Re-enchantment

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This post has been sparked by a post from Andrew Jones (TSK) asking a question about the place and space enchantment may have now there are 3.5 billion online gamers, inhabiting mystical worlds. Yet when I questioned some younger people about the possible impact their response was they could see little connection as they inhabit many of these spaces and still compartmentalise life. But perhaps they underestimate the pervasive nature of culture because a quick glance around their rooms will often reveal that the icons of the virtual space make it into the physical one.

Many psychologists and philosophers argue that modern life is increasingly defined by fragmentation and compartmentalisation. Our days are still split into work, leisure, family, and digital selves, each with its own codes, expectations, and emotional boundaries but this is somewhat weakening with the rise of side hustles, and a rejection of unfulfilling work. Division allows us to manage stress or trauma by separating conflicting experiences and identities, but the same process can lead to a sense of internal discord, draining energy and making it difficult to pursue a coherent sense of self or purpose. Alasdair MacIntyre argues that this compartmentalised existence is not just a personal phenomenon but a cultural one, where society struggles to articulate a unified vision of the good life. Instead, we float between roles and obligations, rarely integrating them into a meaningful whole.

Against this backdrop, a hunger for re-enchantment has emerged. As our lives become more mediated by screens and routines, many seek a renewed sense of wonder and belonging through nature, which accelerated through the pandemic, and saw a surge in people rediscovering wild spaces, gardening, and outdoor rituals. This movement is not just about environmentalism; it’s about reconnecting with something larger than ourselves, finding awe in the living world, and feeling rooted in a cosmos that is alive and mysterious. But whilst it offers a counterpoint to fragmentation and invites us to experience wholeness, presence, and meaning will compartmentalised routines still be the norm.?

As mentioned by TSK nature is not the only realm where re-enchantment is unfolding. Online games, especially role-playing and massively multiplayer worlds, have become fertile ground for the growth of alternative mystic narratives. These digital spaces often blend myth, prophecy, and magical systems, creating modern mythologies that echo ancient spiritual quests. Games like Skyrim and Mass Effect draw on the hero’s journey, offering players a sense of agency, transformation, and connection to the transcendent. Perhaps such games are acting as the unconscious wells of religion that Mircea Eliade alludes to in The Sacred and the Profane.

Perhaps the dual movement towards nature and towards digital myth reflects a deeper shift in how people approach spirituality and here’s a few things worth noting if we are seeking to understand how this may shape our missiology:

  1. it’s a spirituality that often is increasingly individualised, shaped by personal quests for meaning rather than institutional doctrines.
  2. nature-based practices and online mystic narratives offer opportunities to integrate fragmented parts of the self, whether through mindful presence or immersive storytelling but only often temporarily or still in a compartmentalised way
  3. maybe community can form in digital and real-world communities form around nature practices
  4. providing belonging and shared purpose outside traditional religious structures remains important to people despite rumours of the quiet revival (3.5 billion is a big number!)
  5. The search for spiritual practices, whether rooted in nature or narrative, can offer a sense of coherence and say a lot about the chaos so many face.

The bible speaks pretty directly to the tension between fragmentation and wholeness. Deuteronomy 6:4-5 calls for wholehearted love, echoed by Jesus as the greatest commandment, urging integration, and reiterated by Paul reiterates this vision in Colossians 1. Where fragmentation divides, the biblical narrative points to a God who unites.

So whilst we will only be able to read the impact of these culture shifts retrospectively the juxtaposition of fragmentation and re-enchantment is shaping a new spiritual landscape. Where compartmentalisation divides, re-enchantment, through nature or mythic play, offers the promise of wholeness. In seeking out the enchanted, whether under open skies or in digital realms, people are crafting new ways to be spiritual: ways that are imaginative, inclusive, and deeply attuned to both the wounds and wonders of modern life. And If this is the work of the spirit how do we join in?

Believe less and be more?

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Alastair Macintyres death in May, made me revisit some his writings, many would say After Virtue is one of the most important books around ethics but tbh it’s a heavy tome. A few years back I started wondering if there questions to be asked OF the way and questions to be asked ALONG the way. Macintyre raises great questions of the way, the how, the who, and how we inhabit the story, that are really important for the mixed ecology of church. He would particularly challenge and resist its reduction to a managerial and technological mechanistic solution. Probably arguing that the goal is not to balance liberal and conservative forms, but to recover the narrative unity and purpose of the church’s life.

“We can only answer the question ‘What am I to do?’ if we can answer the prior question ‘Of what story or stories do I find myself a part?’” (After Virtue, p. 216) In a world where church structures often feel like they’re either fossilizing or fragmenting, the tension between what/how we know and what we are becomes stark. For decades, ecclesial debates have circled epistemological questions: How do we define church? What doctrines must we uphold? But what if we’ve been asking the wrong questions? What if, instead of fixating on knowledge, we grounded our understanding in being, in an ontological telos that shapes our purpose from the core of our relational existence?

Epistemology vs. Ontology:
• Epistemology asks, “How do we know what we know?” It’s concerned with beliefs, justification, and the mechanics of knowledge. This translates into doctrinal checklists and boundary-setting.
• Ontology asks, “What is the nature of existence?” It’s about being, the essence of a thing or community which for the church is ultimately a person Jesus. Our exsistence is to be found in Christ and our telos (purpose) stems from these roots, shaping our growth and  fruit.

The problem arises when churches prioritize epistemological gatekeeping (Do you believe X?) over ontological formation (Who are we becoming?). When our primary question shifts from identity to ideology, we risk reducing the Body of Christ to a set of propositions rather than a living, breathing participation in God’s mission. The Cost of this when churches fixate on epistemological certainty, can be to
1. Split over boundaries: Endless debates about who’s “in” or “out” based on doctrinal nuance. 2. Stifle emergence: Prioritize preservation of existing structures over adaptive innovation. 3. Lose relational depth: Reduce discipleship to an assent to particular ideas rather than transformation into Christlikeness. 4 Reach for simple solutions and think there’s a silver bullet answer.

This is why I would argue in part why the church always was and will be a mixed ecology and therefore any expression of mixed ecology requires an ontological foundation. A tree cannot thrive if its energy goes into policing its leaves rather than deepening its roots. So the ontological roots of the mixed ecology approach starts with being, not knowing and would include,
• Telos as trajectory: The church exists to become the Bride of Christ (Eph. 5:27) to be a body of many parts, a people shaped by love, justice, and kenotic service.
• Essence comes before expression: Forms of church (inherited, emerging, etc.) are secondary to the imago Dei etched into our collective DNA.
• Relational ontology: As the Trinity exists in perichoretic communion, the church’s being is fundamentally interdependent, the vine and other biblical metaphors.

So what does this mean in practice if we take this ontological approach seriously.
1. A shift from “What do we believe?” to “Whose are we?”
Ground identity in belonging to the open handed welcoming Christ rather than ideological alignment.
2. A shift from preserving structures to nurturing life
Just as ecosystems adapt to environmental shifts, churches must prioritise vitality over validity. The rise of FXs and Save the Parish at its best reflects this organic impulse.
3. A shift from outsider status to living incarnation
An ontological telos frees communities to experiment, fail, and iterate. The focus shifts from “Are we right?” to “Are we alive?”

Perhaps  the church’s crisis is not a lack of answers but a forgetfulness around our sense of being. When i advocate for a mixed ecology, i hope I’m pointing to a deeper truth and that our forms must flow from our ontology. We are not called to be curators of dogma but cultivators of divine life rooted in Christ, branching into the world’s fractures, and bearing fruit that whispers of a Kingdom not yet fully seen.

Scaling Deep: Measures of Possibility, Personhood and Story

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In the previous post I wrote about the importance of scaling deep; that elusive, essential work of transforming the cultural values, relationships, and everyday practices at the heart of our systems.  Scaling deep, I argued, is about more than numbers or institutional reach; it is about changing hearts and minds, shifting the stories we tell, and nurturing the kind of belonging that can weather storms. Today, I want to expand on that theme, drawing in the wisdom of Rowan Williams and the concept of sobornost, and exploring how we might measure engagement by more than attendance or output, to include by our collective openness to possibility, creative reimagining, and the space we make for different voices.

Beyond Numbers: The Limits of Shallow Metrics
It’s a familiar refrain in church life: “How many came?” “How many stayed?” “How many gave?” These questions, while not unimportant, often reflect what I’ve come to see as institutional anxiety, our capitalist captivity, a need for reassurance that we’re growing, that we’re succeeding. But as I’ve reflected on the journey of Fresh Expressions and broader systems change, I’ve become convinced that these are shallow waters. Real, lasting change, the kind that endures beyond a single project, leader, or season requires a shift in the very soil of our communal life. This is the work of scaling deep.

Scaling Deep and the Wisdom of Sobornost
Here, Rowan Williams offers a profound lens. Drawing on the Russian Orthodox tradition and the theologians Losskey,  Khomiakov Williams describes sobornost as a gathering of free persons into one organic body, not simply the sum of its parts but an active, living wholeness. Sobornost is not about headcount or institutional uniformity. It is about the quality of our togetherness: the depth of our relationships, the space we make for difference, and the organic unity that emerges when people are truly seen and heard.
Williams writes that the church, at its best, is a community whose boundaries have been decisively altered by the Resurrection, a place where the barriers of class, race, and loyalty are overcome, and a new social pattern of forgiveness, patience, and truth-telling emerges. This is not utopia, but a real, flesh and blood community marked as much by failure as by success. The point is not perfection, but the ongoing work of living into a new, unbounded world, a world where every face is one God has already looked at with love. When we take this as a base I think we can use the principles of Scaling Deep and develop at different set of measures, but we will need greater attention to process to make this sort of measurement possible.

Measuring Engagement with Possibility
If we take sobornost seriously, then engagement is not just about participation in programmes or committees. It’s about how we engage with possibility, how open we are to new ways of being, to creative thinking, to the reimagining of spaces and relationships. Here are some ways I see this playing out:
• Reimagining Spaces: Our physical and symbolic spaces shape our communal life. Too often they reinforce old hierarchies and exclusion. But what if we saw our spaces as canvases for possibility? What if we designed them to be more inclusive, more hospitable, more reflective of the diversity of God’s people? This isn’t just about architecture, it’s about the stories our spaces tell and the possibilities they invite. It’s as much about medium as message.
• Creative Thinking: Scaling deep is inherently creative. It asks us to imagine new forms of community, new patterns of discipleship, new ways of relating to one another and to God. This creativity is not a luxury; it’s a necessity for communities seeking to embody the gospel in a changing world.
• Personal Development Spaces: True engagement honours the personhood of each member. Are we creating spaces for personal growth, for the sharing of stories, for the honest wrestling with faith and doubt? Are we nurturing resilience, vulnerability, and the gifts that come from lived experience, especially from those on the margins?
• The Place and Space of Different Voices: Sobornost insists that unity is not uniformity. Are we making space for voices that have been silenced, for perspectives that challenge our assumptions, for the kind of dialogue that Rowan Williams describes as essential to the church’s witness? Are we willing to be disturbed, to be changed by the encounter with the other?

All of the above provide real opportunities to measure scale both in terms of Scaling Up and Out and importantly Scaling Deep but we will need an accompanying shift to valuing story and gathering Narrative-Based Evidence that stories allude to.

So how do we measure this kind of engagement? I think if we get the principles right the organisation can use spreadsheets or dashboards, and numbers but the process or lens is through the gathering of stories, narrative-based evidence that honours context and personhood. There’s all sorts of participatory, narrative techniques like Community Narration invite members to share their experiences and to shape the collective story of the community. These stories reveal not just what we’ve done, but who we are becoming. They help us see where we have truly scaled deep, where hearts and minds have been changed, where new possibilities have emerged, where the quality of our togetherness has grown.
“Narrative methods have great potential to avoid hierarchical and unidirectional forms of evaluation, encouraging the group’s collective psychology and identity-based constructs to emerge… The community’s participants were able to use the technique successfully, found it enriching, and the constructs obtained have led to many discussions and member-guided research related to the organization.” See here

Mapping Scale: Out, Up, and Deep
Once we begin to gather this narrative evidence, we can more easily categorise where we have scaled out (replicating innovations), scaled up (influencing systems and structures), and scaled deep (transforming culture and relationships). Scaling out and up are often visible and quantifiable. Scaling deep, by contrast, is subtle, slow, and sometimes invisible yet it is what makes all other change sustainable.

Honouring Context and Personhood
At the heart of this approach is a commitment to honouring both context and personhood. Every community is unique, shaped by its history, its challenges, and its gifts. Every person brings their own story, their own wounds and hopes. Scaling deep means attending to these realities, refusing one-size-fits-all solutions or predetermined outcomes and opening ourselves to the possibility that God is at work in the very particularities of our lives.

So, through Alchemy at the edge I invite you to join me in measuring engagement not by what is easy or obvious, but by what is deep and lasting. Let us reimagine our spaces, nurture creative thinking, make room for every voice, and gather the stories that tell the truth about who we are and who we are called to become. In so doing, we honour the spirit of sobornost, a unity that is organic, dynamic, and always open to the possibilities of grace.
And perhaps, in the end, this is the most faithful measure of all: not how many we have gathered, but how deeply we have learned to belong to one another, and to the God who calls us into ever-widening circles of possibility.

Scaling Deep – the place of lived experience in real change

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As I reflect on the journey of Fresh Expressions and the broader movement for systems change over the last ten years in Cumbria, it’s too easy to point to growth which to be honest is a pretty shallow measure of numbers usually driven by institutional anxiety. I think it is better to talk about scale. There is a great article a friend Katie sent me https://systemsanctuary.com/scale-deep that has been really helpful in my thinking as I prepare to move on. The language of scale isn’t just about getting bigger, it’s about how change spreads, embeds, and transforms. Drawing on insights from the systems change field, particularly the work referenced in the Systems Sanctuary paper, we can distinguish three distinct types of scale: scaling out, scaling up, and scaling deep

Scaling out refers to replicating and spreading innovations across new communities or contexts. In the context of the church, this looks like launching more Fresh Expressions in different towns, villages, or networks, essentially multiplying what works so that more people can benefit from it.

Scaling up is about influencing policies, structures, and systems to support and sustain change. For the church, this means embedding the principles of Fresh Expressions into diocesan strategies, clergy training, and church governance. In other words, it’s about changing the “rules of the game” so that the whole system supports and nurtures innovation.

Scaling deep focuses on transforming cultural values, relationships, and ways of being. This is about changing hearts, minds, and everyday practices. In the church, scaling deep means shifting the culture to be more open, inclusive, and embrace more of the lived experience of those it is serving.

These three forms of scale; out, up, and deep, work together to create lasting systems change, but it is scaling deep that ensures the change is truly embedded in the life and culture of the church. Research shows that large-scale, lasting systems change requires a combination of all three types of scaling. Scaling out ensures more people benefit, scaling up makes change stick but scaling deep is what transforms the culture and relationships at the heart of the church. It’s about changing the stories we tell, the ways we relate, and the values we embody, especially for those who have experienced exclusion or trauma.

Those who know me well, know that my upbringing was far from straight forward, and my lived experience of ACE’s will always play a role in how I look at the world, and work in systems.  A few years ago I noticed this can play out in two ways. One where the institutions remain in a role of an abusive parent who fails to listen and change or a healthier way where the institution can embrace the gift of trauma informed practice and someone’s gift of resilience and stickability in the difficult space of the institution to help bring real change. I have to say on the whole my experience with the church in Cumbria has been good but there have been far more difficult times when my bounce back abilities have seriously waned. What kept me going and sane in those times were the pioneer and and fx networks and systems within the system that had been trauma-informed, nurtured deep belonging and spiritual transformation because they are made up and for those who have been on the margins. As I wrote in the poem a few weeks ago They are the muscles of hope not wishbone or whisper, but sinew and tendon that flexes beneath the skin with every reimagined dream of a better world

I guess my question, concern and challenge as I leave is have we scaled deep enough at leadership levels and who and how will the voice of the margins be brought to the centre. I was so privileged to usually have good relationships with senior leaders and until our structures more recently changed be in right meetings at the right times to bring the my lived experience and that of our pioneers to the table.

Too often, organisations treat lived experience as a box to tick, a story for the annual report, a voice on a panel. But centring lived experience is not about tokenism; it’s about transformation. When people with lived experience are involved early and meaningfully in decision-making, service design, and governance, the work changes. It becomes more responsive, more just, and more effective.

This requires trust, time, and a willingness to be changed by what we hear. It means building relationships, closing the feedback loop, and being honest about the influence that lived experience will have on decisions. I think institutions also need to be honest about potential risk it is to the individuals contributing and the damage that could be caused.

The challenge is to keep scaling out and scaling up, but never at the expense of scaling deep. There is another blogpost needed here because the funding in the CofE is mainly oriented towards scaling out and as I say that’s a pretty shallow approach, but also it’s one that in the long term threatens real systems change. Only by listening to and centring the lived experience of those on the margins can we hope to nurture a mixed ecology of church that is truly renewed, inside and out.

The interactive power of Language, Metaphor and Models

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I have been thinking a lot about the role lanaguage as a precursor to change. What I’m keen to do with Alchemy At The Edge is not to be a coach, but co-create system change with people, and this means not simply asking people to adopt frameworks or models I have used. Remember “all models are wrong but some are helpful”. So thinking about how I can use the interaction of lanaguage and the models I have developed to grow something more contextual in any given situation.

Noah Lowery writes, “Through language, we create meaning, structure our thoughts, and ultimately, shape our perception of the world,” and “Language is a powerful tool that constructs our reality by shaping our thoughts, perceptions, and social constructs.” These insights invite us to consider the profound influence of language not merely as a medium of communication but as a foundational framework through which we conceptualise and engage with our world.

Language, as Lowery highlights, is indispensable in crafting meaning and defining the boundaries of our understanding. It allows us to articulate abstract concepts, delineate systems, and construct narratives. However, the transformative potential of language in systemic change goes beyond the act of expression. It provides the initial scaffolding to identify and develop metaphors, the cognitive tools that bridge from the abstract towards the tangible.

Take, for example, the metaphor of the “Mixed Ecology Trellis,” a framework that can be adapted to diverse contexts to support outcomes, allocate resources, and deploy strategies effectively. Here, the trellis serves as a conceptual structure, a visual and functional metaphor for cultivating growth, fostering interconnectedness, and guiding systemic adaptation. While the language introduces and explains the metaphor, its real power lies in how it is operationalized: by transforming abstract ideas into actionable tools.

This is where the limits of language as a solitary agent of change become evident. Systems are complex, and while language enables us to name and frame issues, it is through the tangible enactment of these ideas that change is realised. The “Mixed Ecology Trellis” does not merely describe; if used well it directs. It offers a flexible yet structured way to engage with systems, balancing stability with the ability to respond dynamically to varying needs.

To illustrate, consider a community grappling with resource allocation. The trellis metaphor can guide their strategy by suggesting a living system where resources are channeled like nutrients, fostering growth where it is most needed while maintaining the overall health of the system. Through this lens, language shapes understanding, the metaphor provides focus, and the tool, the trellis, enables action.

This interplay highlights a key truth: language alone cannot dismantle entrenched systems of inequality, inefficiency, or injustice. What it does is spark the imagination and frame the possibilities for action. By identifying the right metaphors, we bridge the gap between conceptual understanding and practical application, equipping communities, organisations, and individuals with tools that drive meaningful change.

While language may not directly change systems, it is undeniably the starting point for envisioning the change we seek. As Lowery aptly states, it constructs our reality, providing the cognitive foundation for shaping thoughts, perceptions, and, ultimately, actions. When paired with actionable metaphors and tools like the Mixed Ecology Trellis, language becomes more than a means of communication, it becomes a catalyst for transformation.

Hope is muscle

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Hope is a muscle not wishbone or whisper,
but sinew and tendon
that flexes beneath the skin
with every reimagined dream of a better world.

It is not fragile,
but the steady clench
of hands in the dirt,
the slow, stubborn lift
of eyes toward a dawn
that hasn’t yet arrived.

We exercise hope
each time we imagine
a world remade:
where children run to school
in a city unscarred by war
Instead of running from guns at feeding stations.

We exercise hope each time we imagine
A place where hard borders are softened
into warm welcome Where knocks at the doors are from friends, instead of agents of the state sowing fear of deportation

We exercise hope each time we imagine
Sitting down beside rivers teeming with fish
and where forests and fields of wheat breathe
without fear of tanks and guns.

Hope is not passive—
it sweats and strains,
aching after use,
growing stronger
with every act
of radical imagination.

It is the muscle
that refuses to atrophy
when news darkens,
hope strengthens the heart’s resolve
to plant seeds
in battered soil,
to write poems
in the rubble,
to dream aloud
in the silence
between sirens.

Hope is a muscle—
embrace it,
stretch it,
shape it
into the world
we long to see

Building Communities That Honour the “Other” and resist unconscious capitalist bias.

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At the heart of many of the issues we face is our unconscious tetheredness to capitalism and how this playing out in its late stages. Inspired by  Ian Mobsby recent article I wanted to explore more how non othering emerging church or community spaces might play out practically in the light of my recent posts. As Ian highlights Merton wrote  “The beginning of love is the will to let those we love be perfectly themselves…”

This vision of love—unpossessive, liberating, and rooted in radical acceptance—is both beautiful and destabilising. It asks us to relinquish control, to release our grip on outcomes, and to embrace the sacred chaos of difference. But how do we translate this into the messy reality of community-building? What practical approaches may help us resist the urge to “twist” others into our image. Here’s a few thoughts drawing from Merton’s theology, eco-feminist thought, and lived experiments I have been involved in over the years.

How do we build on Divine Love, Not Human Effort, Merton argued that true community is founded not on our “own love” but on “God’s love”—a love that “puts us in a position where sometimes natural community is very difficult” . This shifts the focus from compatibility (seeking those like us) to faith in something larger than ourselves. Christina Cleveland writes similarly in her work on reconciliation. What I particularly like about Christina’s work is her acknowledgment of the mental and emotional energy these spaces take. Stereotyping and categorisation are short cuts are hard to override and even in a more enlightened outlook it’s takes energy and intention to try and inhabit these spaces.
In practice either joining or intentionally gathering people across ideological, cultural, or generational divides, through local community garden for instance could a way forward. However in reality too often these spaces can be pretty homogenous. So intentionality to host shared spaces is needed eg meals where climate activists, retirees, and teenagers collaborate on composting projects, learning to listen without agenda.
A key for us in Cumbria has been to Ritualise surrender, in our Cmpfire gatherings we set the tone by saying we are not here to fix things and use a talking stick for simply creating a space to listen deeply. I wonder what would it look like to begin meetings with a simple practice: “We are here not because we agree, but because we trust something beyond us.” Reframing conflict and spaces as generative, not destructive.

Borrowing from ideas in  Eco-Theology of Becoming-With what does it mean to move on from notions that we need to fix stuff. Donna Haraway’s concept of “becoming-with”—seeing humans as entangled with non-human beings and ecosystems, resonates with Merton’s call to love others as they are. This ecological lens rejects transactional relationships (e.g., “I’ll love you if you change”) in favour of mutual accompaniment.
Soil doesn’t demand plants conform to its image; it nourishes what grows. Applying this to community roles: lets gifts emerge organically. What would it look like to shift from hierarchical leadership to something more organic based on needs at particular times and where tasks are claimed based on passion, not just expertise.

In Alchemy At The Edge I’m working on the idea of Listening Fast and Listening Slow, and how context changes the listening process. If we host walks where members share stories while attending to the more-than-human world—birdsong, wind, urban rhythms our listening will be very different.  This approach dilutes the ego’s voice and fosters the type of missional humility the church really needs.

There is an unconscious capitalist bias around progress and growth. It’s something we have noticed in our mixed ecology trellis, because it can read like a graph people make an assumption that we value top right more than bottom left. We can these challenge capitalist efficiency assumptions by honouring those who simply be—the elderly, neurodivergent, or chronically ill, as vital to the community’s ecosystem. In the context of the Mixed Ecology of church this means recognising the value of everyone on the Trellis.

I love TAZ spaces and Merton acknowledged that “we are going to make mistakes” in community, but “it really doesn’t matter that much” if rooted in good faith . This liberates us from the myth of permanence, inviting experimentation. Do we really value process Over Perfection or again is our desire to get it right or make it permanent, or sustainable part of a capitalist bias. Creating pop-up spaces, temporary, theme-based communities (e.g., a 40-day Lenten arts collective or a prayer space, a listening bench) allow people to practise radical acceptance without lifelong commitment mirroring something to a TAZ.

We also need to normalise endings: what would it look like have fixed point reviews where you expect to end something unless there’s a real reason to continue, so we prevent stagnation and power hoarding. Instead of asking did this meet x or y outcome we could ask  “How did we help you become more yourself and would changing or ending our structure/meeting/values etc help you become more authentically you?
Instead of thinking  every relationship needs resolution or a space needs to continue what would a bless and release ritual for departing members or spaces look like  acknowledging their ongoing role in other spaces, with real joy and sadness.

Merton’s vision of love is no sentimental ideal. It demands courage to dwell in uncertainty, to release the ego’s need for control, and to trust that “the power of God’s love will be in it” even when our efforts feel fragile.  In a world obsessed with optimisation, building communities that honour the “other” becomes countercultural resistance—a way to “stay with the trouble” (Haraway) and find holiness in the unpolished, the unresolved, and the unscripted. Perhaps the most radical practice is this: to love a community enough to let it evolve beyond our own imagination.
“We are human becomings,” as Pip Wilson once wrote. May our communities become spaces where all people can unfold in their wild, messy, gloriously uncontainable uniqueness.

Towards an Entangled Ecclesiology

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Following on from the post on Hopium which seemed to get a lot of traction I wanted to revisit and update the series of posts I did on rethinking church nearly 20 years ago as so much of theology has shifted.
The church, as we have inherited it, is a curious organism. We gather, we sing, we listen, we disperse. But beneath the surface, a tension still simmers when not masked hopeium.  A innate sense that the forms and definitions we cling to are no longer fit for the world we inhabit. As I wrote years ago, western Christianity’s subcultural weakness is not simply a matter of style, but of substance—a deep-rooted commitment to evolutionary tweaks, wrapped up in the idea of progress and an unconscious bias shaped by capitalism. So revolutionary re-imaginings are not given the space needed for real change. We are, perhaps, rearranging the furniture in a house whose foundations are already crumbling.
We have mistaken the kingdom for the church, and in doing so, we have shrunk the wild, inclusive, boundary-breaking movement of Jesus into something manageable, measurable, and ultimately, exclusive. The “mustard seed” has grown, yes, but what has taken root in its branches is not always shelter for the world’s birds, but often a haven for scavengers. The vultures of our own dualisms, our own need for security, our own reluctance to let go of the white make sky god reside in our branches and we welcome them both knowingly and unknowingly.

Our inherited dualisms—sacred/secular, worship/life, activity/being—have split us down the middle. We “worship” in buildings, but not in workplaces or wild places. We “pray” at set times, but not in the ongoing, messy encounters of everyday life. The emerging church, for all its creativity, often risks being a new style in an old paradigm—mission-flavoured rather than mission-shaped, to borrow George Lings’ phrase.
What if, instead, we took seriously the call to a holistic, post-dualist faith? What if, as eco-theologians remind us, the whole earth is full of God’s glory—not just our sanctuaries, but the soil, the rivers, the market stalls, the digital commons? What if, as Donna Haraway suggests, we are and always were already entangled—human and non-human, sacred and profane, church and world—in a web of becoming-with?

Let’s risk a new definition: Church is not an event, nor a building, nor a set of beliefs. It is a way of being and living—a series of chaotic but intentional encounters with God, with one another, and with the world. It is a porous, processual, ever-unfinished community, founded on the holistic teaching (and wild example) of Christ.
This kind of church is less about “services” and more about service; less about “worship” as a genre, more about worship as a posture of life. It is a community where everyone’s gifts—however secular or sacred they may seem—are welcomed, reflected upon, and woven into the shared story. It is a space where buying a fairtrade banana, tending a garden, or protesting for climate justice can be as much worship as singing a hymn, if done in love and for the flourishing of the other.

Donna Haraway’s call to “stay with the trouble” is deeply resonant here. Church is not about escaping the world’s mess, but about inhabiting it more deeply, more compassionately, more creatively. We are, as Haraway puts it, “companion species”—not just with each other, but with the more-than-human world. Church, then, is an entangled, ecological community: a place where we learn to be human together, in kinship with all creation.
Eco-theology reminds us that the redemption of all things is not a distant hope, but a present calling. The church is not a bunker against the world, but a compost heap—messy, generative, full of potential for new life. Our worship is not just liturgy, but liturgy lived: in acts of justice, care for the earth, radical hospitality, and the ongoing work of reconciliation.

So what might this look like in practice? Imagine a group of people—some committed, some curious—gathering, walking, sharing meals, tending gardens, reflecting together, acting together, welcoming the stranger, making space for lament and joy. Leadership is facilitative, not hierarchical. The process is open-ended, responsive to the Spirit, and always in conversation with the wider world. An invitation not a blueprint. As with all living things, church must be allowed to grow, adapt, and sometimes die, so that new life can emerge. We need the courage not to simply shift to new wineskins but a paradigm shift to wine bottles, such is the change demanded by the context 20 years on from when I first wrote.

We are living in a time of ecological crisis, social fragmentation, and spiritual longing. The old paradigms are failing us, and the world is groaning for communities of hope, justice, and deep belonging. The church, if it is to have a future, must be re-formed—not just in style, but in substance; not just in structure, but in spirit. (I’ll write some more on this after reflecting on Alasdair Macintyres death and revisiting his approach to virtue ethics)
But for now Let us, stay with the trouble. Let us risk the chaos of true community. Let us become, together, the community the world needs—entangled, embodied, and ever unfinished.

Hopeium, the church, and change

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In church systems and institutions, it’s not uncommon to encounter a phenomenon of “hopeium.” It’s that heady mixture of optimism, faith, and a dash of magical thinking that makes us believe everything will be okay—if we just believe hard enough. On one hand, this hope can be a balm. After all, hope is foundational to the Christian story: the hope of resurrection, of renewal, of God’s kingdom breaking through. But what happens when hope becomes detached from action, critical reflection, or adaptive change? That’s when hopeium can turn toxic.

Toxic hopeium often shows up in church systems grappling with deep-seated challenges: declining influence, outdated structures, or a widening gap between institutional priorities and the needs of the world. Instead of grappling with the hard realities, institutional leaders might cling to vague promises of revival, grand but unfocused visions, or the comforting refrain of “God will provide.” While it’s true that faith can move mountains, it’s also true that someone has to pick up a shovel. When hope is used to paper over systemic issues or avoid making tough decisions, it can lead to stagnation, disillusionment, and a cycle of institutional inertia.

Consider the denomination that launches a major strategic initiative every few years, each time heralded as the solution to declining membership or cultural irrelevance. Resources are poured into programs and campaigns, but the underlying issues remain unaddressed: the inability to engage with a rapidly changing society, resistance to adaptive change, or a leadership culture that prioritizes preservation over mission. Hope, untethered from thoughtful strategy and missional humility, becomes a narcotic. It numbs us to reality instead of equipping us to transform it.

And yet, hope is also a gift. It’s what inspires institutions to dream of a renewed role in society and take risks for the sake of the gospel. The challenge, then, is to ground institutional hope in adaptive change strategies that acknowledge reality while pointing us toward renewal.

So, how can church systems navigate this tension? The first step is honesty. Institutional leaders need to adopt a posture of missional humility, recognizing that no single program or vision will fix systemic issues overnight. Missional humility invites us to listen—to God, to our communities, and to one another—and to admit where we’ve fallen short. This isn’t about doom and gloom; it’s about clarity. Only when we understand the landscape can we discern the path forward.

Next, we need to pair hope with action rooted in adaptive change. This means moving beyond technical fixes to addressing the deeper cultural and systemic shifts required for renewal. It might mean dismantling hierarchies that stifle creativity, investing in grassroots initiatives, or fostering a culture of experimentation and learning. Adaptive change requires courage—and a willingness to fail—as we navigate uncharted territory.

Finally, we must cultivate a theology of hope that’s robust enough to withstand setbacks. Christian hope isn’t about quick fixes; it’s about the long game. It’s about trusting that God is at work, even when we can’t see the fruit of our labors.

Hopeium, in its toxic form, can trap church systems in a cycle of false expectations and inertia. But hope, when rooted in truth, humility, and adaptive action, can be a powerful force for institutional renewal. The difference lies in whether we use hope to escape reality or to transform it. As I prepare for my next stage with Alchemy At The Edge I want to harness the transformative power of hope.