This is a slightly edited version of an address I gave in the St Stephen’s Green Unitarian Church, Dublin, on 30th April.
I’m going to talk today about why I am a Unitarian. But I am going to start with something about my family background, which is a bit unusual for a Dublin resident. My background on my father’s side is full of ambiguity. My father, whom I loved and admired greatly, although he was often an unhappy person, was born a German-speaking Jew (of Polish extraction) is that part of the old Austro-Hungarian empire which was soon to become the independent republic of Czechoslovakia. As a young man, like so many idealistic young Central Europeans of his background, he became a Communist and fought and was badly wounded in the Spanish Civil War. He then lived a wandering existence – complete with false names, false papers, constant danger and finally imprisonment – in France, the Balkans and India. He returned to Czechoslovakia after the Second World War, worked as a journalist, met and married my mother, an adventurous young Presbyterian woman from County Antrim, who was teaching in Prague, before falling foul of his erstwhile comrades soon after the Communists took over the country in 1948. His sin was his continuing and passionate belief in freedom of expression as a cornerstone of any civilised and humane society. He was forced to flee with my mother, and me inside her, back to Northern Ireland.
My father died relatively young in the late 1970s, after spending large parts of the rest of his life suffering from physical and psychiatric illness. He has left me with an enduring belief in democratic socialism as the most humane – if not, up to now, the most economically effective – means of governing human society; an empathy with victims of injustice; and a huge admiration for the courage of those who take difficult and dangerous moral stands.
If my father was born to insecurity and rootlessness, I had the great privilege to be born into a family of solid, God-fearing, fair-minded Northern Presbyterians. I sometimes say, only half-jokingly, that the best and luckiest thing that ever happened to me was the near-accident of my birth in Ireland. Or when I’m not feeling so kind about my Ballymena birthplace, I put it differently. I say I was conceived in Prague and born in Ballymena – a journey from the sublime to the ridiculous.
But actually that is not true. The privilege of my Irish birthplace – you’ll notice that privilege is a word that crops up a lot in this talk – has given me a deep security, rooted in a lifelong love of a place and its people that was never allowed to my father. It has put me in what I believe is the privileged position of being both an insider and an outsider in this country: an insider because of my birth, my residence, my family, my choice to try to live as an active and committed citizen of this Republic; an outsider because of my name, my accent, my religion, and my role as a journalist for the first part of my working career, and a developer of cross-border cooperation between the Republic and Northern Ireland for the second part.
And then there is my Unitarian aspect. I am no theologian, so maybe the rather diffuse and often ill-defined theology of Unitarianism suits me. I am a Unitarian and a Christian for the simple reason that these two sets of belief help me, a child of the latter half of the 20th century and a slightly bewildered citizen of the first half of the 21st, in my search for some deeper spiritual meaning amid the increasing complexity, superficiality and injustice of so much of contemporary life. That deeper spiritual meaning has been personified and taught by holy and heroic people since the beginning of time through the concept of a God who creates all things. I believe in that great, beautiful, although incomprehensible coherence in the universe – therefore I think I must believe in God.
Like most Unitarians, I believe in Jesus Christ as one of those inspirational, God-given figures in human history – by far the greatest one in my culture – rather than as the ‘son of God’. Therefore, like most Unitarians, I hold to the belief in Christ as a great and godly man whose teachings are to be followed, rather than one element in the trinitarian Godhead to be worshipped. Christ is a divinely inspired exemplar and inspiration. Had I been born in another culture it might have been Mohammed or the Buddha. From this comes the Unitarian emphasis on tolerance – all systems of belief in a God who preaches love and justice as the highest goods on this earth are worthy of equal respect and reverence.
I am conscious that I haven’t taken Kierkegaard’s ‘leap of faith’ and am therefore in danger of becoming trapped in the temptation of my time, the perpetual search. To quote the Irish Catholic theologian Micheal Paul Gallagher: “In this century [he means the 20th century], we seem to know so much that we can decide with confidence about so little – hence our frequent vagueness about concrete truth and concrete commitments. It can seem more honest to remain in a threshold stance, wondering but waiting.”
One thing I do know, however. Whatever the form of the search, I believe this search for some more unselfish, loving, Christian – in its broadest sense – way of life on this earth is essential to human survival and sanity. Tim Winton, the brilliant Australian – and Christian – novelist puts it like this: “At the end of the day the only definition of any importance for me is love and justice. If it doesn’t fit into that, I’m not interested. People are capable of amazing things. I don’t see people as irredeemably corrupt or doomed to viciousness. Not even the great 20th century cul-de-sac of Marxism could make me think that there isn’t any point in people trying to share wealth and power and demand justice in personal and legislative ways.”
When I look around at the contemporary world – the huge inequalities, the unending suffering of poor people in war-torn countries in Eastern Europe, Asia and Africa, the refusal to face up to potentially catastrophic climate change, the deep dishonesty and megalomania of so many political leaders – I am often tempted to give up on any belief in a benevolent deity. During the pandemic I re-read the great French existentialist novelist Albert Camus’s classic The Plague. One of his themes is the nobility of “common decency” that doctors, nurses, health, sanitary, retail and other workers show in terrible times like those. It’s a kind of ‘common person’s heroism’ although Camus (who was himself a hero of the French resistance during the Second World War) did not believe in heroism. The ‘heroes’ of this classic novel are ordinary people, full of doubt, trying to do their best against overwhelming odds: Rambert, a journalist who gives up his plan to escape the plague locked-down town to re-join his wife in order to join one of the sanitary teams; Grand, an awkward, low-level but big-hearted municipal clerk who is secretly trying – and failing – to finish a novel; and Doctor Rieux, utterly exhausted and near despairing, who tells his priest friend Paneloux after they both witness the horrific death of a small child (Paneloux has urged him to “love what we cannot understand”, i.e. God): “No, Father. I’ve a very different idea of love. And until my dying day I shall refuse to love a scheme of things in which children are put to torture.”
Camus, who witnessed all sorts of horrors, continued to believe that deep down most people were good. He believed that to single out heroism for particular praise implied that “such actions stand out as rare exceptions, while callousness and apathy are the general rule”. The narrator in The Plague [i.e. Camus] does not share that view. “The evil that is in the world always comes of ignorance, and good intentions may do as much harm as malevolence, if they lack understanding [I think he is talking about Communism here]. On the whole men are more good than bad; that, however, isn’t the real point. But they are more or less ignorant, and it is this we call vice or virtue; the most incorrigible vice being that of an ignorance which fancies it knows everything and therefore claims for itself the right to kill. The soul of the murderer is blind; and there can be no true goodness nor true love without the utmost clear-sightedness.” I’m not quite sure what he’s saying in this last phrase. It may be something to do with Camus’s ‘existentialism’: his belief that no religious or political dogma can be allowed to stand in the way of the requirement for all human beings clear-sightedly to make their own moral decisions in a turbulent and godless world.
I find that as a left-of-centre person, I fit well into the freethinking, tolerant group of people who make up the Dublin Unitarian congregation. I like the identification with liberal Presbyterians and Unitarians – people like Henry Joy and Mary Ann McCracken, William Drennan, Archibald Hamilton Rowan and Samuel Neilson – who were prominent in the United Irishmen’s struggle for an independent, democratic Irish republic. I recommend the excellent book by my fellow church attender and former senior trade unionist, Fergus Whelan, on 18th century Dublin Unitarianism and revolution, Dissent into Treason.
I have also found Unitarianism’s idea of ‘progressive revelation’ a helpful one in my personal search for the strength to make moral and spiritual decisions in my life. To quote the long-serving early 20th century minister of this church, Ernest Savell Hicks: “Liberal thinkers in religion are not self-conceited enough to believe that they have arrived at final and ultimate truth in any department of life. They believe in a continuous and progressive revelation, and in a continuous and progressive aptitude – a sharpening of our spiritual wits, if one may be allowed the expression – whereby the soul and mind gradually become more delicately adjusted to receive the messages of God.”
I like that. I hope my spiritual wits are still sharp enough to receive messages both from my fellow human beings and from God, if he or she exists. If they’re not, then I’m not much use either as a journalistic observer of society – which I still am in many ways – or as a human being.