A Snow bunting and other interuptions

Over the past few days, we celebrated my son Jake’s 10th birthday three times! On Saturday, one of the celebrations was a treasure hunt around Hamworthy, including the beautiful Hamworthy Park. While the boys raced off to find their first clue, I noticed a group of people with big cameras near the promenade. Curious, I walked over and saw that they were all focused on a small bird hopping around in the sand. It was about the size of a sparrow, with soft brown and white feathers. I took a little photo too. Later, I learned it was called a "snow bunting."

Snow buntings aren’t usually found on English beaches. They’re winter birds, often seen in much colder places. Seeing one here felt like such a special moment—a little piece of beauty where I didn’t expect it. It made me think about how life can surprise us with moments of wonder, just like this bird. Sometimes, things we didn’t plan for turn out to be just what we need.

That snow bunting made me think about the New Year. A new year can be like that bird—an invitation to pause, notice, and enjoy what’s around us. It’s easy to get caught up in plans and rushing through life, but what if we slowed down and looked for the small, surprising blessings in our days? What if we spent this year keeping an eye out for those special little moments, like snow buntings?

The Bible shows us that God often uses interruptions to teach us something important or to guide us in new ways. Think about Jonah, whose plans were interrupted by a big storm and a giant fish, or Mary, who was visited by an angel and given news that changed her life forever. These interruptions weren’t easy, but they became opportunities to grow, obey, and see God working in bigger ways. When interruptions happen, instead of feeling frustrated or afraid, we can ask, “What is God trying to show me here? How is this moment shaping me or leading me into something new?”

There’s a verse in the Bible from Lamentations that says, “The steadfast love of the Lord never ceases; his mercies never come to an end; they are new every morning” (Lamentations 3:22-23). This reminds me that every day is a new start, full of fresh chances and kindness from God. We don’t have to wait for something big to happen to feel hopeful. Instead, we can look for the good in each day, even if it’s something small, like seeing a bird on the beach.

So here’s my challenge for the New Year: look for the snow buntings in your life. Pay attention to the little joys and surprises that pop up. These moments remind us that we’re part of something much bigger. And as we notice these things, let’s make space in our lives for wonder, thankfulness, and the kind of grace that shows up fresh every single morning.

Family

I write this in that strange no-man's land between Christmas and New Year and my thoughts are still around Christmas…

Families are funny things. And Christmas time is often dominated by them. Family dynamics can make or break big celebratory meals and there can be unease or unspoken issues that cast long shadows, at the very least there’s that slightly awkward uncle who makes inappropriate jokes. For some reading this it might be the absence of family and loneliness that is hard over Christmas. It can be a really hard time for someone dealing with grief or separation.

The advent story presents an interesting family dynamic. A stressful long-distance journey, a lack of sleeping space in Bethlehem without even any blow-up beds available and - scandalous at the time - a pregnancy out of wedlock. 

We’re going to zoom in on one member of the original Christmas family: Joseph. Nativity-wise that is surely a plum role for someone, but dig a little deeper and he doesn’t actually get that many great lines: leading a donkey and knocking on doors mainly. However his role is crucial. Why? Famously, he’s not Jesus’ actual father. In fact when Joseph finds out that Mary is pregnant, he plans to divorce her quietly. This would actually have been a kindness as adultery was punishable by death at the time. Strangely these details don’t always make the primary school nativity play. 

But the Old Testament part of the Bible is full of prophecies about Jesus, the rescuer, the Messiah who was coming to save. Some of the prophecies centre on his family line, being of the line of possibly the most famous King of Israel, David (he of giant killing fame). Now crucially this is fulfilled, not through Mary, but through Joseph. He is of the line of David. It is through Joseph, his adoptive father, that Jesus fulfills many of the prophecies spoken about him. Joseph had a massive role to play in this redemptive history, by saying yes to God. 

It always astounds me that God’s plans, purposes and prophecies depend on normal, weak people. Like Joseph. Like me, and like you.

Joseph adopting Jesus into his family is right at the centre of the Christmas story. It links back to King David and someone of his family line ruling as King for ever. It even links back to Abraham and God blessing all nations through his seed. And it links forward to followers of Jesus today. 

Long, long ago he decided to adopt us into his family through Jesus Christ. (What pleasure he took in planning this!) He wanted us to enter into the celebration of his lavish gift-giving by the hand of his beloved Son.       Ephesians 5-6, the Message.

Through Jesus, we are adopted into the very family of God. Let's be honest: this family also has a few oddballs in it. But we are accepted as children of God, completely welcomed into His family and given all of the lavish gifts that come with this. Just as Joseph accepted and welcomed Jesus. 

Maybe Christmas has been a hard time for you on the family front, but it is also a reminder that Christ followers are adopted into the family of God.

Noticing

A couple of weeks ago, I was running along Holes Bay towards the centre of Poole when I

noticed the RNLI building. It’s quite distinctive and I was appreciating the architecture of it

when a thought struck me. How had I failed to spot it before?! For some context, I have lived

in Poole for the best part of 17 years and have regularly run or cycled along the road I was

on at the time. If previously I’d lifted my eyes in the right direction and paid attention, I’d

easily have seen it.

This is not the first time something similar has happened to me. After living in a flat for a year

and a half, I was unable to identify the colour of the distinctive bricks of our residence,

without looking. It was also only in the last couple of weeks that a set of equipment was

found by a colleague in my cupboard. These were resources that that we had been looking

for a couple of weeks. It seems I just find it difficult to notice my surroundings.

Over the last couple of weeks, I have been reading Advent and Christmas, a book based on

Henri Nouwen’s writings. In the very first reflection, it refers to the “small child of Bethlehem,”

hinting at how Jesus’ arrival was not widely acknowledged at the time. If at that first

Christmas, “the promise is hidden in the stable,” where might we find God’s ongoing

promises with his creation today?

It is so easy to speed through life and to give the majority of our attention to that which is

loud, overstated or impressive. Since starting the book, I have tried to be more intentional

with being aware of the presence of the divine in and around me, slowing and concentrating

my thoughts more often. For me, I often find this easier when out running because the time

alone carves space that can be deliberately focused on goodness around me.

Nothing I have encountered is dramatic. I’ve seen the way that even when many trees have

shed their leaves, signs of life still endure on them as ivy or other vine-like plants use their

trunks as supports. When I’ve found myself further away from traffic than normal, my ears

have been drawn to birdsong and the rustling of small creatures in undergrowth that I have

not identified. I have appreciated eating a meal I haven’t been involved in preparing or

cooking. During rainfall, I have enjoyed its cooling sensation and felt gratitude for its vital role

in food production. While at close to my maximum effort on a run, I’ve enjoyed the

combination of pain and childlike appreciation of feeling as fast as I can be. I’ve also

experienced the hair-raising swell from a children’s choir filling the church during a carol

concert. None of these examples have been ecstatic or especially life-changing experiences

but through being mindful of them, they have helped me feel more rooted and connected to

God.

As Christmas edges nearer, in the busyness and the mayhem, we can choose to notice the

signs of the divine around us. Perhaps this is something to motivate you heading into a new

year, to be more intentional about noticing. Although it may be easier outdoors, regardless of

where you are, if you look carefully, there will be evidence of the goodness of God. The

promise that was found in that stable in Bethlehem two millennia ago, can be spotted and

recognised in different guises in our lives today. What will you choose to notice?

Christmas through the back door

Christmas often feels like a warm invitation to the front porch—a lit tree in the window, carols spilling out into the cold night. But the story of Jesus' birth in Luke 2 flips this image upside down. This isn’t a tale about grandeur; it’s a story of God slipping quietly into the world through the back door.

The main stage of Luke’s narrative isn’t just the humble manger scene—it’s the shadow of the empire looming over it. The chapter begins with Caesar Augustus, the emperor who commanded the known world. He was the son of God in his day, hailed as the savior who brought peace—the Pax Romana. His reign was announced with “good news” (euangelion)—a term we’ve come to associate with Jesus, but which was originally used to declare Caesar’s victories and his divine favor.

Luke’s story isn’t just a sweet moment in a stable. It’s a direct challenge to the empire's narrative. Caesar claimed to be the bringer of peace, but his peace was built on violence and domination. His good news wasn’t for shepherds in fields or peasants on the margins. And yet, the angel in Luke 2 delivers euangelion—“good news of great joy for all people.” All people, not just the elite or the powerful.

The subversion doesn’t stop there. When the angel says that a Savior has been born, it’s a direct echo of Caesar’s title. The early Christians took the language of the empire—son of God, savior, gospel, peace—and applied it to Jesus. But in doing so, they didn’t simply copy it; they redefined it. Jesus’ peace isn’t enforced with armies. His good news doesn’t come with a sword. His kingdom, born in a back alley, exposes the emptiness of empire and invites us into a new way of life.

At Christmas, we often focus on the cozy, the nostalgic. But the story of Jesus' birth asks us to look deeper. Who holds power today? Who claims to bring peace, but at what cost? Who declares good news, but for whose benefit?

And then, where is Jesus showing up? He’s still entering through the back door, among the forgotten and the overlooked. He’s still subverting the narratives of power with a quiet but profound invitation to a different kind of kingdom.

This Christmas, as we gather around familiar traditions, let’s remember the radical truth at the heart of the story. It’s not Caesar’s world we live in. It’s God’s. And this God doesn’t need the front door.

Light

This blog is going to dig into Christmas. This may be a really fun time of year for you or it could present many challenges. Try using this blog as a way to step back and reflect for just a moment.

We’re in the darkest part of the year in the UK. We don’t see much sunlight, going out to work in the darkness and coming home in the dark as well. It can all get a bit depressing. Seasonal affective disorder is a real thing that affects many people. One of the ways we often combat this is with artificial Christmas lights to bring some light and cheer. This then opens up the debate between cool and warm lights: what do you prefer? Artificial light emits a static spectrum. Cool white LED and most fluorescents mimic daylight which is blue rich, from the blue end of the spectrum. This can interfere with our sleep and recovery, it’s not good for us at night. 

Warmer lights and traditional incandescent light sources mimic sunsets which are red-rich, so they are good for evening illumination but don’t make us feel light and alert. All artificial light has a different mix of biological and energy impacts.

Natural light is completely different. It is full spectrum, containing all the colours of the rainbow, and dynamic, so the intensity and mix of colours change throughout the day. High blue content to wake us up in the morning to soft red-rich in the evening which tells our bodies to relax and get ready for sleep.

It is also a different level of power. In terms of lux (the unit used to measure light, didn’t you know?) sunlight measures between 50,000 and 100,000 lux. An average artificial light bulb is 250-500 lux, even a light box is only 10,000 lux. 

Followers of Jesus suggest that there is a source of spiritual light as well. We can spend a lot of time looking for sources of light that are pale imitations of the real thing, weak in lux terms and that don’t do us the good of the real thing. In the Christmas story Jesus is described as the light many times, described as the sun, the source of natural powerful light.

 The people walking in darkness have seen a great light; a light has dawned on those living in the land of darkness. (Isaiah 9:2)

 Jesus is true, natural, full spectrum, dynamic light. 

 As I think about the darkness inside me and the darkness outside in the world, can I make some time this season to spend in the natural sun and with the real light of the world?

An advent prayer from Henri Nouwen:

 Lord Jesus,

Master of both the light and the darkness, 

send your Holy Spirit upon our preparations for Christmas.

We who have so much to do and seek quiet spaces to hear your voice each day,

We who are anxious over many things look forward to your coming among us.

We who are blessed in so many ways long for the complete joy of your kingdom.

We whose hearts are heavy seek the joy of your presence.

We are your people, walking in darkness, yet seeking the light.

To you we say, “Come Lord Jesus!’

Vision

We have a dream for Ocean Church, and we think God has given us some big, exciting work to do. It’s simple, it’s inspiring, and it’s going to take a while. 

Our vision is this: to make church a living, breathing adventure.

When I was a kid, my parents told me that church wasn’t a building—it was the people. But let’s be honest: when most of us hear the word “church,” we still think of a building, some chairs, a talk, and maybe a few songs. Even after years of ministry, I catch myself doing it too. But what if church didn’t have to look like that? What if it didn’t have to happen in a building or even on a Sunday? What if church could be less like school and more like an adventure—something we live, explore, and experience together?

Here’s what I believe: God is the ultimate adventurer. He created the world and then stepped right into it as Jesus. That was risky, new, and full of possibilities. The Bible even calls Jesus the “pioneer” of our faith. He was the first to journey through death and come out the other side, blazing a trail for us to follow. When Jesus called his disciples, he didn’t just sit them in a classroom. He took them on an adventure. They followed him through cities, across lakes, into deserts, and up mountains. He sent them out to do the same. That’s what he’s asking us to do too.

The Bible tells us we can see God in the world around us. In Romans, it says: 

“Open your eyes and there it is! By taking a long and thoughtful look at what God has created, people have always been able to see what their eyes as such can’t see: eternal power, for instance, and the mystery of his divine being.” (Romans 1:20, MSG). 

I grew up believing that the main way to understand God was through reading the Bible. And while that’s true—(it’s the authority for how I want to live my life)—I’ve come to realize it’s not the whole picture. Limiting God to the pages of the Bible feels a bit like saying He only works within the walls of a church. What I’ve discovered is that the Bible itself invites us to look further, to see God at work in the world He created with his words as well as the ones that got written down.

The Oyster Catchers by the shore, the gentle flow of the River Stour, the black tongue fungi hidden in the woods—each of them whispers something about who God is and what He’s up to. They’re part of His great story, waiting to be noticed, if we’re willing to stop and take a second, deeper look.

Ocean Church is becoming a community of adventurers. We don’t just sit and listen—we hike, paddle, camp, and explore together. Adventure means trying something new, stepping into the unknown, and being ready for surprises. But it also means being prepared—packing well, knowing the route, and helping each other along the way. Here’s the amazing part: many of you are already doing this! You’re sea swimmers, wild campers, hikers, surfers, and mountain bikers. We’re not asking you to add more to your busy life. Instead, we’re asking this: 

How might God be using my adventures to display himself? And is there room for someone else to join in?

We imagine a future where Ocean Church becomes a “base camp” for spiritual adventures. Here’s what that might look like: Strong roots and identity in God and his word. A set of habits which shape the way we actually live. A  library where we can borrow gear from each other; a shared adventure fund to help people start new journeys; a place where we rest, refuel, and cheer each other on after we’ve been out exploring. 

After Christmas, we’ll gather to pray and listen for what God wants us to do next. For now, take a moment to pray about this vision. Does it spark something in your heart? How might God be inviting you to respond?

Kids, this is for you too. I’ve tried really hard to write this in a way you can understand because your voice is just as important as the grown-ups’. If you’ve got a minute, I’d love for you to read this or have someone read it with you. What do you think about the idea of church being an adventure?

Here’s the thing: we want you to have a say in what Ocean Church looks like and how we do things. Maybe you have ideas for adventures, places we could explore, or things you’d like to try. As we go forward, we’re going to find ways to make sure you get to share your ideas, make decisions, and help shape this community just as much as the adults do—because this is your adventure too. Let us know what’s on your mind, because your voice matters.

We think that God is beginning to stir something. Vision isnt held by one person or by a team, its held by a community of people. As Christmas approaches why dont you find a moment to be with God and ask him where you might be on this journey?

Wrestling with God

There is an unusual passage in Genesis 32. It is the night before Jacob is due to meet up
again with Esau. This is the brother whose inheritance he gained through a trick, which
caused him to flee, fearing for his life. Jacob spends the night isolated, away from his family,
nervously awaiting reuniting with his older sibling. It is during this time that the storyteller
says a man came and wrestled with Jacob until dawn. The fighting ends with this man
wrenching his hip out of joint (which interestingly could be translated more as a euphemism–
Jacob has no more children after this event so you can join the dots) when he refuses to let
go of the man. In the unusual dialogue that follows, considering they have been wrestling all
night, Jacob’s name is changed.

“Your name will no longer be Jacob,” the man told him. “From now on you will be called
Israel, because you have fought with God and with men and have won.” Genesis 32: 28
(NLT)

There is a lot going on here in the language of this passage. The name Israel can be
translated as ‘one who struggles with God’ which is relevant etymology because this
becomes the name given to the collective people of God in Hebrew scriptures. God’s people
self-identify not as ‘followers’ or ‘worshippers’ but as those who ‘wrestle with God.’

What kind of a god would let a human wrestle with them? It seems like one that is willing to
get down on the same level of mankind. It speaks of a god who is relatable and intimate, not
one that is distant and aloof. One that is in the sweat and struggles of life, not just a concept
or a construct of the mind. Intriguingly, the man in this story is unable to overpower Jacob,
meaning that the divine figure does not have an all-powerful nature emphasised, one that is
often taught to Christians.

There is a sort of irony tied up that this event from scripture is one it is natural to wrestle
with. For example, who was the man Jacob fought with? Jacob named the place where the
combat took place Peniel, which means ‘face of God,’ claiming in verse 30 to have seen God
face to face and survived. So was this man in some way divine? And how do we square that
with other parts of the Bible, such as John, claiming that no one has seen God? (See John
1:18 for example.)

I’m not going to attempt to try to answer all these questions. What does appear clear is that
wrestling with God seems implicitly encouraged. Jacob is blessed as a result of refusing to
submit to the somehow divine figure he was grappling with, not punished for refusing to
submit or just believing what he had been told. Despite this, struggling with God may also
cause us to limp metaphorically too. When we raise deep and dark situations and questions
with our creator, we may come out the other side changed.

As a result, there is no need for struggling to be the source of guilt about a lack of faith. We
can take reassurance from this story that instead Jacob is part of trend for other biblical
figures. This includes to Abraham negotiating on the number of decent people to be found in
Sodom for it to be saved from destruction, to Moses asking for a speaker in Aaron, to the
many psalms which question God and lament God’s actions. We can be part of a tradition
that encounters the divine in new ways in the struggles and through the challenges life
sends our way.

Co-authors

A few blogs ago I wrote about narrative and had planned to write a connected follow up. Sadly, this amazing plan failed because I forgot. Just remembered recently, so here goes…

 I don’t know about you, but books with co-authors sometimes concern me. When a hugely popular author partners with another writer is it just the lesser-known writer hanging onto the coat-tails of the famous one? You know what I mean, the size of the font used for the less famous name is staggeringly smaller. Or is the truth actually the other way around? Has the famous author just got someone else to do all the hard graft and put their name on the project? Cynical, I realise. But then what about famous sports (insert other areas of popular culture here as well) personalities who write incredibly literate autobiographies, using ghost writers? Ghost writer’s names don’t even make the front cover.

Sometimes, though, co-authors have an equal footing. My go-to-example here has to be the late, great Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman, writing Good Omens. Genius. Apparently they took a lead with different plot lines and then wrote in each other’s styles to keep consistency. I’ll stop geeking out here and just encourage you to go and read Good Omens. Then come back and finish this blog off.

 Where were we? Oh yes, I wanted to link the idea of co-authoring to the story of our lives, as discussed in the previous blog.Who writes the narrative of our lives? Us? Fate? God or a Spiritual force? The Bible says that we are co-workers in God’s service (1 Corinthians 3:9). Throughout the story of the Bible we see God and people as active agents in life. It suggests that actually we are co-authors of our lives with God. Let that sit for a moment.

 Is God writing the story of our lives, introducing new characters, settings, allowing us to experience moments of conflict and resolution? Or do we make all of the decisions? Take responsibility for whatever happens, good or bad?

What might it mean to understand this idea of being co-authors? And who gets the larger font size on the front cover?

I am skirting around the outsides of a massive debate here about God’s sovereignty and human responsibility. Without going into any kind of details, the idea of being co-authors is to say that God is sovereign and in control and we make our own decisions and are responsible. At the same time.

How might I view life though, if I think of myself as a co-author with the King of all Kings? That we get to share the writing credits in some way? The Bible suggests that this isn’t only through the decisions and choices we make, but also through that great mystery: prayer. That we can pray and co-author with God Himself who acts on our prayers!

 Maybe this whole blog has just raised more questions than answers, but I encourage you to write the story of your life well, maybe even seeking advice from your co-author.

 Postscript:

To further extend this metaphor to near breaking point, I’ve also been thinking about how we’re not only co-authors of our own lives, but about our impact on the lives of others, Not as co-authors perhaps, but surely enough to get a mention in their acknowledgements section. Definitely our nearest and dearest. Now that is a motivation to write well and make sure the grammar and punctuation are correct.

Surfing

I learned to surf in Máncora. It’s small town in northern Peru. The Pacific was warm
and the ocean’s waves broke evenly and regularly, this pattern aiding the act of
learning a new skill. I had an instructor who guided me as when to start paddling with
the waves. I loved it – immediately I was able to stand and glide along the waves
before hopping into the shallow water and repeating the process. It was such a
brilliant time. Riding the waves was like an exhilarating divine encounter.

I thought I’d learned to surf in Máncora. Within a year or so, I found myself back in
England, at Polzeath in Cornwall. We hired boards and I was keen to put into
practice the skills that I had learned. I didn’t. Or I couldn’t. Rather than the sprawling
Peruvian sands, the costal architecture and the wind meant the waves broke far
more erratically. Time after time, I struggled to my feet on the board only to almost
immediately be wiped out. The sea can be a tyrant – it beats you up and
disorientates you when you’re underwater. It’s powerful and exhausting. It turned out
that there was much more to learning to surf than a couple of fun-filled hours just
south of the Equator.

My experience of faith had a similar honeymoon type of beginning, where everything
seemed to make sense, starting in a supportive context without many problems.
There were then times when faith ended up wiping me out, tipping me off my
metaphorical feet and leaving me battered and confused. Perhaps you can relate to
this. Do you wade back into the spiritual waters or do you give up?

The sea when surfing reminds me of some of the nature of the divine too. There are
times when you are on the crest of the waves, supported and able to have serene or
ecstatic experiences. This smoothness and freedom from distractions can help us
connect with God. Although it may not feel it at the time, rougher conditions also
reveal facets of the divine. When you are buffeted by waves and currents, it can
install in you a healthy respect for the sea. I’m reminded of The Lion, The Witch and
The Wardrobe where Susan questions Mr Beaver about the safety of meeting Aslan,
to which he replies, “Who said anything about safe? Course he isn’t safe. But hes
good.” It can be unpredictable and is definitely worthy of respect. And perhaps like
when we are wiped out and are at our most disorientated in life, figuratively
underwater and thrashing about, that is when we are in a sense most surrounded by
God. Often we won’t feel this way at the time but looking back we can see something
at work to sustain us amidst the difficulties.

My surfing experience remains regrettably limited. I continue, however, to explore
faith, even though it presents me more challenges than when I started out on that
journey. I feel less stable on my spiritual surfboard as a result of having been
dispatched into the depths on a number of occasions. Yet in continuing to choose to
turn and stride back into the waters of faith, I hope to have expanded my
understanding of ultimate goodness and love.

One roof: different beliefs. How to navigate tension with grace.

Living with someone who holds different beliefs can feel like walking a tightrope. On the one hand, you want harmony, but on the other, your values are so deeply personal that even small things can feel monumental. Whether it’s how you observe sacred days, how you find moments of reflection, or how you centre your life around your beliefs, these differences shape our everyday lives in ways we don’t always realize.

Take, for example, two people who practice different faith traditions under one roof. One may feel drawn to prayer five times a day, while the other seeks connection through silent meditation. I know couples where one follows a path of structured worship, while the other leans into a more organic, self-guided spiritual journey. Its common to find households where one person follows a faith and the other doesn’t. These differences can be subtle or pronounced, but they create moments of tension when two people are trying to honor their own practices while living alongside another’s.

Even when two people are on the same spiritual path, differences can emerge. One might find connection through attending services, while the other prefers to explore spirituality in nature or through personal study. These small tensions bubble up in daily life, revealing how deeply personal our practices are. I can sometimes find that a poorly timed joke can bring to light a tension that lurks just beneath the surface of our everyday rhythms.

But what often follows are the larger questions. We find ourselves asking: What does my faith mean in this moment? How much of my identity is tied to these practices? Am I open to change, or am I holding on because it’s comfortable? It’s these questions that arise out of the everyday tensions of living with someone whose spiritual journey is just a little different from ours.

Divergent Paths in Scripture: Stories We Don’t Often Talk About

The Bible is full of stories about people trying to live and work together despite their differences. Sometimes, these tensions lead to conflict, while other times, they open the door to reconciliation and growth. These stories offer surprising lessons for how we can live in harmony today, whether we share a belief system with those we live with or walk different paths altogether.

Take the story of Jacob and Esau, for example. Two brothers, born into the same family, but with wildly different approaches to their inheritance and blessing. Their relationship is marked by deception, rivalry, and deep-seated hurt. When they meet after years of estrangement, we see a moment of reconciliation where Esau embraces Jacob. This story reminds us that reconciliation is often more about the inner changes we make than the outward gestures we show. The reconciliation between them is seen not as a perfect resolution but rather as a complex process of growth and change, showing us that peace can take many forms, even when it’s imperfect​.

Another example is the relationship between Moses and Aaron. Even though they’re on the same mission, they have moments of disconnect—Moses as the idealist, while Aaron often handles the people’s frustrations. Their dynamic reflects how, even when we share the same faith or goal, our approaches can be vastly different. Yet, through their cooperation, they teach us that these differences don’t have to lead to division but can instead enhance the collective mission.

And then we have Paul and Barnabas, whose friendship was tested when they disagreed over John Mark’s role in their ministry. This led to them going separate ways for a time, illustrating how even among those with a shared purpose, tensions can create distance. Yet, their story reminds us that sometimes growth requires space and time to process these differences before we can come back together​.

Lessons from Nature: The Tension That Shapes Us

To take it further, when we look closely at the natural world, we see that tension is not something to be feared or avoided. In fact, it’s everywhere, and it’s often the driving force behind growth and renewal.

Take rivers, for example. Over time, rivers carve their way through mountains and valleys, sometimes causing destruction in the process—flooding, erosion, and the reshaping of entire landscapes. Yet, without this tension between water and rock, the land wouldn’t be as fertile, and ecosystems wouldn’t thrive. In much the same way, the tensions we experience in our relationships, whether between different beliefs or life paths, can ultimately shape us into something more resilient and fruitful.

Or consider forests, where trees and plants are in constant competition for sunlight, water, and nutrients. At first glance, it seems like a never-ending struggle for survival. But underneath the surface, trees are actually connected by underground fungal networks, known as mycorrhizal networks, where they share nutrients and support each other. What starts as competition often turns into cooperation—a reconciliation that strengthens the whole ecosystem. In relationships, too, we might begin in competition or conflict, but over time, we learn to give and take, to support and understand each other in ways we hadn’t expected.

Even the changing seasons offer a profound metaphor for tension and renewal. Winter brings the harshness of cold and dormancy, but it’s necessary for the rebirth of spring. Summer’s growth leads to autumn’s harvest. These cycles remind us that difficult seasons in our relationships aren’t permanent—they’re part of a greater rhythm of growth and change. Just as in nature, we need both the tension and the reconciliation for the fullness of life to emerge.

The Gift of Living in Tension

Living with tension isn’t easy, but what if it’s also a gift? What if these moments of friction—whether they’re about faith, values, or everyday life—are opportunities to grow, to understand ourselves more deeply, and to cultivate grace for others?

Just as in nature, where rivers carve new landscapes and trees learn to share resources, the tension in our relationships forces us to adapt, to stretch, and to become more resilient. When we face these moments of discomfort, we have the chance to ask ourselves important questions: What am I holding onto? Why does this matter so much to me? How can I find common ground without losing myself?

These are not easy questions, but they are vital ones. And in asking them, we find that tension can be a tool for transformation. It’s through these struggles that we learn patience, humility, and the art of compromise. It’s where we discover that even when we disagree, we can still build something beautiful together.

This is the gift of tension: it sharpens us, teaches us, and ultimately deepens our relationships. It helps us see that we are not here to live in perfect harmony all the time, but to learn how to grow through the imperfections, to find the grace that allows us to live with our differences.

Straight to the source

I’ve been reading lots of the Old Testament part of the Bible this year. Some great narratives and foundations of God choosing a people to reflect Him and bless others. But it’s also a tragedy. People constantly messing up, not trusting God and running from Him.

There’s a lot of that in the book of Exodus. The tradition states that God saves the Israelites from slavery in Egypt, performing breathtaking and awful miracles in the process; takes the people through the Red Sea and towards a land He promises to them.

Partway along this journey though, is a moment which has really resonated with me.

When God gives the ten commandments, the people have the opportunity to listen directly to Him. He is right in the midst of His people (at a certain distance for their safety) in thunder and lightning and smoke and a roar of noise. It is fearsome and awesome; unforgettable and overwhelming. The people have an opportunity to directly relate with the awesome, almighty God. If I stop here for a moment just to consider my view of who God is, His power and might, I feel a challenge. Is this the God I believe in and try to follow? Or is my view of God too small?

But I think this is a crucial point for the Israelites. Up until now, God has spoken to them (and Pharoah) through Moses and Aaron, the leaders. They have seen God work in mighty ways, they have seen Him accompanying them and protecting them as fire and cloud, but they have not directly related to God, it has always been through someone else.

Now, though, they have the chance to directly hear from God himself! How will they respond? And here comes the tragedy.

“When the people saw the thunder and the lightning and heard the trumpet and saw the mountain in smoke, they trembled with fear. They stayed at a distance and said to Moses, “Speak to us yourself and we will listen. But do not have God speak to us or we will die.” (Exodus 20: 18-19)

The people remained at a distance. They were too afraid to approach God directly – and before I get too critical from my incredibly different life experience, they had good reason. They had seen people killed by the awesome power of God. This was no small thing.

But instead of approaching they asked Moses to speak to God on their behalf, and share God’s word with them. They preferred a leader to lead them to God rather than go directly to Him themselves.

How different could things have been?

But how often do we do the same? Settling for second-hand spirituality? How often do we look to others to lead us to God rather than approaching Him directly? Depending on an intermediary? How often do we go straight to the source? The source of life and love, of power and peace. The All-consuming fire.

Can I be too obsessed with other leaders and rely on their relationships with God instead of going straight to Him myself? Depending on pre-digested, ready meals instead of burning-hot, face-to-face contact? How could I approach the mountain, covered in smoke and lightning and thunder? What would my attitude be as I did? On my knees I imagine.

How can we go straight to the source? Through Jesus, I believe the offer is open to us even more than it was to the Israelites at the foot of that mountain. Dare we go close enough to feel the heat?

Smashed!

Over the summer I went to Greenbelt for the first time, a festival I’d been looking forward to
attending. It is known for its music, focus on justice and its activist speakers so naturally my
favourite part was watching Smashed, which I think can be fairly described as a quirky and
mildly subversive juggling act. I went in with almost no preconceptions and left having
laughed to the point of tears, feeling that the hour in that tent had spoken to my personal
zeitgeist.

The show began with relative simplicity. Sure, the artists were juggling with apples, dressed
formally in suits and had a varied soundtrack including Music Hall and jazz. Putting that
aside, in terms of the juggling routine itself, the cascades were neatly in unison but not
especially elaborate. Each person seemed to have a role and there was a clear logic and
order. I am someone whose misspent youth included teaching myself to juggle to a level that
might impress the occasional primary-aged child. This meant that I could imagine that with
time and practice, I might be able to fit in with the early part of the performance.

Inevitably, the show became more complex. Intricate combinations of jugglers combined,
sharing the same balls (apples!), controlling each other’s limbs and relying on each other’s
precision. It’s difficult to explain what they were doing – it was very technical and well
beyond my level of expertise. Questions sprang to my mind – how did they come up with
that? How did they make the complicated combinations seem so effortless? And what
message were they trying to communicate with the interactions between male and female
performers? Just as I was starting to figure out the mechanisms of a particular manoeuvre,
another equally beguiling trick began. Occasionally, something went wrong, and a new apple
was picked up from the floor and introduced to the juggling moves being carried out, but the
jugglers did it naturally, seamlessly weaving it into the act.

Later on, the show shifted in tone. At times it felt somewhat manic, maybe rebellious and
almost anarchic in tone. The crescendo was messy, unexpected and, without wanting to give
away too many spoilers, involved far more broken crockery and partly-chewed fruit than I
would have expected. It had moved from complex routines to giving the impression of being
almost out of control – barely a recognisable juggling act at all. Despite this chaotic outcome,
it was performed supremely well, it was hilarious and joyous.

So why this review of this slightly left-field unconventional act? Smashed spoke spoke to me
of faith. Shattered saucers and apple cores? Let me explain.

Like the beginning of the show, sometimes our experience of faith is simple. There is a
clarity to what we believe and how we live out our convictions. It can be explained to others
easily. We may know that there are other areas that could be explored but they are not of
huge interest to us and we are content with simplicity. Our routines are in place and we feel
we fit in with those around us, each performing our own part and feeling like we can join in
with those around us. For some people, their beliefs remain at stage of simplicity throughout
that journey of faith. For me, this was not the case.

Instead, like the juggling act, faith can become complex. There may be tensions between
what you are taught from the Bible and what appears to be conventional or scientific beliefs.
Because the Bible is an ancient book written mostly over 2000 years ago, it can be difficult to
apply some of its teachings to our lives today. Sometimes, certain passages in the Bible
appear to contradict others. All of these things can bring complexity, sometimes a deeper
understanding of theology and a richness in understanding. It can at times be difficult to
grasp everything you would like to and it can be frustrating too, especially when you see
others who seem to have ideas more under control than you do. However, this greater
complexity in our faith can be extremely useful and rewarding.

However, like the disruptive finale, sometimes our faith can be disrupted, with chaos and
disorder reigning. Perhaps one of the reasons that watching Smashed spoke to me so much
was that a couple of days prior, I had attended the funeral of a friend’s son, who had died
after a five-and-a-half-year battle with cancer. Children shouldn’t die. Events like this unsettle
you – they shake your faith. At times, the foundations of our beliefs can also feel like they are
being eroded in other ways. This may occur if we discover that they do not actually
correspond with other convictions or our sustained experience. Faith can become messy
and chaotic, full of nuance and hard to explain. We can feel like we have lost control. If we
are in this place of disorder or deconstruction, it can be easy to wonder whether it even
means anything.

Hardwired to React? How to move beyond a reactive spirituality

If you head over to this page on the Ocean Church website, you’ll find a short quiz—about ten questions—before you can join our WhatsApp group. It’s partly so we can get to know you a little better. But it’s also because we want you to take a moment to think about your spirituality. How you’ve grown (or haven’t), what you’ve chosen to keep or let go of, and how you feel religion interacts with your inner life. One question that fascinates me in particular is a simple one:

Are you proactive or reactive in your spiritual journey?

So far, no one who has taken the quiz has said they’re proactive. Not a single person. I find this fascinating. Some, like me, would argue that the Christian faith, in its organized form, is deeply tied to one’s spiritual walk, and yet even then, we say we’re not proactive about it. The quiz has been taken by people who regularly attend yoga retreats, wellbeing events, people who pray and even those who are part of consistent faith communities.

Now, I understand the limitations of the question. What does it really mean to be proactive or reactive? Maybe you were actively seeking answers last week, last year, or during a significant life event, like the loss of a loved one or at certain times of the year when reflection feels natural.

But even so… why aren’t we more proactive? Is spirituality just not that important? Is it something we consider an “extra,” something to grasp only when it’s convenient or when life forces it upon us? Do we experience moments of deep spiritual connection but let them fade without chasing after more?

These are the kinds of questions that challenge us to dig deeper. Because if spirituality is truly central to who we are, why are so many of us living reactively rather than with intention?

Reactive Spirituality: Drifting Through the Currents

The word reactive has latin origins. Re is “back” or “again” and Agere means “to do” or “to act”. So when you put them together you have “to do again” or “acting back”. There are a couple of easy implications to see here. Firstly, if you have a reactive spirituality, your soul is simply responding to something that has already happened rather than preparing for something which has not. Secondly, if you are reactive then you need something outside of yourself to help nurture your soul as opposed to having the internal resources to initiate it yourself. 

So what are we waiting for? Do we pray when trouble comes, or when we are grieving or in need? Do we talk about God when something complex or paradoxical has come our way? Do we need to come to the end of ourselves before we admit we need some other resource?

It’s not that reactive spirituality is inherently bad—it’s human. We all respond to life’s pressures in this way sometimes. In fact, research by Tearfund shows that 51% of UK adults pray, with 20% of non-religious Britons admitting they turn to prayer in moments of personal crisis. This highlights how, for many, spirituality becomes more relevant during life’s storms than in calmer times​.

Interestingly, this pattern isn’t limited to those who are unaffiliated with faith communities. Even within organised religious settings, many people in the UK experience a reactive relationship with their spirituality. During the COVID-19 pandemic, Tearfund found that a third of UK adults (33%) prayed, and 24% engaged with religious services online—especially younger adults aged 18–34. This surge in spiritual activity during the lockdown reveals how spirituality often acts as a coping mechanism in response to crisis, rather than an ongoing practice.

This reactive approach leaves many feeling ungrounded and spiritually disconnected. Life happens to us, and spirituality becomes an occasional response rather than a continuous relationship. A significant proportion of those surveyed admitted that they pray when facing a personal crisis, such as family illness or uncertainty​. These moments of reactive spirituality might bring temporary comfort, but they don’t offer the lasting depth that comes with a proactive spiritual practice.

Why is this the case? Perhaps it’s because many of us view spirituality as an “extra,” something we turn to when we need comfort or direction, but not integrated into our everyday lives. We react to spiritual moments instead of actively seeking them out. In doing so, we miss the opportunity to build a spiritual foundation that isn’t easily shaken by life’s inevitable storms. All this is strange to me becuase a human being is mind, body and soul. Soul work has to be the most important surely because all our motivations, behavious, hopes and identify flow from our north star. Our soul.

But here’s the thing—this isn’t just a personal issue. It reflects a wider cultural shift in the UK towards a “crisis-driven” spirituality. The challenge for us, then, is learning how to flip the script—how to move from reacting to life’s storms to actively seeking depth and meaning, even when the waters are calm.

Authentic spirituality: Grounded in Community, Rooted in Proactivity

The key lies in grounding ourselves within a community. Authentic faith is not cultivated in isolation. It grows when we engage with others who hold us accountable, challenge us to go deeper, and provide a space where we can be both vulnerable and supported. In the context of liquid modernity, where everything is fluid and fleeting, community provides the stability we need to anchor our spiritual lives.

I’m loving the story of the daughters of Zelophehad (Numbers 27:1-11). These five sisters—Mahlah, Noah, Hoglah, Milcah, and Tirzah—lived in a time when women had no right to inherit property. Yet when their father died, leaving no male heirs, they took the courageous step of approaching Moses to request their father’s inheritance. They weren’t just concerned with their own welfare; they were fighting for justice within their community, seeking to preserve their family’s place within Israel.

What’s remarkable is that God not only approved of their boldness, but through their action, He changed the inheritance laws for all of Israel. We’re talking here about hundreds of thousands of households. These women didn’t wait passively for someone else to act. They proactively sought justice, and their faith was made more authentic through their engagement with their community’s future.

And this is where we find the heart of proactive, authentic faith—it’s lived out in community, rooted in relationships that challenge and sustain us. The daughters of Zelophehad weren’t just concerned with their own spiritual journey; they took responsibility for their entire community, ensuring that future generations would benefit from their proactive stance. Their story reminds us that authentic faith requires us to step beyond individualism and consider how our actions impact the greater whole.

When we live disconnected from others, it’s easy for faith to become reactive, something we turn to only when we feel lost or overwhelmed. But when we commit to a community, we are drawn into regular rhythms of worship, prayer, and reflection—practices that help us develop a proactive faith. Community encourages us to move beyond the spiritual consumerism of liquid modernity, where we pick and choose what feels good in the moment, and into something more grounded.

“What if…”: An ungodly belief

It’s hard to put into words what the last few weeks have meant to me, it has been a bit of a profound time to put it lightly.

For a little context, since lockdown and all that went down, I have been yearning for some time away. In solitude. With just God and some of my big questions. 

I have been needing a little bit of oasis and quiet to process some of the bigger issues of life, because I could feel my compass pulling a little. Subtle, but importantly away from God and goodness and general peace. I would wake up most mornings with a low level concern that would gnaw at my edges. “What is the point?”

Life is fleeting, here today and gone tomorrow. Literally. 

Man creates and destroys on a floating, spinning rock, with a fervence that defies logic for a creation that is heading to ultimate destruction. 

We believe that all will be restored, and that at the end of time God will make all right again. But in the day to day, in the face of suffering, that belief was starting to feel a bit more like a fairytale than anything else. And the effect was deeply derailing me. Like a bath with no plug, good and healthy things were being poured into my life, but without wrestling with my core understanding of God and the meaning of life, it was all just running away from me as fast as it was being poured in.

I was in desperate need of a reset. And not just in between nursery runs and last minute food shops.

I had been yearning for a while, and then in February my sister-in-law and I took our girls for a week away just to hang out and spend some good time together. It was in the after hours chats with her over that week, that I found I could be honest about how deeply that depression was affecting me. She is a fearsome prophet of a woman and she saw straight through all of my carefully constructed facades. She prayed and recommended a ministry that her friends in Wales were involved with, and the wheels were set in motion for some intentional time out to wrestle with God at RTF.

RTF stands for Restoring The Foundations. It was established in 1990 and I had heard of it a few times before. My Dad had been for a week’s session in the years prior and it was beneficial for him. So I was tentatively hopeful.

Skip forward to the end of August, (the ministry has a six month waiting list) and I drove myself the four hours off to the Breacons for five days of little responsibility and a lot of time to think. 

I was initially pretty nervous, I had put a lot on this time in terms of figuring out all of life’s issues, but it actually didn’t disappoint. It was just a lot less dramatic than I thought it would be.

Everybody’s experience of a ministry time like that would obviously be different, and it probably isn’t for everyone, but in five daily sessions of a few hours each, with a two-on-one approach, we journeyed through some of the places that the enemy might have gained some legal ground. Going through generational sins and the resulting curses, ungodly beliefs, soul hurts and demonic oppression, it all sounded a bit intense, but as we spoke it was all very peaceful andlogical, and honesty pretty normal. No real woohoo or tears at all. The thing that really felt revolutionary for me though, was uncovering my ungodly beliefs.

Sarah and Mike, the ministry leaders, had previously prayed and identified some areas in which they felt I had believed some ungodly things. 

Basically big fat lies. 

Maybe more small, subtle, life changing lies. 

For example, the belief that God’s blessings will one day run out. That there was somehow a cap to his blessings. A seemingly small lie, but when left unchecked I’m out here living my life with a spiritual limp, limiting God’s ability and the things I ask for without realising it, even though he clearly says that “he has blessed us in the heavenly realms with every spiritual blessing in Christ.” (Ephesians 1:3) 

You spend some time identifying these things, then some time repenting of them, then some time letting the Spirit replace it with truth. In this case God showed me waterfalls, “Do these ever stop flowing?”. He showed me bountiful harvests, “Does the earth ever stop producing food?” We basically spent a while going through the things that never run out, as He compared His blessings to these things, with the promise that he is not a frugal God. 

A life changing axis shift.

And then they identified the ungodly belief of “What if…?”

What if what?

Nope, just what if…

This was a bit of a big one for me. And once again it is a bit more than I am able to unpack in a single blog post, as well as the fact that I am still walking out the truth of this one, and what it actually looks like in my life. But in essence, if God has said, “do not worry about your life, what you will eat or drink; or about your body, what you will wear.” and goes on to say “Can any one of you by worrying add a single hour to your life?” (Matthew 6:25-27) Then when we worry, it comes directly against what God has commanded for us. Worrying about the ‘what if…’ immediately says “God probably won’t, or can’t”. An ungodly belief.
It isn’t about the thing we are worrying about. “What if our cat dies?”, “What if this birth is difficult again?”, “What if I’m spending too much money at Rockwater?” It’s the subtle questioning of it all. It takes the conversation away from God, and into trusting things into our own hands. What has God said about our cat? I will believe and trust in that. What has God said about this birth? I will believe and trust in that. What has God said about our finances and extra croissants at Rockwater? I will believe and trust in that. 

As a concept this is scratching the surface of some deep and theological explorations, but it was very simply summarised for me when I asked God what to replace this derailing lie with.

He said “Lou, what’s the best that can happen?”

The challenge to spend my time meditating on that, over the worst that can happen. 

So simple. 

Yet the walking out of it is actually, tangibly changing my day to day life.

I hear it in my head all the time. “Dr. Pepper, what the BEST that can happen.” The nineties jingle reimaged. And I am trying to think about those things, and ask God for them, and honestly it is going great. 

There is so much more to share, so much more revelation and life and day to day peace. I no longer wake up in existential anguish over the meaning of life. Depression no longer lives at my core. I don’t spend my days endlessly worrying about all things, (maybe some things, but I am working on it) And all it took was some intentional time with the Spirit. Yay!

And now “What if..” Is slowly being replaced with, “What is the best that can happen.” And it is honesty making my internal world a much nicer place to be.

Praise be to Him who is able to do immeasurably more than we can ever ask or imagine.

Narrative

Narrative seems like a popular word these days. Beloved of authors, film critics and even football pundits, you can’t get away from it. I think back in the day it was just called ‘story’, but narrative sounds grander, imbibed with significance and, well for want of a better word, narrative…

I wonder what the narrative of your life is right now?

Steamy romance? Exciting adventure? The third and final act? Or is it more tragedy with no resolution in sight?

Perhaps there can be a danger that we look for narrative in life when there is none? That sometimes events just happen and there is no great overarching journey or story arc for us as the heroine or hero of our lives. That there isn’t a lesson to learn and there won’t be a resolution at the end; certainly no happy ever after. Maybe we left fairy tales behind a long time ago anyway. Could it be that the narrative of our lives is not part of some greater cinematic universe and we also can’t just reboot the whole story and find a different actor to play the main protagonist (us) in a new version.

So why do we look for it all the time? Why is narrative so compelling and attractive and memorable? In many cultures stories are used to teach or pass on morality. They stick. When was the last time you heard a great storyteller expounding their craft? What can you remember from it?

We are all storytellers of one type or another. The narrative of our lives is made up of the stories that we tell each other and ourselves. The memories and events that we relive and talk about. The small and large moments of tragedy or comedy that have shaped us and made us who we are. Even the telling and retelling of these stories shapes our sense of self. Why do we focus on some narratives more than others?

But what if we are all caught up in some overarching narrative? What if the very reason we are looking for the cinematic universe that joins all the stories together is that it does exist? What if there is one storyline and we are, not the main protagonist, but part of it, on the cast list, be it in ever so small font when the credits do finally roll?

So what is this narrative? Who is the main character? Who is the hero and what is the quest? Where does my part fit in? Do I even have a speaking part or, as I sometimes suspect, am I just an extra?

The Christian tradition does describe life as a story, one told in the Bible. In it the hero is not us, rather it is Jesus. He is the focus of the story, He begins and ends it. As I consider this I find it freeing. It frees me from self-obsession, from trying to tie everything that happens in life back to me. It also gives me a wider perspective and purpose.

To connect to this narrative, my family and I are watching ‘The Chosen’ (Home | The Chosen), an incredible retelling of Jesus’ life. While some of it is fictional and needs some careful consideration, it has been inspirational and emotional to see the story of Jesus represented in a fresh way. I also cannot help but look at the narrative of my own life and where it fits in His. 

Where is the kingdom of heaven?

At the beginning of his initial main set of teachings that are recorded in the Bible, Jesus
proclaimed that “the kingdom of heaven has come near.” (Matthew 4:17) My understanding
of this as I grew up was this was essentially God’s escape plan for Christians – that
somehow Jesus was focused on announcing that his followers would have eternal life after
they die. Christianity was the golden ticket, the only possible escape route because if you
weren’t going to heaven when you died, the alternative was… uncomfortable to say the
least.

As I read the stories of Jesus’ life more, I started to wonder why Jesus never sat his
disciples down and explained to them more clearly and explicitly that in order to go to
heaven when they died, they needed to say a special type of prayer to God, asking
forgiveness and committing to follow him, thus securing their eternal happiness. That there
was no story in any of the four gospels like this was confusing, especially as I had basically
been taught this was the central part of the Christian faith. The lack of evidence that Jesus
did this opened me to the possibility that perhaps the teaching on the kingdom of heaven
could be re-read and considered in a broader way.

A slightly alternative reading of the announcement of the kingdom of heaven would suggest
that Jesus is stating that God’s realm or order is present in our world and our lives in the
here and now. Shortly after as part of the Lord’s prayer, Jesus says, “May your kingdom
come. May your will be done on earth as it is in heaven,” (Matthew 6:10) indicating that this
reign is very much in and for our lives on this earth. Some traditions have characterised this
idea with the phrase, “the now and the not yet,” which helpfully recognises that heaven is not
fully seen on earth at present but indicates that parts of it are visible.

It is interesting the context that Jesus announces this new understanding of God presence
being available and accessible. On an individual basis, it says that Jesus had been fasting
for forty days whilst being tempted by Satan. Whatever form we may understand that to have
taken, it doesn’t immediately make one think of optimism. Jesus’ teaching also came in the
setting of an occupied and oppressed people. The Roman occupation and subjugation of the
Jewish people is also difficult for us to fathom yet it is into this context that Jesus states that
God’s reign, God’s kingdom of heaven, is near and at hand. There is no projection to an
afterlife at this point – Jesus seems to be indicating the here and now. This seems to mean
that in whatever circumstances, however sad or desperate, flashes of heaven are available.

There are tastes of the kingdom of heaven all around us. We are fortunate enough to have
been on a holiday abroad recently and sensing the divine in a beautiful sunset or a delicious
meal can be relatively easy if we are open to recognise them. Perhaps we can sense those
hints of heaven in times spent with our family or doing an activity we enjoy. For us in Ocean
Church, our ability to be close to the sea and the nature that is around is one way that we
can do this. But the situation Jesus spoke in was to a people group who were poor and did
not have the privileges most people reading this will have, yet he claimed the kingdom of
heaven was near to them – it was close and accessible, even in much darker times.

This makes me think of two options available to us. The first is related to spotting those
glimpses of heaven in our world. This can involve an intentional attitude, choosing and
almost deciding to see the fingerprints of the divine, even in the mundane or the difficulties of
life. It’s similar to the exercise of counting your blessings – choosing to see God at home, at
school, at work, when out and about. Perhaps it may involve naming what we notice – ‘that
moment was somehow holy’ or ‘I felt close to God then.’

The second action we can take is being agents, the creators of those tastes or moments of
the heaven in the world. Jesus was proactive in demonstrating where God could be seen
through his actions – feeding the hungry, healing the sick and projecting dignity onto all
those he came into contact with. This is our model. Jesus through his presence and actions
allowed shards of heaven to fall into the lives of those he encountered. It will not take us long
to think of someone we know who is struggling or hurting, who could do with a taste of
heaven to strengthen and encourage them. If we are proactive, perhaps we can better
embody and be the answer to the prayer “May your will be done on earth as it is in heaven,”
allowing the light of heaven to shine a little bit brighter here with us on earth.

Three reasons you can’t trust yourself when it comes to the spiritual life

If you, like me, consider yourself to be spiritual but not religious, you’re probably on a quest for the fullest, most meaningful life possible—a life that engages your mind, nourishes your body, and feeds your soul. But here’s the tricky part: when it comes to navigating our inner journeys, it’s easy to assume that we’re in total control, that we get to call the shots. We often think that our intuition, our gut feelings, and our personal experiences are infallible guides to spiritual truth.

But I don’t think that’s always the case. What if our spiritual compasses are sometimes off? What if they lead us astray rather than closer to the truth? The reality is, as humans, we’re not always the best judges of spiritual matters. Our minds are intense and powerful, but they’re also prone to making mistakes—especially when it comes to interpreting the deeper, more mysterious aspects of life. 

We Are Meaning-Making Machines

All human beings are hardwired to make meaning from almost anything. We can look at a coincidence during the day and convince ourselves to make an important decision about a job. We can see patterns in random events and string them together in a way that suits our next move. We’re hardwired to seek out patterns and assign meaning to them.

Mark Manson has a great illustration of this in his book. He says: “Try this: take a random person and put them in a room with some buttons to push. Then tell them that if they do something specific—some undefined something that they have to figure out—a light will flash on, indicating that they’ve won a point. Then tell them how many points they can win within a 30-minute period.

When psychologists have done this, what happens is what you might expect. People sit down and start mashing buttons until eventually the light comes on to tell them they got a point. Logically, they then try repeating whatever they were doing to get more points. Except now the light’s not coming on. So they start experimenting with more complicated sequences—press this button three times, then this button once, then wait five seconds—and ding, another point.

But eventually theat stops working. Perhaps it doesn’t have to do with buttons at all, they think. Perhaps it has to do with how I’m sitting. Or what I’m touching. Maybe it has to do with my feet. Ding! Another point….

But here’s the funny part: the points really are random. There’s no sequence, there’s no pattern. Just a light that keeps coming on with a ding, and people doing cartwheels, thinking that what they’re doing is giving them points. Sadism aside, the point of the experiment is to show how quickly the human mind is capable of coming up with and believing in a bunch of rubbish that isn’t real. And it turns out, we’re all really good at it.”

This ability has been crucial for our survival for a long time. Finding meaning in the rustle of leaves or the stars in the sky helped us to navigate the world as early humans, or alert us to danger. However, this same ability can become a double-edged sword when it comes to spirituality. If we interpret random events, thoughts, or feelings as divine signs or spiritual truths, it can be a powerful experience, but it can also be misleading, causing us to place significance on things that don’t warrant it.

If we overextend meaning-making, we risk seeing connections and significance where none exist. Nobody wants to misinterpret everyday occurrences as spiritual signs or messages. We don’t want to look foolish, and we don’t want to skew our understanding of reality.

The other tricky thing is that this over-interpretation might morph into superstition, where we start to believe that certain objects or actions have inherent spiritual power or meaning. This can create a reliance on rituals or symbols that may distract from deeper, more substantial spiritual practices.

Confirmation Bias

Another small internal issue that we have is what’s called confirmation bias. This is when we try to search for, interpret, and remember information in a way that confirms what we already believe, while ignoring or discounting any evidence to the contrary.

In 1917, three young shepherd children in Fatima, Portugal, reported that the Virgin Mary appeared to them multiple times. They claimed that on October 13th, a miracle would occur. Tens of thousands of people gathered to witness the event. On the day of the predicted miracle, many people in the crowd said that the sun danced in the sky, changed colours, and even plunged towards the earth before returning to its normal place. This event is now known as the Miracle of the Sun, and it’s considered a divine sign by many devout Catholics.

Those who believed in the children’s prophecy were more likely to interpret any unusual solar activity as a miraculous event. There are different reports, with some saying nothing at all happened, which would suggest that those who were expecting a miracle were ready to see one. The event has been used to reinforce the Catholic faith for many believers. Even though scientists have explained away the phenomenon as an illusion caused by staring too hard at the sun, some devout followers often dismiss these explanations and choose to see it as a divine miracle.

So, here’s the problem: when a spiritual seeker only pays attention to experiences or teachings that confirm their existing beliefs, they miss opportunities to grow and transform. This stagnation can prevent them from exploring deeper or more challenging aspects of spirituality that may lead to a wiser, more profound life. Even within my own faith tradition, there are some who prefer not to explore wider ideas from different streams even within Christianity.

In fact, a large chunk of the Gospels shows Jesus confronting confirmation bias in different ways. In Jesus’ day, the Pharisees were deeply entrenched in the belief that strict adherence to the Law was the path to righteousness. So, in Matthew 23:23-24, for example, Jesus confronts them and says: “Woe to you, teachers of the law and Pharisees, you hypocrites! You give a tenth of your spices—mint, dill, and cumin—but you have neglected the more important matters of the law—justice, mercy, and faithfulness. You should have practised the latter without neglecting the former. You blind guides! You strain out a gnat but swallow a camel.”

What’s happening here is Jesus exposing the Pharisees’ confirmation bias by pointing out their obsession with minor legalistic details while ignoring the more significant aspects of God’s law. They were so focused on their interpretation of righteousness that they missed the heart of God’s message. Confirmation bias exists in everyone regardless of what we believe and it acts as a great set of blinkers on the mind and the Soul. 

Memory

I’m not sure I trust my own memory. Do you?

When I was a teenager, I loved to skateboard. One evening, just before my church youth group, I was trying for the first time to boardslide a handrail next to Asda in Southampton city centre. I tried a heap of times with no success. Then, eventually, I really went for it—the board slid out, and I ended up folded like a pita bread on the rail. It was a mess. I was in so much pain that my friends took me across the road to the youth group. My youth leaders asked me what was wrong before getting me into a car and taking me to A&E. When I was assessed, it was found that I had internal bleeding—not too severe, but enough to warrant some pills.

The strange thing is, I’m not sure if I invented some of the pain. I mean, it definitely would have hurt, but now, some 20 years later, I’m just not sure how much. Did I keep the drama going after my friends helped me off the rail just so I could get some attention? Did I want some kind of medal of valour for giving the rail a go, even if I couldn’t actually do it? Did I even need to go to hospital? I’m not actually sure…

In the spiritual life, memory plays a crucial part in shaping our beliefs and experiences. We stand on our recollection of past events, insights, and teachings to guide us on our way forward. But memory isn’t a CCTV camera where we can ask for the footage to be given back to us when we need it. Memory is a reconstructive process, meaning that every time we recall an event, we are essentially rebuilding it in our minds. It’s pretty common for people to recall powerful spiritual experiences from years ago, but for the actual events to have changed, become embellished, merged with other memories, or even been influenced by current emotions and beliefs. Our minds are full of shifting sands, so standing on individual memory alone is difficult. Memories that are tied to strong emotions are often remembered more vividly, but this vividness isn’t the same thing as accuracy. The memories of childhood, difficulty, or happiness that we cling to might be more vibrant and filled with colour, but that doesn’t make them more true. Worse still, it’s easier to forget memories that lacked emotional impact for us.

Our minds are also capable of creating memories of events that never even happened. This might be through suggestion, repeated storytelling, or even our dreams. False memories can lead us on a spiritual journey built on experiences that never even happened. We have to proceed with caution. I don’t think our minds are out to get us, but if we want to call ourselves true spiritual seekers, then we should be mindful that our memory, while powerful, is far from infallible. We should also know that an individual memory is not as powerful as a collective one—that is, a memory shared by other people. Shared memory is powerful because it helps to establish and maintain traditions, convey values that belong to more than just you, and foster a sense of belonging in a community. In other words, remembering stuff you intend to stand on is best shared with other people.

So What?

Understanding this stuff is crucial because it shapes our spiritual journey in different ways. When we recognise our tendency to find meaning where there might be none, we become more discerning in our interpretations. When we acknowledge the power of confirmation bias, we open ourselves up to new perspectives, allowing our spirituality to become deeper and richer. And when we accept that our memory is not infallible, we approach our spiritual experiences with humility, knowing that our understanding is always evolving—and that it’s best done in community.

So, what if we sometimes get it wrong? That’s okay. Spirituality isn’t about perfection; it’s about connection—connection to the Divine, the world around us, each other, and ourselves. It’s about finding meaning in the messiness of life and embracing the beauty of the search. Don’t be confident about getting it all right—you won’t, whatever you believe. What’s exciting is opening your heart to seeing God in unexpected places.

Spirituality might be about letting go of our need for certainty, and even the need to trust ourselves fully. Instead, it invites us to trust the journey, to embrace the questions and uncertainties, and to find peace in the process. So, let’s walk this journey together—with humility, curiosity, and a deep sense of awe for the sacredness of the path we’re on.

A semi biblical book review

It was my birthday last Monday. Woohoo! And my lovely man got me some lovely books. Well done to him.

Gifts mean the world to me, and among the many different categories of things that I enjoy, second hand books have to be pretty close to the top. Fiction in particular. Something I can temporarily lose myself in, with no real consequence other than stretching of my concentration again, past the three second facebook reels that manage to so constantly shrink it. And the first of the bunch was ‘How to Stop Time’ by Matt Haig. A really grounded and interesting read, if anyone wants to borrow it, I have a second hand copy!

Obviously I’m not here to ruin the whole book, but it says it in the blurb, so I feel confident to share the premise. The protagonist Tom is aging at a decelerated speed, to which fifteen years counts as one for his aging. The book finds him in the modern day, looking to be in his forties and actually having lived for four hundred odd years. And over his fictional four hundred years that travel true to our actual history, one of the most interesting tangents for me was chewing over the concept of the Witch Hunts of the 16th century.

Left field I know.

It has had me quandering over how little everything really ever changes. 

“Meaningless, meaningless, everything is meaningless!” 

The musings of the Great Teacher in Ecclesiastes.

“What has been will be again, what has been done will be done again; there is nothing new under the sun.” 

I was astounded by the consideration of how fear and the struggle for power has, throughout all of recorded human history, caused us to scapegoat and call names and just generally impose the concept of ‘evil’ onto another human being in the name of self-righteousness. To be able to punish that ‘other’ person, creates a sense of rightness within ourselves. That we have been able to right a wrong with our actions and somehow, incorrectly, make the world a better place in the doing so.

Ben wrote last week about reflecting the Creator God through our own humble pursuits to create. Something that is a difficult and life-giving pursuit. And yet interestingly, throughout history, we have managed to try and reflect aspects of God’s nature that we were never meant to aspire to as well. God is judge, perfect judge, and to judge in His place has caused so much pain it is truly unspeakable. 

I think mainly in the present with the ominous battle against the ‘other’ of the refugee, and the riots that are erupting around our nation. Issues that are so multifaceted and complicated that no single blog post from me will shine any real light on them. Yet it has made me stop and think this week, about how wrong we, as a people, as a church, as supposedly Jesus loving people, have historically been when it comes to executing judgment over others, and how our calling was in fact the complete opposite.

Do not get me wrong, I am all here for a healthy boundary, but that is a different blog post. To actively judge, and create an ‘other’ out of another human being is a sad thing indeed.

I would like to think we have moved on from hunting witches, but I think the same evil may have just shifted faces. 

I want to add some conclusionary sentence here, about taking this thought away this week, taking it for a proverbial walk around the park, and figuring out where we can fight to be the change in our own spheres of influence.

And yet I think instead, I am just left poignantly saddened. Saddened that we still seemed to be getting it so very wrong. And once again I am just left in that place of lament, crying out for the Saviour to come and set it all right.

Please.

Creativity

God is, by His very nature, creative. He created existence, everything that exists, from ants to zebras (and Mayfly too (see previous blog)). Being creative, then, is a way that we can reflect something of who God is and what He does. It can be an act of worship.

Lots of us can feel a lack of confidence though when it comes to creativity: we can feel that we’re not good at it; that we have no talent; or inspiration; or time.

But if by being creative we can tap into God, connect to Him, maybe then it is worth persisting with this creativity thing. Creativity is broad. It is more than just artistic ability, instead it includes cooking, gardening, writing, music, woodwork, clothing design and much more.

Gardening is one that is starting to chime with me at the moment and this is closely linked to a command given to Adam right at the beginning of the Bible: to subdue the earth, creating gardens from chaos, order from disorder. There is something amazing about growing something, seeing it blossom and flower and produce seeds. My wife actually grew a number of flowers from seed for the first time this year and is loving the creativity of it, already making plans for what she will do next year.

Two big barriers to creativity for me are a sense of inadequacy (sounds like a good excuse, doesn’t it?) and plain laziness (perhaps a more honest excuse) Counterintuitively, creativity takes discipline, time and hard work. It doesn’t just happen by mistake. I need to set time aside, find a place and keep at it. To go meta for a moment, this blog itself is a chance to be creative. But I have had to make myself set time apart to think and write the actual stuff that I am thinking and writing right now.

How can we seek to be creative in order to meet with our actual creator? To sing a song to the one who invented music and ultimately keeps time? To write with small, poorly-chosen words to the Living Word who spoke existence into being? To paint or draw to the one whose canvas is the sky itself? What barriers do you need to knock down?

For when we create, we are mirroring our Creator, however imperfectly and small scale. The first chapter of the Bible, Genesis 1, also says that we are made in the image of God, in His likeness. Creative, like Him.

And who is the audience for our creations? Are they just for us? Do we want them to be seen by millions, like Van Gogh’s Sunflowers that I recently saw in the National Gallery? Or maybe they could just be offered back to the original Creator.

Saying goodbye

A few years ago, the children at school were writing about their memories and time in school as they approached a leavers’ event for parents. One of them wrote the following as part of their reflection: 

Saying ‘hello’ was so simple. Who knew saying ‘goodbye’ would be so complicated? 

Every year, my time with a class begins with the equivalent of a “hello.” After seventeen years of teaching, I’m fairly well-drilled with setting my expectations and it tends to be fairly straightforward. As time passes, each year a tapestry of shared memories and experiences forms between class and teacher. The highs and lows are encountered together – the competitions won, the mistake made with subsequent consequences, the tests passed, the friendship fall-out to negotiate, the opportunities to share successes with parents. It can run deeper too. Dynamics evolve, mutual trust is extended and bonds are forged. 

For some children, leaving primary school barely seems to affect them. For others, their “goodbye” is a complex and upsetting time of change, where routines they have followed as long as they can remember are uprooted and they have to deal with the emotions of friendship groups being split and re-formed. As for me, the beginning of the summer holidays tends to trigger feelings of tiredness and relief but tinged with a sense loss. The class who I have taught, looked after, taken on trips, built relationships with, have gone. That time is over and won’t be the same again. My rational self-narrative may tell me that I wouldn’t want it to stay the same – the children are ready to move onto secondary school and it’s part of my role to prepare them for that jump. This knowledge, however, doesn’t quash the distinctive sense of emptiness I often experience following that last day of the school year. 

There’s a sense of grief that can accompany change because change can often be viewed as a kind of loss. When I finish teaching classes that are full of character, humour and positive work ethics, I miss them. The low-level ‘grieving’ that often follows can help me to reflect on those positive experiences and to be grateful for the times I have had. It can help me focus more on the goodness and joy in life that is around me so consistently and can increase my awareness of it. 

The sense of loss at the end of the academic year doesn’t last forever. But it’s present and I think it is healthy to recognise it. The cycle of teaching means that this is a yearly event for me and one I try to lean into more. It also makes me ponder other cycles in life where these smaller losses can be recognised – finishing a job, ending a holiday, a friend moving away or deciding to finish your time at a club. 

This annual experience in school reminds me of the passage from the Old Testament that says, “For everything, there is a season, and a time for every matter under the sun; a time to be born, and a time to die.” (Ecclesiastes 3:1-2) Thinking of seasons reminds me (ironically in July) that the winters, the quieter, more melancholy periods in life, are important in the process growth. During winter, instead of extending energy in attempts to grow, plants prepare for dormancy. If they fail to do so, water stored in their leaves and stems would freeze, causing harm to them. Often though, these will be times where roots are deepened or widened, even though there may be no signs of growth above ground level. This can happen on our faith journeys too. Perhaps it may be characterised in God appearing more distant or when what used to work with connecting us to the divine no longer seems effective. 

For me there is a regular pattern of change that links to the school year. Perhaps we can recognise those patterns in our lives where familiar emotional responses occur and consider what they have to teach us. And during those times where it is tough and potentially a ‘winter’ for our soul, where signs of growth are absent, we can take some comfort in knowing it can be a time of strengthening of our roots and that season will, one day, come to an end.