What does the Pontiff see in Spain that we in Britain cannot? As the Pope praises Madrid’s anti-war posture and its open arms to migrants, the United Kingdom wallows in a Channel crisis that speaks not of strength but of moral and intellectual decay. Francis, that Argentine Jesuit who delights in unsettling the comfortable, has thrown a gauntlet at our feet. His message is clear: while we fiddle with border controls and bleat about sovereignty, Spain has remembered something we have forgotten – that a nation’s greatness is measured not by the height of its walls but by the breadth of its vision.
Let us be frank. The Channel crisis is a symptom, not a cause. Thousands of souls in flimsy boats risking the cold waters are a reflection of a world in chaos, yes, but also of a Britain that has lost its nerve. We huff and puff about illegal immigration, we sign new accords with France, we launch yet another taskforce. And yet the boats keep coming. Why? Because we have ceased to offer any compelling alternative. We have no grand narrative, no sense of historical purpose beyond the maintenance of an anxious status quo.
Spain, by contrast, still knows how to dream. Pedro Sánchez’s government, for all its domestic turmoil, has positioned itself as a moral counterweight in Europe. Its opposition to the arms race in Ukraine, its insistence on diplomacy over escalation, its relatively generous reception of migrants – these are not mere policies. They are a declaration of identity. Spain, the former empire that once drained the New World of silver, now positions itself as the conscience of the Old. It is a stunning reversal.
But let us not romanticise. Spain’s migrant welcome is far from perfect. The Canary Islands are overwhelmed. The integration of North African communities is fraught with tension. Yet the grand gesture matters. It shapes the political imagination. It says: we are a country that opens doors, not one that cowers behind them. And the Pope, that wily old survivor, knows the power of symbolism. His praise is a prod to the conscience of Europe.
And what of Britain? We have become the nation of the small boat, but also of the small thought. Our debates are conducted in the language of managerialism: targets, deterrence, processing times. We have forgotten that nations are built on stories, not spreadsheets. The Victorians, for all their faults, understood that empire required a moral purpose, however hypocritical. Today, we cannot even articulate why someone might want to come here. Liberty? Opportunity? The rule of law? These are abstractions, not lived experiences.
The Pope’s praise for Spain is thus a mirror held up to our own decline. We see a country that still believes in something, while we believe only in our own discomfort. The migrant crisis is not a problem to be solved; it is a test of character. And we are failing.
But it is not too late. History is a series of recoveries as much as falls. Britain could yet rediscover a sense of mission. We could lead a European coalition on humanitarian rescue. We could invest in integration as Spain has, albeit imperfectly. We could even, dare I say it, reclaim a tradition of hospitality that is as British as the NHS or the welcome offered to Huguenots and Jews in darker times.
Of course, the small-minded will scoff. They will point to polls and resources. But empires have been built on less than moral ambition. And the alternative is what we see now: a nation that has shrunk to the size of its own anxieties. The Pope has shown us a different path. Whether we have the courage to take it is another matter entirely.
