It looks alive. Leaves out, green enough to signal blessing. God on our side, favour resting, certainty thick in the air. From a distance it all looks like it’s working. A people fluent in Scripture, a faith wrapped tight around a nation, prayers spoken with the confidence of power. Chosen, they say. But chosen for what? There was once a promise; blessed to be a blessing, a light for the nations, a people through whom the world might taste what God is like. Not where blessing

She moved like silence in a room full of eyes, broke the jar like a prophet breaks the sky. No words, just oil — and the scent of burial. The men coughed, like they'd inhaled scandal. She poured a year's wage on his worn feet, and wiped them with her dignity undone. And the church— still, at times, finds itself in the crucible of pain and suffering. There, it pours itself out— in hostels and prisons, war zones and refugee camps, where the broken bodies of the world become its

Before It Ends in Blood He doesn’t come waving a flag. No anthem, no polished speech about strength, no promise that God will make us win. He comes weeping. Not abstract grief— but the kind that catches in the throat when you can already see the bodies. Jesus the God-Man looks at the city and sees its ending: stones torn down, smoke in the lungs of the poor, mothers learning the language of loss. “If only you knew what makes for peace…” But they don’t. Because peace that does

There were two ways into the city. Two winds moving through the same streets. Two gospels already being believed. From the West—empire. Boots on stone. Iron catching light. Horses restless for violence, their bodies remembering what they were trained to do. Standards lifted—bright, unquestioned. Carried like certainty. A kingdom fluent in power, calling it peace. A kingdom drenched in blood, calling it righteousness. A kingdom that names God without fear of God. Church—be car

Last night I spoke online with a group of 17- and 18-year-olds about compassion, calling, and following Jesus. Halfway through, I stopped. What I was saying suddenly sounded too neat for the world we are living in. Too polished. Like I was reaching for sentences that had worked before instead of actually telling the truth. So this is another attempt. I was born in 1977 and raised in a conservative evangelical world. From early on we were given a serious vision of discipleship

Philip said, 'Lord, show us the Father and that will be enough for us.' Jesus answered, 'Have I been with you this long? Anyone who has seen me has seen the Father' ------ Tony is from Middlesbrough. You can hear it in the accent. Kindly. Friendly. Geordie-ish— but not quite. He’s been around church for a while now. Not the tidy kind of belonging— not the polished testimony version. More the kind where you drift in near the end for the cuppa and a custard cream, & stay close

In a previous reflection (see comments for the link) I wrote about emotional harm and the disorientation that followed it — how trauma can fracture the frameworks through which we understand the world, and how healing often comes slowly through time, prayer, and the quiet presence of safe people. There is another dimension of that experience I want to name. Justice. Or perhaps more truthfully: the restless need for it. Trauma scholars have noticed something about survivors. P

How long, O Lord, while cities burn? How long while the earth is lowered into graves? Your disciples once said, “Lord, do you want us to call fire down from heaven to destroy them?” It is not hard to imagine asking the same. That instinct sits close to the surface — the desire to answer violence with something stronger, to call it justice, to feel certain we are right. You turned and rebuked them. And later, in a garden heavy with fear, you said, “Put your sword back in its p

There is a place for celebration. You feel it when the doors open. Music already rising, hands lifted, voices gathering strength together like fire running through dry grass. People arrive shaking rain from their coats, umbrellas stacked in the corner, latecomers slipping quietly along the rows, someone laughing too loudly near the doors. The room fills with the confidence of people who know how the story ends. God reigns. All will be well. The songs move easily in that direc

Word count: ~3,300 Estimated reading time: 16 minutes This essay is based on a talk given at St John’s Waterloo on 7 March 2026. ⸻ I am an Anglican priest in Leeds. I lead a community called Lighthouse — a church and charity for adults with multiple and complex needs, or as we often say, a family for those battered and bruised by the storms of life. Around 150 people call Lighthouse their church. It is a community of deep joy, fierce friendship, and stubborn belonging, but al

“We need a theology of revolt,” says Greg Boyd. He is right. But if the word revolt is to be more than noise—if it is to be faithful, liveable, and genuinely good news—then it must be shaped not only by urgency, but by mercy. Because the truth is this: many are not standing on the barricades. Many are barely standing at all. And still, the call of the kingdom remains. A theology of revolt does not begin with what the church must do, but with what God is already doing—and the

I want to speak honestly, but not noisily, about emotional and psychological harm. Not to rehearse details. Not to settle scores. But to name something real. I keep returning to Walter Brueggemann’s language of orientation and disorientation. There are seasons of life where things more or less make sense. Where the ground holds. Where the world feels coherent enough to live in without constantly questioning it. And then something happens that pulls the ground away. Disorienta

The Shopfront, the Centre, and the Work of Truth Rev’d Jon Swales, 10 minute read. Churches, like most institutions, learn how to present themselves. There is a front-facing story — a shopfront narrative — shaped for newcomers, visitors, church networks, and social media. It speaks of welcome, healing, generosity, growth, authenticity, flourishing. Often it names something real. Often it names something hoped for. Rarely is it a lie. But it is selective. The shopfront tells

Jesus said, “Where have you laid him?” They said to him, “Lord, come and see.” Jesus wept. —John 11:34–35 Once we knew where we were. The glass held. Light stayed put. The world obeyed the basic rules of cause and effect, of prayer and outcome. Meaning showed up when summoned. God was mostly punctual. We called this 'faith'— a life where the story made sense often enough that we trusted the gaps, where suffering felt tragic but legible. Then— a phone call that split the day i

The whole creation waits— not quietly, but leaning forward with the ache of expectation. Galaxies tilt toward the dark, spirals cupped like listening ears. Stars hold their breath between burning and blessing, knowing there is more than endless expansion and collapse. Rocks remember touch. They remember being named good before they were quarried, before they were broken for speed and profit. They bear the weight of violence, the long erosion of sorrow, and still they wait— pa

Life hurts — personally and collectively — and Scripture does not turn away from that reality. The Psalms of Lament offer a rich resource for prayer and life in a hurting world. Join Rev’d Jon Swales MBE for an online teaching exploring the Psalms of Lament, drawing on Scripture, theology, poetry, and lived experience. The session aims to be engaging, thoughtful, and challenging, connecting academic insight with practical reflection. Who it’s for: anyone wanting to engage mo

Christian leaders are complex human beings. That shouldn’t need saying. But sometimes it does. We are shaped over time — by desire, fear, love, disappointment, trauma, hope. We change. We are never static. Christian theology speaks of a 'calling' towards Christlikeness, often named as cruciformity. But calling is not direction, and vocation is not arrival. Leaders, like the communities they serve, are a mixed bag. Some are being softened. Some are being hardened. Formation in

I. ENCOUNTER They tell him on the away day that eighty per cent are non-religious. Tick boxes. Yes or no. Faith reduced to data. As if the soul only aches when belief is declared. As if grief checks credentials before it speaks. He is a priest—though here he walks the corridors as chaplain, pastoral care. Same calling, softer tongue. The badge says St Julian’s Hospital— a cross in the logo, a chapel in the basement, psalms etched in stone, evidence of an age when mission and

Church leaders are storytellers by vocation. They retell the story of Jesus — not as a static account, but as a living narrative people are invited to inhabit. But they also tell other stories alongside this one: stories about the church itself — where it has come from, where it is going, and why it matters. These stories circulate everywhere: sermons, leadership meetings, PCCs, reports, funding conversations, informal networks. Over time, they create a shared reality. And th