Boys have lost their sense of purpose

This letter appeared in the 26 March 2026 JEP. I have kept the writers name off this public space although as it was in the JEP, it could be considered a public engagement.

The core quantitative claims about education and qualifications in Jersey and the UK, and about male over‑representation in suicide, are well grounded in current official statistics. The overall narrative, that boys and young men are struggling in education, mental health, and purpose, and that this matters for everyone, is strongly supported by broader UK and international evidence, even where some local Jersey numbers need tightening.

At the end of the letter I make some suggestions.

Boys have lost their sense of purpose

I have two grown-up sons and today boys are falling behind in school, uni-versity and in mental health and feeling a sense of purpose.

Male loneliness is rising. Male suicide is dramatically higher than female suicide.

Yet raising this subject feels controversial - as if problems faced by boys some-how diminish the real challenges faced by women and people of other gender identities and sexual orientations.

Society should care about all people. You cannot ignore the numbers.

Across developed countries women now outnumber men at university. In the UK around 57% of students are women. The 2021 Jersey Census shows 45% of women aged 16-64 hold higher-level qualifications compared with 40% of men. Education reports about Jersey consistently show girls outperforming boys at GCSE level. Men account for about 68% of suicides in Jersey. Men make up the majority of those receiving treatment for drug misuse and this is concentrated among young adult males.

I'm 65 and my generation grew up in a very different world.

Housing was affordable. Careers were clearer. Manual jobs were plentiful. University was optional. You could leave school, learn a trade and, build a life.

Higher education is now the gateway to most careers. Around 65% of workers in finance and legal services hold higher-level qualifications. At the same time, many of the traditional pathways into adulthood that once existed for boys have faded. Modern classrooms also favour traits where girls tend to develop earlier. Boys, on average, mature later and often learn better through movement, experimentation and practical problem solving.

For most of history that wasn’t a problem, because boys had multiple pathways into adulthood. Many now simply disengage.

And the consequences extend. As education gaps widen, birth rates decline. Places like Jersey - with high housing costs and a highly competitive professional economy - are not immune.

This is not a gender war. But when large numbers of men lose purpose, they don't simply disappear. They withdraw. Or self-destruct. Youth offending (Jersey): Up 30-35% in the past three years, with most offences involving boys aged 13-17. Truancy (Jersey): Rose from 10% in 2022 to 14% in 2024, with boys aged .13-16 most affected. Under-25s are over-represented among those not in education, employment, or training, and young men are more likely to be unemployed or on income support.

For most of history masculinity was about responsibility. We stopped telling boys where they are needed.

My Comments

Low reading engagement is one of the strongest predictors of boys’ under‑achievement. Programmes that give boys material they actually enjoy (non‑fiction, graphic novels, practical topics) and build daily reading habits make a measurable difference.

Lessons that build in movement, hands‑on tasks, and problem‑solving (projects, experiments, outdoor learning, technical work) tend to re‑engage boys who switch off in purely desk‑based, talk‑heavy classrooms. This isn’t magic, but it’s one of the few things consistently recommended across reviews.

Boys are more likely to be excluded, sanctioned, or labelled rather than understood. Training staff to see behaviour as a signal, often of struggle with literacy, attention, or home stress, reduces exclusions and keeps boys in learning.

When apprenticeships, trades, and technical education are funded, respected, and clearly linked to real wages and progression, disengaged boys reappear. The World Bank’s review of male under‑achievement is blunt: credible labour‑market routes are one of the strongest protective factors for boys and young men.

Boys hear a lot about what’s wrong with men and very little about where they are genuinely needed: care work, teaching, youth work, fatherhood, craftsmanship, public service. Naming those as honourable, modern forms of masculinity matters.

For further reading:
https://www.menandboyscoalition.org.uk/boys-and-young-mens-education-toolkit
https://www.apa.org/monitor/2023/04/boys-school-challenges-recommendations
https://documents1.worldbank.org/curated/en/111041644611110155/pdf/Educational-Underachievement-Among-Boys-and-Men.pdf

A Short Story: Searching for the Goodness of God

Modern worship songs like "Goodness of God" can be unexpectedly difficult for people who are hard of hearing because the musical and textual structure offers very few anchors. The long, unpatterned melodic lines mean there’s no predictable contour to anticipate, so singers who rely on partial hearing or lip‑reading can’t easily “feel” where the phrase is going. Irregular phrasing adds to the challenge: without a steady metrical pulse or balanced line lengths, the song becomes something you must already know rather than something you can join. This is a short story about that issue.

Searching for the Goodness of God

On a windswept Sunday morning at La Chapelle des Pas, the church gathered slowly, as it always did, with the familiar shuffle of coats and the soft thud of hymnbooks being set aside for the service sheets. Among them was Margaret Le Brocq, who had sung in that church for more than sixty years. She had a voice that once carried confidently through the nave, but now she relied on hearing aids that whistled at the wrong moments and missed half the consonants she needed.

She took her usual place near the front, close enough to see the vicar’s lips and far enough from the speakers to avoid the sudden bursts of sound that made her flinch. The opening hymn was one she loved, “How Great Thou Art”, metrical, steady, shaped like a well‑built granite wall. She could follow its rhythm even when she couldn’t hear every word. The congregation rose, and Margaret rose with them, her voice finding the familiar path of the melody.

But after the readings, the worship band stepped forward. A young guitarist smiled nervously, tapped his pedal, and began the opening chords of “Goodness of God”. The congregation murmured with recognition. Margaret braced herself.

The first verse unfurled in long, drifting lines. She watched the worship leader’s mouth, but the phrases were so extended, so uneven, that she couldn’t tell where one ended and the next began. The melody rose and fell without the predictable shape she depended on. She tried to join in, but her voice faltered, unsure of its footing.

By the chorus, the band swelled. The drums softened but still blurred the consonants she needed to anchor the words. The vowels stretched into a warm, indistinct wash. She could see the joy on the younger faces around her, but she felt herself slipping to the edges of the moment, as though she were watching worship rather than participating in it.

Then came the bridge, the emotional heart of the song. The worship leader closed her eyes, the band leaned into the swell, and the congregation lifted their hands. But for Margaret, the bridge was a fog. The words repeated, but without clear articulation, they became a loop she couldn’t enter. She didn’t know whether they were beginning again or ending or shifting into something new. She stood still, hands folded, feeling the distance widen.

When the song finally settled, the vicar stepped forward with a gentle prayer. Margaret exhaled. She wasn’t angry, she understood the sincerity, the devotion, the beauty others found in these songs. But she also felt the quiet ache of being left outside something meant to gather everyone in.

After the service, as people drifted toward coffee and biscuits, the guitarist approached her. “Mrs Le Brocq, did the music sound all right today?” he asked, earnest and hopeful.

She smiled kindly. “It was heartfelt,” she said. “But some of us need clearer paths to walk. The old hymns give us steps we can feel, even when we can’t hear them.”

He nodded, thoughtful. “I hadn’t considered that.”

“Most don’t,” she replied, placing a hand on his arm. “But worship is a shared table. Everyone should be able to find their place.”

As she walked out into the bright Jersey morning, the sea wind tugging at her coat, she felt no bitterness, only a quiet hope that the church she loved might learn to weave its music in ways that welcomed every voice, even the ones that could no longer hear the tune.

More evidence relating to Clifford Orange

Clifford Orange, the Chief Aliens Officer in Jersey during the German occupation, was actively involved in compiling and submitting lists of Jews to the German authorities from 1940 through at least late 1942. Historian Paul Sanders wrote: "Nowhere is the inability to think ‘outside the box’ better demonstrated than in the negative test case of the Jersey Aliens Officer, Clifford Orange. It is a well-established fact that the overzealous Orange exceeded what the Germans demanded of him. This is plainly clear in the fact that some of the people he registered as Jews need not have been registered at all – even under the terms of the German race laws. It is unclear whether his attitude was simply unthinking, unprofessional or downright racist, but its consequence was that people were subjected to discrimination and suffering that they could have been spared. Orange’s culture of blind obedience over humanitarianism also came to the fore when he found out that some of his staff had been providing escapees in the islands with fake documents. Orange declared that he would not tolerate such activity behind his back and put an immediate stop to it."

For a previous review see:
http://tonymusings.blogspot.com/2025/08/clifford-orange-and-war-time.html

Here I examine the defense of Orange under the "hindsight" argument and argue that it is too weak to exonerate him.

Here are some additional snippets:
https://www.liberationroute.com/pois/2261/stolperstein-in-honour-of-esther-loyd

Esther Pauline Lloyd was born in London on 31 July 1906 - she arrived in Jersey three years before the German Occupation began. Esther registered as a Jew after the First Order against the Jews was passed in October 1940. In February 1943, hundreds of Islanders were deported to the continent in the second wave of deportations from the Channel Islands.

Remarkably, Esther successfully appealed against her deportation and was repatriated to Jersey on 25 April 1944. Once back in Jersey and still under German occupation, Esther made a complaint to the Bailiff and informed the Chief Registration Office, Clifford Orange, that she:

‘was Catholic on my mother’s side…I went to register at the Aliens Office at the time an order was brought out concerning Jews as I am of Jewish origin on my Grandfather’s side only, I thought at the time it concerned me but if all the facts concerning myself had been fully explained to the German authorities, there would have been no question of my being sent away’.

Esther demanded to know ‘why these facts have been suppressed and wish the matter gone into’. 

Despite Clifford’s response that registration was the sole responsibility of the individual, she was not the only Jewish resident who recalled not being offered any choice in the matter. Hedwig Bercu felt the same. 

By chance, after Liberation, Clifford met Hedwig in St Helier, apologising for his actions stating ‘I had to follow German orders’.

A Short Story for Easter: Alleluia!

A Short Story for Easter: Alleluia!

The morning was cool, and the garden still held the hush of night. Mary Magdalene walked slowly, her steps uncertain. The stone had been rolled away, and the tomb was empty. She had come with spices, ready to honour the body, but now there was nothing to prepare. The silence felt wrong, as if the world had forgotten how to mourn.

She stood near the tomb, tears slipping down her cheeks. The memory of the cross was still fresh, the final breath, the broken body. She had watched from a distance, powerless, and now even the grave had been taken from her. She turned and saw a man nearby, walking within the garden. He asked her why she was weeping.

They spoke briefly, and she answered without truly seeing him. She saw a stranger, a face she could not recognise. Who was he? Perhaps a gardener? But then he said her name. Mary. And something shifted. Her heart leapt. She looked again, and her eyes were opened. It was him. Alive. Changed, yet unmistakable. She reached out, but he stepped back gently. Not yet, he said. The time would come, but not now.

She ran to tell the others, her voice trembling with joy and confusion. Some believed her. Others did not. But the story began to spread, like light creeping across the horizon.

Later that day, two disciples walked the road to Emmaus. The path was dusty, and their hearts were heavy. A stranger joined them, asking what they discussed. They told him everything, from the hope they had once held to the sorrow that now remained. He listened, then began to speak of the scriptures, weaving together words that stirred something deep within them.

They reached their destination and invited him to stay. At supper, he took the bread, blessed it, and broke it. In that moment, their eyes were opened. They saw him. Not as a stranger, but as the risen Lord. And then he was gone.

They sat in silence for a moment, then looked at each other. Did not our hearts burn within us? they asked. They felt no fear, only wonder. They rose and returned to Jerusalem, eager to share what they had seen.

In the days that followed, others saw him too. In gardens, on roads, behind locked doors. He came not with thunder, but with peace. He spoke of forgiveness, of love stronger than death. And when he was no longer seen in flesh, he remained in signs of faith.

Now, bread and wine carry his presence. Not as memory alone, but as living truth. Faith sees what eyes cannot. The Lord is risen. Truly, he is risen indeed.

A candle is lit, its flame steady against the wind. It stands as a witness, a light for every nation. The story continues, not in tombs, but in hearts. Not in endings, but in beginnings.

And in gardens, where sorrow once walked, joy now blooms.

The Last Sacrament

Many theologians who argue for footwashing as an occasional sacrament begin with the simple but weighty fact that Jesus explicitly commands it in John 13. Unlike many symbolic actions in the Gospels, this one comes with a direct imperative: “You also ought to wash one another’s feet.” That dominical command gives the practice a sacramental gravity that exceeds ordinary liturgical gestures, even if it does not rise to the universal normativity of Baptism and Eucharist.

It is a ritual of mutual vulnerability, reversal of status, and the restoration of dignity to the overlooked. It does not merely illustrate humility or reconciliation; it performs them. The washing of feet creates a moment of embodied belonging that words alone cannot achieve, and this performative quality strengthens the case for treating it as sacramental in character.

Its occasional nature is part of its power. Footwashing is most potent when a community is fractured, when a new ministry begins, when reconciliation is needed, or when a parish must remember the heart of discipleship. Like anointing, it gains sacramental force precisely because it is not routine. It appears at moments of need, not as a weekly obligation but as a timely, grace‑bearing act.

This poem sums up that position and was also inspired by foot washing at St Martin's Church Jersey.

The Last Sacrament

He kneels down, the servant king,
As angelic choirs softly sing;
With basin full, the water clean,
We know so well this loving scene;
The water gently poured and flowed
On the feet so dusty, worn on road,
And washed so kindly, so much love,
As Spirit descending like a dove;
A new commandment, love to you
Shown in sacrament, so we knew:
No pride, no ruler come with might,
Just the washing feet reveals sight,
Of gently washing, servant king,
As angelic choirs softly sing.

1986 - 40 years ago - April- Part 1

1986 - 40 years ago - April- Part 1

March 31—April 6

THE Home Secretary, Mr Douglas Hurd, arrives in the Island for a two-day visit. In a speech to the States he reaffirms the UK Government's intention to maintain the existing constitutional arrangements between the mainland and the Channel Islands and he thanks Jersey for the contribution it will make to the UK defence budget.

The former headmistress of St Helier Girls School, Miss Gwendoline Harris, dies at Overdale Hospital, aged 68.

Centenier Peter Pearce breaks down in tears at the Town Hall after being re-elected to serve a further term in office. The incident occurs only hours after an official call for him to resign is made public because of his seven-week suspension from duty.

An elderly woman, 79-year-old Mrs Doris Collas, is killed when she is knocked over by a car as she crosses the road near Osborne Court on St Aubin's Inner Road.

The new Relief Magistrate, Advocate T. A. Dorey, makes it clear when he sits for the first time in the Police Court that offenders found guilty of assault on security officers can expect to be dealt with severely. Advocate Dorey sentences 22-year-old Thomas Coburn to two months in jail for an assault on a security officer at Funland.

There is support for the Jersey Evening Post's findings on inflated oil prices from Mr Ian Parker, the owner of the Hotel de France. Mr Parker's support for the JEP's criticism of local oil companies is based on a survey he carried out in the UK.

 

April 7-13

EARLY potatoes suffer severe damage when a severe ground frost hits the Island. It is estimated that 90 per cent of the crop is affected when temperatures at night fall to minus 8°C.

Senator Dick Shenton tables questions in the States because he says that local people seeking to buy homes are being "swamped" by essential employees who can borrow money at low rates of interest.

The Bailiff, Mr Peter Crill, suggests that Special Constables should be recruited to combat summer violence in St Helier, but senior representatives of the Honorary Police say that this is not necessary.

The Agriculture and Fisheries Committee are asked to allow 80 vergees of the foreshore at St Catherine, Grouville Bay and Le Hocq to be used for oyster farming. Agriculture's chief officer, Mr John Abraham, says that there will be talks about the issue with the Island Development Committee and Tourism.

Repairs costing £20,000 are to be carried out at Green Street car park because of signs of serious deterioration in the concrete of which it is made.

A full report into the circumstances of the death of 18-year-old Miss Trudy Sargent are called for at the General Hospital. Miss Sargent's parents, who live in Sheffield, consider suing over their daughter's death because they allege she was refused admission to the hospital even though she was very ill with meningitis.

“Not My Thing” — A Maundy Thursday Encounter

This dialogue was written in 2025, and I wanted to reflect how washing feet takes some clergy out of their comfort zone, and yet Pope Francis went to prisons to wash feet, including the feet of 12 women.

In 2024, as Pope Francis poured water over their feet, dried them with a towel and kissed their feet, 12 women inmates at Rome's Rebibbia prison wept.... By washing his disciples' feet, Jesus humbles himself, the pope said. "With this gesture, he makes us understand what he had said, 'I came not to be served but to serve.' He teaches us the path of service."

"Not My Thing" — A Maundy Thursday Encounter

Setting: A dimly lit chancel. Candles flicker along the altar rail. The congregation has gone home. The vicar, Rev. Joel, is tidying up the communion vessels. Suddenly, a figure appears in the doorway—barefoot, robe dusty, eyes radiant.

Jesus:
You kept the table.

Rev. Joel (startled):
I—yes. We shared bread and wine. The sermon was strong. People were moved.

Jesus (stepping forward):
And the basin?

Rev. Joel (hesitating):
Ah. No basin this year. I’ve never really connected with that part. It’s not… my thing.

Jesus (gently):
Not your thing.
Yet it was mine.

Rev. Joel (defensive):
I mean—it’s symbolic, isn’t it? We talked about service. I preached John 13. The theology was solid.

Jesus (kneeling beside the empty credence table):
I didn’t preach it. I did it.
I bent low. I touched the dust.
I washed what others ignored.

Rev. Joel (softening):
I know. But people feel awkward. Some don’t want their feet touched. It’s messy. Vulnerable.

Jesus (looking up):
Exactly.
It’s the awkwardness that makes it holy.
The vulnerability that makes it mine.

Rev. Joel:
I’m trying to build something here. The parish was struggling. I’ve brought energy, music, young families. We’re growing again.

Jesus (rising):
Growth is good.
But what grows when the least are left unwashed?

Rev. Joel (quietly):
I didn’t mean to exclude anyone.

Jesus (walking slowly to the font):
There was a woman tonight—hard of hearing. She watched the liturgy unfold, lips moving, gestures unclear.
She longed for touch.
Not performance.
Not polish.
Just presence.

Rev. Joel (voice cracking):
I didn’t see her.

Jesus (placing hand on the font rim):
She saw you.
And she wondered if the water had dried up.

Rev. Joel:
I thought I was making it more accessible. Less pressure. Less discomfort.

Jesus:
Comfort is not the command.
Love is.
And love kneels.

Rev. Joel (sitting on the front pew):
I didn’t know how to do it well.
I feared doing it wrong.

Jesus (sitting beside him):
Then do it broken.
Do it clumsy.
Do it with trembling hands.
But do it.

Rev. Joel (tears forming):
Would you show me?

Jesus (smiling):
I already did.
But I’ll show you again.

[Jesus walks to the sacristy and returns with a small basin and towel. He places them at the vicar’s feet.]

Jesus:
Start here.
Not with the perfect liturgy.
Not with the clever sermon.
Start with the feet.
Start with the ones who feel unseen.
Start with the water.

Rev. Joel (removing his shoes):
I’m not ready.

Jesus (kneeling):
Neither were they.
But I washed them anyway.

[He begins to wash Joel’s feet—slowly, reverently. The silence is thick with grace.]

Jesus (as he dries the feet):
Next year, let the basin speak.
Let the water do the preaching.
Let the towel be your theology.

Rev. Joel (whispering):
I will.

Jesus (rising, preparing to leave):
Then I’ll see you at the basin.