Uniting the Kingdom. Dividing the People.

Today in London Tommy Robinson marched at the head of his Unite the Kingdom rally. Whitehall shook with the noise of flags and chants, of amplified voices telling the country who belongs and who does not. Tens of thousands came, some draped in St George’s crosses, others waving Union flags, and among them the jarring sight of red MAGA hats — American symbols of grievance imported wholesale into a march about “British pride.” The irony was laid bare: a movement shouting about sovereignty and culture borrowing its costume from across the Atlantic. That alone exposes the fraud. This was not about defending heritage. This was about grievance, dressed up and exported like cheap merchandise.

And then the Cross. The most holy symbol in Christianity, carried as a stage prop. Not lifted high in reverence, not bowed before in worship, but paraded as if it were a tribal totem. The Cross of Christ — where God emptied himself, where Christ stretched out his arms to gather all humanity into his mercy — dragged through the streets as if it belonged to one tribe, one cause, one rage. Tomorrow, the Church across the world will keep the feast of the Exaltation of the Holy Cross. We will sing of its triumph. We will lift it high, not as a flag for a party, not as a tool for exclusion, but as the throne of the crucified Christ, who gave himself for all. And yet on the eve of this feast, the Cross was profaned, hijacked into service for hate. A holy sign turned into a cheap banner. That is blasphemy.

At the same time, in Oldbury, a young Sikh woman has alleged she was raped. During the attack she was told, “You don’t belong here.” Those words cut deeper than any weapon. They are the words Robinson’s supporters scrawled on placards. They are the words muttered in pubs, typed in comment threads, whispered on buses. “You don’t belong here.” The logic of exclusion turned into violence. A chant on the streets of London made flesh in the violation of a woman’s body.

And across the Atlantic, just days ago, Charlie Kirk was assassinated. Shot dead while speaking at a university event in Utah. He was not killed for a crime. He was not killed in war. He was killed because he was a conservative commentator. He was hated for what he represented. London hears “you don’t belong.” America hears “you don’t deserve to live.” The same poison, different forms: words in one place, bullets in another.

None of this is abstract. The poison is already in our streets. Today in Whitehall bottles and cans were thrown at police. Barriers strained. Counter-protesters clashed with marchers. It was not unity on show. It was fracture. London became a stage for two tribes screaming across barricades. Ordinary people caught in the middle could see it: this is no longer a debate. It is confrontation. And if we let this climate deepen, it will not stay in chants. It will not stay in slogans.

We know this, because we have been here before. In the 1930s the Blackshirts tried to march through Cable Street. Boots, uniforms, salutes. They chose the East End because it was Jewish. They wanted to intimidate, to say “you don’t belong here.” And thousands stood against them. Jews, communists, Christians, Irish dockers — ordinary Londoners shouted back, “They shall not pass.” That was London at its best. But we should not romanticise it. Shops were smashed. Families were threatened. The poison spread, even though the march was stopped.

In 1977 Lewisham saw the same. The National Front brought their venom into South London. Tens of thousands resisted. The streets erupted in violence. Police in helmets charged. Horses scattered crowds. Neighbours turned against neighbours. Fear and anger etched themselves into memory. Once again, London at its best — resistance — and London at its worst — division.

Smethwick in 1964 saw racism written on posters: “If you want a n***** for a neighbour, vote Labour.” Not a fringe rally, but a mainstream election. That shame still lingers. And in 1968, Enoch Powell spoke of “rivers of blood.” He wore a suit, not a boot, but his words unleashed fear, gave permission for exclusion. Hate doesn’t always come marching in uniforms. Sometimes it comes in polished speeches.

And look at more recent years. In 2017, Finsbury Park saw a van driven into worshippers leaving a mosque. One man killed, others injured. It was London’s turn to feel the horror Christchurch would later feel, and Pittsburgh too. In Christchurch, Muslims gunned down while praying. In Pittsburgh, Jews murdered in their synagogue. The pattern is the same. Words — “you don’t belong here” — sharpened until violence feels inevitable.

But Charlie Kirk’s killing shows us the other side of the same coin. Political assassination is not the sole preserve of the right or the far right. When someone decides that their enemy must be erased, when disagreement is turned into justification for a bullet, it is the same disease. The right chants “you don’t belong.” The left assassinates. Both collapse human dignity into tribal hate. Both desecrate the Cross when they dare invoke it.

London is not only this, though. London has always been a place of tension, but also of hope. Cable Street was not just fear; it was resistance. Brixton, once scarred by riots, now hums with music, colour, Pentecostal churches, reggae, food, culture woven together. Brick Lane, once Jewish, then Bangladeshi, now both and more — curry houses next to bagel shops, graffiti art alongside church towers. Southall, once called “Little India,” is still Indian, still Punjabi, still Sikh, but it has also become part of Britain’s soul. These are not stories of erasure. They are stories of change, difficult and painful at times, but also fruitful.

That is why Robinson’s march is a fraud. He does not care for the pensioner in the East End who feels her community has slipped away. He does not care for the family in Barking waiting for housing. He does not care for the young man in Dagenham who feels his job opportunities are gone. He does not sit with them. He does not listen. He exploits. He takes genuine grievances and turns them into weapons. He hijacks sadness and grief, and sharpens them into rage. He does not offer policy. He offers enemies. He does not offer solutions. He offers scapegoats.

And now look again at the Cross. Tomorrow we will exalt it. We will sing of its triumph. Not triumph of one tribe over another, but triumph of love over hate, life over death, mercy over cruelty. If we dare to lift it high tomorrow, then we must refuse its desecration today. We cannot exalt it in church while it is dragged through London as a prop for exclusion.

Charlie Kirk’s politics were divisive. Many despised what he stood for. But disagreement is not licence to kill. The Sikh woman in Oldbury belongs to a community long eyed with suspicion. But difference is not licence to violate. If we excuse either — the crowd shouting neighbours out of belonging, or the assassin’s bullet — we have already abandoned our humanity.

Christians cannot be neutral. Silence is complicity. Comfort is cowardice. When the Cross is lifted tomorrow, it must be lifted against both exclusion and assassination. It must be lifted as a rebuke to Robinson’s parade and to the assassin’s gun.

So let us speak plainly. To the Sikh woman in Oldbury, and to every Londoner told “you don’t belong”: you do. To those who think killing an opponent is justice: it is murder, and it is sin. To those hiding hate behind the Cross: stop lying. The Cross is not yours to carry.

The rally in London. The alleged rape in Oldbury. The assassination of Charlie Kirk. These are not coincidences. They are signs. They are warnings. They are rehearsals for worse. And unless we resist, unless we stand up and say no, they will be repeated.

Tomorrow the Church will exalt the Cross. If we dare to lift it high, then we must refuse its desecration today. We must exalt it not only in our liturgy, but in our streets, in our speech, in our refusal to let hate have the last word. That is the triumph of the Cross. That is the call of Christ. And if we are silent, we are betraying both.