The Year of Living Danishly (12 page)

I take tea with Denmark's church minister, Manu Sareen, to see if he minds this, but he too seems remarkably relaxed about the whole ‘faith' business. ‘Danes have an interesting approach to religion,' says Manu. ‘There aren't many countries where such a high proportion of the population are members of a state church – we have 4.4 million members out of a population of 5.5 million, and yet most people probably take it for granted and don't worry too much about their faith.' Most Danes are signed up at birth, with parents registering their babies at the local church unless they've made a special request for a secular procedure. Many feel a civic obligation to pay church tax, up to 1.5 per cent of their salary depending on the municipality, as though this is just another tax that must be paid to keep Denmark the great nation that it is. As a result, the country has a Lutheran state church financed via taxes, but only 28 per cent of Danes believe in any kind of life after death, according to a survey by the country's Palliative Knowledge Centre (in the US it's 81 per cent). Just 16 per cent believe in heaven (the figure rises to 88 per cent in the US). A 2014 survey carried out for
Berlingske
newspaper found that almost every fifth Dane identifies him- or herself as an atheist.

I tell Manu that I find this fascinating. Lots of studies link religion with happiness and researchers from Columbia University found that faith can even ward off depression. Yet despite Denmark's top spot on the happiness index and its high levels of church membership, it's actually one of the
least
religious countries in the world, with low church attendance, secular schools and civic institutions and a population that regularly reaffirms its atheism (or at least agnosticism) in national surveys and polls.

‘Most people don't use the church much apart from for baptisms, weddings, funerals and at Christmas,' says Manu. In contrast with the rest of the Christian world, Easter isn't a big draw in Denmark, with 48 per cent of Danes attaching importance to ‘spending time with family' over Easter but only 10 per cent mentioning ‘church' and ‘the Christian message' according to the country's official website. Statistics Denmark found that just 3 per cent of the population regularly attend church services in a 2013 survey. As a result of this widespread apathy, congregations struggle to keep numbers up and churches are starting to close countrywide. A few that have changed with the times are still going strong and some city churches now offer ‘spaghetti services' – mass followed by a bowl of pasta where you can be in and out in an hour. ‘The church can just be there for you in Denmark,' says Manu. ‘It's like our welfare system – it's there to catch you if you need it.' It's as though the country's safety net extends to faith as well, and it's The Danish Way, rather than regular attendance at church, that keeps the nation so buoyant. Manu assures me that this is what keeps him chipper: ‘I'd rate my happiness at a nine and half out of ten. I've got everything I need, I couldn't ask for any more.'

Psychologists at the University of British Columbia in Vancouver, Canada, found that the better educated and wealthier a nation is, the less likely its population is to believe in a higher being. The Global Index of Religion and Atheism also assessed that poverty was a key indicator of a society's tendency towards religion – so that poorer countries tend to be the most religious. The one exception to the rule? America. But in the strongly religious USA, despite the country's wealth, there's no universal healthcare, little job security, and a flimsy social welfare safety net. This means that the USA has a lot more in common with developing countries than she might like to think. Researchers from the University of British Columbia suggest that people are less likely to
need
the comfort of a god if they're living somewhere stable, safe and prosperous. This helps to explain why Denmark and her Scandi cousins Sweden and Norway regularly rate among the most irreligious in the world. Scandinavians don't
have
to pray to a god that everything's going to be OK – because the state has this sorted. In other words, Danes don't have so much left to pray for. And because there isn't a big culture of churchgoing, the next generation are even less inclined to turn out in their Sunday best for mass. Research from St Mary's University in the UK found that there was only a 3 per cent chance that a child would be religious if neither parent was.

But because nature's not crazy about a vacuum, there's still an intrinsic human need to look for answers to the big, thundering life questions that religion attempts to ‘clear up' for believers. For Danes, it's almost as though this need is met by the sense of shared values; a close, homogenous society, and a semi-religious, unquestioning
faith
in The Danish Way.

Manu is also the Minister for Gender Equality and so comes at church matters from a relatively progressive point of view. ‘It is a funny combination, gender equality and the church,' he admits, crunching on a carrot stick from the array of crudités that have been set before us as an unusual accompaniment to morning tea. ‘Gender equality is about being pro-human rights, but sometimes the practice of religion goes against human rights, for instance in the case of abortion. If there's conflict, I just have to take each situation as it comes.' Manu tested this strategy when pushing for Denmark's blasphemy law to be abolished, writing an op-ed in Denmark's
Politiken
newspaper arguing that: ‘free speech and human rights are far more important than the danger that someone might feel offended if their religion is subject to mockery and derision'.

Because most Danes don't take their religion too seriously, they're surprised when others do (see ritual slaughter-gate from April). There's been freedom of religion in Denmark since the constitution was signed in 1849. Since then, everyone has been allowed to practise his or her faith, and discrimination is against the law. All Danish residents are free to wear religious symbols and dress, from the crucifix to the Hijab, in public spaces as well as in parliament and schools. Islam is the biggest ‘minority religion', making up 3.7 per cent of the population (according to the US Department of State). There are 22 approved Islamic communities in Denmark with the right to deduct their financial contributions to a religious community from their taxable income. Everyone seemed to be rubbing along pretty well until 2005 when the Danish newspaper
Jyllands-Posten
famously printed twelve cartoons of the Islamic prophet Muhammad. This sparked international controversy as well as violent protests, a boycott of Danish goods in several countries and the burning of the Danish embassy in Damascus and its consulate in Beirut. The fallout mystified many Danes, who couldn't understand why anyone was getting so het up. As The Viking put it: ‘They were just cartoons in a paper that most people would throw in the trash anyway…'

But conservative types keen on clamping down on immigration used the incident to launch a campaign ‘defending Danish values'. Denmark's far-right Danske Folkeparti gained supporters as a result and has since called for a halt on immigration. The party has been growing steadily ever since and won nearly 27 per cent of the vote in the 2014 European elections, doubling its number of MEPs.

But these aren't the views of the majority. Social Democrat PM Helle Thorning-Schmidt has managed to hold on to the reins of the country since 2011 and present a strong front for the traditionally liberal nation's Scandinavian ideals. In her last New Year's Eve speech, Denmark's Queen Margrethe took the opportunity to caution the nation about the perils of being small-minded and urged respect for those from other cultures. ‘Denmark is a country with many different people,' she said. ‘Some have always lived here, some have come here. But we are a part of the same society and therefore we share the same conditions, both big and small, good and bad.'

Danes have a reputation for being a tolerant nation, as happiness economist Christian told me right at the start, and in 2013 Denmark was the focus of celebrations marking the 70th anniversary of the 7,000 Jewish lives saved during Nazi occupation. The rescue operation to smuggle Danish Jews to safety over the border to Sweden was almost completely successful with 90 per cent saved (to put this in perspective, only 30 per cent of Holland's 140,000 Jews and 60 per cent of Norway's Jewish population survived). For Danes, standing up to Nazism by championing democracy – an idea totally incompatible with anti-Semitism – was considered crucial.

Perceived tolerance is a great source of national pride. I find that the Danes I meet need the merest of excuses to come over all patriotic about their country. Being born in Denmark is seen as incontrovertibly fortunate and even having a tenuous association with the nation is perceived as A Good Thing. Lots of companies incorporate ‘Dan' in their business's name, because being Danish here is equated with being generally fabulous and of a high quality. I join a Facebook group dedicated to recording this phenomena and finding as many ‘Dan brands' as possible – 357 at the last count – including
DanAir
,
DanFish
,
DanCake
,
DanDoors
and my personal favourite,
DanLube
.

I start to wonder whether all this patriotism might also be having an impact on the nation's well-being. Could loving your country and continually reminding yourself of what a fabulous place you come from contribute to higher life satisfaction? I have a scout around and discover that feeling good about your country has been scientifically proven to make you happier, according to research published in
Psychological Science
. A European Values Study also found that the greater one's sense of national pride, the more likely you are to report higher levels of personal well-being. ‘So no wonder the Danes are happy,' I tell Lego Man. ‘Nearly 90 per cent of them say they're either “proud” or “very proud” of their country,' I read to him from my laptop. Another piece of research from the International Social Survey Programme asked how many Danes agreed with the statement, ‘My country is better than other countries'. A staggering 42 per cent of Danes answered ‘yes, my country is better'. In contrast, other liberal countries with strong welfare models reported far lower figures, with only 7 per cent of Dutch people thinking their country was superior and 12 per cent of Swedes inclined to shout about their homeland.

Flag waving – both literally and metaphorically – is nigh-on compulsory here. Regardless of your beliefs, waving that white cross against a red background is the one thing that unites everyone from Social Democrats to Danske Folkparti members, and Lutherans to atheists. Whether flying majestically in the background of any given TV broadcast or outside homes, decorating office desks, adorning food, being strung up to celebrate a birthday or used to sell something – anything that stays still long enough in Denmark will eventually get a Danish flag stuck in it.

The
Dannebrog
is one of the oldest national flags in the world and was, allegedly, first spotted falling from heaven in the 13th century. Legend has it that Danish soldiers were about to lose the Battle of Valdemar in June 1219 when they took a mini time-out to have a group huddle and pray for help. Lo and behold, instead of extra weaponry, manpower or world peace, God delivered unto them … the
Dannebrog
. The red and white pennant fell from the sky and was deftly caught by the Danish king before it had the chance to touch the sodden earth. This divine offering was said to have brought the royal army to victory – but instead of worshipping the God who delivered it to them, today's Danes appear to invest more faith and loyalty in the flag itself.

Having found out more about the heavenly talisman, we're excited when we find a flagpole in various bits buried under cobwebs at the back of our shed (thank you, previous tenants). We take it out and assemble the thing before trying to hold it upright in the wind, like an inexpert re-enactment of the Amish barn-raising scene in
Witness
(Lego Man: ‘Bagsie being Harrison Ford!' Me: ‘Er … sure…'). We manoeuvre the fifteen-foot-high pole, fully upright, to an area a safe distance from the car/our windows/the dog and find to our delight that it fits snugly into a conveniently lined hole, that until now we'd taken for an ineffective drain. Having never had a flagpole before (I know, it's a First World problem…), we only realise once it's up that the pulley mechanism could do with an oil so we take the thing down again. In a fit of adoptive patriotism, I order a Danish flag online. (Our predecessors didn't think to leave us theirs. Rude.)

‘This could just be the start,' I tell Lego Man, getting excited. ‘We could put up different flags for visitors! Or do a skull and crossbones and hold a pirate-themed party! We could
create our own coat of arms
!'

He gives me a look that tells me I've probably had enough coffee for one morning, before relenting and agreeing to let me buy a few more, ‘just to have in'.

The following weekend, an old university friend is coming to stay. I'm touched when friends from home make the effort to visit and it means more to us than I suspect they will ever realise. Flights here aren't expensive – you can get a return from London on a budget airline for £30 (around $50) – but I get that venturing outside your comfort zone and choosing to fly to Billund for a minibreak may not be everyone's first choice of getaway. For those adventurous enough to risk it for a biscuit, I want to make things special and reward our intrepid guests with as fun a time as possible. This week's guest of honour is coming for a couple of nights ahead of what we are instructed to refer to as ‘his big birthday'; something he's been in denial about for some time now. He is originally from Switzerland and is very polite and very handsome and whenever we see him, he brings me a near-obscene sized box of chocolates. Swiss Friend is
always
welcome. So I feel we should do something special to mark his major milestone that's also non-specific enough to keep us on his Christmas list in case he's still planning to insist he is ‘only 39'. I bake cakes and Lego Man buys booze. Then I have a brainwave.