Christian Responses to the rise of the right

A few weeks ago I was invited to take part in a discussion about Christian responses to the rise of Reform and more generally the swing to the right in UK politics for the FaithJustice podcast, alongside Sally Mann, a Baptist minister from East London. 

I did have some reservations, but I agreed because I also know these are important conversations that we need to be having. I was not entirely convinced mine was the voice that most needed to be heard, and I went into the recording spectacularly unprepared, with neither political or economic facts and figures, nor any great theological insights at my finger tips. I did however, I guess, take my lived experience of working with and walking alongside people seeking sanctuary, some of the most marginalised of our society, and the personal reflection and discerning I have done in relation to said experience over a period of several years. 

There were, needless to say, probably things I could or should have said and didn't, and others I probably didn’t express as clearly as I’d have liked. I also don’t particularly like listening back to the sound of my own voice, but those things aside, I think / hope, you may find it worth listening to. We recorded it in one sitting, but it is split into three episodes of more manageable listening length:

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

(Also available on Spotify and iTunes)

The beauty and challenge of an ever-widening circle

One of the things that most enriches my life is the breadth and diversity of the communities of which I am privileged to be a part and the friendships I am privileged to enjoy. I love the fact that my life is such that I am constantly meeting new people, making new friends. I love the fact, too, that I still have friends in my life who have known me for many years. There are so many people who make my life infinitely better by their presence in it, whether they realise it or not: hopefully there are plenty who would say the same about my presence in theirs. It is, in large part, what has made Birmingham feel like home, although friends and family dispersed across the country remain important to me too. I have made no secret of this, and it is something that many a post here has celebrated. It remains true, and there is little I would change. 

But. There's always a but. So taking as read all the beautiful ways in which the many relationships I hold and am held by enrich my life, this post takes on that "but", which I have found myself wrestling with recently. 

With so many amazing different people in my life, so many relationships I deeply cherish, I feel like I am constantly juggling competing responsibilities, and at least recently, feeling like in many cases I am not quite getting it right. There are too many messages I have neglected to reply to for too long, too many conversations that have been squeezed and not given the time and energy they need or deserve, too many people I have failed to catch up or check in with as often as I would like, ... 

I know, of course, that not every relationship needs or expects the same level of commitment, and some are easier to maintain than others for a whole host of different reasons. I know that relationships shift and change over time, and that there are seasons in which different relationships, for different reasons, come to the fore. I know that when spending more time and energy with some people, it means doing less so with others is inevitable. I know that when you have as many people in your life as I do, a level of challenge as you hold them in balance is a price well worth paying. Knowing all that doesn't change my nagging sense that right now, things are not entirely as I would like them to be, and that there are too many people I feel like I have failed over recent months. 

No part of me wants to imply that these many relationships are costly in a negative way, or that I do not receive anything in return. They are not, and I very definitely do. But to make them work, and make them meaningful, relationships do demand something, do have a cost, from both / all sides. Acknowledging that relationships require effort isn't about implying they are a burden, on the contrary, it is an indication of their importance and value: most things that are worthwhile ask something of us. 

Relationships of all kinds need and deserve communication, time and energy: of all of which I, like everybody else, have finite, and variable, reserves. I am an extrovert. No-one who knows me could doubt how much I love, value and draw energy from time shared with others: but maintaining relationships is not, nor should it be, entirely effortless. 

Most of this sense that I am not quite getting things right is coming from within myself. And although it has been exacerbated by a few comments, some genuinely heartfelt, at least in the moment, others spoken in jest, I know these would not have effected me in the same way if they did not play into my existing internal narrative that somehow, currently, I am to a degree failing some of the people who really matter to me. 

The juggling analogy feels in many ways like an appropriate one. There is, or can be, a rhythm which allows you to maintain multiple balls in the air: when you are in the flow, it all just works (I've never personally actually got beyond three, but I gather it is possible to make it look effortless with many more). But the more balls you have, clearly, the greater the challenge of keeping them going. Even the most proficient jugglers need to put some, or all, of the balls down sometimes, just for a while, and to acknowledge that it is ok to do so. Even the most proficient jugglers drop balls sometimes, and probably shouldn't judge themselves too harshly for it.

Once you start to drop the odd ball here and there, you might be tempted to think that with fewer balls, everything will all seem a bit easier. On the contrary, I find, it sends you off balance and you can end up feeling at risk of dropping them all, especially when you bend down to try and scoop up the ones you've let go. And then there are the balls you don't drop, but only manage to catch by the tips of your fingers, reaching outwards or downwards to save them from crashing to the floor: the more often you have to do that, to break the regular flow to reach out and prevent a tumble, the more energy maintaining the whole thing costs. 

Right now I think some of my balls are very definitely scattered around me on the floor: hopefully they are sturdy enough that they haven't cracked too much on landing. Others I think I am keeping off the ground, but perhaps only just. I would quite like to get all my juggling balls back up and flying in a nice smooth rhythm where they can be caught effortlessly. I suspect, in reality, that never has been and never will be really possible. I suspect I will always be trying to balance competing demands on my time and my energy, trying to balance competing commitments to people and to tasks and to my own wellbeing. I continue to wholeheartedly believe it is well worth the effort!

I am very aware that how I am currently feeling is symptomatic of a wider sense of overwhelm. The fact that we haven't seen much sunshine for a while probably isn't helping either. I still think it is nonetheless a challenge worth reflecting on to ensure I am, in fact, giving the best of myself to all of those who matter to me, that I am doing what I can to ensure that I am sustaining relationships in ways that allow them to be the best they can be for myself and for others: because these many people do really, really matter to me and they are worth it.

Maybe I am writing this partly for anyone who might be reading this who feels I have neglected them, but not really. Primarily I am doing so simply to acknowledge and articulate how I am feeling; and to help me reflect on how I get back closer to where I aspire to be, or if that isn't realistic right now, to reflect on how I sit more comfortably with things as they are.

It's all a grey area

The RomCom "Saved!", set in an American evangelical Christian high school deals with a bunch of teenagers struggling with questions of faith and doubt, of sexuality and relationships, of image and self-worth, of (dis)ability. It is as light and fluffy as most RomComs are, but it deals with, or perhaps more accurately, touches on, some big subjects. 

In one interaction the headteacher says "this is not a grey area" to which his teenage son responds "Dad, it's all a grey area." That phrase "It's all a grey area" comes back to me so often in all sorts of very different contexts. To my mind, that teenager has grasped the essence of human existence and of Christian faith in a way his father has very much failed to, or chosen not to, understand. 

Time and time again, in my own experience, children and young people show a huge a capacity for empathy with those whose experiences differ from their own and an ability to grasp things which adults so often fail or refuse to understand. They are prepared to allow different ideas and perspectives to shift and shape their world view. They are willing to believe that the status quo doesn't have to be immutable. Don't get me wrong, I know young people are just as capable as those of other ages of being intransigent and difficult ... but I am reminded, frequently, by the children and teenagers I meet through my work, that the world would probably be a much better place if we had all managed to preserve a little youthful curiosity, humility and openness. 

In many ways, black and white of course feels much easier. I think it is probably human nature to be drawn towards clear cut lines, towards right and wrong answers, towards the creation of borders and boundaries and definitions. 

Easier but ultimately a lie.

Because the real world just doesn't fit neatly into straight-edged boxes. The real world isn't black and white, it is every shade of grey in between, and every shade of every colour on the spectrum. That is, ultimately, what makes it so beautiful. 

We are, I believe, collectively, at least marginally better than we have been at some points in our history at understanding the concept of spectrum, and paying lip service to it, whether or not we are able to fully embrace it. But we, each, all, individually, collectively, still have a very long way to go.

I started writing this post many months (maybe even a year?) ago, when the high court was asked to rule on the legal definition of gender and did so along purely biological lines. Often, I suppose, we want or need the law to deal in black and white ... but so much, even of issues covered by legality, doesn't sit neatly on that binary. The trans rights issue, which is what that court case was ultimately about, even if some other people who don't fit neatly into boxes were inadvertently effected too, is one such case ... but it is far from the only one. There are plenty of migration stories where the black and white lines of immigration law deny the complexities of individual human experiences, and while that is the area of which I have the closest experience, I am sure others could find similar stories from other domains. So even though the specific moment that prompted me starting this has passed (though the issue has of course not gone away, especially for those living with the daily pain of feeling their reality is not being recognised and valued), it still feels relevant to wrestle this post into shape.   

Whatever the law says or does, I believe our human experience doesn't or shouldn't be dictated by a black and white binary, by an expectation of experiences, situations, relationships or people fitting into neatly defined boxes. And, to my mind, our faith shouldn't either. Almost daily, I am reminded that so many aspects of my life, and I am sure I am not unique in this, don't really fall along binary lines: from what counts as work, to how I define the relationships with the many people who make up my communities, to simply answering the question "How are you?" ... 

It is often those things, experiences and people who don't fit neatly into black and white that give nuance, complexity and beauty to our experiences. But it is often these things, experiences and people that suffer most when we deny the in between spaces and try to put everything and everyone into confined columns. And so it is often those things, experiences and people we need to be attentive to trying to protect: not by squeezing them into an ill-fitting box, not even, I would argue, by creating new boxes, but by allowing and enabling them to exist outside the box altogether. In doing so we give not only "them", but all of "us" permission to exist outside of the boxes, and life will undoubtedly be the richer for it. None of us, I suspect, fit comfortably into boxes all of the time: our identities, our activities, our relationships are all, ultimately, way more complicated. Some more so than others, and some of us are undoubtedly better at (or more willing to put up with the discomfort of) the contortions required to squeeze ourselves into those we don't naturally fit. 

I do appreciate that there are times where boundaries can be useful, and where definitions can help us make sense of the world. But I think we need to hold them lightly, and be willing to acknowledge all the times when they can't hold the fullness of our experiences. 

And where does God, and faith, then, fit with all of this? For some, faith in God is about defining truth and in some cases much of this 'truth' is expressed in very definite black and white. For me, faith only really finds a place in the midst of doubts and grey areas: not as the answer that fills the gaps where human logic fails, but in the trusting that allows us to sit with the mystery. I don't actually believe these have to be mutually exclusive. I don't believe the pursuit of truth has to rule out the possibility of doubt. I don't believe the potential existence of absolute truth means there is not space for different routes towards it with all the seeming contradictions we find along the way. I don't believe that having a deeply held sense that I am right, means someone with a different view is automatically wrong. I don't believe that something being genuinely, fully and completely right for me, suggests there's a one-sized fits all that means that same thing is automatically fully right for anyone else.

There are of course, things which I believe, fundamentally, to the core of my being to be true, and to be of God. There are things, too, which I believe to be false or wrong. Some of these things have changed over time, and certainly the expression or articulation of them has, but there are fundamental aspects of my beliefs and behaviours systems which are pretty deeply engrained. Maybe that's also part of the spectrum: for a scale of grey to exist, perhaps there does have to also be black and white. It is a question for me, as much as one I pose for others, as to how we sit comfortably (or uncomfortably) with these hard edges and blurred boundaries. What happens when my blurred boundaries are someone else's hard edges, and vice versa? 

Partly, I believe, it comes down to the opportunity (and willingness) to engage with people and perspectives that are different from and that challenge our own, and to embrace them with empathy, humility and a spirit of openness. I absolutely don't agree that we should "never talk about religion or politics" (although there are certainly contexts where I would avoid doing so). On the contrary, I think we should learn to approach such conversations ready to share our own deeply held convictions but also to listen to those of others; not in order to convince each other, but recognising the possibility that we might all learn and grow: that fullness of truth is beyond any of us. 

Perhaps this then, is the "childlike faith" towards which we are called. Too often, childlike faith has been equated to blind obedience to texts or institutions, but anyone who has had much to do with children will know this doesn't entirely ring true. On the contrary, I wonder if childlike faith is about asking more questions, being curious, testing our own views against those we encounter, being open to the possibility of change and transformation, accepting that we don't have, or need to have, all the answers, being willing to admit that there are in fact a whole lot of grey areas, celebrating that they can, in fact, make life beautiful. 

Looking back ...

Last week Stories of Hope and Home held our AGM, including presenting our annual report for 2024 -25. The other charity I work for, Birch Network, also published our annual report in the autumn. Annual reports can only ever tell a tiny part of the story and are almost always, inevitably out of date by the time they are published but nonetheless, between them, these do capture something of what I have been up to.

In an attempt not to waffle indefinitely (I know myself well!) while remembering to share some key points, I more or less wrote myself a script to introduce and offer an update to the annual report at the Stories group AGM. Having written it, it seems appropriate to share it here, together with both annual reports for anyone who is interested in something of an insight into two organisations who I genuinely believe are doing good and important things in a world where it has never been more needed!

*         *         *

This annual report relates to the year April 2024 to March 2025. It is uploaded on to the charity commission website, and it stands as our official record of who we are, what we do and how we are fulfilling our responsibilities as a charity.

We decided to do something slightly different this year with how we put it together, and invited, encouraged (possibly slightly forced) lots of different people who've been involved in the project to contribute to it. We think, hope, that the inclusion of lots of different voices makes for a more engaging read, and it also fits with our ethos and values as a project: to centre the voices of our participants and make space for them to be heard. So thank you, to everyone who contributed to it. And for those of you who didn't, perhaps because you weren’t involved in the project at that point, thank you in advance for writing next year’s!

I am, obviously, not going to read out the whole report because you can do that at your leisure. I think if I want to summarise what it says, I would say I really believe that this report, and in fact this project, stands as a witness to the fact that despite challenging external circumstances and I think those do have to be named and acknowledged, that it is possible to create communities which are diverse, and which are also enriching, supportive and beautiful; and that human encounter is powerfully transformative. I think what this report says is that what we do makes a difference, and that it really matters, and I think everyone involved in it in every way should be proud of that.

Like almost all annual reports ours is chronically out of date before it has seen the light of day so I said I would give some kind of update to what's being going on in the nine months since. I think it can be summed up by saying, as we did in our performance,: "and still, we are here". The environment for people seeking sanctuary is hard, and getting harder, the way this subject is talked about is increasingly hostile ... but despite the best efforts of the home office and certain sections of the media and the public, we are still here and we are going to continue to be here with and for one another.

Last summer was particularly challenging ... with the flags campaign, the attacks on the schools of sanctuary movement with whom we of course work very closely, and with a series of somewhat vague but exceptionally hostile announcements from government. None of this is easy, nor should we pretend it is. But in the midst of it all, we have continued to provide safe space: space to understand and to process and to find support. There have been tears, and anger and frustration. There has also been plenty of dancing and cake and laughter and joy. There have been lots of hugs. We have been here for each other.

Since last April we have continued to welcome plenty of new participants, welcome, thank you for being part of this, we have coloured in new countries on our map, we have visited, I counted, 40 schools and other groups educating literally hundreds of people about the realities of the asylum system, we have had two incredible residential festivals of encounter, we have performed at the REP theatre and in several other smaller venues, we have had lots of parties, we have done some incredible writing, we have discussed both the serious and the very very silly, we have continued building a beautiful community.

So, still we are here … and this story does not end yet...

Stories of Hope and Home Annual Report

Birch Network Annual Report

Epiphany Reflection

We have just passed the feast of Epiphany, of "revelation from above". 

This was written last year as a reflection to lead in to a Stories group encounter, sharing their experiences with a group of teachers and inviting them to reflect on how we welcome travellers from afar ... It is, yes, a reflection on the journey and arrival of the magi, but primarily a thinly veiled reflection on the journeys and arrival of people seeking sanctuary. I failed to post it last year, and am already late posting it this year, but I want to put it here at some point, and refuse to leave it in my drafts folder until 2027!

'Today' is the day when we celebrate the arrival of the Magi in Bethlehem, possibly to the stable, possibly to whatever humble abode the holy family went to next.

We don't exactly know, but the Magi were, most likely, Zoroastrians from Persia … Gentiles, foreigners who looked to the stars for wisdom, who wore strange clothes, spoke strange languages, and worshipped strange gods.

Gentiles, foreigners who were guided towards this God expressed in vulnerable incarnation. Who travelled great distances, who poured out their gifts.

Gentiles, foreigners who went away by a different route, who were forever changed by their encounter with the infant Jesus.

Imagine seeing the star

Imagine a light that tells you something new is promised. Imagine conversations about whether to follow, or to wait and see.

Would you stay … or would you dare to go?
(Pause)

Imagine setting out on a journey

Imagine not knowing where the journey is leading but trusting in the promise. Imagine crossing borders, going beyond known realities. Imagine holding on to the hope through all the struggles along the way.

Would you keep going … or would you give up?
(Pause)

Imagine arriving at what you thought was your destination only to realise it wasn’t what you thought

Imagine the hope, and the disappointment. Imagine the conversations, the looking for answers, imagine not knowing the motivations of those purporting to help.

Would you press on … or would you stop here?
(Pause)

Imagine arriving, expecting a king and finding a stable

Imagine the star guiding you to the most unexpected of places. Imagine reaching your destination. Imagine it looking like this. Imagine the doubt, and the hope in the promise.

Would you question its validity … or would you accept this reality?
(Pause)

Imagine strangers arriving at the door

Imagine strangers who look and sound different to anyone you have ever known. Strangers from well beyond your sphere of experience. Imagine the sights, sounds, smells they bring with them.

Do you hesitate … or throw open the door in welcome?
(Pause)

Imagine knowing, or hoping, you had found what you were looking for, and pouring out your gifts trusting they will be received

Imagine the encounter between strangers with seemingly nothing in common, no shared culture, language, faith. Imagine finding a way to make a connection. Imagine gifts, poured out in that space.

Do you know what you would give… and what you would receive?
(Pause)

Imagine the gift of gold

Imagine gifts of material wealth. The wealth of money and stuff, but also of time and of talents.

What gold do you bring … what gold are you ready to receive?
(Pause)

Imagine the gift of frankincense

Imagine gifts that speaks of God. Imagine gifts which invite a different and deeper understanding of the divine.

What incense do you bring… what incense are you ready to receive?
(Pause)

Imagine the gift of myrrh

Imagine gifts overlaid with the sadness of suffering. Imagine gifts which come wrapped in stories of pain, gifts which offer and demand sacrificial love.

What myrrh do you bring … what myrrh are you ready to receive?
(Pause)

Imagine Magi
Imagine the Holy family

Imagine strangers bearing gifts
Imagine them welcomed and accepted

Imagine that this is where we find God is revealed

And then imagine that inherent in the revelation
Is a call
To change
To go back by another way

Would you take it?

Back at the potter's wheel

In early 2024, I had my first go on a pottery wheel. I said at the time I would definitely do it again, and this summer returned for another taster session, following which, (after a fair amount of hesitation and prevaricating) I signed up for a longer course. 

To be honest, it felt like an extravagance in terms of both time and money but it also felt like a good decision. It was the end of the summer when, as recent posts have suggested, I was feeling a little overwhelmed by the state of the world and very conscious that heading into the autumn, I needed to take self-care seriously. A commitment to two-and-a-half hours a week in a pottery studio, doing something entirely different, just for me, just for the pleasure of it, was one of the ways I have been doing so, and the benefits have been numerous.  

We were a small class so, over a number of weeks, I spent time with a completely new group of people. Over the course we spent together we exchanged gentle conversation and learned snippets about each others lives (and, mostly, talked quite a lot about clay!) They were people whose lives were generally, different to most of those who make up the other communities in which I exist, people whose paths would, probably, otherwise, never have crossed my own (or possibly each others). And yet together here we were, building a friendly, supportive community, albeit a temporary one. 

I have turned my hand to quite a few different arts and crafts over the years and if I had to put my finger on why this one has (at least for now) really captured my imagination, I think it would be something about the very physical, tactile nature of it. There is something indefinably pleasing about just handling the clay: even before you have begun to create anything. I guess it is not dissimilar to the pleasure of putting your hands in soil when planting things: it is after all, really just earth. 

One of the things I had to learn very quickly is that it has to be fine to fail. Several of my attempts were, frankly, disastrous and ended up squished back into a ball of clay to be reused later (some others possibly should have done too!). There was something freeing in the knowing that it really didn't matter, in the letting go and moving on.

I realise there doesn't need to be a hierarchy of benefits, but possibly the most significant was that there are, it turns out, really quite a lot of things to think about when throwing on a pottery wheel. Both hands, and quite a lot of the rest of your body, and your brain, all have to be fully engaged and focused on the task in hand ... which leaves no space for thinking about, or doing, anything else. For a couple of hours a week I was thinking about clay, and very little else. Living, as I do, a life where my work and home lives bleed into one another, and where I am frequently dealing with emotionally intense issues from which it isn't always easy to switch off, it proved an incredibly valuable space in which to be.

I am very, very far from being able to describe myself as a potter, but I do feel like I have made a bit of progress and the last things I made are at least marginally better than the first. There is a satisfaction in that, undoubtedly, but there was also a deep satisfaction inherent in the process, much more so than in the product (although I was, I confess, also very excited to collect my pieces when they emerged from their final firing).

And so I reached the end. It still felt like it was a very good decision. And so, admittedly still with a fair amount of hesitation and prevaricating, I signed up again for January. The journey continues. 

Reading List 2025

This is the fourth year of me publishing my reading list for the year ...

An Equal Music - Vikram Seth

The Voyage Home - Pat Barker

The Cyclist who went out in the Cold - Tim Moore

The Dutch House - Ann Patchett 

Daddy-Long-Legs - Jean Webster

Gold - Chris Cleave

Belonging - John O Donohue

A gentle creature and other stories - Fyodor Dostoevsky

Hope for the innocent - Caroline Dunford

Birnam Wood - Eleanor Catton

The Book of Chameleons - Jose Edouardo Agualusa

Cloud Cuckoo Land - Anthony Doerr

The God Desire - David Baddiel

The Bookbinder of Jericho - Pip Williams 

Empireland: How imperialism has shaped modern Britain - Sathnam Sanghera

Small Bomb at Dimperley - Lissa Evans

Human Traces - Sebastian Faulks

There are Rivers in the Sky - Elif Shafak

James - Perivale Everett

Tidelands - Philippa Gregory

Sing but keep on walking (reflections for advent) - Jan Sutch Pickard