The importance of ritual
There is a lot of pomp and circumstance at the moment, but it can be important as a symbol and a shorthand
The death of Her late Majesty Queen Elizabeth II last week has ushered in a period of extraordinary and in many cases half-forgotten ceremonial. The Accession Council on Saturday was, for the first time, televised, a swift decision but a brilliant one: although the proceedings were actually rather humdrum, seeing the workings of the monarchy at such close quarters was fascinating and affecting. Nor, surprisingly, did it appeal only to flummery nerds like me who can spot Garter King of Arms or the Earl Marshal at 50 paces. I had friends who are not stereotypical arch-monarchists tell me that they found the solemn but simple rituals extremely moving. In particular, Penny Mordaunt MP, the new Lord President of the Council, attracted rave reviews for her sombre and dignified but utterly assured stewardship of the event.
On Monday we saw a service of thanksgiving at the High Kirk of St Giles in Edinburgh, emphasising the Scottish dimension of the late queen’s reign: the grands fromages of the Scottish establishment were out in force, with a sermon from the Moderator of the General Assembly of the Church of Scotland, Dr Iain Greenshields, and a reading from the First Minister, Nicola Sturgeon MSP. There followed a vigil by the queen’s coffin and the beginning of the public homage as men and women streamed past in silent queues.
Before the ceremonies in Edinburgh, the King had received humble addresses from the speakers of both Houses of Parliament in Westminster Hall, the oldest and largest space in the building, after which he addressed MPs and peers in a moving address in which he described Parliament as “the living and breathing instrument of our democracy” and invoked Shakespeare when he called his mother “a pattern to all princes living”. The coffin will travel from Edinburgh to London and will lie in state in Westminster Hall from Wednesday until the late queen’s funeral on Monday. The crowds wishing to see it are expected to be unprecedentedly huge and waiting times of 30 hours are already being discussed.
This rich pattern of pomp was only to be expected. It is something which the British do very well, and which other countries admire at least on an aesthetic level. Our institutions are hedged about by an antiquity which very few other polities can muster, and while some traditions are not as old as they seem, and we are very good at weaving the new into the fabric of the old almost seamlessly, we are operating a system many of the working parts of which date from the Middle Ages or even earlier.
There is a certain frame of mind—which I respect but do not share—which despairs at this kind of show. It is regarded as old-fashioned, hierarchical and hidebound, supposedly preventing us from embracing the full benefits of a modern democratic. nation. It is a mindset dominated by impatience: why must these elaborate ceremonies be carried out and the nation brought almost to a standstill when they are empty relics of a past, and worse, time?
I disagree. I admit to an unquenchable fondness for the ceremonial: I have participated in many of these rites myself, and I was a student at an ancient university which itself embraced pomp very willingly. In many cases, however, I think that ritual plays an important role even in our modern society. It is a shorthand and an illustration of many important facets of our constitutional framework, and maintains the remembrance of these facets concisely, neatly and eloquently.
Let me present some examples. One part of the Accession Council was the swearing by King Charles of an oath to protect the independence of the Church of Scotland. (Pledges concerning the Church of England, of which he is supreme governor, wait until the coronation, probably next summer.) In front of his privy counsellors and great officers of state, the King swore thus:
I, Charles the Third, by the Grace of God of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland and of my other Realms and Territories, King, Defender of the Faith, do faithfully promise and swear that I shall inviolably maintain and preserve the Settlement of the true Protestant Religion as established by the Laws made in Scotland in prosecution of the Claim of Right and particularly by an Act intituled 'An Act for securing the Protestant Religion and Presbyterian Church Government' and by the Acts passed in the Parliament of both Kingdoms for Union of the two Kingdoms, together with the Government, Worship, Discipline, Rights and Privileges of the Church of Scotland.
The Church of Scotland is not what it was. The creation of the vile but fiery John Knox and the grubby but hard-nosed Lords of the Congregation was once an almost-universal body, dominant in the mores of Scottish society. It now has fewer than 300,000 active members, and the annual general assembly (to which the monarch sends a commissioner to attend and observe but not to participate meaningfully) is now a rather niche sideshow every May. Nevertheless, the separate status of the kirk is unusual and important: its independence and its freedom in theological terms from the Anglicanism of the established Church of England was an important proviso of the Act of Union in 1707, and, even for those who are not believers, its distinctive status is part of what sets Scotland apart within the United Kingdom.
So this oath, taken as a formality, means something. It is a reiteration of Scottish distinction, a promise that, in religious terms, no uniformity will be imposed from above, and it reinforces part of the separate Scottish establishment. This is important to unionists as well as nationalists: the union of 1707 was not a simple merger, let alone a takeover, but an interweaving of two distinct political entities. While England has always in some respects predominated because of its size, population and wealth, it is worth recalling that the earlier union of the crowns in 1603 came about through a Scottish takeover of the English monarchy rather than the other way round.
The State Opening of Parliament, the annual ritual which signals the new parliamentary session, is crammed with meaning. Some of this is half-familiar to the public. When the sovereign is enthroned in the House of Lords, the Gentleman Usher of the Black Road (actually currently a Lady Usher, Sarah Clarke) is sent to summon the House of Commons to attend upon the sovereign and hear his or her speech, which sets out the government’s legislative programme for that session.
As most people know, as Black Rod approaches the Commons chamber, the door is slammed in his face, and he must knock three times with his eponymous rod to request admittance. This is not just a quirky little routine. No monarch has entered the House of Commons since 1642, when Charles I arrived to seek the arrest of five rebellious MPs who opposed the extension of his rights against those of the elected chamber. On that day, the wanted men were tipped off by the French ambassador and fled Westminster before the King arrived. Charles saw that “the birds have already flown”, and demanded their whereabouts of the speaker, William Lenthall.
Lenthall was an indifferent speaker and would have been forgotten along with most of his predecessors and successors but for his conduct that day. He knelt before his sovereign, but refused to reveal the location of the five Members. Famously, he told the King, “May it please your majesty, I have neither eyes to see nor tongue to speak in this place but as this House is pleased to direct me whose servant I am here.”
The initial slamming of the door in Black Rod’s face is, then, a hugely symbolic action. It is a reminder that, for more than 300 years, the sovereign has had no rights in the Commons, and his agents, like Black Rod, will not be admitted as a matter of course. Some may think this mere theatre, but I think the re-enactment every year of the control of the Commons over its precincts is a powerful signal.
After the speech from the throne, there is another reminder of the Commons’ independence. The first major task of the session for the House is the multi-day debate on the policies contained in the speech (which is, remember, written by the government and merely articulated by the sovereign), and this is a big event: the government is effectively setting out its legislative stall for the coming year, while the opposition has its first chance to disagree with the policies unveiled, and begin to outline an alternative platform.
The Commons does not, however, move straight to the debate when it has assembled. There is what theatre folks would call “a bit of business” first: the House instead gives a First Reading to a piece of draft legislation called the Outlawries Bill (formally A Bill for the more effectual preventing clandestine Outlawries). It is not a “real” piece of legislation: the current copy (I used to have to ensure its presence in the chamber) is a tattered 18th century document and I doubt if any MPs know what it contains or what its provisions mean. Nor is it proceeded with in the normal way. It is given a First Reading but then abandoned, and will not make another appearance until the next parliamentary session.
The purpose of the Outlawries Bill is to show that the Commons determines its own agenda, rather than debating what the monarch instructs. And this is a long-standing custom: it was first brought up in 1727, although the House had undertaken token consideration of something other than the sovereign’s speech since at least 1558. It is not a time-consuming business, and most Members regard it as a quaint little quirk of parliamentary procedure. But I think it is important that it is performed. Again, like the slamming of the door in Black Rod’s face, it is an act of remembrance performed every year to drum into Crown and Parliament the extent of their prerogatives.
In this regard, the House of Lords, once regarded as the more compliant chamber and more sympathetic to the sovereign’s aims, gets in on the act too. It proceeds with the First Reading of the Select Vestries Bill, which deals with the overlap between ecclesiastical and temporal authority. As in the Commons, it is a very brief matter, but, again, it signals to the monarchy that the Lords will determine for itself what it debates and when.
These are just small examples of apparently outdated ritual which serve a purpose. It is not to suggest that MPs and peers do not know how much freedom they have from the Crown, but legislators, like all of us, deal not only in reason but in emotion. These rituals are snapshots of conflicts which in their day were very real, and over which men fought and died; and again and again, session after session, they speak briefly but eloquently of how our constitutional arrangements have evolved into what they are.
The minimalist defence of these rites is that they do no harm and are part of the pomp of a great occasion, but I think that is an unambitious argument. They are stronger and more powerful than that, and are eloquent indicators.
As the next few days unfold, then, I would argue that would should not be impatient with the great tide of formality which will flow past us. We are going through a change which is more than even generational: we are seeing the first change of monarch for 70 years. Most people have no recollection of a sovereign before Elizabeth II, and these reminders of how our polity operates have a heavy significance which we ought not to ignore. So I implore you: watch, absorb, understand and reflect as this transition unfolds. You may find that you are a little wiser about our governance than you were before.