I guess we are all wondering what the composition of the new government will look like.

In international affairs, will America abandon its conflict with Iran? Will Russia exhaust itself invading Ukraine, and will it carry through its hybrid war with NATO?

These days, it can seem everyone is arguing about everything: politics, public policy, identity, sovereignty, history, and even the meaning of basic words, for example, what is a woman?

Social media amplifies the noise, while trust in institutions continues to weaken. Yet beneath the arguments lies a quieter question: what, if anything, still holds us together?

That question is not new. More than a century ago, the poet Matthew Arnold explored it in Dover Beach.

There is a quiet moment in the poem when the sea lies calm under moonlight, the English coast serene and undisturbed. Yet Arnold asks us to listen more closely. Beneath the stillness is a harsher sound—the “grating roar” of pebbles dragged back by the tide.

For Arnold, writing in the 19th century, that sound carried a deeper meaning: the slow, melancholy withdrawal of what he called the “Sea of Faith.”

Arnold sensed that something foundational was slipping away. The Christian faith that had once framed Western life — its moral language, its sense of order and meaning — was receding.

In its place, he saw not triumphant progress but uncertainty, and so he made a modest but poignant appeal: “Let us be true to one another.”

If shared belief could no longer bind society, perhaps personal faithfulness could.

Half a century later, the tone darkens considerably. In The Second Coming, written in the aftermath of World War 1, the pandemic, and the Russian Revolution, W B Yeats no longer hears a quiet withdrawal but sees a violent unravelling.

“Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold.” The language is no longer reflective but prophetic. The problem is not simply the loss of faith, but the collapse of order itself.

What emerges is not a gentler, more enlightened age, but something ominous — a “rough beast” slouching towards birth.

These two poems, read together, trace a trajectory that feels uncomfortably familiar. Arnold names the loss; Yeats describes the consequences.

We in New Zealand might be tempted to think ourselves insulated from such concerns. We remain, in many respects, a stable and peaceful society.

Yet beneath the surface there are signs of strain: declining trust in institutions, increasing polarisation in public debate, and a pervasive uncertainty about the moral foundations of our common life.

We are not immune to the questions Arnold and Yeats raised. We, especially the global community, are living them.

What holds a society together when its shared beliefs begin to fragment? Can procedural rules, global entities, economic growth, or good intentions alone sustain a coherent and humane culture?

Or does a deeper centre — moral, spiritual, even theological — need to be present if the whole is to endure?

Arnold’s answer was modest: be true to one another. It is a necessary starting point, and one that deserves reaffirmation in an age often marked by suspicion and hostility.

But Yeats’s darker vision presses the question further. Is personal sincerity enough to hold back the forces unleashed when a civilisation loses its centre?

From a Christian perspective, the answer is both challenging and hopeful. The “Sea of Faith” Arnold heard withdrawing is not, in itself, the end of the story: the tide can come back in.

Christianity has always understood itself not merely as a cultural inheritance but as a living truth, one that can be renewed and rediscovered.

The centre, in this view, is not an abstract principle but a person — Jesus Christ — whose life and teaching offer not only private comfort but a foundation for public life marked by justice, mercy, and truth.

That claim will not inspire universal agreement in a plural society, nor should it be imposed. But it can be proposed, lived, and witnessed to.

And in a time when many sense that something has been lost and struggle to name what it is, such a witness may find a hearing.

Arnold listened to the retreating tide and urged fidelity. Yeats saw the gathering storm and warned of what might follow.

Between them, they pose a question that remains urgent: if the centre cannot hold, what — if anything — will take its place?

The answer we give, individually and collectively, will shape far more than our private beliefs. It will shape the character of the society we are becoming.

  • Tony Martin, is a retired minister and former army chaplain.