Earlier this year a prime specialist theology and philosophy institution in the UK, Heythrop College, closed its doors after 400 years of teaching.

Founded in 1614 by the Society of Jesus, and part of the University of London since 1970, Heythrop had a mission to provide ‘an education marked by intelligence, scholarship and generosity of spirit'.

In recent years the college struggled to recruit students, and this, along with increasing administrative pressures, forced its closure in January.

This was gloomy news, but not surprising.

As the British Academy has shown this week, student numbers for theology and religious studies have fallen by almost half since 2012 - 6,500 fewer students on theology and religious studies degree courses in 2017-18 than six years before - and the decline has led to the closure or reduction in size of several theology departments in the UK.

There are many reasons for this - chief among them the trebling of university tuition fees in 2012.

Prospective students now face an enormous financial burden from tuition fees and living costs, greatly affecting the decisions they make, not only about what to study, but whether to study at all.

Hardest hit will be those wishing to return to education later in life or to study part-time.

Yet causes are less alarming than consequences: theology and religious studies risk disappearing from our universities just at the time when we need them most.

Despite two centuries of apparent secularisation in the West, religion has an all-pervasive role on the world stage.

From the persecution of Myanmar Rohingya in a surge of Buddhist nationalism, to revived power struggles between Sunni and Shia Muslims, the electoral appeal of Narendra Modi to many Hindus or Donald Trump's popularity among US Evangelicals, we can't hope to understand the swirl of current events - or tackle their challenges - without first understanding religion in all its forms.

In these embittered and increasingly turbulent times, public debates have become more polarised, not least through the deliberate misuse of social media.

There is a widespread scorn for debating in good faith or respecting one's opponent, and a preference for viciously assertive arguments in a call-out culture.

It is no longer enough simply to disagree with your opponents; they can never be more than hypocrites, liars, or idiots.

This is an age of pitchforks and pithy putdowns - ugly and cynical, a poison for sane society.

Theology and religious studies offer antidotes to this increasingly adversarial culture.

Given the chance to study analytically the belief systems, morality, art, philosophy and history of varying faiths and cultures, graduates in these disciplines leave university with an unrivalled understanding of humanity in all its glorious untidy complexity.

How could such degree courses fail to nurture the empathy and curiosity of those who study them?

Yet the value of theology and religious studies degrees extends beyond this.

The Destination of Leavers from Higher Education (DLHE) survey shows how theology and religious studies graduates are ideally placed to enjoy rich and rewarding careers in non-religious sectors, including international development, journalism, welfare, social care, teaching, and policymaking.

In fact, theology and religious studies students graduating in 2016/17 were more likely to be employed than graduates across historical and philosophical studies as a whole.

Nearly two-thirds of those employed were in professional occupations or associate professions and technical occupations - the so-called ‘highly-skilled graduate jobs' - within six months of completing their degree.

The British Academy's report - and, for that matter, the closure of Heythrop College - must serve as a wake-up call. Theology and religious studies need to confront significant challenges if they are to survive the era of high fees. Continue reading

• Diarmaid MacCulloch, Professor of the History of the Church at Oxford University, is a Vice-President of the British Academy.
• Image: YouTube

Tumbling home as the morning mist enveloped the common near my flat, almost nothing was visible but the church spire on one corner.

Going to bed seemed a let down: I had finished a book on the bus and felt wired and awake.

Instead, I crept into the church and sat at the back, intermittently burning myself on a hot radiator and feeling the effects of the unholy volume of wine I had drunk drift away.

The bell rang, the congregation stood and a cloud of incense delivered the priest.

The next hour passed in a haze of kneeling, chants and actions built into my muscle memory.

Growing up in south Wales in the 90s, religion had not been of great importance to my family.

Catholicism was little more than a duty to baptise the babies and something you did to widen your school choices.

It was a slight background hum that only grew louder for births, weddings and deaths.

At university and throughout my 20s, I hadn't really bothered with God, too consumed by books, politics and socialising.

On holidays, I would visit cathedrals, dip my hand in the holy water and light a candle, but I never attended mass or spent any time wrestling theological conundrums at night when I couldn't sleep.

When asked, which was rarely, I would describe myself as vaguely agnostic, with a shrug: atheism was something fervent, a performative macho sphere populated by fans of Richard Dawkins and Christopher Hitchens that prevented me from tipping over.

Then, in 2017, just after the general election, Grenfell Tower caught fire.

In the days that followed, I spent hours talking to locals, those who escaped and the families of those who had not.

Local churches opened their doors to receive donations and offer support and refuge.

One evening, speaking to a woman who was close to tears because her friend was missing, she grasped the pendant around my neck - a Miraculous Medal I had been given by a family member - then fixed her eyes on me and asked me to pray for her.

I was sorely out of practice but not remotely in a position to say no.

Taking a few minutes to pray for someone in need, centre them in your thoughts and focus on hoping their hardships and pain would lift seemed such a small thing to do.

We were surrounded by piles of toys, clothes and food, too many to be used: people were doing what they could to feel as if they were being generous to people in a desperate situation.

Offering a prayer for someone seemed materially inconsequential but weighted with significance: it is easy to give money without any thought, or volunteer time without too much emotional investment, but a prayer genuinely prioritisies someone else over your own emotions.

All around Grenfell, people were praying for others, themselves and victims they didn't know.

I felt hollowed out for many reasons, not least exhaustion from working every day for months and seeing people for whom faith was a grounding influence awakened something in the back of my mind.

The idea that people owe nothing to each other because we are simply active piles of flesh is the thinking of a sociopath: you need an order for society to function. Continue reading