Watching the legendary footballer sobbing as he realized he had broken his Achilles tendon and would not make it to the World Cup, I felt real sadness. Not just for England’s World Cup chances but for the man himself, whose serene attitude exemplifies a kind of oneness at odds with the fractured celebrity-culture the Beckham “brand” paradoxically embodies.

It has not always been thus. His early wunderkind career was characterized by a brittleness that reached its Cavalry during the 1998 World Cup Finals when he was sent off for lashing out in a match against Argentina. He subsequently attracted much of the blame for England’s elimination from the competition. An effigy was hung of him outside a London pub and his performances were met with boos for years.

Yet in the face of this opprobrium the footballer transformed in to a figure of calm and fair play. He told the Guardian:

I could have done interview after interview to try to explain myself, but doing it on the pitch counts for more… In that sort of situation you can either go home and cry, which I felt like doing at times, or you can come out fighting… I worked hard at it, to get where I am today.  

Beckham is known for his rigorous training regime, commitment to the art of football. The multi-millionaire could have wound down his days at LA Galaxy were it not for his love of the game and desire to get in the England squad – hence his move to AC Milan to stay in shape, just as US players like Galaxy teammate Landon Donovan are seeing out the season in England’s Premier League.

One of the things I like about Beckham is how his marriage to “Posh” Spice Girl Victoria (in fact every bit as working class as him and raised down the road from me, as it happens) appears to have hardly changed him at all. He has cheerfully acquiesced to Victoria’s preoccupation with fashion, enjoyed it clearly too, adorning himself with tattoos like a Maori warrior, but has rarely sought the affirmation celebrities so often seek. He has nothing to prove, no interest, plainly, outside his commitment to his art. For all the Gucci trappings, David Beckham remains an “uncut block” bobbing along with the river’s flow.

Now of course he has hit the rocks, risks being pushed under – his very meaning called in to question. I hope however his inner-resilience, the sense of self he has cultivated through adversity will stand him in sufficient stead to weather the storm.

Back in the late 1990s, when he was approaching national pariah status, a church put up a sign reading

GOD EVEN FORGIVES BECKS

David would do well to reflect how true this turned out to be, and how a kind of resurrection remains within the grasp of us all.

So religion is the new rock and roll, and not just of the radical hellfire preacher/ bearded fundamentalist variety – a sure sign is that cool people are coming out religious. In England original comedy rock and roller Frank Skinner continues to ride the rock and roll wave with religion, and another rock and roll icon Michael Moore beats the drum in the states.

Trouble is, I was never actually a great fan of rock and roll. I used to live in a big house with a rock and roll band on the top floor, a dance collective in the basement and an indi band (well, me) in the middle. How our neighbours loved us.

While the dance collective had the cred, the rock and roll band had the monster record deal and all that came with it, which to me (and the pasty-faced dance boys in the basement) was mostly represented by gorgeous girlfriends in leather trousers.

Rock and roll! But despite the looks, the hype, VIP suites and free champagne, after a while (a pretty long while, admittedly) we began to quietly accept it was all actually a bit… well, dull.

Even the pretty women, once we had become acclimatized to the aesthetic, turned out, much like the band’s songs, not to have very much to say.

Which is why of course rock and roll has not been rock and roll since around 1973. Instead it has largely been manufactured rebellion gauged to generate dough. Beneath the sturm and drang beats a heart of utter conformity.  

Indi on the other hand has always been something else. Indi was derived from the “independent” cottage industry nature of the record labels, often put out at cost (or by the band itself) because no big record company would dream of taking the risk. The highlight of most Indi bands careers was to get airplay on the late John Peel’s show.

John Peel, God of Indi. I’m sure you’re up there somewhere, lining up seven minutes of free-form electronica by a trio from Zagreb.

Indi was art for art’s sake. Words in Indi usually added up to something. Many bands now considered mainstream broke through from Indi – the Smiths, the Cure, Orange Juice, the Pixies, Nirvana etc, despite the Industry. Many more live on in my iPod, played to exhaustion unknown by their creators, most of whom now doubtless have “proper” jobs, mortgages and so on.

So if religion is the new rock and roll, Unitarianism to me is the new Indi. It’s unconventional, sometimes quirky; it’s not afraid to say the unsayable, think outside the box. It doesn’t yell rock and roll, whoop and wave its shirt about in the air. It’s the skinny, dark-eyed kid in the corner at parties who actually has something interesting to say, the kid who’s going to leave town someday and amount to something. Not yet though – it’s wedged against the wall with a few oddball friends, largely overlooked.

Contemplating the latest bout of politics at the office, I resolved that rather than get drawn in I would attempt to cultivate a more “religious” attitude. I imagined a more detached me; forgiving, unencumbered, quite possibly a bit smug too.

I warmed to the idea, wondered how practical it would be; realized the more I could afford to adopt a religious attitude essentially depended upon the less I needed to “care” about work.

By “care” I don’t mean doing a good job, or the work itself, which I care very much about, but the actual need to do so – in short how much I needed the job.

I realized that I was able to contemplate a more spiritual attitude because I was approaching a position financially where – partly due to savings, partly other possibilities – I did not need to rely on this particular job as my sole source of income. So I could afford to “care” less and thereby cultivate a better me.

It has always been thus, but it reminded me of the fundamental role financial security plays in our spiritual lives. Of course the poor are often among the most religious and spiritually generous, but equally I suspect there is a particular advantage in having reached the summit of Maslow’s Hierarchy of Needs.

Gandhi’s poverty grew out of his life experience – built upon privilege. But would the man who did so much to champion the cause of the “untouchables” have chosen this asceticism had he been born of “untouchables”? More – had he been born of untouchables and somehow managed to improve his status, would he have chosen the trappings of poverty over wealth? Having laboured so hard, would he even have had the space to explore his spirituality? Instead would his truth be born of the grim realities of poverty and his determination never to return to them?

Not that I want to diss Gandhi (heaven forbid!) but I think we all have a tendency to underestimate the influence of wealth upon spirituality, and the implications of this – how economics can influence access to that higher aspect of ourselves. I believe Schopenhauer had this in mind when he wrote poverty is slavery. 

This for me is the key reason why religion is indivisible from social action – not out of pity, or even physical need, but because a life not fully lived is an inherently poor one. 

Politics matters, although office politics I will henceforth attempt to rise above.

While I can afford to.