Plenty of people have probably inadvertently thanked a machine at some point in their lives, perhaps when taking a cup of coffee from the dispenser or before leaving a self-service checkout. Evidently, this is a momentary lapse of thought: offering thanks amounts to recognition of a service rendered, whether gratuitously or as part of an exchange, and where there exists only automation devoid of consciousness and therefore any intention to serve, thanks are out of place.
When this occurs, the individual has simply responded – a result of a childhood education or training – in a perfectly normal fashion to the experience of receiving something. He has merely overlooked, temporarily, the fact that he has received from something rather than someone. We might even say that his mistake demonstrates good manners, albeit in error, and a measure of decent character.
Clearly, no thanks are due to a coffee machine, but we might ask whether we have any moral duties to machines, particularly apparently intelligent ones, such as advanced artificial intelligence. On one level, it would appear not. We can no more be duty bound to treat an unthinking assemblage of silicon and plastic in a particular manner than we can have a moral obligation to our car or mobile phone. Would this remain the case if the technology were more advanced, however?
Imagine a situation in which artificial intelligence is so advanced as to enable humanoid robots to behave more or less exactly as human beings do. They are able to communicate, process information quickly and perform all manner of tasks just as well as human beings, or better – so much so that they begin to displace human beings from their places of work. Some are even programmed to respond to certain types of behaviour just as humans do, such that, while not conscious or possessed of feelings, they might cower and cry out if damaged, as though in pain and afraid. Suppose a worker who has lost her job to one such robot returns to her former place of work and, out of frustration and anger, attacks one of the machines that she believes has cost her her livelihood.
In these circumstances, what has the frustrated ex-employee done wrong? This question admits of different answers. One response would be to say that she has done no wrong to the robot at all. In spite of its apparent cries for help and ‘fear-behaviour’, as a non-conscious, unfeeling machine, without subjectivity, intentions, future-orientation or any conception of its own wellbeing, there is no real sense in which she can have wronged it. She might completely destroy it, but since the notion of ‘wronging’ another appears to depend on the presence of some level of personhood, and ‘harm’ to require at the very least life if not consciousness in the other, we would probably not say that she had ‘harmed’ it in the usual sense of the word – not as we would say that she had harmed or wronged her manager if she had turned upon him after destroying the robot.
Nevertheless, our neo-Luddite has clearly done something wrong. In the first instance, she has violated the property rights of the owners of the robot and, we might suggest, failed to accord respect to the work of its creators. In a sense, she is guilty of a similar kind of wrongdoing to that of a protester who enters a car showroom and damages one of the display vehicles. This perhaps provides a clue as to where our moral considerations in relation to artificial intelligence ought to be focused: not on the technology itself, but on other human beings according to their relationships with it. Perhaps there is a sense in which, by according a degree of respect to artificial intelligence, as with any product of human creation, we do right by according respect to those who create, own and make use of it.
By extension, our moral concerns might also focus on ourselves. That is to say, turning our attention from the act to the agent, we could go beyond the claim that in smashing the robot, the angry former-employee has wronged other people and ask ourselves what sort of person she is. At the very least, we might say that in acting in this fashion, she displays certain vices and in so doing harms her own character. Her actions show insufficient self-control and manifest vices such as irascibility and even spite or envy (as opposed to good-temper or righteous indignation, which, incidentally, does not preclude a measure of anger, properly manifested), along with impatience and foolhardiness (or a lack of fortitude).
Virtue-based approaches to morality, with their focus on the character of the moral agent, contend that in being taught to be good as we grow up and in seeking to practise the virtues, we cultivate our character in such a way that, as we acquire and develop certain excellences, good conduct becomes more natural to us. Where we neglect to do this or have never been taught, we fall into vice and good conduct is rendered difficult. Just as good conduct emanates from and reinforces virtuous dispositions, poor conduct encourages vice and itself flows from a vicious character. Thus, where the agent in our example gives in to rage and attacks a robot, we might identify not only failures of virtue but a corrupting influence on her own character.
It is perhaps fair to say that we have no duties to machines. We cannot harm or wrong them in the way that we can harm or injure human beings – at least not in the current state of technological development. However, there are relevant moral considerations to reflect upon. Thanking a machine for dispensing a cup of coffee is clearly unnecessary, while vandalising a machine does no wrong to the machine. Each, perhaps, can be considered indicative of certain attitudes and character traits that are morally significant. If we look beyond the machines themselves as the objects of our conduct, it becomes clear that our interaction with and treatment of artificial intelligence is not morally neutral.
We have duties to other people and insofar as our interaction with artificial intelligence is germane to those, our treatment of technology matters. Similarly, our treatment of artificial intelligence is potentially significant for our own moral development. As such, while we owe nothing morally to machines in any direct sense, through our treatment of them we can meet certain moral obligations in relation to others and ourselves. Any duties we have to machines, therefore, might best be considered indirect duties to human beings.
In some economic theories we are told to trust the market: as a reliable arbitrator between supply and demand, and as a price-setter. Yet in their daily decisions Christians are encouraged to trust God. Are these the same kind of trust? If they are two different types of trust, are they in competition with each other?
It might be tempting to think that the two kinds of trust are at least similar: that proponents of the market economy call for trust in markets in the same way Christians are called to have faith in God. For Christians, however, believing in free markets cannot quite be the same as faith in God – and not only because market models inevitably contain oversimplifications, flattening particular aspects of reality to fit general economic theory.
Rather, Christians are called, first, to shift our trust to God rather than any human being, institution or other created thing, and, secondly, to relate to one another in a moral way. These two are commandments and are absolute: trust in God and loving our neighbour cannot be conditional.
This does not mean we cannot trust markets to do certain things well. But the two sentences I started with were not talking about the same kind of trust. What we mean by trust needs further differentiation. My argument is that how we trust, and whom we trust, is both the basis for economic decision-making and a profoundly moral choice.
Luke the Evangelist offers radical teaching on faith and economics. Some have portrayed Luke as an early opponent of a market economy, misunderstanding his calls to all believers to hold goods in common and share resources in Acts 2 and Acts 4. Yet these are in fact best interpreted, not as a narrowly economic teaching, so much as a teaching about our relationship to God, and how it informs our economic decisions.
Luke’s focus is on the call to radically trust God, including in our economic choices. The Greek word Luke uses repeatedly, ‘pistis’, is arguably closer to ‘trust’ or ‘fidelity’, than to ‘faith’ or ‘belief’ in our contemporary understanding – although it is often translated with these terms. For example Luke’s description of the Early Church, often translated as the ‘Community of Believers’, or ‘Community of Faith’, could equally be translated literally as ‘the group of those who trusted’.
In an earlier blog post for both the LSE and the World Economic Forum, I argued that, ‘throughout Luke’s Gospel and the Acts of the Apostles, those who trust in God and his providence are able to be generous: Zacchaeus and the poor widow are examples given by Luke. That trust in God is so central to Luke’s message, that those who preferred to trust in their own investments rather than in God were chastised by the Early Church: Judas, who bought a field with the betrayal money, and Ananias and Sapphira, who kept part of the proceeds from the sale of their land.’
For Luke, trust in God, or a lack thereof, is what informs economic decisions and makes them intrinsically moral acts. There is a direct correlation, arguably a causal relationship, between the level of trust in God that the Community of Believers then, and the whole Body of Christ now, places in God, and the generosity they demonstrate.
What Luke invites us to see is more profound than simply teaching us not to put trust in idols, including any form of economic ideology. He is asking us to see that our economic actions go beyond material advantage, or rational calculations driven by our self-interest: in Acts 2, Luke describes how the newly baptised, who received the Holy Spirit, make certain economic choices as a direct result of trusting – having confidence – in a faithful God who has shown himself to be at work in this world. It is not that we know ex ante that this trust will necessarily be materially rewarded, either immediately or even long-term. Otherwise it would not be trust, but expectation with a high, if not absolute, degree of probability. The basis of Christian economic decision-making is therefore not rationality in the secular economic sense, but rather it is rational morally and spiritually, because it is doing the objectively right thing.
At the same time Luke’s teaching cannot be understood as encouraging us to be bad stewards of our money, or not to plan long term. Someone might look at the case of Ananias and Sapphira, and, assuming good intent on their part, ask what they did wrong. After all, all other things being equal, buying and keeping land whilst collecting rent from it, for example, to give it to the poor would be a perfectly rational thing to do. But in the context of the decision of that group of believers to engage in a practice of radical sharing, Luke’s point is to ask why they could not trust God sufficiently to join in with it.
This thought has the potential to create radical freedom for those who are fortunate enough to have assets to invest. They are not obliged to focus purely on financial return. Consider an entrepreneur who invests in a community project with a high risk of financial failure because it serves the vulnerable. A standard economic model might label this to be economically irrational, due to the likelihood that the return on investment will be low at best. Even if the decision to invest is construed as maximising a sense of doing the right thing, this still misses Luke’s point. For the believer, this is neither a miscalculation of risk, or nor a matter of optimising their feel-good factor: it is a deliberate act of ‘pistis’. In other words, an investor who commits to a morally worthwhile venture despite financial risk is not doing it to maximise ‘warm, fuzzy feelings’ or virtue signalling; they are investing because the act itself is a moral act, fully aware that the venture may fail.
It would not be going too far to say that Luke has no opinion to offer on whether markets are a good thing or not – only on how we ought to act within them. Ananias and Sapphira, and Judas, used a market exchange to invest and receive their proceeds, but it was not the mechanism which was at fault. It was their own lack of trust in God.
Accounting for the role of trust in economic exchanges is a question relevant both for Christians and others. This is because markets must be understood as more than mechanical instruments to regulate supply and demand, even if that is their primary benefit. They are also social institutions, embedded in relationships, which inevitably have a moral dimension. Trust is key in enabling voluntary exchanges between participants. At a first order of analysis this is about trust between individuals, but that is related to shared values and to the belief systems in which they are grounded. For Christians, and those of other faiths, these include trust in God.
Critics might argue that if everyone acted on unconditional trust, the market would collapse, as free riders would exploit the virtuous. This is a valid concern, but it misses the point. Lukan trust is not naïve. Indeed it is explicitly viewed as a virtue that requires a community to sustain it. A market economy cannot create a community of believers, but it turns out to depend on multiple forms of trust and belief. This – and relatedly whether it is based on generosity or greed – will determine what its outcomes are.
When we conflate trust in market mechanisms with trust in human relationships, we miss the moral prerequisites that markets cannot generate themselves. As the Vatican’s 2018 economic teaching document ‘OPQ’ observes, ‘the market needs anthropological and ethical prerequisites that it is neither capable of giving for itself, nor producing on its own’ (s.23).
From Pius XI’s warning in Quadragesimo Anno that ‘the right ordering of economic life cannot be left to a free competition of forces’ (s.88), to Pope Francis’s rejection of ‘trickle-down theories’ in Evangelii Gaudium (s.54), the Catholic Church has consistently called for discernment rather than ideological adherence. Yet this is not a call to abandon markets, but to recognise their proper role. The question we are called to discern is how markets and our actions within them can serve the common good.
As Christians, we are called to recognise that we are moral agents as much as economic ones when engaging in exchanges; we bear the responsibility to ground economic activity within the realm of morality, acting through both personal choices and the creation of structures that empower good decisions without coercion. The challenge for secular economic thought is that such good choices are not easily reduced to utility-maximising functions.
Luke invites us to consider trust (‘pistis’) in God as a virtue with great salience for economics. Whereas some market logics may attempt to reduce trust to a calculation, the biblical tradition calls us to act on the basis of our trust in God. From that Biblical perspective the debate is not ‘pro-market versus anti-market’, but rather whether markets can be tools for human flourishing. If we determine that trust is a virtue to be pursued by moral agents in a market economy, the question then is not whether to trust markets, but rather how markets can enable virtuous behaviours. For the believer the market is not a god to be trusted, but a stage upon which the virtue of ‘pistis’ is tested and lived out.
Our sixth Fforestfach Colloquium was held in the House of Lords on Thursday, 16th April, 2026. We had the pleasure of listening and responding to three excellent speakers addressing the question, ‘How Much Love, To Which Neighbours? Our Duties Within the Nation and Beyond.’
Our three presenters included Dr Nick Spencer, Senior Fellow at Theos, a Christian think tank; Daniel Johnson, journalist, and founding Editor of TheArticle, an online journalism platform, and a former senior editor, editorial writer and columnist for The Times and The Daily Telegraph; and Dr David Miller, Professor of Political Theory at the University of Oxford and author of On Nationality and National Responsibility and Global Justice (2007). The audience of about 20 invited guests listened intently and responded readily with insightful questions and comments that ranged freely across the speakers’ remarks.
Our speakers have kindly provided us with the text of their presentations, which can be accessed below.
What are our Moral Duties as a Nation? by Nick Spencer
Dr Nick Spencer is Senior Fellow at Theos. He is the author of a number of books and reports, including Magisteria: The Entangled Histories of Science and Religion (Oneworld, 2023), The Political Samaritan: How Power Hijacked a Parable (Bloomsbury, 2017), The Evolution of the West (SPCK, 2016) and Atheists: The Origin of the Species (Bloomsbury, 2014). He is host of the podcast Reading Our Times.
How Much Love, to Which Neighbours? Our Duties Within the Nation and Beyond, by Daniel Johnson
Daniel Johnson is a British journalist and author who was the founding editor of Standpoint magazine and a former senior editor, editorial writer and columnist for The Times and The Daily Telegraph. Since 2018, he has been founding editor of the online journalism platform TheArticle, as well as being an associate editor of The Critic magazine and commentator for The Daily Mail, The Mail on Sunday and The Daily Telegraph.
And Who is My Neighbour? Moral Duties at Home and Abroad, by David Miller
David Miller is an English political theorist. He is Professor of Political Theory at the University of Oxford and an Official Fellow of Nuffield College, Oxford. He previously lectured at the University of Lancaster and the University of East Anglia. He is the author of a number of publications, including Social Justice, On Nationality (Clarendon Press, 1995) and Citizenship and National Identity (Polity, 2000).
By Daniel Johnson
In British political debate, it has not been customary for the past century or so to cite scriptural texts, let alone embark on their exegesis, in order to clinch an argument. Any politician or journalist who tried to do so would quickly discover that such tactics were rhetorically ineffective. Even in a properly moral discussion, such as the present one about euthanasia, quoting the Bible is counterproductive: it enables the other side to dismiss the case being made as ‘prejudice’ or ‘bigotry’. A century ago, the speeches of Lloyd George were saturated in Biblical references, which his audiences would have grasped implicitly. Now, I doubt whether, for most people, our question would register as an allusion to scripture, even at a subliminal level. We have long since lost the world in which Christianity permeated every nook of our mental furniture.
Across the Atlantic it is a very different story. There, many politicians take a basic familiarity with the Bible for granted and an appeal to divine justification is a normal eristic strategy – even for political leaders of whom it might be said, with Oliver Cromwell, that they have no more religion than a horse. It is worth considering this scriptural approach, if only to reject it.
When Jesus taught his followers that the second great commandment was to ‘love thy neighbour as thyself’, he was in fact quoting Moses directly. In the Book of Leviticus 19:18, the people of Israel are enjoined: ‘Thou shalt not avenge, nor bear any grudge against the children of thy people, but thou shalt love thy neighbour as thyself: I am the Lord.’ Note that by ‘neighbour’, Moses here implies acquaintances and certainly fellow Jews. However, in verse 34 of the same chapter, the scope of ‘neighbour’ is expanded: ‘But the stranger that dwells with you shall be unto you as one born among you, and thou shalt love him as thyself; for ye were strangers in the land of Egypt: I am the LORD your God.’
For the Jews and Christians of biblical times, then, the meaning of ‘love thy neighbour’ was explicitly inclusive, not exclusive. In the commandment of Jesus, firmly based in Hebrew Scripture, there is no hierarchy of affinity, no ordo amoris – whatever the Vice President of the United States may say.
Yet there is a serious difference of interpretation about who counts as a neighbour and what our duties are to them. Pope Leo XIV has warned against the policies of the Trump administration, citing the parable of the sheep and the goats in Matthew 25: ‘For I was a stranger, and you did not invite me in.’ But of course there are always passages in the Bible that can be used to justify any cruelty or injustice. According to my fellow Catholic J.D. Vance, the actions of the ICE snatch squads are ‘humanitarian’, while my Evangelical namesake, Speaker Mike Johnson, has justified them as part of the ‘Christian case for border security and immigration enforcement’.
Both these Christian gentlemen are, in my view, being disingenuous. They must know that there is no Christian case for the violent and arbitrary overreaction to the presence of millions of undocumented immigrants that the world has witnessed in Minneapolis and other American cities. Why, then, does Johnson claim that he, and not Pope Leo, has the correct interpretation of Scripture?
In a written statement, Johnson insisted that the passages cited above from Leviticus 19 and Matthew 25 were addressed to individuals, specifically the disciples, while governments have completely different moral criteria. ‘Despite the unfounded claims of the Left, supporting a strong national border is a very Christian thing to do. The Bible tells us so.’
The Bible, in particular the Hebrew Bible, has indeed furnished powerful arguments for the idea of a nation state within clearly defined borders. But that is a very different thing from providing ammunition for the indiscriminate and generally unwarranted use of deadly armed force to carry out mass deportations of undocumented immigrants who in most cases had been living peacefully and productively in the US for many years.
So the introduction of religious texts into a political debate does not resolve our differences. Interpretations of such texts differ widely and no useful purpose is served by turning a moral question into one of theology or indeed hermeneutics. Let us return, then, to first principles and only then compare our conclusions with the relevant passages of scripture.
There are, of course, two separate issues here: immigration and integration. Immigration is primarily a question of numbers. Britain, with a long history of migration and globalisation, ought to be capable of absorbing at least half a million migrants a year – roughly equivalent to the numbers now emigrating. It may not be fashionable to say so, but with a falling birthrate and ageing population, we need to import more skilled workers than we lose if the British economy is not to continue languishing in stagflation and welfare dependency.
In the 19th century there was large-scale immigration to England from Ireland: most of the six million or so Catholics in the UK are descendants of that wave, though that figure includes up to a million people of Polish descent too. Incidentally, there are more Catholics than Muslims in the UK – they are our largest religious minority – and more people speak Polish than any of the languages of the Subcontinent, the Middle East or Africa. Though Catholics only acquired civil rights in 1829 and remain subject to legal discrimination to this day (no Catholic can inherit the throne), their integration into a country with a Protestant established Church has been an unqualified success – admittedly over nearly two centuries.
So the practical problem to be solved is the maintenance of a manageable proportion between the scale of immigration and the pace of integration. For most of our history, that task has been relatively straightforward. Even substantial numbers of non-Christian immigrants – Jews, Hindus and Sikhs, for example – could be integrated without serious difficulties. This was demonstrated by the failed attempt of Oswald Mosley’s Fascists to march through the East End of London, in order to intimidate the poorer and more vulnerable elements of the Jewish community. Indeed, Mosley’s British Union of Fascists never won a single seat in the Commons. Their only major impact was on the National Government, which panicked about anti-Semitism and excluded all but a few Jewish refugees from Nazi Germany and Austria. Fearing Arab riots, the British also prevented Jews from settling in Mandate Palestine throughout the period of Nazi persecution and genocide. Even after the Holocaust had ended, ships carrying Jewish survivors landing in Palestine were forced to sail back to a devastated, starving and hostile Europe. These boat people, remember, were classified as ‘illegal immigrants’.
For Christians, this episode ought to give us pause. One of our most ancient orisons, still prayed or sung in Greek, is the Kyrie Eleison – ‘Lord, have mercy’. To the people who taught us the meaning of mercy, however, we showed very little of it.
Of course, the moral choices we face today are very different. The Muslim population, for example, is much larger: a quarter of all primary school children in London are Muslim – a larger proportion in most boroughs than those who identify as white British. Under these circumstances, the question of integration changes: what exactly are minorities supposed to be integrating into? The popular panacea of the Danish Social Democrats – eliminating illegal immigration and preventing the formation of anything that resembles an ethnic ghetto – is incomparably less effective in Britain, given our burgeoning human rights industry and long-standing urban demography. ‘British values’ – tolerance of cultural and religious differences, fair play, ‘live and let live’ – are much more difficult to maintain once majorities are turned into minorities without their consent. Muslims are now the largest and most obviously sectarian bloc in British politics. Some of their self-proclaimed representatives having aggressively asserted themselves in public spaces – the prime example being the Gaza hate marches of the past three years – it is no surprise that other minorities feel threatened and organise themselves, too. The stage is set for civil unrest and sectarian polarisation, a scenario in which Christ’s commandment to love thy neighbour as thyself is all but forgotten.
An example of the mutual recrimination that has replaced reconciliation is the Reform UK policy on reparations for slavery. Last month the UN General Assembly passed a motion declaring that slavery, narrowly defined as ‘the transatlantic slave trade’, was ‘the gravest crime against humanity’, and urging member states to contribute to a reparations fund. Reform then announced punitive measures against any country that demanded reparations from the UK, starting with the denial of all visas to its citizens. They listed 13 states to be treated in this way, all of them Caribbean or African. Among them was Nigeria, some 300,000 of whose nationals live and work in the UK – one of the largest communities resident here and, perhaps not coincidentally, the country in which Kemi Badenoch spent most of her childhood and adolescence. In effect, Nigel Farage is threatening to penalise most of the nations from which black British citizens originated – including his most dangerous political rival. It is only one step from denying visas to forced deportations. Indeed, Reform has already pledged to carry out mass deportations. However we may interpret the biblical injunction to love our neighbour, it cannot possibly be justified to carry out the indiscriminate criminalisation of hundreds of thousands, perhaps millions, of people for no better reason than the actions of a government over which they have no control. If mass deportations were to take place in the UK, it would inevitably open the door to officially sanctioned racial and religious discrimination, potentially on a vast scale, and this country’s reputation for decency, compassion and equality before the law would be squandered.
Across the West, migration remains the most explosive issue in contemporary politics. The closely related questions of how far Islam should be expected to integrate into a predominantly Christian country, and what this means in practice, remain open. A lifetime has elapsed since Winston Churchill presented the site of the Regent’s Park Mosque to British Muslims in gratitude for their service in both world wars. Yet the Christian calling – what one might call the code of the Good Samaritan – remains imperative.
As I write, the case of the Southport killings has resurfaced, after a judge-led inquiry not only found all the responsible agencies to be culpable, but singled out the parents of the 17-year-old murderer for particular censure. Following this finding, parts of the media and some politicians have whipped up a hue and cry against the family, who have gone into hiding. Although there has been no repetition of the riots that erupted after the crime in 2024, the language deployed by Robert Jenrick, in particular, has been incendiary. He has demanded that the parents be deported to Rwanda, the place of the genocide from which they fled more than thirty years ago to seek asylum in Britain. Quite apart from the fact that they have not been convicted of any crime and are thought to have British citizenship, this family has already been punished for any failure to do their ‘moral duty’ with a life sentence of having to come to terms with the crime committed by their son.
Our moral duty as a society is to support the victims of his crime – but also to show compassion towards those who are also compelled to live with its consequences. Their reluctance to hand their disturbed son over to the authorities was a terrible mistake, but the fact that they must now live in secret for fear of violence does not speak well for our society either. And politicians who exploit hostility to migrants to gain popularity are certainly not acting in accordance with the teaching of Jesus Christ, whose name they often invoke. Not only are they disobeying the commandment to love our neighbours as ourselves, but also Jesus’s prior commandment to love God with all our heart, soul and mind. For that is incompatible with taking His name in vain, by weaponising it against the weak and defenceless. To put it bluntly: one cannot defend Christianity by speaking and acting in a tribal, that is an un-Christian, manner. The code of conduct embodied in the parable of the Good Samaritan requires us to treat strangers, immigrants and even (sometimes) enemies as neighbours — that is, to show them respect, dignity, mercy and even love. Such charity must, of course, be entirely voluntary: it cannot be coerced, not even in the name of human rights. Nor is it unconditional: there must be a degree of reciprocity. Kemi Badenoch is right that a privilege, such as indefinite leave to remain, must be earned; citizenship even more so. But once we have offered our neighbours kindness and hospitality, we cannot then withdraw it arbitrarily. As Jonathan Sacks used to say, a nation is not a hotel; it is our home. To make one’s home in a new land, to belong there, demands effort on both sides. Rights are not granted without evidence of commitment; they bring responsibilities and these are not to be taken lightly. But the Christian calling transcends rights, for love fulfils the law.
Back to the last days of Mandate Palestine, when Holocaust survivors were turned away from the promised land by soldiers who saw them simply as ‘illegal immigrants’. Michael Ivens, later founder of Aims of Industry and then serving in the British forces, captured this shameful betrayal in his poem ‘Haifa Bay in The Morning’. He describes his experience as a press officer as a shipload of Jewish refugees arrived, knowing that the British would send them away, yet hoping against hope that they would be rescued by the Haganah (the ‘defence’ militia of the Zionist Yishuv and precursor of today’s Israel Defence Forces). I happen to think that this is a great poem, but regardless of its literary merit, it has a message for us that is timely and perhaps even urgent.
I saw a ship come sailing in,
Sailing in, sailing in,
With a list like a Stormtrooper’s twisted grin
At Haifa Bay in the morning.
The Army boat was waiting there,
(Haganah flashes ‘Take care! Take care!’)
The amiable squaddies all a’stare
Just three miles out in the morning.
And I was there in my little press boat
With one stout Guardsman to keep it afloat
And a man from The Times to keep it afloat
And a blasé photographer yawning.
Their lousy ship they bought from a Greek,
That it ever arrived was a flaming freak
Considering the size of its list and leak
Off Palestine in the morning.
Through shortage of water two girls had died
(Gone their dreams of a Sabra’s bride),
But two young boys jumped over the side
As the troopship moved close in the morning.
They could see the coast of the Holy Land
And the beckoning gleam of Haifa’s sand
And hoped for Haganah to give them a hand
To lose themselves in the morning.
But I was there with my little press launch
Full of zeal with my Guardsman staunch,
And when the two Zionists ceased to float
We hauled them up in our little press boat
And tried to explain they’d come to no harm.
(Both had numbers tattooed on their arms
In a quaint old Belsen warning.)
My Guardsman, a reprobate Irish Mick,
Albeit a lapsed Catholick,
Said, ‘Give the poor buggers a chance to run
And then we’ll go back and face the fun,’
His Paddy’s face white in the morning.
But the immigrant ship was towed to the quay
And the two little Zionists brought in by me;
One old Jew jumped over the side
And kissed the ground and cried and cried;
Another leapt down and split his head
And bled an Hebraic script of red
On the Holy Quay in the morning.
An Army troopship took them away
With swift discretion the very next day
And Haifa wept as they sailed away
To a Cyprus camp in the morning.
Envoi
They all are back in Israel now
And the two young Zionists work at the plough,
And my stalwart drunken Irish Mick
Is a reformed much-married Catholick.
But my mind it goes back to Haifa Bay
And dwells on the words I dared not say
And the sorrowful ship that sailed away
From the Holy Land in the morning.
Daniel Johnson is a British journalist and author who was the founding editor of Standpoint magazine and a former senior editor, editorial writer and columnist for The Times and The Daily Telegraph. Since 2018, he has been founding editor of the online journalism platform TheArticle, as well as being an associate editor of The Critic magazine and commentator for The Daily Mail, The Mail on Sunday and The Daily Telegraph.
Last week we gathered people in policy, business, and public life together in Westminster to think about the current fiscal situation in the UK and specifically the relationship between taxation and enterprise.
We will be holding further events in the autumn. Please subscribe for details.
Tom Clougherty kicked us off by speaking about the rising level of tax needed to fund existing debt and continually increasing spending. For the purposes of this presentation he said he would take the required tax take as a given and focus instead on how it was raised. He pointed out that some taxes are much more efficient than others, because they raise revenue without impacting economic behaviour like investment in the future or decisions to take employment opportunities. He noted that the UK is ranked 32 out of 38 OECD members for tax competitiveness. He emphasised that the poor use of efficient taxes like VAT (where exceptions abound) and an almost uniquely poorly-designed property tax system mean than revenue comes from taxes that cause more economic damage.
Tom argued that while many experts disagree about the level and composition of government spending, they agree about improvements to the tax system and about the general design principles. Despite this, the practical politics is not clear cut and there are difficult questions about to how to get from the status quo to a better system.
Philip Krinks spoke about the broader determinants of a nation’s tax policy. He argued that there were at least six factors. The first was political vision and shared values, including the nation’s understanding of ‘fairness’ and of private property. The second factor was constitutional and legal, particularly which levels of government had tax-raising powers. The third was the chosen political economy, centring since the late 19th century in the UK on choices about state size, welfare provision and public ownership. The fourth was incentives for particular developments, such as the current focus on growth, where Philip agreed with Tom that the tax economics of growth enhancement are widely agreed, including predictability, low marginal rates, broad bases, neutrality, and favouring consumption taxes over levies on work, savings, and investment. A fifth issue, important to confront, was power dynamics, where certain constituencies are in a position to gain preferential treatment by forming electoral coalitions or otherwise influencing policy. The last was technical feasibility, since state capacity, while considerable in the UK, was still limited, not, for example, including a register of land values.
Philip concluded by suggesting a reset in the UK across all these dimensions: a political vision valuing work and enterprise over resentment, constitutional reforms restoring power to citizens and businesses over government bodies, a reduction in state size through welfare and pension reform, and tax reform to reward investment, innovation, and growth.
Naomi Wells spoke about the trends she was seeing in her work advising entrepreneurs impacted by UK taxes. These included those who had built up family businesses in the UK and were concerned by recent changes. In some cases, they were feeling compelled to leave the UK due to the liabilities which would be created when the business passed between generations, in addition to increasing payroll and other taxes and a worsening regulatory environment.
She also spoke about the successful entrepreneurs from overseas who had seriously considered relocating to the UK but been put off by a high and increasing tax burden. On a UK home, overseas buyers of premium property facing a 19 percent marginal stamp duty charge.
Taken together the risk is that policies discourage inbound entrepreneurs and encourage British entrepreneurs to move abroad weakening the economy and longer run fiscal situation.
The talks were followed by a lively group discussion, chaired by Joanna Moriarty, which continued over drinks.
We will be holding further events in the autumn. Please subscribe for details.
Developers of artificial intelligence and tech futurists are prone to foretelling the devastation of the labour market at the hands of AI. Predictions regarding the extent and speed of the decline in the demand for human labour vary, with some suggesting that half of white collar jobs will be lost to automation in a painful readjustment and others contending that almost all human labour will be replaced by technology in the next 20 years. Whether one views such developments as catastrophic or the beginning of an era of efficiency and abundance, there are clearly implications for public policy, such as the effects on governments’ ability to secure tax revenues.
It seems unlikely that all human labour could be replaced by machines. It is hard to imagine having a robot plumber visit to repair a leak or cut one’s hair, and indeed in the short run greater use of AI appears to be driving a spike in demand for blue collar labour, but beyond this, there are good economic arguments for questioning the idea that the human being is bound to go the way of the horse, as this interesting article by Brian Albrecht argues.
However, if we take seriously the claim that all, or almost all, or even most human labour is likely to vanish, then some proposal is needed for addressing the issue of how, with the demise of wages, human beings are to secure the means of subsistence. One suggestion is that our needs will be met by some kind of universal basic income provided by the state, funded in part by levies on the profits of AI and tech companies.
There would be very real practical considerations to deal with under such an arrangement: How would UBI be adjusted to take account of changes in the price level or inflationary pressures? If a tech firm had a ‘bad year’, what would this mean for people’s income? How could one fairly take account of differing standards of living in the distribution of universal basic income? Some would doubtless be better off than they currently are but others would most likely see a significant decline in their standard of living. Would their higher living costs be borne by the state – and would this be just?
Questions of Value, Questions of Dignity
There are important moral questions or questions of value to consider, too – questions which perhaps need to be answered before the more practical considerations can be addressed. A world without work (or largely divested of many kinds of human work at least) bears some comparison with the Roman latifundia or the vast plantations of the American south prior to the civil war, where a small number of vastly wealthy individuals owned huge estates while others existed in poverty or servitude.
It might be thought that these historical analogies could be developed to suggest that AI is not to be feared, but welcomed. Analysed over time, they are examples which illustrate the dynamism of socio-economic development: those who worked on those estates were first liberated from slavery and the work done by waged employees who enjoyed a degree of economic freedom. With the advent of technological development much of that work was automated, but the result was not massive, permanent unemployment; rather, new jobs were created in its place. However it could be argued – and indeed is being argued – that this time the latter mechanism will not apply, given the broad applicability of AI technologies across the economy.
If this prediction is accepted, then in a future scenario in which human labour has all but vanished, there remains of course a further, important difference: instead of large sections of society being enslaved by an aristocratic class, it is machines that are exploited for broader societal gain (and the much greater wealth of a few). Nevertheless, under a system in which millions depend for their basic income on a class of extremely wealthy elites whose operations are taxed by the state, we are obliged to ask questions about human dignity.
While a life of leisure funded by the functioning of AI bots might be appealing, many are likely to experience such an existence as stultifying or lacking in purpose. Some need to work, to feel that they are making their way in life, to thrive in a particular setting involving dynamism and pressure. Some require competition and the many social and individual goods that it brings, such as improved performance and personal excellence (as discussed in a recent post here by Ernie Graham). Without such a spur to action, many individuals are likely to feel their sense of purpose waning.
This might not be a consequence for all but it is related to a much wider point about human dignity and certain moral concepts that we take for granted. Where so many people are simply provided with their means of existence without the spur of economic necessity, what becomes of entrepreneurship, innovation and creativity? More widely, even for those that work in jobs they find tedious purely to earn a living, there are questions about freedom and responsibility. Where the individual works to secure her living, there is a greater degree of freedom than otherwise. Each pound or dollar secured by the individual is a mark of independence, of personal sovereignty – as that which the individual has and may by right keep as her own, removes her from the power of the state and dependence on it. The independence – whether from a feudal baron or a tech baron – won by securing property by one’s own endeavours confers liberty and with this comes responsibility. Will both be eroded in a world of greater dependence on the activity of tech companies and the largesse of government?
Being engaged in gainful activity – earning a living and making one’s way in life – brings a form of dignity. This is reflected in social thought of various kinds. According to Christian teaching, part of humanity’s purpose is to work: man is made in God’s image (Genesis 1:27) and God himself undertakes the work of creation (Genesis 1:1). Moreover, God instructs man to work (Genesis 2:15) – and Jesus himself worked (Mark 6:3). The idea that work constitutes part of the dignity of humanity is reflected in the papal encyclical Laborem Exercens, in which Pope John Paul II writes, ‘man, created in the image of God, shares by his work in the activity of the Creator’ and ‘man’s life is built up every day from work, from work it derives its specific dignity’. And if, relatedly, as he continues, ‘at the same time work contains the unceasing measure of human toil and suffering’, that still leaves work as part of the definition of the human conditon. In Laudato Si’ Pope Francis states, ‘Work is a necessity, part of the meaning of life on this earth, a path to growth, human development and personal fulfilment.’ Beyond Christian thought, the perspective of virtue ethics also lends itself to the idea that work is ennobling. Where virtues are taken to be excellences internal to specific types of activity, as in the thought of Alasdair MacIntyre, it is clear that work is a site of human fulfilment and flourishing. Socialist thinking also recognises the dignity of work. Indeed, part of Marx’s critique of capitalism was that in its dehumanising and exploitation of the worker, it alienates him from what renders work meaningful and strips work of its dignity.
Perhaps lives of near universal leisure funded via the taxation of the activities of AI companies will be abundant, meaningful and purposeful. After all, there is more to life than work and the world abounds with enriching activities, meaningful relationships and worthwhile experiences. Where work vanishes, however, that which provides a spur to much that is best in us is also at risk. Where the meeting of our needs by our own efforts goes into decline, there are important questions about our independence, our liberty, our sense of desert and self-worth, and above all our dignity. When receiving our basic income, will we still refer to ourselves as ‘getting paid’?
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The UK faces compounding fiscal pressures: a swelling adult social care budget, rising debt-servicing costs, and a persistent temptation to raise revenue in ways that erode the very economic activity on which public spending ultimately depends. How should the tax system be reformed to encourage enterprise rather than discourage it?
On 21 May, CEME welcomed Tom Clougherty — a leading authority on UK tax reform, formerly Executive Director of the Institute of Economic Affairs and Head of Tax at the Centre for Policy Studies — to Westminster to set out the case. Naomi Wells, Partner in the Tax practice at Azets, and CEME’s Director Philip Krinks responded.
Location: One Great George Street, Westminster, SW1P 3AA.
Time: The event begins at 6:45pm with the talks from 7:00pm, followed by a drinks reception.
Please RSVP to let us know whether you are able to join us by emailing office@theceme.org
Entrepreneurship is a calling or vocation. It is, though, quite different from management. All aspects of business, whether one is in management, employment or an investor should be conducted ethically, but the characteristics and virtues demanded of entrepreneurs are quite specific – and rarely discussed.
Entrepreneurship requires alertness to opportunities, but it also involves a leap in the dark: a leap into the genuinely unknowable. Entrepreneurship also often involves radical uncertainty where, however much analysis we do, we cannot predict the outcome – or even quantify the risks that are faced.
Jack Cohen, the founder of Tesco, started as a market stallholder and even invested his wedding present in his then-micro business. He was an entrepreneur, and his actions gave rise to huge consequences that he could not have predicted.
Entrepreneurs also have to be prepared for failure: most businesses do fail. This requires a certain strength of character and detachment from material things. As the economists Alchian and Allen note:
Fortune does not hand down information and guidance to discover improved techniques of production and distribution of better products. It’s obtained by investing in risky exploration and experimentation with one’s own wealth. Some experiments fail, perhaps most fail. The failures disappear with little publicity.
Entrepreneurs, therefore, need a certain detachment from material things if they are going to take risks. Entrepreneurs could choose to do nothing, and many could choose not to start a new venture whilst carrying on living a life of considerable material comfort. The act of entrepreneurship requires people to move away from the familiar and risk their secure life and their material comforts. Thomas Aquinas comments that people would not carry out what he describes as works of magnificence (which could include, but is certainly not limited to, establishing a business) if they had not moderated their love for money. Otherwise, they would not have undertaken the financial risk – they would just have accumulated interest on their fortune.
The first Pope to use the word ‘entrepreneur’ in a public statement was probably Pope Pius XII. He did not write a social encyclical, but he produced broadcasts and speeches which demonstrated an advanced understanding of economics, and which were often related to business practice, including entrepreneurship. For example, he said in an address to the First National Congress of Small Industry in January 1956: ‘Among the motives that justified the holding of your convention, you have given the first place to “a vindication of the indispensable functions of the private entrepreneur”.’
And, in an address to the Third International Congress on the Distribution of Food Products in June of the same year, he noted some of the attributes and virtues that entrepreneurs needed: ‘they should rid themselves of prejudices that hinder the establishment of more economical methods and be open-minded with a taste for the calculated risk.’
As well as mentioning the characteristics of entrepreneurs, as discussed above, Pope Pius XII also mentioned, in his address to the Third International Congress on the Distribution of Food Products in June 1956, some of the virtues that entrepreneurs needed:
Men must [have]…solicitude for the common good, even if individual interests must suffer a little at first, and perfect honesty: all these qualities of a good merchant have now, more than ever, a rightful claim on you, and are clearly prime factors of success.
Adam Smith made a similar point, in fact. You may be able to make some quick money if you are dishonest. But, in general, if you are to build a lasting business, you need to develop trusted relationships with employees, suppliers, financiers, and so on.
Pope John Paul II certainly had a good understanding of the distinct role of the entrepreneur. In his encyclical, Centesimus annus, he wrote about entrepreneurship and the values and virtues of the entrepreneur. He mentioned the need for co-operation; a common goal; the need to organise properly; the willingness to take risks; discipline; diligence; industriousness; prudence in ensuring that the risks are reasonable; reliability and fidelity in personal relationships; courage in taking difficult decisions.
The Vatican document ‘The Vocation of the Business Leader’ goes further and, quoting Pope Pius XI’s social encyclical, Quadragesimo Anno, it is argued that an entrepreneur’s first aim should be to produce a good product or service and only secondly consider gain: the entrepreneur should produce true goods by good means (44).
We can go still further than this. The role of the entrepreneur is to produce goods or services by good means whilst making a return for the investors – which will include the entrepreneur himself.
If the entrepreneur does not make a return, he is running a charity, not a business. It is not intrinsically problematic for a business to make a return – after all, the profits from businesses pay pensions, payouts on insurance policies, allow people to save, and so on. But a business should make a profit through moral means.
Radich (2024), in his article, ‘Toward a Thomistic Account of the Virtues of the Entrepreneur: Moral, Intellectual, and Theological Strengths for Flourishing’, Journal of Markets and Morality 27(1) has, perhaps, the most comprehensive account of the virtues of the entrepreneur. He breaks down the cardinal virtues into constituent parts. He suggests that particular aspects of prudence are important for the entrepreneur. Entrepreneurs need docility (the ability to learn from others, which helps them make fewer mistakes and make more rapid judgements); they need providentia, by which the entrepreneur can see ahead; and they need circumspection, which requires them to be attentive to their surroundings.
These are all sub virtues of the virtue of prudence, and they can easily be related to the economic analysis above which emphasised the importance of, for example, alertness and being able to envisage the future as shaped by entrepreneurial activity.
The sub virtues of the virtue of fortitude involve overcoming challenges through effort and by taking financial risks in order to do great things.
Temperance is also important. Entrepreneurs may come across challenges that might endure over long periods of time, so patience is necessary. Entrepreneurs are not rash gamblers. If they are to be successful, they must restrain their impulses.
Interestingly, Radich also cites a study by researchers at Baylor university which suggested that entrepreneurs prayed more than the average. Radich speculated that this might be because they are aware of their dependence on others and, hence, upon the divine, and also that they are aware of their inability to control the circumstances that surround them.
Indeed, Pope Francis referenced the virtue of courage in entrepreneurship in an address at an audience for the Italian Family Business Association:
In your case, you are characterized by the delicate balance between family and work, which is expressed in entrepreneurial courage and responsibility. It is good, it is constructive when courage and responsibility go together. Action that comes from the heart is bold, it does not retreat into itself, but knows how to look far ahead; and responsibility, then, is the secret of business….
Indeed, there was a ‘Jubilee for Entrepreneurs’ in the Catholic Church’s 2025 jubilee year.
The concept of entrepreneurship – or certainly, its attributes – should not be thought of as being limited to the field of business. The characteristics of entrepreneurship apply in many other human activities. For example, we could imagine doing the following in a Church, civil society or public service context:
All these require the characteristics of entrepreneurs that we have described above such as:
This link between entrepreneurship and the mission of the Church is part of a longer research project that I am pursuing with CEME over the coming months.
IEA Food for Thought with Prof. Philip Booth (RSVP with the IEA)
The Government Debt Crisis – not just an economic issue
12:30-13:00: Sandwich lunch
13:00-14:00: Presentation and Discussion
About the Discussion
Philip Booth will describe how government debt is creating a looming economic and social crisis. This is especially so when we also consider demographic developments in western and in Asian countries. Although it is sometimes suggested that we have had higher levels of debt before (for example after wartime), there were huge costs from reducing debt in those circumstances and the evidence suggests that managing government debt in future generations will be even more difficult. This is not just an economic problem. Historical experience suggests that high levels of government debt can lead to the breakdown of civil order, violence and even war as well as dissatisfaction with the process of government itself: perhaps we are already beginning to see those things happening today. Indeed, there are examples, including one close to home, where government debt has led to countries losing their sovereignty entirely.
About the Speaker
Philip Booth is Academic Advisor and Senior Research Fellow at the Centre for Enterprise, Markets and Ethics. He is also professor of Catholic Social Thought and Public Policy at St. Mary’s University, Twickenhamand Director of Policy and Research at the Catholic Bishops’ Conference of England and Wales.
Previously, Philip was academic and research director at the Institute of Economic Affairs from 2002 to 2016. He has worked for the Bank of England and as associate dean of Bayes (formerly Cass) Business School. He held the positions of Director of Research and Public Engagement; Dean of the Faculty of Education, Humanities and Social Sciences; and Director of Catholic Mission at St. Mary’s.
Philip has written widely on investment, finance, social insurance, and pensions, as well as on the relationship between Catholic social teaching and economics. He curates the website Catholic Social Thought.
Some years ago CEME published a fascinating report called God and Competition by Edward Carter. This notes that competition is often viewed with some suspicion in Christian thinking. It is typically treated as something to be restrained or carefully managed. While there is some truth in that, it does not go far enough. Competition is not merely permissible; when rightly ordered it is positively good and, in many areas of life, necessary for human flourishing.
At a basic level, competition reflects the reality that human abilities are not uniform. Across every sphere of life – intellectual, physical, creative, relational – people display different levels and types of ability. This is not simply the result of a fallen world but appears to be part of the intentional ordering of creation. Scripture itself assumes this pattern. In the Parable of the Talents, resources are given ‘each according to his ability’. Unequal gifts, therefore, are not a problem to be removed, but a reality to be recognised and worked with.
And here it is important to go a step deeper. If we are thinking in a properly Christian way, shaped by the doctrine of the Trinity, we should not confuse equality with uniformity. The Father, Son, and Spirit are fully equal in being, yet distinct in person. Equality does not mean sameness. In fact, the beauty of the Trinity lies precisely in unity without flattening difference.
That has profound implications for how we think about human life. The instinct to eliminate competition often comes from a deeper assumption – that fairness requires sameness, and that differences in ability are somehow problematic. But that instinct reflects a misunderstanding. A desire for uniformity may make sense in a worldview where persons are interchangeable, but it does not sit comfortably within a Trinitarian vision of reality. If difference is not only permitted but intrinsic to ultimate reality, then it should not surprise us that human life is marked by variety, distinction and differing levels of ability.
If that is right, then competition plays an important role in allowing those differences to be expressed and recognised. In any complex society, there needs to be a way of discovering who is best able to solve problems, lead organisations, innovate or create. Competition provides that framework. It allows people to strive for excellence and, in doing so, makes it clearer where real strengths lie.
This connects directly to stewardship. If individuals are entrusted with particular abilities, then they are called to develop and use them well. But stewardship is not just a private matter. Gifts need to be exercised in real situations, often alongside others pursuing similar goals. Competition creates the conditions in which those abilities are properly tested and sharpened. It pushes people beyond what they might otherwise settle for and helps prevent complacency.
You can see this very clearly in practice. In business, competition tends to lead to better products, better service and more innovation, because organisations are constantly being tested against one another. In the arts, whether music, writing or visual work, the presence of others producing high-quality work raises both ambition and output. And in sport, of course, without competition, performance simply would not reach the same level. In each case, the presence of others striving for the same goal raises the standard for everyone involved.
By contrast, attempts to minimise or remove competition often have unintended consequences. A system that tries to flatten differences or avoid comparison altogether can end up suppressing excellence rather than promoting fairness. When there is little incentive to strive, or when outstanding performance is neither recognised nor required, standards tend to drift downward. Exceptional ability can be discouraged, not deliberately, but because there is no clear place for it to be expressed.
Yet excellence, properly understood, is not just a private good; it benefits the wider community. When individuals or organisations perform at a high level, the effects extend well beyond themselves. In medicine, breakthroughs improve lives. In business, better services benefit customers. In the arts, exceptional creativity expands what others think is possible. And in sport, elite performance raises the standard for everyone coming through behind. Competition, by encouraging people to reach the limits of their ability, plays a key role in that process.
This also helps to reframe a common concern. The real moral danger here is not competition itself, but envy. Competition can expose unhealthy attitudes, but those attitudes are not caused by competition; they come from within. Envy resents the success of others and wants to diminish it. Healthy competition, by contrast, recognises and even delights in excellence. It allows one person’s success to become something that others can learn from and aspire to.
In that sense, competition can foster a culture of aspiration rather than rivalry in the negative sense. The success of others becomes something to build on rather than something to resist. Properly understood, competition does not undermine community; it can strengthen it, as each person’s contribution helps raise the level at which everyone operates.
Of course, competition does need to be rightly ordered. Like any powerful dynamic, it can be distorted. When detached from integrity, it can lead to dishonesty, exploitation, or an unhealthy focus on status. But these are not arguments against competition itself. They are arguments for ensuring that it operates within clear ethical boundaries – marked by fairness, honesty, and respect for others.
When those boundaries are in place, competition also plays a formative role in shaping character. It tests how people respond to success and failure, to pressure and comparison. It provides opportunities to grow in perseverance, humility, integrity and respect for others. In that sense, it contributes not just to what people achieve, but to who they become.
Competition, then, is not something to be apologised for or merely contained. When rightly understood and properly ordered, it reflects a deeper truth about reality itself: that difference is not a threat to equality, but part of its expression. And so, far from being a problem to solve, competition is one of the primary means by which human beings are stretched to use their gifts fully and through which both individual excellence and shared flourishing are brought into view.
This is a repost of an article originally published on the Catholic Social Teaching blog of St Mary’s University (https://catholicsocialthought.org.uk/).
Discussion of the term ‘social justice’ generates quite a bit of heat and some confusion. This probably arises because of the way in which, in secular circles, ‘social justice’ has become almost synonymous with justice in relation to how incomes and wealth are distributed. This particular concern in Catholic social teaching falls under the conceptually distinct (though not entirely practically distinct) domain of distributive justice – that is, the set of criteria by which we determine how the goods of this world should be distributed between people.
Social justice is about how our actions promote the conditions for the achievement of the common good. The object of social justice is society as a whole. The common good, in turn, represents ‘the sum of those conditions of the social life whereby men, families and associations more adequately and readily may attain their own perfection.’ Thus, we promote social justice when we promote the conditions necessary for all to reach perfection or fulfilment, and we promote injustice when we undermine these conditions for some or for all.
For the common good of the whole of society (such as the whole country) to be achieved, it must be achieved for communities within society. For example, there are particular features of the common good that relate to schools – such as not promoting an atmosphere of fear amongst children. While this is the responsibility of the school, the common good of the wider society depends on the promotion of the common good within these local environments, such as schools. Different associations within society have their own common good, and the common good of all associations within society contributes to the common good of the country as a whole.
Even if we struggle to define social justice, most Catholics know it when they see it. We correctly describe a whole range of activities as ‘social justice’ activities (such as the way we treat migrants and refugees, how we support those leaving prison and victims of crime, and how we treat those who have been trafficked).
It is also important to note that addressing offences against social justice is likely to affect the distribution of income and wealth, perhaps greatly (addressing corruption, for example) – social and distributive justice are related even if conceptually distinct.
Indeed, in the first papal encyclical to mention the idea of social justice by that name (Quadragesimo anno), a strong link was made between social justice and the material position of the working classes. Without distributive justice we will not have social justice. If some do not have the basic goods they need to flourish, society will be beset by misery, envy and conflict. In addition, some will lack the material things they need for a dignified life and, if some people lack these things, society as a whole is scarred.
In Catholic teaching, the advancement of both distributive justice and social justice is the responsibility of each and every member and institution in society, starting with the family, and we can illustrate this using the Parable of the Prodigal Son. While the deeper meaning of the parable concerns God’s justice and mercy and the requirement not to be self-righteous, the depiction of the social and economic relations between the family members offers an interesting perspective on distributive and social justice.
The parable begins with the younger son asking for his share of his father’s wealth. His father gave him that share. It would appear that distributive justice was achieved – the younger son got no more and no less than was due to him. However, he then went off and wasted it on a life of debauchery. Although he led a terrible life, there was no obvious offence against distributive justice: it was his inheritance to waste. He then suffered greatly, living amongst the dirtiest animals. It may seem harsh, but many people would think that his parlous situation also met the criteria for distributive justice. He had been a rich young man and wasted his money; did he deserve more than to live in poverty?
He then returned to the father, who welcomed him and held a party to celebrate his return. The dutiful elder son, who had never left home, was greatly upset at the apparent injustice of rewarding disobedience. The father took the trouble to explain that the elder son would get his half of the fortune too: ‘My son,’ the father said, ‘you are always with me, and everything I have is yours.’ In other words, the father is explaining that strict distributive justice has been achieved. As far as the father is concerned, the relationships between the individuals within the family, at least in relation to the distribution of property, were not damaged.
But what about the family as a miniature society? What about the common good of the family?
Importantly, the common good cannot be distributed – this alone suggests an important distinction between distributive and social justice. If a business partnership exists it will have assets in which partners have a share. Hopefully, the business will also thrive because of bonds of trust and other forms of goodwill between the partners; perhaps the partners will have a similar, praiseworthy moral outlook towards each other too – these are part of the conditions that promote the common good within the business. And maybe the business has excellent personal relationships of trust with other commercial partners. If the business is dissolved, distributive justice is done if each takes his or her share of the assets. However, the members cannot take away their share of the common bonds and moral outlook that have been necessary to create a thriving business: the common good cannot be distributed. However, I can act to promote, or destroy, the common good of the business. Interestingly, in accounting terms, the ‘goodwill’ of the business is that part of the value of the business over and above the value of the assets. However, the goodwill only exists if the business is maintained in some form. You could describe goodwill as the ‘common good premium’.
Returning to the parable, while distributive justice seems to be achieved, the common good and social justice within the family are not restored – though much would depend on the behaviour of the two sons as the story developed beyond the narrative in the Gospels.
Whilst the younger son was away, there were clearly rumours about his behaviour. The younger son promoted waste and debauchery in wider society. Within the family, he created fracture, disharmony and, no doubt, caused his parents to be greatly concerned in a way which could have eaten away at them, mentally and spiritually. The younger son destroyed the conditions necessary for the common good within the family as well as negatively impacting on the common good of society through his collusion in a culture of sin. His actions led the elder son to be resentful on his return. That resentment is, in itself, a problem and a barrier to restoring social justice and the common good within the family. Perhaps the younger son was in despair at the elder son’s resentment, as he had done what he could to make amends on his return. The behaviour of the elder son may have made the father despair too. The conditions necessary for the family to have harmonious relationships with each other and with God continued to be undermined. The family was potentially riven with disunity and, disharmony, leaving their relationships fractured and the conditions for the common good in their small family community, and by extension the wider community, sorely absent. Social justice and the common good were restored in this case by forgiveness, understanding, tolerance and a real desire for each family member to contribute to harmonious relationships within the family.
If the common good of society as a whole is to be achieved, then the common good of its constitutive elements must be achieved too – for example, in families, schools, communities, associations and business. We each have a responsibility to promote the common good and social justice in all the institutions with which we are connected – and we all belong to the nation as a whole, of course. Just as the common good of the country cannot be achieved without the common good of its elements being achieved, the government of the country has a responsibility to ensure that certain conditions exist that support the common good of families, schools and businesses. Distributive justice is important in any country, society or association. But, as we see from family relationships, work relationships and elsewhere, there is so much more that we need for a happy and fulfilled life: we also need social justice.
Image: The Prodigal’s Return by Edward Poynter
