In 1776, Thomas Jefferson wrote that all men are created equal, endowed with unalienable rights... life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness. During his lifetime Jefferson owned more than 620 slaves. As America marks 250 years since the Declaration, that contradiction is impossible to look past: a document of universal liberty, written by men who denied it to the women in their households, the people they enslaved, and the nations whose land they were settling.

One reading says this was hypocrisy - that "all men" never meant all men, that the rhetoric of equality was cover for the interests of rich, white, Anglo-Saxon Protestants, and that the centuries of struggle since have been a slow correction of a lie dressed up as a promise. Another reading says something genuinely radical was set loose that day - a principle larger than its authors, one that would eventually demand Abolition, Enfranchisement and the end of Segregation, precisely because the words of the Declaration meant more than the men who put their names to it could envisage. On this account, the Founding Fathers endorsed an ideal and left their descendants to grow into it.

That same split runs through America today. The current presidency has departed from constitutional norms everyone had assumed were solid - over courts, elections, the press and the limits of executive power. One view says this is a crisis the Republic will survive: a serious one, but a blip in the two and a half centuries during which American institutions have weathered civil war, economic depression, and social upheaval, and during which the founding ideals have always held firm. The soul of America gets shaken, but it holds. The other view says the Republic was never held together by Constitutional Law - it was held together by a myth - a shared belief, perhaps deluded, that Americans would behave decently and that the norms would prevail. Once a leader has tested every one of those boundaries and paid no price, the myth shatters, and there is nothing to stop the next leader from going further. On this view, the current administration is a distorted reflection of what America truly is.

Chair: Michael Buerk

If Andy Burnham has a four-word philosophy, it is 'the politics of place', a phrase he uses often. Burnham argues that politics must concentrate on meeting local needs, on the devolution of power and on 'levelling up' the places that have been doing badly.

While he was winning in Makerfield, the Scottish Conservatives were winning in Aberdeen South, on a promise to revive the North Sea oil and gas industry. That too was the politics of place.

Burnham’s philosophical opponents say that 'the politics of place' is wrong-headed. What really matters is the destiny of the United Kingdom as a whole. Localism, they argue, undermines national cohesion and elevates nimbyism. It rewards failure and punishes success. The Americans call it pork-barrel politics.

The battle between localists and UK nationalists engages all politicians. Plaid Cymru and the Scottish National Party are by definition on one side of the line; the DUP in Northern Ireland is on the other. At Westminster, MPs go cross-eyed trying to watch over their constituencies and their careers at the same time. Boris Johnson created a Department for Levelling-Up. Angela Rayner called it ‘government by gimmick’ and abolished it in 2024.

If localism is the answer for Makerfield, is it also the answer for Sparkbrook, where voters might like different licensing laws? Or for Adlington, where locals hate the idea of a new housing estate? Or for Harmondsworth, which doesn’t want a Heathrow third runway at the bottom of the garden?

The politics of place; it looks good. But will Burnham, like Pandora, open this tempting box, only to release all the troubles of the world? In his victory speech he promised us ‘hope’. In the Greek myth, the gift of hope was merely a consolation prize.

Chair: Michael Buerk

In his first encyclical, Magnifica Humanitas, Pope Leo XIV warned that artificial intelligence threatens the dignity of the human person.

Human exceptionalism - the belief that we are special, both within the animal kingdom and in the eyes of God - rests on a single distinction. We don't just think. We know that we're thinking. We have moral agency. Our religions tell us we have souls. That distinction is now under threat from two directions simultaneously.

Firstly, we have discovered that the creatures we share this planet with are vastly more capable than we thought. Animals we considered simple-minded - octopuses, bees, parrots, elephants - can plan, learn, teach and use tools. Some display altruism, grief, loyalty and shame.

Secondly, artificial intelligence and biotechnology are acquiring the characteristics we thought were uniquely ours. AI is developing personality, intentionality and self-awareness at a speed that has no historical precedent. The quantum computer, which Richard Feynman imagined less than half a century ago, is now being built. And in our laboratories, researchers are growing neuron networks and may soon create hybrid creatures combining animal instinct with human-like reasoning. Only our ethics stand in the way.

If the boundaries between human, animal and machine are dissolving from both directions, the question is no longer academic. What - if anything - makes us morally exceptional?

Chair: Michael Buerk

The 2026 World Cup is the biggest in the tournament's history, with 48 teams playing 104 matches across three countries: The United States, Mexico and Canada.

For many, this summer's competition reveals that the game has drifted irreversibly from its working-class roots. Ticket prices are prohibitive for ordinary fans. FIFA's governance has been dogged by corruption scandals. Money and power have thoroughly colonised its institutions. And human rights groups warn this tournament will be a “bonanza of sportswashing”, consciously deployed by a US administration conducting mass deportations of migrants, many of them Latin American, as soft-power cover.

But others argue that markets set prices and fans made their choice. Commercialisation is the price of the game's global reach and football's globalisation has been a democratic force. Free-to-air coverage means the World Cup remains genuinely universal. For supporters of nations qualifying for the first time in decades, this is pure, uncomplicated joy. Some contend that those who weaponise sport for political protest are doing exactly what they accuse Trump of: subordinating the game to an agenda. And if moral purity were the admission criterion, no tournament would ever be staged anywhere.

Is the World Cup morally compromised?

Chair: Michael Buerk

A Labour leadership challenge would mean Britain could have a seventh prime minister in a decade. Each change of leadership promises renewal, but each delivers fresh disappointment. Meanwhile the problems compound: crumbling infrastructure, polluted waterways, a cost-of-living crisis, a planet warming faster than our policy responses. Why can't a mature democracy fix things it can clearly see are broken?

In the late 1960s, Stanford psychologist Walter Mischel devised a deceptively simple test of human nature. A child is left alone with a single marshmallow and a choice: eat it now, or wait fifteen minutes and receive two. It measures willpower, impulse control, and the capacity to sacrifice immediate satisfaction for a better long-term outcome. Mischel's follow-up studies found that children who waited tended to grow into healthier, better-educated, more emotionally stable adults. But subsequent researchers identified a crucial caveat: children from unstable backgrounds, used to broken promises, were entirely rational to eat immediately, since they didn't trust that the second marshmallow would ever arrive.

Britain, it could be argued, is living through its own national marshmallow test, and the results are troubling. Critics of the current political settlement point out that politicians face structural incentives to fix today's headlines rather than next decade's crises. The five-year electoral horizon means anything beyond it risks being kicked down the road: HS2, the infected blood scandal, Net Zero. Voters, burned by serial betrayal, rationally demand immediate relief on bills, welfare and petrol prices, even when the long-term cost is severe. And hovering over the whole system is the media. Twenty-four hour news demands a fresh scoop every hour, and social media algorithms reward outrage over reflection. If politicians are punished for nuance and rewarded for noise, and voters are algorithmically nudged towards the most inflammatory version of every story, is the entire information environment now rigged against long-term thinking?

If voters rationally distrust politicians, and politicians rationally pander to voters, who bears the moral responsibility for our collective short-termism? And crucially, who bears the responsibility for breaking the cycle? Is it about radical institutional or electoral reform? Does it require a more uncomfortable kind of leadership: politicians willing to tell hard truths, and voters willing to reward them? Who should bear the brunt of any short-term pain? Can we demand courage from leaders we've trained to be cowards? And if so, how do we first rebuild the trust – and the information environment – that makes waiting for the second marshmallow feel rational again?

Chair: Michael Buerk

Universities across the country are cutting back on humanities courses – philosophy, history, modern languages – subjects long seen as central to a well-rounded education. The reason is familiar: falling student numbers, financial pressure, and a growing insistence that degrees must demonstrate clear economic value. If a course doesn’t lead to a well-paid job, why should anyone fund it?

That points to a deeper divide about what education is for. Is it an intrinsic good: valuable in itself, shaping critical thinking, moral judgment, and an understanding of the world? Or is it an extrinsic one: a means to an end, justified by the jobs it produces and the growth it delivers?

For centuries, from Socrates onwards, education has been tied to human flourishing – to forming citizens, not just workers. But today, the language has shifted. Students are consumers. Universities compete. Courses are judged by salary. And the tensions don’t stop there. If education is a public good, why does access remain so uneven, divided between state and private schools, with women significantly underrepresented in STEM (science, technology, engineering, mathematics) – opportunity shaped as much by background as by ability? And as our understanding of neurodiversity deepens, a further challenge emerges. What if the system itself – built around standardisation, testing, and conformity – has actively hindered the prospects of many it was meant to serve?

So what, ultimately, is education for? Is it possible to maximise economic potential and enable every individual to flourish? And if our system does the former at the expense of the latter, can it still claim to be a moral one?

Chair: Michael Buerk

Today, humanity reaches towards the Moon once more. The first crewed lunar mission in more than 50 years.

But as NASA’s Artemis 2 lifts off, some troubling moral questions follow in its wake.

Are the billions of pounds being spent a visionary investment in our future, or a luxury we can't afford while poverty, disease, and a climate crisis demand urgent action here on Earth?

Who benefits from space exploration? The wealthy nations that lead it or all of humanity?

Is there really a moral imperative to explore the possibility of how to live on other planets?

And ... as we venture outwards, do we risk repeating the mistakes of colonial expansion?

That's our Moral Maze tonight ... the ethics of human space flight

WITNESSES: Dr Simeon Barber, Lunar Scientist at Open University; Dr Stuart Parkinson, Executive Director of Scientists for Global Responsibility; Dr Tony Milligan, Philosopher in Space Ethics; Mary-Jane Rubenstein, Professor of Religion and Science in Society at Wesleyan University

The Church of England marks a historic moment: the installation of its first female Archbishop of Canterbury. A symbol, many would say, of progress in an institution often accused of resisting it. And yet, even as she takes office, around 600 churches reportedly refuse to recognise the authority of ordained women. For them, this is not prejudice but principle. An adherence to theological conviction.

It comes amid fresh scrutiny about the Church’s place in national life - from Prince William signalling a more modern, personal relationship with it, to the Green Party reopening the question of disestablishment. The Church of England is not just a religious body. As the established church, it is entwined with the state. Its bishops sit in Parliament. Its role extends, at least in theory, to the whole nation. It claims to be “a church for everyone.” And yet it operates with exemptions from equality law, particularly in its approach to women’s leadership and same-sex relationships. Defenders argue that religious freedom must include the freedom to dissent from prevailing social norms. Critics counter that an institution with constitutional privilege cannot also claim the right to discriminate.

But there is a further tension. The Church speaks as a national institution at a time when fewer people identify with it at all. Attendance has declined steadily. Belief itself is becoming more marginal in a society that is increasingly secular. For many citizens, religion is not just optional but irrelevant.

So what does establishment mean in such a society? Should the Church be brought into line with equality law or separated from the state altogether? And more fundamentally: can an established church still claim moral authority in a nation that is steadily moving away from it?

Chair: William Crawley.

Rising oil prices triggered by war have renewed fears of an economic shock. Governments are already under pressure to step in: to cap prices, cushion bills and shield households from the consequences. Yet crises were once understood differently. During earlier shocks, citizens were often told to tighten their belts, to accept rationing, higher prices and shared sacrifice. But memories of past hardship can also be misleading. There is sometimes a tendency to romanticise earlier generations’ stoicism. Today the assumption seems different: if living standards fall, the government must intervene.

The idea of sacrifice raises difficult questions. Who exactly is the “we” being asked to shoulder the burden? A rise in energy costs may be uncomfortable for some but devastating for those already living precariously. Hardship is rarely shared equally. If sacrifice is demanded, how should it be distributed? There is also a deeper question about what we mean by sacrifice at all. The word is often used simply to mean going without. Yet traditionally it carried a stronger philosophical meaning: the willingness to give something up for a higher purpose or the common good. Some argue that modern democracies have become reluctant to ask citizens for such things, fearing the political cost. Governments promise protection instead, even when the resources to deliver it are limited.

And yet the challenges ahead may demand difficult choices. From energy shocks to climate change, societies may have to decide whether they are prepared to accept lower living standards in pursuit of wider goals. So in a democracy, should citizens expect protection from every crisis? Does the government have a duty to be open and honest with us about the hard choices we face? Or do we have a duty to accept sacrifice when circumstances demand it?

Chair: Michael Buerk

Relations between Britain and the United States have rarely been described as simple, but they have long been called special. Yet in recent days that relationship has come under strain, after a sharp exchange between Donald Trump and Keir Starmer over the latest international crisis and Britain’s response to it. For more than eighty years the United Kingdom has defined its place in the world partly through its alliance with the United States. But moments like this raise uncomfortable questions about how Britain should act amid a shifting global order.

Some argue that foreign policy must ultimately be guided by national interest. In an uncertain world, they say, Britain cannot afford to jeopardise its most important alliance. Presidents come and go, but the strategic relationship between the two countries endures. In that view, the moral case is one of engagement, diplomacy, influence and the long-term security and prosperity of British citizens.

Others believe that alliances cannot come at the expense of values. The Canadian prime minister Mark Carney recently warned that the world has entered an “age of rupture”, where the rules and norms that once governed international relations are beginning to fray. When Britain disagrees with its closest ally – particularly on questions of war and peace – it has a responsibility to defend those principles, even at the risk of friction or isolation.

So in these extraordinary times, should foreign policy be guided primarily by principle or by pragmatic self-interest? What should the balance be between ethical idealism and strategic reality? Can interests and values truly align? And ultimately, what is the role of morality in foreign policy?

Chair: Michael Buerk