Truth that Moves: A Christocentric Synthesis (3 of 3)

In the last two posts I have traced the solid foundations of the cathedral and wandered through the experimental “Third Spaces” of the pioneers. We have seen the 1960s struggle between the rigid and the radical and explored the pioneer charism of 1990 as an inroad to the tension. Now, we must ask: Where does this leave us?

The deadlock between “Absolute” and “Relative” Truth often feels like a choice between a statue and a cloud. A statue is reliable but dead; a cloud is atmospheric but offers no shelter. As Christians, however, we are called to follow a Person.

For me, the synthesis of these ideas didn’t happen in a library, but through a slow immersion in the culture and finding a way of being christian in a context different to my upbringing.  It was a combination of prayer, spiritual disciplines, engagement with the missio-dei I was discovering on tough places, courage to go to a new place, the insightful guidance of my spiritual director, and the literary explorations of Susan Howatch. Whilst it was practice that had the biggest impact I’m going to draw on Howatch to try and give to words to what I mean.

Howatch’s great achievement was showing that “orthodoxy” isn’t a set of dry rules, but a dynamic. In her novels, the characters who thrive are those who realise that the Logos (the Absolute Word) has become Flesh (the Relative Human). Truth, therefore, is an Event. It is the “Truth that moves.”

I once thought that “knowing the Truth” meant I no longer needed a guide. I was wrong. The more I understood the “mystical” dimensions of faith, the “glimpses” of Reality that Howatch describes and I experienced in mu missional journey, the more I realised I needed a spiritual director to help me anchor those experiences in the “practical” reality of the Church.

A spiritual director acts as a “theological pioneer” alongside you. They help you see that the Spirit isn’t leading us into a new Truth that contradicts the old, but into a deeper Truth that reflects the living, breathing, acting God. This is the heart of Christocentric theology: Truth is not a static object we study, but a relationship we inhabit.

In the Starbridge series, the resolution of conflict often comes when a character stops trying to “control” the Truth and starts to “live” it. This is the synthesis of the Practical and the Mystical, the practice and the theory, the action and reflection. The Practical (The Aysgarth impulse): Reminds us that Truth must be lived out in our ethics, our politics, and our mundane responsibilities. The Mystical (The Darrow impulse): Reminds us that the Truth is always larger than our understanding. It keeps us humble.

For a contemporary faith community, this means that “Truth” is found in the practice of discipleship. We do not learn the Truth so that we can act; we act (follow Christ) so that we may know the Truth. The novels helped me see that faith was about a willingness to sit with the “unsolved” nature of God until the Truth reveals Himself in action. But too many of us stopped here, we failed to apply the same missio dei impulse, the same humility to learn from other into our discipleship programmes and approach. We let the genie out of bottle in mission but placed the top back as people came to faith, so failed to keep walking towards the new places that were opening up.

As we look at the fractures in our “Post-Truth” world, the Church has a unique gift to offer. Not the gift of an “Absolute” used as a weapon, nor a “Relative” that leaves people drifting. We offer the gift of a Relationship. To say “Jesus is the Truth” is to make a claim that invites a lifetime of exploration. Like Nicholas Darrow at the end of Mystical Paths, I have found that the “Truth” is far more complex, dangerous, and beautiful than I ever imagined. It required me to step out of my self-sufficiency, seek the wisdom beyond and embrace the beautiful, messy tensions of the Christ of the gospels and we are called to today. So perhaps the question is not “Can we define the Truth?” but rather: “Are we willing to be redefined by the truth that lives and moves and has its being in Christ and is revealed as we journey with others?”

Beyond the “Cool” Church: Pioneering as Theological Reflection (2 of 3)

In the 1990s, the UK church scene felt like it was holding its breath. The old structures were fraying, and a new movement began to stir. “Alternative Worship” and the “Emerging Church.” To the outsider, it looked like a desperate attempt to be relevant: DJs in the sanctuary and beanbags in the aisles.

But for those of us involved, it felt like a pioneering mission into a new epistemological frontier. We weren’t just changing the music; we were trying to figure out how to be “truth-tellers” in a postmodern culture that had given up on the very idea of Truth.

In the Church of England, speaks of pioneers, as people who “connect with those outside the Church, working alongside them to create fresh expressions of Church in those places. Pioneers are also leaders of innovation, with a gift for seeing what God is doing and responding creatively to it”. I dont think adequacy reflects the Pioneer Charism as it is to focused on practice. For me the contained within the Pioneer Charism is something about not just pushing into new areas of practice but also new ways of thinking and being christian. My own journey into this space was fraught with the same “evangelical-liberal” tension Howatch describes so vividly. I wanted to be faithful to the Gospel (the evangelical impulse) but I couldn’t ignore the complexity of the modern world (the liberal impulse). It wasn’t until I embraced the wider nature of the pioneer charism that I could start to integrate the two and truly start to livie in the fullness of who I was created to be.

It was during this season of “deconstruction” that the need for a spiritual director became undeniable. In Howatch’s Mystical Paths, Nicholas Darrow is a brilliant, charismatic young man who thinks he can handle the spiritual “edges” on his own. He nearly destroys himself in the process. It is only through the guidance of older, wiser “Abbot” figures that he learns to discern the difference between his own ego and the movement of the Spirit.

This mirrored my own experience. To be a “pioneer” is to walk into the fog. Without a director, someone to hold the tension of balance for me, I would have likely drifted into a shallow relativism or retreated into a defensive fundamentalism.

The Emerging Church was an attempt to move from Truth as a proposition to Truth as a language. Drawing on the “cultural-linguistic” model of theology, we began to see that “knowing” the Truth was less like passing a math test and more like learning to speak a mother tongue.

Howatch’s novels capture this perfectly. Her characters don’t find “Truth” by reading a manual; they find it by stumbling through the messy, “Anglican way of being”—participating in the sacraments, engaging in honest (and often painful) confession, and slowly learning the “grammar” of God’s grace.

The overly simplistic critique of the 90s movement was that it became “post-theological”, all style and no substance. This is the danger when pioneering isn’t rooted in theological reflection and connected to the wider charism. However for those of involved it was and still is deeply theological.

If we only innovate in practice (lighting, music, seating) without innovating in our understanding of Truth, we are merely rearranging the deck chairs. The true task of the pioneer and the task of the spiritual director is to look at the specific context (a housing estate, a digital community, a modern office) and ask: “What does the Truth of Christ look like here?”

What the 90s and 00s taught me is that Truth is often more visible from the margins. When you are at the centre of an institution, “Truth” feels like maintenance. But on the edge, you realise that Truth is not something you possess, but something that possesses you.

This brings us back to the Darrow family in Howatch’s saga. They are constantly drawn to the “edges” of psychic experience and social norms. They show us that the way isn’t about having all the answers; it’s about having a structure, (in Anglican terms a liturgy, a director, a community) that allows you to ask the hardest questions, go to new places, the edges of the map without falling off.

In our final post, I will try to synthesize these threads and propose that the resolution to the absolute-relative divide is found not in a “what,” but in a “Who”, the Person of Christ, who is the Truth that moves.

The nature of truth (1 of 3)

Following on from the last post a letter to the dust 19/4/26 I have been rereading the Howatch novels and which has prompted these three posts.

The air in a cathedral  is never quite still. It carries the scent of damp stone, ancient dust, and the faint, lingering ghost of incense or candle. To stand in the nave of a great cathedral for me can help me feel anchored to something immutable a “Truth” carved in granite. Yet, as the sun shifts through the windows, the light always transforms the space. What was solid becomes ethereal; what was in shadow becomes gold.

For years, I stood in such spaces feeling a profound disconnect. I came to faith late in lay teens and attended an evangelical church rooted  on the “stone” of the absolute, propositional truths of the faith, but I lived in the “light”, a world where everything felt relative, shifting, and subjective. It wasn’t until I stumbled upon the Starbridge novels of Susan Howatch that I began to understand this wasn’t just my private struggle, but possibly something very Anglican.

Historically, Christian theology treated Truth as a static monument. It was Adaequatio rei et intellectus, ie Truth is basically the “perfect match” between the thoughts in your head and the reality of the world around you and could be distilled to an objective reality. In this framework, Truth was a deposit to be defended. It stands outside of time, solid, absolute and unchangeable.

Its where Thomas Aquinas meets Plato, Aristotle, and Socrates,  the world of the Sentences of Peter Lombard and the Summa of Aquinas. But for me, reading Howatch’s portrayal of the mid-20th-century Church of England, I realised that this “absolute” truth often manifested as a rigid moralism. In the character of Neville Aysgarth, we see a man who mastered the “Practical” side of the Church, the administration, the legalism, the outward appearance of Truth, while his inner life remained a fractured landscape. He reflected the “Practical” faith of the establishment: structured, but often calcified.

The Enlightenment moved the seat of Truth from the objective to the subjective. Suddenly, the light was no longer just on the stone; the stone was defined by how the eye saw the light.

As I navigated these waters, Howatch’s novels served as a map for something wider. Faith at its best, refuses to choose between the cold stone of fundamentalism and the vaporous mist of pure subjectivism. It seeks a via media the middle way. However, this middle way is often a place of intense tension and as previously blogged about can be to easily confused or corrupted by power. .

By the 1960s, this reached a breaking point. When John Robinson published Honest to God in 1963, he argued that the “God out there”, the absolute, objective monarch, was no longer a viable category. For many, this was a betrayal. But for me, reading Robinson alongside Howatch’s Mystical Paths, it felt like a permission slip. I realized that my struggle with “Absolute Truth” wasn’t a lack of faith, but a call to look deeper, to find the “Ground of Our Being” rather than a distant deity.

In Howatch’s world, the tension is personified by the “Practical” Aysgarths and the “Mystical” Darrows. The Practical side demands a Truth that is clear, legalistic, and useful for social order. The Mystical side, represented by the visionary Jon Darrow, seeks a Truth that is experiential, haunting, and often dangerous.

I found myself caught between them. I came to faith in the “stone” of the evangelical  tradition, but I craved the “light” of a mystical encounter. The novels helped me name this: I was looking for a faith that could hold the evangelical-liberal tension without snapping. It was through these stories that I first realized I couldn’t navigate this tension alone. I saw in the characters’ lives the desperate, recurring need for a “Father Abbot” figure, a realisation that eventually led me to seek my first spiritual director.

The historical tension leaves us with a challenge: if Absolute Truth feels like a tomb, and Relative Truth feels like a mist, where do we stand? The answer, is found in those moments where the transcendent breaks through the mundane.

In my next post, we will step out of the cathedral and into the “Third Spaces” of the 1990s Emerging Church, exploring how a new generation, and my own younger self, attempted to re-read the Truth in a postmodern world, guided by the wisdom of the “pioneer.” Where I first saw those glimpses of transcendence breaking out of mundane: the flower forcing itself through the pavement that I wrote about when living on an estate and seeking to be present and the words that Jonny Baker put into a song “I have seen the hills a thousand times before but it took someone to point them out to me”

What I’m learning from the rocks

On the day the day the rock was rolled away here’s what I’m learning from the stones. In the previous post, on the universal suffrage of creation and us. I explored the idea that our ache for the wild isn’t just an aesthetic preference, it’s a memory and deeply inbuilt into our being. We are not separate from the soil, stone and the stars; we are a part of a living whole, and our restlessness and desire for the wild is the symptom of a severed communion.

But if we are to move towards “participation” as a way of being, we have to change the way we speak, be, and listen shifting our approach to enter into dialogue. When we stand before an ancient oak or a rock, we are standing before witnesses. They operate within a different kind of time, and a different kind of memory written in rings that differentiate years of drought, seasons of fire, the slow, patient accumulation of carbon. Rocks remembers the weather of a centuries or more, a deeper stillness that predates our languages and our empires. These trees, rocks and soil is not a backdrop for a play we watch like an audience but something more, something deeper and something connected. If we want to find our way back to the integration Pascal hinted at, we have to stop treating these beings as scenery and instead enter into dialogue that may start with words but a dialogue that also moves beyond where deep calls to deep.

My experiences with Mountain Pilgrims and hanging out with people seeking a deeper connection have led me to tentatively experiment with different ways to connect. Trying to describe this dialogue with a non-human world sounds like madness, pantheism or like I have lost the plot. But what Ive been reaching for in this dialogue is essentially an exchange of presence and I’m starting to find the words to share what I’m discovering. Here’s what I’ve found to be important so far:

  1. Relinquishing the Monologue: Most of our “nature walks” are actually monologues. We carry our podcasts, our internal to-do lists, and our human-centric anxieties into the woods. To be in dialogue, we must first connect. We have to let all that recede, recognise we are made of soil and share the air so real connected presence can emerge.
  2. Asking the Questions of the Land: Instead of asking, “What can this place do for my mental health today?” we might ask, “What has this tree seen?” or “What is this rock holding?” This isn’t about literal voices in our heads; it’s about a shift in attention. It is a holy curiosity that acknowledges the “otherness” of creation.
  3. The Response in the Body: Because our bodies are made of the same materials as the earth, we need to be open to the big book of creation speaking to us through sensation and connections.
  4. Deep to Deep: The way your breath slows under a canopy, the “knowing” that comes when you sit still long enough for the birds to forget you are there, these are the responses. Going deep enough so the memory of the trees begins to resonate with the memory in your own cells.

In the “Universal Suffrage of Creation,” every leaf and stone has a vote. They are petitioning for our return, not as masters, but as kin.

When we engage in dialogue with a specific tree or a familiar outcrop of rock, we begin to “thicken” the world. The concrete and the digital screens that thin out our reality start to lose their grip. We begin to see that we are surrounded by a cloud of witnesses that have been waiting for us to stop talking and start participating.

The way back to the Creator is not a disembodied leap into the heavens. It is a slow, grounding conversation with the things the Beloved has made.

The clue is in the title

There are two kinds of people in this world: those who like a little unpredictability… and those who have tried to follow this blog over the past year. This past year since leaving my full time role I’ve had the head space and time to blog regularly and enjoyed the discipline. It’s meant a post a week since May and I’m still going but if you’ve ever found yourself thinking, “Wasn’t there a post… last Tuesday? Or was it Friday? Or did I dream it?” you’re not alone. Until now, Sunday Papers has operated on what can only be described as a “spirit-led but calendar-agnostic” publishing rhythm. Posts have appeared each week just never on the same day each week.

But no more.

In a moment of radical alignment (and possibly after glancing at the actual name of the blog), ive had a breakthrough: Sunday Papers will now be published on… wait for it… Sundays.

Yes, from next week onwards, you can expect fresh writing every Sunday. Predictable. Reliable. Almost suspiciously organised. Like the universe has finally decided to cooperate with its own branding.

So unless you’re a vicar, alongside coffee, newspapers, and whatever else your Sunday looks like pull up a chair and pop over for a read. No more guessing. No more accidental midweek existential surprises (well, at least for as long as I can keep the content fresh).

And if you’d rather not rely on memory alone this is your gentle nudge to subscribe or register.subscribe or register. That way, the words come to you, rather than you wandering the digital wilderness hoping to stumble across them.

So here’s to new rhythms, better habits, and the quiet joy of knowing when something will arrive unlike the Royal Mail.

See you next Sunday.

The Universal Suffrage of Creation and Us

There is something embarrassing about our obsession with happiness. We chase it like desperate of addicts but with the optimism of gamblers. We rename it wellbeing,  flourishing, fulfilment, but maybe it’s the same. The saying goes “happiness is fleeting” and the weird thing is not that happiness is fleeting but that we continue to search for it as if we could readily achieve it.

Blaise Pascal suggested that this longing is not foolish our search is rooted in something deeper than the memory of fleeting times of happiness. We search for happiness because we once experienced it. Not in fragments or weekend bursts as a whole way of being, an atmosphere pat of our origin story. In his Pensées, he proposes that the human heart carries the trace of a joy it can no longer access. We are not inventing desire. We are remembering it.

But if happiness is so fleeting now why should we continue the search? Why not conclude that happiness is simply a neurological trick, a temporary spike in dopamine that evolution wired into us to keep the species moving?

Pascal refuses that reduction. He says that the very persistence of the search is evidence of something far bigger. We would not hunger for what had never nourished us. We would not ache for a fullness we had never tasted. The restlessness is a clue, and the craving is an echo from the deep.

In trying to make sense of my growing sense nd desire for nature connection I wonder what if Pascal was right about happiness but also what if that explains the desire for creation.  What if the search for happiness was not just rooted in an abstract idea about our need to return to the creator where we experienced true happiness but also to return to the place we experienced it the creation. The fracture we feel is not just vertical but horizontal it’s as much heavenward as earthward?

Because our longing is not only for transcendence. It is for soil, sea air, trees older than our politics and rocks that stood the test of time. Like well-being we speak too casually about “getting into nature” as if it were a hobby, but the relief we feel is rooted in something deep inside us unfurl when we stand under a warm sun?

It is too easy to sentimentalise this and perhaps we do this as a kind of coping mechanism because if we really sat with it we would have to confront something far deeper. The ache to be in creation is not merely aesthetic preference. It is visceral because runs deep in our souls beneath our consciousness whether we recognise it or not. Even those who rarely step beyond concrete still carry it, surfacing as restlessness, as low-grade anxiety, with the suspicion that life is thinner than it should be.

We are longing not just for creation out there. We are longing for something that is deeply within us, because we are not separate from it. Our bodies are made of what the earth is made of. Our breath is shared air. The iron in our blood was forged in stars. The boundary between “us” and “environment” is far more porous than our philosophies admit. So perhaps when we long for forests and oceans and mountains, we are not craving escape. We are craving integration. We are sensing that we once knew ourselves as part of a living whole. That happiness, the deep, steady, unfractured kind was not a feeling but participation.

If Pascal is right that we search for happiness because we experienced it once as part of communion with God, then perhaps that communion was never disembodied. Perhaps the joy of origin was not a private mystical glow but a harmony, Creator, created and creature in right relation. A real belonging, severed but with the possibility of a way back by being saturated in nature and confronting our loss honestly.

We have become the species that can refuse its own embeddedness. We can pave, extract, dominate, and still imagine ourselves autonomous. We have convinced ourselves that we stand over creation rather than within it. But time and time again our bodies betray us, we burn out we feel the need to numb ourselves. We seek stimulation because we have lost saturation in nature.

In older language, suffrage did not mean ballots and polling stations. It meant prayer. Petition. Intercession. A cry rising on behalf of another. I suspect, a universal suffrage is taking place. Creation itself is petitioning for wholeness. The groaning of forests stripped bare, the warming seas, the displaced creatures, these are not only data points. They are lament. But the suffrage is not one-sided our bodies are petitioning too. But we are looking in the wrong places, endless scrolling, compulsive productivity, hunger for experiences, these are distorted prayers.

The tragedy is not that happiness is fleeting. The tragedy is that we have mistaken the flickers for the fire. The brief highs for the home we lost. And so we keep searching, because somewhere beneath our cynicism we know the search is justified.

The universal suffrage of creation and us is a shared petition and we need to wake up to the fact that just earth strains toward renewal so do we.

The environmental crisis is not merely a technical problem it’s also a theological one. Our exploitation of the earth mirrors our exploitation of ourselves. We treat land as resource, and we treat our souls the same way. We optimise, mine, leverage the land and sea because we are too afraid to to sit, to confront the reality of our longing and so we are destroying the thing that could save us.

To find the happiness we once knew is not to escape from creation but through a perfect immersion in it, held within its love and the love of its Maker.

Solitude wasn’t a Spiritual Discipline, it was Survival

In the Christian tradition, solitude is often spoken of as a gift or a discipline. Loneliness, by contrast, is usually named as a wound. However in reality the boundary between the two can be blurred, especially when aloneness is not chosen but imposed.

For many people, being alone has never felt safe or spacious. For some, solitude intensifies anxiety, trauma, or a sense of abandonment. That matters, and it needs saying clearly: solitude is not a universal good, and it is not a discipline everyone can or should practise in the same way.

And yet, for some of us, solitude emerges not as a spiritual ideal but as something learned early out of necessity rather than desire.

Growing up in a context of Adverse Childhood Experiences (ACEs), I learnt early how to be alone. Often this was about safety: stepping away from noise, volatility, or emotional unpredictability. Nature became a place of refuge fields, woods, and in particular streams. These were places where my body could settle and my breathing could slow.

At the time, I didn’t have the language of spirituality. But I did have a fragile awareness that there was something more going on than mere escape. Being alone in nature carried a sense of depth, even if I couldn’t name it as prayer. It might have been hope, or longing, or even wishful thinking. But it felt like more than emptiness.

Looking back, I recognise that this awareness resonated so much with my current understanding of the Beloved and a deeply ecological spirituality. Long before belief is articulated, creation bears witness. The Christian tradition has always held that God is not only encountered in words and doctrines, but in presence, stillness, nature and attentiveness.

Loneliness and solitude are not the same

Loneliness is being alone without meaning, without connection, without a sense of being held. It contracts and restricts our sense of self. It corrodes trust. It can be spiritually dangerous, especially when wrapped in religious language that praises endurance but ignores pain.

Solitude, by contrast, is aloneness with attention. It may not always be chosen at first, but it becomes formative when it is accompanied by awareness of G-d, self, others and creation. The difference is not the absence of people, but the presence of a broader more connected relationship. Jesus himself embodies this distinction.

Over time, what began as survival slowly became something more intentional. Solitude developed into a discipline that I recognised from within. It became a place of presence without needing to perform competence, leadership, or certainty.

But still my ACE shape how Solitude now functions. On a good day solitude acts as a :

  • resistance to urgency,
  • resistance to the pressure to be endlessly available,
  • resistance to the belief that my value is measured by visibility or output
  • A reminder  that God’s work does not depend on my exhaustion.
  • A reorientation back to ministry flowing from being held, not from holding everything together.

On a bad day muscle memory takes over and I run for the hills or curl up in a ball beside a stream or focus on a tree….but that’s also ok. Too often however it means a withdrawal from connections that I should be paying attention to and that’s not ok.

I’m aware that my story cannot, and should not, be universalised. For some, solitude needs to be approached gently, or not at all. For others, healing comes first through community, therapy, structure, or safety. The Church does harm when it spiritualises isolation or confuses withdrawal with holiness.

The tentative testimony of my own life, my experiences of needing to be alone, held within nature and accompanied by an early, imperfect sense of “something bigger” became the soil in which a discipline of solitude could grow. What once protected me has become something that now strengthens me.

And perhaps that is one of the quiet redemptions at the heart of Christian formation: that God meets us not only in what we choose, but also in what we survive and patiently teaches us how to dwell there with hope.

To places we have never been before

Paul Bradbury’s recent reflection on moving beyond empire reminds us how deeply Western mission has been entangled with universalising instincts, the drive to export methods, models, or mindsets far beyond where they first belonged. His question, “How might we save the world without conquering it?” pushes us toward a more humble, localised, and participatory understanding of mission. It’s a call that echoes strongly with what I argued in my previous post what works, works because it is contextual.

If empire seeks control of space, then contextual mission seeks communion IN space. In other words, mission faithful to the gospel begins not with scale but with soil. It roots itself in place but years of contextual mission,following the missio dei and the incarnation has taught us place needs to be understood broadly. Contextually shaped mission is about both “communities of place” and “communities of interest”, and in both these, space matters or perhaps more precisely the space between matters.

Space as the Ground of Context

For communities of place, context is pretty straight forward it’s bounded by postcodes, pavements, local histories, and particular faces. Here, “listening to context” means walking the streets, dwelling among, noticing the patterns of belonging and exclusion, paying attention to how the Spirit stirs through daily life. The missional question is spatial: How is God already at work here?

But the same is true for communities of interest those gathered by vocation, affinity, digital connection, or shared passion. These are not disembodied spaces; they are differently embodied. They occupy networked space, an online forum, a workplace, a music scene, a shared narrative world. These spaces, too, have boundaries, cultures, and ecologies of meaning that also require listening, care, and presence.

To be contextual here means learning the topography of these less tangible places the rituals that shape belonging, the language that signals trust, the injustices and hopes that animate people. This too is place work. Contextual mission is not about being “place-based” versus “network-based”; it is about recognising that space and particularly the space in between is the texture of all context.

The Space Between: From Ownership to Participation

Empire’s imagination is to fill space to occupy, to own, to organise territory. Contextual imagination leaves space, space for others to speak, for grace to emerge, for co-creation. This is not the space of empire, this is the space of incarnation: God dwelling, not dominating; participating, not possessing. 

In our current moment, where both geography and culture feel unsettled, perhaps the task is not to create new models of church or even parish, but to nurture new ecologies of space, perhaps even Brave Spaces of Community and Conversation, porous enough to hold the complexity of both rooted neighbourhoods and fluid networks of meaning.

Context is not an afterthought, It isthe space where the gospel takes shape. So maybe the better question isn’t simply “What works?” but “Where does mission dwell?” Because where mission dwells, (whether a community of place or interest)  determines how God’s story is spoken and heard, and when we listen and join in we go to a new place we have been before. 

Why What Works, Works: Contextual Mission and the Shape of Faithful Innovation

We know, at least intuitively, that some things work in mission and some don’t. We can point to Bubble Church, Messy Church, particular church plants, fresh expressions that have taken root and borne fruit. The temptation is to move too quickly from that observation to replication: this works, therefore let’s do more of it. But that instinct, while understandable, misses the deeper truth. What works, works because at its heart is contextual mission.

The truth is to be effective it has to be about contextual mission. A basic understanding of systems evens backs this up for Worship First church planting models.  This is something I have reflected on before using the Cynefin framework. In the bottom right-hand corner of Cynefin, the simple domain, we are dealing with contexts where cause and effect can readily understood, so worship first large scale plants can work, because you know the soil (context) they need to be planted in. Ie Resource Churches is areas with high student numbers, where the employees suit the context.  You cannot impose a solution from elsewhere and expect predictable results in the Complicated Zone, here you need contextual adaption eg worship first church plants in a market town may need a families worker instead of a student worker.  Then in the Complex and Chaotic Zones context comes even more to the fore, you probe, sense, and respond. You listen. You pay attention. You act humbly and experimentally and so Listening or Community Church planting, at its best, lives precisely here. 

This all works not because any of it follows a universal template, but because it all begins with a level contextual awareness. The plant knows where it is, who it is among, and what the Spirit might already be doing there. That attentiveness to context is not incidental; it is the very reason fruitfulness becomes possible.

At the heart of the things that work in mission is not a model but a posture: listening to the Missio Dei and the context. 

Take Bubble Church as an example. One could argue quite clearly that Bubble Church works because it is contextual mission. It is not magic, nor is it universally transferable. It works because local vicars and clergy have listened carefully to their context, often noticing young families on the fringes of church life, parents seeking connection, children needing space to be themselves, and have identified Bubble Church as a resource that fits. The model is then brought in not as a franchise, but as a contextual response. The same can be said of Messy Church. Its effectiveness lies not in crayons and craft tables per se, but in the way it emerged from listening: to families, to patterns of time poverty, to the desire for intergenerational belonging that does not rely on cultural fluency with inherited church. Messy Church is context-first mission that happened to crystallise into a recognisable form.

Even in church planting circles that talk about being “worship first,” the same dynamic is at play, whether or not it is always acknowledged. Worship-first plants do not appear randomly (or if they do they tend to fail). They are often planted into areas with high student populations, or significant numbers of young adults, or cultures where music and gathering carry particular social weight. The decision to centre worship is might itself be more the result of contextual listening than many assume. 

This is why fresh expressions remain so important. Fresh expressions are not primarily about novelty, nor about ecclesial experimentation for its own sake. They are about starting with context. They are about taking seriously the conviction that there is no such thing as a generic mission field, and therefore no such thing as a one-size-fits-all church.

I have argued that mission takes place within complex, adaptive systems, that culture is semiotic. Therefore, Churches, neighbourhoods, cultures, and networks are not machines to be engineered but living systems to be engaged. Within that framing, More recently I have suggested that faithful mission involves thinking carefully about how we scale: not just out, but deep and up as well.

Scaling out: replicating a model in new places, can be fruitful, but only when accompanied by contextual discernment. Scaling deep is about embedding practices, values, and theological depth within a particular place, allowing mission to become part of the local ecology rather than an imported programme. Scaling up involves influencing wider systems, structures, and cultures, enabling learning and resources to flow without flattening difference.

The common thread running through all of this is about taking context seriously. The danger comes when we adopt a consumerist logic: identifying a successful model and attempting to roll it out indiscriminately. Scaling Bubble Church simply because Bubble Church “works” risks misunderstanding why it worked in the first place. Without the right context, without listening, without local ownership, the model becomes hollow. It may look right, but it will lack life and longevity. 

At the heart of all good mission is context. Not context as a box to be ticked in a planning document, but context as a theological commitment: the belief that God has taken the particular (be that place or interest) seriously enough to become incarnate, and therefore we must do the same. Contextual mission is not a strategy; it is a way of seeing.

If we want to be faithful rather than fashionable, fruitful rather than frantic, then the task before us is not to find the next thing that works and copy it. It is to cultivate communities that know how to listen to God, to place, to people and have the courage to respond in ways that may look very different from one context to another. That, ultimately, is why what works, works.

A pause in poetry

For the last few years some friends have invited us to Burns Night and to bring a poem. I came across some words of a friend of friend of mime who was speaking to a women’s group and said “poetry is not an inspiration we have enough pressure around us without adding to that”. That poetry was more distillation of noise which made me think about pauses.

So I thought I’d try something more aligned with that rather than my usual style but aas seems usual hope still creeps in at the end.

Exhalation for Burns Night

Tonight we raise the glass, not in grandeur,

but in gratitude for breath itself.

The poet’s gift is not the torrent of words

but the pause after

that quiet reckoning

when the room shimmers in a moments silence

Robert knew it,

The yeast of life fermenting knows it,

The plough of soil turned to the light knows it

The mouse in winters nest knows it

Tonight we stand in that same field,

For a moment distilled from noise….

steeped in the grace of a pause.

Perhaps even a holy pause reflected in the whisky’s surface,

a quiet tremor in the chest as the warm Spirit flows into our soul.

An inhalation that silences the world’s chatter,

And breathes back a quiet hope that things will change for the better.