intended to be spliced (as it is in the film) into footage of a conspirator preparing a suicide bomb. 

And Bonhoeffer certainly did join the German Military Intelligence and act as something akin to a double-double-agent. He certainly did pass information about the conspiracy to international church leaders on his travels outside of Germany. He certainly did know about both “Operation Seven” (a plan to smuggle a small group of Jews and Jewish Christians out of Germany to safety in Switzerland), and the planned plot to assassinate Hitler. 

But to suggest (as the film does) that Bonhoeffer was central to these plans and personally involved in them, or that he asked Bishop George Bell to lobby Winston Churchill to supply a bomb that the conspirators could use to kill Hitler, is nothing more than highly contentious, even conspiratorial, conjecture. 

In a panoply of embellished facts, the film’s final scenes are in equal measure harrowing, arresting, and deeply moving.

Bonhoeffer’s life and thought is obviously compelling. 

It is also complex. 

Bonhoeffer left behind an array of books, essays, sermons, unfinished manuscripts, working notes, and letters, all of which are notoriously difficult to interpret, especially in the round. Bonhoeffer rides roughshod over this difficulty and complexity, and thereby trivialises the legacy of a modern-day, martyred Christian saint. It also tells in part an untrue story—the story of a man destined, indeed determined, to disavow a life of prayer, teaching, and diplomacy to become a would-be assassin and engage in violent political espionage and activism at any cost. 

This is a (very) far cry from the man who, in 1930, urges American Christians to remember that they have brothers and sisters “in every people,” not just in their own, and that if the people of God were united then “no nationalism, no hate of races or classes can execute its designs and ... the world will have its peace.” 

It’s a far cry from the man who, in November 1940, writes that “radicalism,” and “Christian radicalism” in particular, “arises from a conscious or unconscious hatred ... toward the world, whether it is the hate of the godless or of the pious.” 

And it’s a far cry from the man who, at Christmas 1942, reflects on the “incomparable value” of having learned “to see the great events of world history from below, from the perspective of the outcasts, the suspects, the maltreated, the powerless, the oppressed and reviled, in short from the perspective of the suffering.” 

Bonhoeffer therefore risks exposing Bonhoeffer’s legacy, as a theologian, pastor, and man of resistance, to yet further abuse. At a time when political and religious discourse is increasingly laced with xenophobic, authoritarian, and nationalistic rhetoric, and at worst Christian nationalistic rhetoric, this is not what is needed. It is not surprising that Bonhoeffer scholars across the world and Bonhoeffer’s own descendants have registered concern. 

But is Bonhoeffer nevertheless worth the price of a ticket? 

Perhaps surprisingly, I think that it is: if only for its denouement. 

In a panoply of embellished facts, the film’s final scenes are in equal measure harrowing, arresting, and deeply moving. Shortly before his execution, Bonhoeffer leads his fellow prisoners in morning prayer, breaking bread and drinking wine with them in commemoration of the death of Jesus Christ. Bonhoeffer then walks to the gallows in peace, knowing that for him, as a disciple of Jesus Christ, his death is but the beginning of life. 

It is such steadfast hope, in the face of all the humiliating absurdity of human contradictions (to borrow some words from Fyodor Dostoevsky), that the church and our world today is perhaps most desperately in need of. 

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