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. 

Learning the names of nature

I was sat on a black metal bench with one of the children at the camp. We were talking. Suddenly, some kind of flying insect crashed into my elbow. This thing had not asked for permission to land. Will it sting me? Will it bite me? Nope. So then…

What is it?

It wasn’t a ladybird, or dragon fly. It wasn’t a moth. It wasn’t a wasp or a bee. I knew I was quickly exhausting my archive of small flying friends. I dont know what this is. I have felt this sinking feeling before; being slightly embarrassed at not being able to name a common animal, or rock, or leaf or shrub, or Aunty. 

We came up with a solution. Google lens will know what this is. Within seconds we had pointed my phone in its direction and discovered it was a Mayfly. We also found out that Mayflys were around before the dinosaurs, that there are more than 3000 types of Mayfly in the world and one of their uses is that it only survives around clean water. If there are no Mayflys near the water by you, then you know it’s polluted!

Just by finding out the name of the Mayfly, we instantly became more curious about what it does, where it might live, how many there are and what its role is in nature. This tiny discovery kind of began to wake us up to a whole new world. The world of Mayfly.

In the first chapter of the first book of the Bible, God is busy talking. He speaks and water divides from land, light divides from darkness and everything in our world is made from scratch. Then he does an amazing thing. He asks Adam, the first human being, to name everything he has made.  

“Now the Lord God had formed out of the ground all the wild animals and all the birds in the sky. He brought them to the man to see what he would name them; and whatever the man called each living creature, that was its name. So the man gave names to all the livestock, the birds in the sky and all the wild animals.” Genesis 2:19-20 (msg)

In the Hebrew world, names meant more than just labels.

Firstly, a name often signifies the essence or destiny of a person or thing. For instance, the name “Adam” is derived from “adamah,” meaning ground or earth, reflecting his creation from the dust of the ground and his role as the one who tills the earth. Similarly, “Eve” (Chava in Hebrew) means “living” or “life-giver,” reflecting her role as the mother of all living things.

Names also indicate a relationship with God: Many Hebrew names, even those of natural elements, include elements of God’s name or attributes, indicating a relationship with Him. For example, the “cedars of Lebanon” (Erezim) are often associated with strength and majesty, qualities attributed to God. Another example is the “rock badger” (Shafan), mentioned in Proverbs 30:26, illustrating God’s provision and care for even the small and seemingly insignificant creatures. These names are like reminders of God’s presence and intervention in the natural world.

But it gets bigger. 

In the Bible every creature has a unique purpose and song of praise to God, and knowing their names helps us understand and join in this song together. I love reading what one of the Jewish Rabbis say about the book of Ecclesiastes 

“Every single blade of grass has a corresponding angel in Heaven that strikes it and tells it to grow” 

It’s like the stuff of earth is connected to the stuff of heaven. And each name is a chord played in both realms. Could you imagine if every twig, every bird and every cloud were like a chord in a song? Your name is part of that, and so is the Swallow, the Birch and the Great White. A cosmic symphony creating music beyond what we can imagine. So Adams task wasn’t merely about assigning labels; it was about recognising and understanding the intrinsic nature and destiny of each creature, participating in God’s creative work and stewardship of the whole world.

Science and the names of nature

So, who has this job now that we don’t have Adam and Eve to do it? For a long time, it has been science. Science has taken up the mantle of exploring, discovering, and naming the natural world, continuing the task that began with Adam and Eve. The process of scientific naming is also more than just assigning labels. Each name carries with it a wealth of information about the organism’s characteristics, relationships, and evolutionary history. For example, the scientific name for the Mayfly we discovered at camp, Ephemeroptera, hints at its ephemeral nature, as these insects live only for a short time. This naming system helps scientists communicate precisely about species, ensuring that everyone is speaking the same language when discussing biodiversity and conservation.

Also, the act of naming in science often leads to deeper curiosity and further discovery. When we identified the Mayfly, we not only learned its name but also discovered its ecological role and evolutionary history. This mirrors the biblical concept that knowing the name of something opens up a deeper understanding of its purpose and place in the world. Scientists today continue this tradition, using names as keys to unlock the mysteries of nature.

One fascinating aspect of naming things is how it connects us to the past and the future. Ancient scholars like Aristotle and Theophrastus began the work of classifying plants and animals, laying the groundwork for future discoveries. Today, with advanced tools like DNA sequencing, scientists uncover new species and reclassify old ones, constantly refining our understanding of the natural world. This process shows that the task of naming and understanding creation is ongoing, a continuous journey of discovery that we are all part of.

In the digital age, tools like Google Lens have democratized access to this knowledge, allowing anyone with a smartphone to identify and learn about the natural world around them. This technology bridges the gap between ancient wisdom and modern science, making it easier for us to fulfill the biblical mandate to know and care for creation.

Science, in taking up the mantle of naming and understanding nature, continues the sacred task given to Adam and Eve. It connects us to the divine through the intricate details of creation, helping us to see the world with wonder and respect. As we learn the names of clouds, plants, animals, insects, rocks, and sea creatures, we join in a tradition that spans millennia, participating in the stewardship and celebration of the natural world.

Learning the names of nature. Together.

So, how does all of this tie into our community at Ocean Church? The beauty of our faith calls us to be active participants in God’s creation. We aren’t spectators peering and commenting from the cheap seats. We aren’t consumers of it, only wanting to visit if there is something in it for us. The simple act of learning the names of nature is a way to honour that call to participate.

Imagine walking along the shore, the sound of the waves a gentle reminder of God’s majesty. You spot a bird diving into the ocean. Is it just a bird, or do you know it’s a common tern? Recognizing its name deepens your connection. You start to wonder about its journey and its place in God’s creation.

At Ocean Church, we’re blessed with a unique opportunity to be surrounded by the splendour of both land and sea. Learning and teaching the names of the species we encounter can foster a sense of wonder and respect for the natural world.

In our digital age, tools like Google Lens empower us to discover and learn. Encourage your household to use it on their walks, paddles, or even in your back garden. Learning names isn’t just about accumulating knowledge; it’s about fostering a relationship. It’s about seeing the divine fingerprint in the intricate details of a butterfly’s wings, the majestic flight of a hawk, or the steadfastness of an oak tree. It’s about joining in the cosmic symphony where every name is a note, every species a melody, and together we create a harmonious song of praise.

So, learning names isn’t a to-do list. It’s not about knowledge. It’s a sacrament. And a sacrament is what happens when something of earth touches something of heaven.

Imperfect kindness

As I sit here and write this, I am 16 weeks and five days pregnant (apparently). And whilst this is definitely a season of great joy and immense gratitude, it would be insincere of me to say it is all happy days and bathing in the glory of partnering with the Creator to create.

I’m actually really scared.

For those who aren’t aware, I have been pregnant twice before.

My first baby passed to the other side of the veil when I was 13 weeks pregnant, and I look forward to the day where we are reunited with our first fruit, already on the other side of eternity.

And our second, is the beautiful Esme Kai, three years old and full of more life than I thought was possible! But that loss, and the prevailing Covid years, mixed with more loss and even more isolation, led to an immense mental breakdown for me when Ez was born. I was diagnosed with postnatal psychosis, a season of life that I wouldn’t wish on anyone. And to spare the gnarly details, I was very very unwell for an extended period of time.

I write about this now, because I met with a mental health practitioner last week. She has been sewn into my pregnancy journey this time by my wonderful midwife team, to assess my risk of having another psychotic episode, and to create a web of care around me, to make sure it doesn’t get that bad again.

Now I am positive we, as a species, have no idea what is actually happening when we suffer any kind of mental breakdown. There are many people, much smarter than me trying to figure it out, but whether it is physical, spiritual, evil or ordained, there are so many people struggling with some kind of internal burn out, that I want to take this moment to explain, what I shared with her, when asked how I survived, and how I got better.

It wasn’t a specific cocktail of drugs, it wasn’t a stint in a psychiatric unit, it didn’t involve extreme CBT or the perfect therapist, and God most definitely did not heal me in an instant. It was very simple, and very free, and very accessible. 

It was the enduring strength of the relationships around me.

I came away from talking to my mental health nurse that day, and I had a sudden guilty worry that I hadn’t told her that God healed me, after I had told her in depth how I had recovered.

And I felt God say, ‘But I didn’t. Not in the way you want to say. I was present in the strength of the unity of the community around you.’

And He was.

That was the modern-day miracle.

That in this individualistic, self-centred, terrified-of-deep-vulnerability, society that we live in, it was an absolute miracle that those closest to me already knew me well enough and trusted the process and path of recovery that God lay before them, to jump into it with me.

Again, I will spare the details of what that looked like on the daily, or else this singular blog post could evolve into a published work, for the length of the word count alone!

But their care was intimate, and kind, and I was torn apart and rebuilt with the depth of the vulnerability I had to share. Yet week by week, they were able to weed out the lies, and whisper back truths to my broken heart, until I started to see light and colour again. Learning in the process, that when everywhere around us we are told to follow our heart, sometimes, we don’t actually know. But the One who made us does.

I am well aware that my story is somewhat unique. To grow up in a God-fearing, deeply loving, (but very much imperfect), household, with a family and husband that are so supportive it cured the seemingly incurable. And I know this, because whenever I have shared my story of that time, I am consistently met with stories of the hurt that people carry from others who didn’t turn up for them, and even worse, kicked them when they were down. It breaks my heart. There is a quote from Bessel Van Der Kolk’s book, ‘The Body Keeps The Score’, where he shares that over the years of his extensive studies, he has come to believe that “our capacity to destroy one another is matched by our capacity to heal one another.” In other words, “Gracious words are a honeycomb, sweet to the soul and healing to the bones.” (Proverbs 16:24)

We are completely capable as a people of loving and healing each other through our words, actions and prayers. And they really don’t have to be grand acts. In the very worst of days for me, a random friend dropped by a bag of clementines, just because he was thinking about us. And I think about that pretty frequently, even now, years later. He had no words, no wisdom, no fix, and I don’t even really like clementines, but the simple act of being in his thoughts helped. Really helped.

I have come to understand that while there is such a thing as death by a thousand papercuts, there is also such a thing as resurrection by a thousand acts of imperfect kindness.

Fair weather swimming

Last weekend I got to see an amazing sight: over 1,000 members of a relatively rare species active in their native habitat. I’m talking about serious sea-swimmers in the Bournemouth Pier to Pier swim; an amazing event that raised over a quarter of a million pounds for the British Heart Foundation. How do you spot a serious sea swimmer? Generally, they will be wearing a dry robe (any place, any time of the day), holding a hot water bottle in the colder months and talking about air and sea temperature (did you know that in the UK, the sea is warmest in September? Although my wife disputes this and says it is actually October.) I am married to a card-carrying member of this species and can only admire everyone who took part in the Pier to Pier swim.

Unlike my wife, I didn’t grow up near the sea and don’t have salt in my blood, but a deep love for the sea is growing in me. The sense of endlessness; the feeling of being ‘on the edge’ of things; the forever changing sky at the horizon; the sound and rhythm of the waves and breakers: the list of things to love goes on and on, much like the sea itself.

One thing that is surprising me though is the enjoyment of being in or on the water itself. We’ve borrowed a few different pieces of kit from the Watersports library and had lots of fun with them, but I’ve also enjoyed just swimming in the sea (strictly summer months only). I’m not a natural, the process of entering involves a lot of oohs and aahs and generally takes at least ten minutes- you know the routine: acclimatising in stages- toes, then knees; that challenging midriff area, elbows, then finally shoulders. My wife doesn’t understand the art of this process and goes from zero to 100% submerged in seconds. Doing it that way misses the realisation that it really is ‘alright once you’re in’ though.

Anyway, when you finally are in (and however you get there) and move away from the shore, there is a connection to the water, a stretching out and loosening of muscles, the sensation of being in the unknown (are there sharks down there in the depths?) and that peace as you get further away from the sand and the shouts. Sound is different on the water.

At Ocean Church we explore the idea of water being spiritual. I think there is something about the vastness of the ocean that confronts you with your own smallness and finiteness. The power and the unknown, the mystery and the beauty point to a creator. Being in or on the water is definitely a way of engaging with and experiencing that- even if it is just for the summer months.

People describe the sea as their ‘saviour’ or ‘refuge’ or even ‘heaven’: language often associated with spirituality. How can we engage with this in the water? A link to infinity and eternity; power and mystery. A chance to clear our heads from all the white noise and tune in to our creator. Psalm 42 says “Deep calls to deep in the roar of your waterfalls; all your waves and breakers have swept over me.”

It’s lovely when you’re in, who wants to join me? Whether fully emersed and wet suited up; only fair-weather swimming; or even just on the shore, could we meet with the one “who has measured the waters in the hollow of his hand” (Isaiah 40:12).

Adventure of the emotions

Normally I enjoy a trip on a train. I’d brought a book with me as usual and was preparing for a relaxing hour or so on a relatively quiet journey. This time, I just couldn’t concentrate. I was hyper-aware of my surroundings, taking in the sights through the windows and the sounds of wheels on tracks. My mind was running through a variety of scenarios. And then it was clear to me – these were nerves, this was anticipation. Despite being a full 24 hours before running a marathon and only being on the journey to pick up my race number, my feelings had taken over my consciousness. During the rest of the journey, I had the space to be more fully aware of those emotions and the effects they were having on my body: the flickering of my pupils, the mild jittering in my stomach, the thumping of my pulse. They were real. At the time they were significant. I was nervous because I had been training (no pun intended) for eight months; there was nothing more I could do to prepare; and it mattered to me.  It may only have been a small act of recognition on my part, but I was able in some way to embrace the nervous energy in my body. 

My experience on a train into London marks out roughly the level I’m at, as I consider what setting out on an adventure of the emotions might involve. For me, feelings were not regularly discussed at great depth in the household I grew up. I often find it difficult to articulate my mood or feelings precisely because I’m not sure how I feel. It can be something I struggle to discuss, not from awkwardness or embarrassment, but because I’m less confident. I regularly process changes and events in my head, attempting to make sense of them, rather than following my heart. If anything, I probably developed a habit from childhood of supressing feelings. As a result, going on an adventure of the emotions is not something I feel well-prepared or practised for. But that’s ok. I suspect that as with map-reading, knowing where you are starting from is probably helpful if you want to make progress towards a desired goal. 

Some of my background in emotions is cultural, echoing the attitude of keeping a stiff upper lip. These were not especially developed by my upbringing in church, where perhaps knowledge was more prioritised than feelings. When I learned stories about Jesus’ emotions as told in stories in the gospels, little was made of his feelings. I knew Jesus wept when his friend Lazarus died but I don’t recall links being fully explored about the impact of grief. I was taught the story of Jesus upturning tables in the temple because he was angry but potential connections between the indignation that we may experience today at corruption and injustice could have been developed more. I was aware Jesus was alone and full of despair after the last supper but wasn’t encouraged to draw on experiences of feeling helpless where no one seems to understand your plight. Perhaps a re-reading of some of these stories may serve as a starting point as we reflect on our own emotions and how to link them to faith.

Adventures of the body

“Lord of all pots and pans and things… Make me a saint by getting meals and washing up the plates.”

Brother Lawrence

From a young age, I have noticed a number of football players and other athletes making the sign of the cross before competing. I used to be sceptical about their actions but maybe those who do it are on to something.

Sometimes our experiences of church create the impression that singing songs is our primary way of worshipping God. We can develop a casual use of the word ‘worship’ where essentially all we mean by the term is a focused time of singing. Comments about ‘not enjoying the worship’ or ‘the worship being less good at one church than another’ can pass across our conversation. This type of worship can certainly form part of an adventure of the body but surely, to quote Tim Hughes, “There must be more than this.”

Romans 12: 1-2 says, “I appeal to you therefore, brothers and sisters, on the basis of God’s mercy, to present your bodies as a living sacrifice, holy and acceptable to God, which is your reasonable act of worship. 2 Do not be conformed to this age, but be transformed by the renewing of the mind, so that you may discern what is the will of God—what is good and acceptable and perfect.” 

When this passage speaks of worship, it is in the context of presenting our bodies as living sacrifices. What does this mean? Many of us have lost, or were never taught, how to make our daily lives an act of worship. We never learned to recognise the presence of God in our activities, work and actions. We find it difficult to express how our lives at school, work or home are part of our lived expression of faith. This quest is one we can continue to explore, whatever stage of life we are at. 

In the exert that begins this reflection, Brother Lawrence’s poem links simple actions to the ongoing process of becoming a saint, a follower of Jesus. It is interesting to note that there is no reference to feeling the presence of God in these actions, no lifting of the spirits or ecstatic encounters. Maybe at times these will come but they will probably not be the norm. It does seem that Brother Lawrence was on this path of attempting to be a living sacrifice, making the more mundane areas of this life an act of worship. Our bodies can be used every day in actions that do this and these may form part of exploring an adventure of our bodies.

There’s a challenge though. How do I mow the lawn or hoover or hang washing in a manner that is consistent with a life lived as worship? How do I do my homework or help with household chores in a way that is a sacrifice? Although these might be helpful at times, it probably doesn’t mean I have to be praying or listening to ‘Christian songs’ whilst doing these things. There is probably a risk of creating a binary distinction between spiritual and non-spiritual actions if we just focus on somehow adding Christian language to them. 

One simple practice that some people follow is the habit of saying grace before a meal. This is an easy way of recognising God in the everyday. But do we pause before preparing the food or when clearing up afterwards? Do we even need to pause? I’m not sure if there are neat, one-size-fits-all answers. Could it be that these could differ depending on the circumstances we face? 

Adventures of our bodies include being responsible for them, seeking to follow advice on good practices for diet, exercise and sleep. Perhaps these are simple places to start on our adventures, a dipping of our toes into the waters that deepen as we pursue what we may encounter. Potentially we can come up with our equivalent of the footballer crossing themselves before playing a match – a symbol, a quiet refrain, a mantra – before we start a task to recognise that what we are about to do is part of our ongoing, everyday worship. Perhaps we could place a visible symbol in places we frequent often such as our desks, the kitchen sink, the laundry basket, to help stimulate the openness to recognising that God’s work is in all work. It would also be interesting to explore and discuss this further with others to find out what they actively do to recognise that all work is God’s work. 

In The Message’s translation of John 1:14 it says, “The Word became flesh and blood,

and moved into the neighbourhood.” When we try to imitate the incarnate God, the God expressed in human form as Jesus, we can try to live out Jesus’ values. As we embark on our adventures in and through our bodies, we can increasingly recognise that all our actions, from changing nappies to checking in on grandparents, from finishing homework without being nagged to playing with our friends, from completing paperwork to making lunches – all of this is the work. It’s all spiritual, it’s all part of it and it’s all God’s work. Embarking deeper on our adventures of the body will enable us to discover this more. 

Adventures of the mind

It seems like it is difficult for politicians in our country to admit that they have changed their minds. When they do, it is often branded a U-turn or flip-flopping or another negative term. Is it any easier for people in church to change their beliefs? If we want to go on an adventure of the mind, perhaps we might need to. 

Many readers of the Bible will be familiar with the word ‘repent,’ especially its use in the New Testament. The Greek word that is translated to give us the word ‘repent’ is metanoia which has the meaning of ‘changing one’s mind’. (It is a compound word from meta meaning ‘beyond’ and noia meaning ‘to think.’) If we are to change our minds, it means we recognise that we have more to learn or potentially we were mistaken. Thinking about something in a new way can be a sign of growth or development. 

However, some of us were brought up with an understanding that repentance is bound up with having done something wrong. It is often a guilt-laden word, whereas metanoia is more focused on having a change of heart. Our adventures of the mind do not need to be guilt-trips, where we carry excess emotional baggage, but they are journeys of exploration and discovery. Maybe we should ask ourselves why God would want us to feel guilty about having the humility to recognise we don’t have all the answers and learning a little bit more from others.

One of the regularly repeated lines from a podcast I listen to is “All theology has an adjective.” (Theology means the study of God.) The point is that we cannot learn about faith and God from an objective perspective, free from our background and experiences.  This is not something that I was taught growing up in church. Teaching from the Bible was delivered as the “truth” and the interpretation that was given was not presented as one of a range of possible meanings. In reality, the teaching about God, Jesus and the Bible that I grew up with was a white, Western and relatively wealthy theology. It just wasn’t presented that way to me. 

This is not to say that it was all wrong or that nothing can be learned from it. I’m grateful for the foundations that I was given. But how often did I hear multiple perspectives or interpretations being mentioned during talks or sermons in church? It can be helpful to recognise there are other ways that stories or teachings from the Bible can be looked at and that these can give us a richer understanding. 

An example of this is that much of what I was taught about the Bible was focused on the impact of Jesus’ death and resurrection for me as an individual. There was an emphasis on how Jesus died for me to save me personally. It was in my early twenties that I was introduced to understanding the Bible from a different perspective, namely Liberation Theology. Its focus on faith being about helping those who are oppressed today made me see stories from the Bible that I was familiar with from a different perspective. Thinking about the Exodus where Moses led Israel’s escape from the slavery under the Egyptians was so different when learning about it in another culture which did not have a history of being a world military power or having controlled an empire. It made me realise I only knew one part of the story.  

Adventures of the mind are unsettling. They can be unnerving. It’s a road that well-meaning people within church may warn you against. If it’s going to be an adventure of the mind, it cannot be expected to be cosy all the time. Reading James H. Cone’s The Cross and the Lynching Tree was not a comfortable experience but it expanded my mind as links between Jesus’ crucifixion and the suffering under racism in America were made. Learning about someone’s lived experience of discrimination meant I was better able to rethink some of what Jesus went through in the Easter story. 

As we seek to go on adventures of the mind, taking perhaps tentative steps, what might this involve? To start, we need to begin from the point that we don’t know all the important information already. It may mean exploring the unknown. Practical ways we may begin might involve reading a book or an article from a perspective we know is likely to differ from what we have already heard. We can listen to podcasts that include people from a range of backgrounds, cultures or viewpoints. When we meet or work or play with people from another background to our own, we can be genuinely curious about their beliefs and practices. We can ask what they find compelling about them and why they have chosen to join or stay within their tradition. Learning someone sees things differently doesn’t mean we have to accept all their views. However, embarking on an adventure of the mind can help us to discover treasures we would otherwise miss.