Social Capital

Once upon a time, the Church was the centre of everything – the town hall, the welfare office, the school, the pub (if you squint a bit), and the place where you got your dose of existential terror on a Sunday morning. It held a monopoly on social cohesion, binding communities together with the dual threats of hellfire and Mrs. Miggins' disapproving glare. But now? The congregations are dwindling, the clergy are either spread too thin or embroiled in scandals, and belief in the more fantastical elements – burning bushes, walking on water, and that time the Almighty got frisky with a virgin – is at an all-time low. Meanwhile, the number of Bishops is increasing faster than vicars, adding to the sense that the institution is top-heavy and disconnected from the communities it is supposed to serve. And yet, for all that, the Church still has something to offer: social capital.

Let’s be clear – you don’t need to believe in a bearded sky wizard or an afterlife filled with harps and questionable fashion choices to acknowledge that the Church, at its best, has long provided a social glue that modern society sorely lacks. When the welfare state is systematically dismantled, when libraries and youth centres are shuttered, and when people increasingly struggle to find a sense of belonging beyond their phone screens, the Church remains one of the few institutions offering a semblance of community. It runs food banks, shelters, support groups, and countless other initiatives that, in a functioning society, should be handled by the state – but aren’t.

It’s not about the supernatural anymore. It’s about the natural – the human need for connection, structure, and, dare I say it, a little bit of meaning. Strip away the dogma, the absurd theological contortions, and what you’re left with is something profoundly practical: a local institution that brings people together, offers a helping hand, and provides continuity in an increasingly fragmented world. Even the most hardened atheist must concede that a warm meal, a listening ear, and a sense of belonging are all good things, regardless of whether they come with a side order of hymns.

The Church, if it has a future, would do well to lean into this role – to embrace its function as a provider of social infrastructure rather than a purveyor of miracles. The insistence on adherence to ancient, physics-defying beliefs is, frankly, the anchor dragging it down. If it could reposition itself as a broad church in the truest sense – a place for community rather than conversion – it might just survive the slow, inevitable death of religious faith in the West. A Church where you can turn up for companionship without needing to pretend you buy into virgin births and resurrection would be an invaluable institution.

In a world where governments are ever keener to relinquish their duty of care, perhaps it’s time for the Church to own its role as a bastion of social capital, rather than a crumbling citadel of outdated doctrine. If it can shed its supernatural baggage and focus on the tangible, the practical, and the communal, then perhaps – just perhaps – it has a future. Not as an ark for the faithful, but as a lifeboat for the lonely, the struggling, and the left behind. And if that means sitting through the occasional sermon? Well, worse deals have been struck in the pursuit of a decent cup of tea and a biscuit.