THE BENIGN-INDIFFERENCE RULE
And the key word in his lament is 'tacit'. We are not a nation of explicit, unequivocal atheists. Nor are we agnostics. Both of these imply a degree of interest in whether or not there is a deity - enough either to reject or question the notion. Most English people are just not much bothered about it.
In opinion polls, about 60 per cent of the population answer 'yes' when asked if they believe in God,63 but Dr Carey is right not to take this response at face value. When I asked people about it, I found that many of them answered 'yes' because they:
* are 'not particularly religious but sort of believe in Something';
* are vaguely willing to accept that there might be a God, so saying 'no' would be a bit too emphatic;
* would quite like to think that there is a God, even though on the whole it seems rather unlikely;
* don't really know but might as well give Him the benefit of the doubt;
* haven't really thought about it much to be honest, but yeah, sure, whatever.
One woman told me: 'Well, I'd ticked "Christian" on the first page, in the sense that I suppose I'm sort of Christian as opposed to Muslim or Hindu or something, so then I thought I'd better tick God as well - otherwise I'd look a bit inconsistent'.
The clever researchers at MORI have recently started asking their 'religion' questions in a way that is better suited to the woolly beliefs and noncommittal attitudes of the English. They now offer the following options:
'I am a practising member of an organised religion': only 18 per cent of us tick this one, and that includes all the Muslims, Hindus, Sikhs and so on, who really are practising.
'I am a non-practising member of an organised religion': a bit like ticking the 'C of E' box, then. 25 per cent of us go for this undemanding option.
'I am spiritually inclined but don't really 'belong' to an organised religion': vague enough to appeal to 24 per cent of us - which presumably covers some of the 31 per cent who believe in astrology, the 38 per cent who believe in ghosts, the 42 per cent who believe in telepathy, the 40 per cent who believe in guardian angels, etc., etc.
'I am agnostic (not sure if there's a God)': requires too much thought, only 14 per cent
'I am atheist (convinced there is no God)': ditto, and too decisive, only 12 per cent
'None of these': well, they'd covered pretty much every possibility, just 7 per cent
'Don't know': with so many ambivalent, evasive options on offer, it would be churlish not to choose one, only 1 per cent
So although only 12 per cent, at the last count, will go so far as to call themselves atheists, I think that the former Archbishop's notion of a prevailing 'tacit atheism' among the English is fairly accurate. If we were real atheists, he and his Church would have something to get their teeth into, someone to argue with. As it is, we just don't care enough.
We are not only indifferent but, worse (from the Church's point of view), we are politely indifferent, tolerantly indifferent, benignly indifferent. We have no actual objection to God. If pushed, we even accept that He might exist - or that Something might exist, and we might as well call it God, if only for the sake of peace and quiet. God is all very well, in His place, which is the church. When we are in His house - at weddings and funerals - we make all the right polite noises, as one does in people's houses, although we find the earnestness of it all faintly ridiculous and a bit uncomfortable. Otherwise, He impinges very little on our lives or our thoughts. Other people are very welcome to worship Him if they choose - it's a free country - but this is a private matter, and they should keep it to themselves and not bore or embarrass the rest of us by making an unnecessary fuss about it. (There is nothing the English hate more than a fuss.)
In many other countries - America, for example - politicians and other prominent public figures feel obliged to demonstrate their devoutness and invoke their deity at every opportunity. Here, they must do the exact opposite. Even to mention one's faith would be very bad form. Our current Prime Minister is known to be a devout Christian, an affliction we tolerate in our usual grudgingly courteous fashion, but only because he has the good sense to keep extremely quiet about it - and is apparently under strict instructions from his spin-doctors never to use 'the G-word'. Despite this precaution, he is caricatured in Private Eye as a pompous and self-righteous country vicar, and his speeches and pronouncements are scrutinised for any sign of unseemly piety, the slightest hint of which is immediately pounced upon and ridiculed. (Here it is worth reminding ourselves again that satire is what the English have instead of revolutions and uprisings.)
Our benign indifference remains benign only so long as the religious, of any persuasion, stay in their place and refrain from discomforting the non-practising, spiritually neutral majority with embarrassing or tedious displays of religious zeal. And any use of 'the G-word', unless obviously ironic or just a figure of speech (God forbid, God knows, Godforsaken, etc.) counts as such an improper display. Earnestness of any kind makes us squirm; religious earnestness makes us deeply suspicious and decidedly twitchy.
HATCHINGS, MATCHINGS AND DISPATCHINGS
So much for religion. But what about those rites of passage that still often take place in churches, or involve vaguely religious ceremonies of some sort, if only by default or for the sake of convenience? The term 'rites de passage' was coined in 1908 by the anthropologist Arnold van Gennep, who defined them as 'rites which accompany every change of place, state, social position and age'. Van Gennep had noticed that while all animals are born, reach maturity, reproduce and die, only humans seem to feel the need to make an almighty song-and-dance over each of these life-cycle transitions - and quite a few calendrical ones as well64 - surrounding them with elaborate rituals and investing every biological and seasonal change with deep social significance. Other animals also struggle for dominance and status within their herd or other social group, and form special bonds and alliances with selected peers. Again, humans make a big production number out of such matters, marking every rise in rank or affiliation to a sub-group with yet more rites and rituals and ceremonies.
There is nothing peculiarly English, then, about rites of passage. Every human society has these transitional rituals, and although the details and emphasis vary from one culture to another, van Gennep also showed that these rites always have roughly the same basic structure, involving three stages or elements: separation (pre-liminal), marginality/transition (liminal) and re-incorporation (post-liminal).
Even in their details and emphasis, most English rites of passage are broadly similar to those of many other modern Western cultures: our babies are christened in white and have godparents; our brides also wear white and have bridesmaids and honeymoons; we wear black at funerals; we exchange gifts at Christmas - and so on. There is not much about the basic formula and sequence of events at, say, a typical English wedding or funeral that would seem particularly strange or unfamiliar to an American, Australian or Western European visitor.
Ambivalence Rules
So what, if anything, is distinctively English about English rites of passage? What, if anything, might seem odd or different to a visitor or immigrant from even a closely related modern Western culture? I started by taking the rather obvious step of asking a few of them. 'It's not the customs or traditions,' said a perceptive American informant, who had herself participated in weddings (one as bride, one as mother-of) on both sides of the Atlantic. 'You're right, they're pretty much the same. It's more the attitude people have, something about their whole manner. It's hard to describe, but the English just don't seem to participate fully in a wedding the way we do - they always seem a bit, I don't know, a bit detached, kind of cynical but awkward at the same time - just not really into it, somehow.' Another transatlantic informant told me, 'I'd always thought the English were supposed to be good at ritual - you know, pomp and ceremony and all that. And you are: there's no-one better when it comes to the really big public occasion - royal weddings, state funerals, that kind of thing; but when you go to ordinary private weddings and so on everyone just seems so... uncomfortable and stiff and stilted. Or they get completely drunk and stupid. There doesn't seem to be much in between'.