Confounding the Mighty: Stories of Church,
Social Class and Solidarity, edited by Luke Larner (London: SCM Press, 2023)
‘Class’, as I presently understand it, is a social category primarily
addressing the human person’s economic standing, both perceived and actual,
within given communities and cultures even as that standing necessarily
intersects with other identifiers such as ‘race’, ethnicity, sex, gender, and
religion. Other factors also contribute to class: family, housing, education,
healthcare, leisure pursuits, and geographical location, for example, all
coincide to shape a person within a community and how that person embodies that
community’s attending, often stereotyped, culture – and vice versa, with the
community and its resources determining the available options and thus choices
its constituents can make. This unveils a mutually reinforcing dynamic at play
within class. While people are ascribed value according to whichever class they
‘belong’ to, the value they are ascribed as part of a particular community determines
both the level and the quality of socio-economic attention they and their
community receive from government, local authorities, and other institutions. People
regarded as being of a ‘higher’ (and therefore ‘better’) class have access to
resources denied to the majority of the people said to occupy the classes
beneath them; resources which, however nobly utilised, nonetheless maintain the
status quo when deployed. Thus class is hierarchical, almost inevitably
ideological, and irreducibly complex.
Even my most casual, least observant reader will have noticed
that, apart from including the requisite bibliographical details, I am yet to
mention the book purportedly under scrutiny – namely,
Confounding the Mighty: Stories of Church, Social Class and Solidarity. Using a review as a
guise to smuggle one’s own thoughts on any given topic through customs is
undoubtedly poor form, but there is, I hope, an acceptable reason to humour me.
In recent months, I have begun to realise more clinically, more
cynically,
how
my class (according to
my understanding) has
shaped me and my dealings with other people. On the basis of my education and household income,
I am (lower?)
middle class. But I claim (white)
working-class, even
‘
underclass’, heritage and keenly feel the dissonance between
then and
now,
not least because I cannot discern whether, according to sociological
classifications, I am truly (lower?) middle class or actually part of the
so-called
precariat. Self-employment, working-class roots, and daily
involvement in traditionally higher-class environments (academia; the Church
of England) make for a cocktail with a lingering, not entirely pleasant,
aftertaste. As one of the contributors to
Confounding the Mighty, Ruth
Harley, puts it, ‘ “I speak ‘middle-class’ . . . but it is not, and never will
be, my mother tongue”’ (p. 23).
I will admit to some disappointment when I saw that none of the
essayists in
Confounding the Mighty claims anything other than a
working-class background. When I first set eyes on the title, I had presumed, self-righteously
had
hoped, that while the book would be worthy, all the chapters were
likely to have been written by people from the middle (or higher) classes, church
ministers or charity workers with pasts in public schools and
Oxbridge, ecclesiastical
pioneers (a loaded word) carefully selected to machete their way through cables
and wiring to penetrate Britain’s concrete jungles. Thankfully, I was wrong.
The contributors are wary of imposing ‘outside’ missiological strategies on
communities that best know themselves; some
are Oxbridge educated,
though not through birthright; and still others look fondly – a tad nostalgically,
perhaps – on their formative years in (shall we say?) traditional (white?)
working-class communities.
Confounding the Mighty is most definitely a
worthy book, not because it is a repository of good, practicable ideas or a trove
of sharp analysis (though it is both of these in places), but because its
content rings true and has good and true things to say.
And what is its content?
Anthony Reddie’s foreword quickly passes
into two chapters by the editor, the first a largely autobiographical prelude,
the second a call to counter the ‘feckless [i.e., ineffective, useless] faith’ he
first mentions in the prelude. Charting his life experiences to date,
Luke Larner
recognises a need ‘to learn how to build solidarity and join others in
organizing for justice’ (p. xix); indeed, he argues that ‘the struggle for
solidarity and justice
is at the heart of the mission of God’ (p. xx,
emphasis original), and failure to acknowledge ‘this drive towards solidarity
and justice’ regarding class issues amounts to ‘feckless faith’ (p. xx).
Larner’s prelude successfully sets the tone for the rest of the book. His
chapter on ‘feckless faith’ explores the conceptuality underlying class
distinctions and why these distinctions are pernicious for everybody, including
the people who recline atop the class pyramid. Channelling
the Magnificat (and
especially Luke 1:52), Larner envisions a society in which ‘the casting down of
some and the lifting up of others allows for the possibility of meeting in the
middle’ (p. 11). Yes, absolutely; but in a publication so mindful of unjust
social stratifications, I read this as expressing not simply a desire for
equality but almost – almost! – as a call to middle-class existence. I am sure
my reading is wrong here; I
hope my reading is wrong here.
Ruth Harley tackles the attitudes that depict working-class
communities as places of need and dearth and thus as something to escape from,
primarily by pursuing a good education. But this narrative champions
individualism and neglects the good within these communities, including and
especially the good God’s grace and abundance brings. Harley queries the logic
of social mobility, for this ‘rests on an assumption of scarcity and
competition’, whereas the solidarity she favours ‘rests on an assumption of
collaboration’ (p. 34). She sees Pauline ecclesiology as a model for true solidarity,
for ‘Paul’s emphasis on mutuality and interdependence within a diverse body
[acts] as a strong corrective to individualism’ (p. 32). Much of Harley’s
chapter engages with the ideas and feelings generated by social dislocation, and
it was not too difficult for me to connect her observations to my own
educational background. But whereas for Harley, education was spread as the
tarmac on freedom’s road, a way to ‘get out’, leaving home and going to
university was less aspirational for me. It was just something to do.
In his chapter,
Rajiv Sidhu discusses caste, class, and colour
within a Church of England context. The Church of England admits its need to
work on racial justice, but ‘much of this focuses upon what could be crudely
described as colour-lines: “Black Versus White”’ (p. 39), where ‘Black’
incorporates anyone who is ‘other’ (here, in presumably a racialised sense).
‘But what of the differences within the labels?’ (p. 39); does the Church of
England recognise, for example, the ‘interplay between Brahmanism and fascism
in India and Indian politics’ (p. 40) and how this affects Indian diaspora
communities in Britain? No; for Sidhu, in the Church of England, ‘culture and
identity are brushed into broader criteria that are unable to engage with
differences’ (pp. 40–41): Hello, BAME; greetings, UKME; how’s it goin’, POC? I
found Sidhu’s chapter to be enormously helpful in its analysis, but his
conclusion less so. He writes, ‘When the church truly learns to see Christ
present in all people and active in all the world, then it will find the light
of Christ through whatever darkness it encounters’ (p. 45). Quite so; I agree.
But is that all that can be said?
Katherine Long’s essay looks at the Church of England and
working-class vocations. As I did with Ruth Harley’s chapter, I felt some
resonance here, for I have been through the Church of England’s discernment process. Long summarises her master’s dissertation, which looked into how
people from working-class communities experience the discernment process. The
results are, frankly, shocking: assumptions and prejudices abound, all held and
perpetuated by bishops and members of theological education institutes. ‘Most
of the experiences and prejudice,’ Long comments, ‘were unconscious and were
from a deeply ingrained attitude and expectation of who they [presumably the aforementioned
bishops and institutes; Long does not clarify who ‘they’ are] would expect to
be training as a vicar’ (p. 64). I need not comment further on this chapter:
its observations speak for itself, and if I had the power to do so, I would
require everyone involved in the Church of England’s discernment and
selection process – and, indeed, anyone involved in the equivalents of other
Christian denominations – to accept Long’s research, which is truly
eye-opening, capable of both empowering working-class (as well as less-socially
confident) people, and shaming the authorities.
considers how leadership functions in Pentecostal
churches, which are predominantly working class and Black. There are lessons to
be learnt from the Black Pentecostal experience, Stone advises, for the
emphasis in training leaders falls not so much on a candidate’s educational
ability or management skills, but on character and spirituality and the Holy
Spirit’s anointing. Ministerial training, at least in the English experience, remains
ensnared in the webs spun by the capitalism and racism of the Atlantic slave
trade, and ‘learning from the leadership of “the least of these”, exemplified
in this case by early Pentecostals’ (p. 71), can help the Church of England and
other denominations to eschew its classism. After all, Stone muses, ‘who could have
imagined that a group of working-class black people praying to encounter the
Spirit would ignite a spiritual movement that would continue to reverberate
around the world today, and that the son of ex-slaves [
William Seymour; p. 76] would
be its leader?’ (p. 79). Stone’s is a particularly elegant contribution to
Confounding
the Mighty.
Traditionally, stereotypically, English (British?; I cannot say)
society has been divided into working-, middle-, and
upper-class people, but
its ever-changing shape means newer labels are available to categorise people.
Enter the precariat: dwellers of a gig-working world, holders of zero-hour
contracts, people who lunge from one sort of work to another to pay the bills;
the precariat is too diversified to be classified a community. There is also
the
salariat, people who earn a salary through performing ‘
bullshit jobs’
(
David Graeber) with similarly little chance of career progression and
satisfaction. In this context,
Sally Mann suggests Christian churches can
become ‘“contrast communities” embodying hope to those caught in the worst
repercussions of the changing class landscape in Britain today’ (p. 85).
Christian churches and communities have ‘the wealth of scriptural visions of
shalom
. . .
to reimagine economic justice’ (p.
94). Churches are not just about Sunday worship; they are communities which can
‘articulate the struggles and hopes for identity and meaning and offer
opportunities to work for justice at the local level – whether by providing
volunteering opportunities or through setting up social enterprises and
charities that model other ways to value and define work’ (p. 95). Mann takes
the ‘local level’ seriously; this is where God’s Holy Spirit is noticeably at
work, and she describes some of her own (Baptist) church community’s initiatives
as examples. I also note a comment, almost an aside, perhaps: ‘Some churches
have moved to multi-service patterns to allow for more variation in work
patterns and other commitments, but usually there is the assumption that
“membership” is characterized by being reliably present and available to
participate in the programmes, which are an addition to a person’s “regular”
life’ (pp. 93–94). So many things that happen in a local church are done by the
same regularly attending people precisely because these are people whose
commitments allow them to do things at the designated times. But if both
precariat and salariat are to be included within the life of a local church,
then change must happen, and the implications of what Mann has pinpointed here are
potentially huge. Assuming by ‘multi-service’ Mann means something like ‘many
church services at different times, on different days, to accommodate different
people’, then not only could this mean holding daily services, but it could
also mark the end of publicising home or small groups as the main way, or a
significant way, of doing discipleship, because there is every chance that a
significant proportion of a church’s membership is unable to participate in
such groups due to irregular work commitments. Moreover, holding extra
services, or ‘setting up social enterprises or charities’, requires additional
hands – an opportunity, perhaps, for more people from a variety of backgrounds
to become, in Church of England terms, licensed lay ministers? Or would this be
simply another ‘programme’? The value of Mann’s chapter lies in the questions
it prompts.
finds inspiration for today’s church in the
founding and development of the
Iona Community, which arose from a mission
initially to working-class people in
Govan. While crafting her account of the
Iona Community, Turner scores some very palpable hits about the need for
mission actually to transform the social structures within which and under
which working-class people live; this requires political action and true
solidarity rather than charity and sympathy. She concludes, ‘If we are only
protesting
for, and not
protesting with the working classes, if we are only
doing
to and not
organizing with the working classes, we are slipping back
into paternalistic patterns’ (p. 111, emphasis original). I accept this; but
surely protesting
with and organising
with presuppose and retain
elements of distinction between the helpers and the helped, thus maintaining,
albeit in diminished form, the paternalistic patterns Turner decries. This
makes me wonder how far empathetic action (or activist empathy) actually can or
does equate to true solidarity.
Confounding the Mighty’s penultimate chapter is another
one tackling class and theological education.
Eve Parker charges – and with
good reason, too, judging by some of the experiences cited both here and in
Katherine Long’s earlier essay – that theological education institutes fail to
recognise the particular pressures, especially of family commitments and
employment, working-class people experience, pressures which then impact on how
well working-class learners are perceived to be managing their studies. Parker
requires theology courses to incorporate class consciousness teaching and
assesses how the aims and development of the
Socialist Sunday School movement
can instruct theological education institutes in this respect. ‘Just as the
Socialist Sunday Schools came about as organized acts of resistance against the
injustices of capitalist greed,’ she writes, ‘today theological education must
become conscious of what it means to educate for formation during a
cost-of-living crisis that is pushing millions more people into poverty, in a
context of soaring levels of wealth inequality, child poverty, austerity and in
a nation where the privileged political elites are choosing to bring about the
collapse of the National Health Service and failing to adequately support
schools, councils and basic services. There is no choice for the working
class,’ she challenges, ‘but to educate, agitate and organize’ (p. 130).
The editor returns to provide a concluding chapter (Joerg Rieger
provides a simple afterword) further addressing the need for solidarity and the
Holy Spirit’s active presence. For Luke Larner, the Spirit ensures the
Eucharist demonstrates the incarnate Son’s solidarity with humans, and ours
with the world; the Spirit raises prophets to speak truth to power; and
organised action, where people work together to change society for the better,
is best portrayed as instances of the Spirit’s mission (missio Spiritus).
While solidarity can be expressed in many ways, Larner particularly urges his
readers to fight for fair wages, to join trade unions, and to develop
cooperatives and ‘other democratized structures’ (p. 153). ‘My hope,’ he
explains, ‘is that churches, Christian organizations and Christian people will
allow the Spirit of God and the voices of the prophets to expand our
imagination for what it possible, leading us into movements of greater
solidarity with allies of all faiths and none in the class struggle’ (p. 154).
Certainly this is a hope to cherish, if not actually to promote and implement.
The strengths of
Confounding the Mighty are many, and I
commend the book unreservedly, especially to church ministers, church workers,
and anyone seeking to become one or the other. I should like to have seen
chapters on how churches (could) address class and LGBTQIA+ matters, class and housing,
class and health (including nutrition), class and ableism, and class and
climate change; but it is quite possible to formulate a take on these by
extrapolating from the discussions already included, or by reading Victoria
Turner’s edited volume
Young, Woke and Christian (SCM Press, 2022) as a accompaniment
to this one. And while not each of its contributors is Anglican,
Confounding
the Mighty has a very ‘Church of England’ feel; but again, readers from the
spectrum of denominations should be able to plant its seeds into the soil of
their own traditions with just a little spadework.
There are, however, two further comments I wish to make, and both
relate to more conventional doctrinal loci. First, I should like to ask how the
authors conceive of sin. Of course, the whole book, in its pursuit of class
justice, is about sin, confronting sin, and doing away with sin. But when sin qua
sin is mentioned or implied, my overwhelming impression is that only
structural, systemic sin is a problem for the authors. I am likely wrong here,
but, putting it bluntly (and perhaps a little pietistically), I just cannot see
how structural sin can be overcome without also addressing the individual sins
each of us, no matter our class, commits daily, sins which often consolidate
the harms class distinctions inflict on so many. By focussing on communities
and the class dynamics shaping them, do the authors neglect the reality that
communities are constituted by particular, fallen, sinful people who both uphold
and are held down by structural sin?
My second comment is
related but concerns the place of Christian eschatology in the fight for class justice. I note
Confounding the Mighty does not include any
chapters by theologians or activists who would claim middle- or even
upper-class heritage. The book’s focus is undoubtedly on establishing class
justice for working-class people. But this gives the book an agenda – an agenda
I approve of, lest I be misunderstood – that makes a manifesto of its reflections
and stories. This is no bad thing, of course, but
Confounding the Mighty
is too-strongly flavoured with politically left-tasting spices for my palate
(again, lest misunderstanding take root and flourish, I do
not consider
myself to be on the political right; if anything, I am centre-left), and this
raises my question about eschatology: What is the fight for class justice
hoping to achieve,
ultimately? Notwithstanding that the gospel message
of Jesus Christ and New Testament teachings entail, I believe, caring and
fighting for the rights of the defenceless, speaking truth to power, discerning
where God’s Spirit is at work at the local level, and so on; notwithstanding
these things, many of the chapters in this book ostensibly imagine the church striving
for and even expecting an inevitable this-worldly utopia rather than anticipating
and awaiting God’s eschatological kingdom (or ‘kin-dom’, as Ruth Harley prefers;
pp. 26, 36n2). These ideals are principled and praiseworthy, to be sure; but
perhaps they also suggest a sort of social progressivism that sin, both
structural
and personal, surely renders implausible. Even if current
visions of class justice come to fruition, classism itself will surely mutate
into a new form of injustice and have its time. Luke Larner perhaps appears to
acknowledge something like this, because in his concluding chapter, he
recognises that socially just practices, while ‘a
means to achieve
change’ (p. 155, emphasis original), are limited in what they can do, even
though they do ‘win short-term justice gains for the working classes’ and ‘create
spaces to build intersectional solidarity between the labouring classes’ to ‘win
justice’ and ‘cultivate’ hope (p. 155). Is there a hint of resignation here?
Regardless, Larner calls for ‘a revolution of solidarity and a shifting of the
balance of power’ (p. 155), a call I fully appreciate and will fight for in my
own, hopefully Spirit-infused and -enthused, way as part of my church community.
¡Viva la revolución escatológica!
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