By Leo Devine
Even in that first breath of declaration, from a Downing Street soaked by a biblical downpour that would have had Noah reaching for his hammer and chisel, the portents of momentous moments to come were clear. Some wise prophets had even miraculously foreseen it all, nipping down to Labrokes and putting down a five-bob bet at 10/1.
The general election of 2024 promised all the thrills of a 90ft bungee jump and all the speed of a D-Day early departure. We were having it large. Almost as large as a John Curtice exit poll.
And so the election came and went, and we arrived, breathless and replete, at the first session of the new parliament: 650 members — many there for the first time and bearing the rictus grins of the ever so slightly terrified — squished into the chamber of power. Political hacks were poised to pronounce on the first speeches of party leaders or to witness the hauling of Hoyle to the Speaker’s chair. No set of traditions could be more satisfying and exciting. Well, apart from one.
If you’re a political nerd like me, and especially if you have an interest in all things faith-related, I’m sure you were as transfixed as I was by the gloriously arcane and unmistakably bonkers tradition of “the swearing-in”: an endless conga of MPs inching their way to the dispatch box to proclaim their allegiance to the King and his heirs (try saying that last bit without dropping an “H” or two).
Spread out across the clerk’s table, just beyond the dispatch box, was a smorgasbord of holy books. Next to them, a huge pile of various oaths and affirmations in every UK language: Welsh, Gaelic, Cornish, even Ulster Scots.
Strictly speaking, you don’t have to swear at all. You can, if you prefer, affirm. It’s the same, but without the God bit.
Swearing-in bingo, as I like to call it, entails guessing what each MP will choose to do and whether their choice reveals something otherwise unknown about their faith, or absence thereof.
Early doors was the former PM, asking to swear on the Gita. The Bhagavad Gita is said to contain the most comprehensive expression of Hindu philosophy. This new copy had been presented to Speaker Sir Lindsay Hoyle by Shailesh Vara, who lost his Cambridgeshire seat in last week’s election. Rishi Sunak’s example was soon followed by new Tory MP Shivani Raja from Leicester East, and Labour MP Kanishka Narayan from the Vale of Glamorgan.
There are 12 Sikh MPs. Most, including Tan Dhesi, Harpreet Uppal and Sayvir Kaur, chose to swear allegiance to the King without holding a sacred Sikh text. Only Preet Kaur Gill, her head covered by a red scarf, chose to swear while holding a cloth-covered Sundar Gutka prayer book.
Labour’s Sojan Joseph, a Catholic originally from Kerala, chose to swear on the New Testament only. Priti Patel, the Tory former home secretary who was raised a Hindu, opted for the Christian Bible.
Labour MPs Shabana Mahmood, the new justice secretary, and Naz Shah, both Muslims and, unusually for them, wearing headscarves, asked to swear on the Quran. There are a record 25 Muslim MPs in this parliament: 18 Labour, four independents, two Conservatives and one Liberal Democrat.
The Jewish Labour MP Matthew Patrick asked to swear on the Torah, the five Books of Moses, but his fellow Jewish Labour MP Charlotte Nichols asked to swear on the Hebrew Bible, which is all the books of the Old Testament, sometimes referred to as the Tanakh.
It was actually quite moving to witness all of the above, and to reflect on the remarkable and rich diversity we now possess in the mother of all parliaments.
Many MPs, presumably those who would habitually tick CofE on official forms, seemed happy to swear on the King James Bible. First published in 1611, and only the third version in English ever printed, it’s still the go-to version for many Protestants. There were, of course, lots of committed Christians asking for the KJV too: Labour veteran Stephen Timms and Labour’s David Lammy to name just two.
And although Catholic big shots like Jacob Rees-Mogg and former education secretary Gillian Keegan have been voted out, there were still plenty of left-footers preferring to do their swearing on the so-called “Catholic Bible”. This turned out to be a shiny copy of the New Jerusalem Bible. “What’s the difference?” I hear you ask. Catholic Bibles contain 73 books compared with the 66 you’ll find in all the Protestant varieties. Protestants call the extra bits the Apocrypha and don’t regard them as part of the official canon.
Some MPs clearly weren’t keen on either swearing or affirming. The Northern Irish SDLP leader Colum Eastwood said he was reading the words under protest, as it was the only way, currently, to ensure he could serve the interests of the people of Derry. His fellow SDLP MP, Claire Hanna, also protested, this time in the Irish language.
By contrast, and rather confusingly, the leader of the DUP, Gavin Donaldson, chose to affirm, ie not swear to God, in Ulster Scots while holding the King James Bible. Former Labour leader Jeremy Corbyn, now an independent, was heard to mutter “this is a load of nonsense”; and Labour left-winger Clive Lewis also prefaced his affirmation with a protest and missed out the bit about serving the King’s heirs.
Many MPs made full use of the oaths and affirmations in Welsh, Scottish Gaelic and Irish, and all six of the new MPs in Cornwall decided to swear their oath in Kernewek, the ancient Cornish language.
It seemed clear to me that whatever the request, whatever the combination of language and holy book, it could be swiftly organised by the brilliant black-gowned clerks of the Commons. I genuinely believe that if an MP had asked to affirm in Old Norse holding a 1974 manual for a Ford Cortina, the clerks would have quickly obliged.
Kwasi Kwarteng, the short-lived chancellor who stood down at this election, is alleged to have asked for the Book of Mormon to swear his oath. As the clerk scurried off to get him one, he admitted sheepishly that he was only joking.
After all the oaths, affirmations and holy books were finally put away, keen-eyed Humanists were quick to point out that 40 per cent of MPs chose to use a secular affirmation, a rise of 24 per cent from the previous election. “The least religious parliament ever” proclaimed the headline on the Humanist UK website. A small and unjustified exaggeration I would say, even though more than a few MPs, when asked what holy text they’d like to swear on, were heard to say: “Well, what have you got?”.
Yes, it may be a solemn, even sacred moment, but as long as we treat it as though we’re choosing from the sweet trolley at a Berni Inn, there couldn’t be a more delicious and captivating British tradition. That’s the truth, I swear.
