When I was a teenager, I attended a small church every Sunday night, where the highlight of the day was the sermon. The preacher was brilliant! -- he could explain all kinds of detail about the scriptures – but he could also tell a story! When he preached about Jesus walking on the water, you could practically feel your feet getting wet! I loved those Sunday nights – and as time went by, I realized that more than anything in the world, I wanted to be a preacher. But that was bad luck for me, because I was just a girl, and there was no sign that any churches in England were ever going to ordain women. I went off and had a career in the music industry, where I got to tell my stories in a different way – writing songs, and performing them on stages all over the world. Eventually, I did become a preacher — and, as it happens, I still write songs too!. Now, this is in no way a story of sorrow or regret: I’ve found that often enough, when the world or the church shuts the door in your face, you can find a back door somewhere and figure out how to do it anyway. God moves in a mysterious way. But I recall this moment in my life, because I – like so many others, for so many reasons – have known what it’s like to find myself pushed to the margins of Church. The church has, over the course of history, been decidedly inconsistent in its practices and traditions . . . because despite the claim that the gospel welcomes all people, certain groups of people have been excluded, marginalized, kept on the edge of things, just because they don’t fit the profile. Allowed to sit in the pews, but not preach. Allowed to sweep the floor, but not acknowledged as full members. Preached at, but not much listened to. It is therefore a very precious thing to have found my way to a Church that really does set out to treat everyone with the dignity and respect they deserve.

The scriptures are far from silent on these issues, but it may seem surprising to find it addressed in St Paul’s letter to the church in Rome. St Paul often gets a bad rap – because in many instances it is his words that have been used to reinforce the exclusion of various groups of people from full participation in church. But study his letters carefully, and you find that he does not exclude people – quite the opposite. Writing to the churches in Galatia, Corinth, and Rome, and to his protegé Timothy, he makes it explicit that every person is of equal value, and to be treated with full respect. But, while he states this unequivocally, he also adds something in the letter to the Romans about how we do that. And I think – if we listen carefully – his words might help us as we listen to what the Spirit is saying to the church now, in 2026.

In opening verses of Romans 12, Paul observes that everyone has different gifts: what we have to offer the church community varies from one person to another. The world tends to operate a hierarchy of values, but in the church there is no room for you or I to imagine that we are either more, or less, important than anyone else. Paul comes back to this theme repeatedly in his letters. Here he focuses specifically on the gifts we bring – ministering in one way or another -- but writing to the church in Galatia, he added another strand – not just our gifts, but the very substance of our being – what kind of a person I am. He writes that in Christ there is ‘no male nor female, no Jew nor Gentile…’ This is not to suggest that your personal identity is obliterated with you become part of the church; rather it indicates that everything that makes up our identity – everything that makes you the unique human being you are – is embraced within the Body of Christ, and that no ‘kind’ of person is more important or valid than another. Contrary to how his words have sometimes been interpreted, Paul is clear that you don’t have to change your identity, or pretend to be something you’re not, in order to be part of the church.

So far, so good . . . but before we get too self-congratulatory, let’s pause on one single sentence that adds a subtle and important nuance: 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. (12:2)

Paul is talking here about two ways in which our lives can be formed. The first is to be shaped by the patterns of the world – to be conformed. The root of this word, in the original Greek, is SCHEMA – which indicates a kind of pressing into a mold – a way of shaping you from the outside. It’s the kind of change that is temporary, and external – you might almost say it’s cosmetic. The world, Paul says, wants to press us into shape. To make us conform to its identity, its practices, and its values.

But – he says -- don’t do that! instead, be transformed. The root of this Greek word is MORPHE – which indicates a deep, profound change from within. Not just the clothes you wear, the words you use, or the impression you make, not just the skills you learn and the practices you adopt . . . but from deep within, a permanent and profound transformation of the inner person.

In just a few sentences, then, Paul has told us that everyone is valued, exactly as they are, and they don’t have to change anything to become part of the Body of Christ . . . but at the same time we’re told to be transformed, from deep within, to effect a permanent change. So how we reconcile these two ideas? What are the patterns of this world that we should avoid being shaped by? And what exactly is this transformation that Paul is talking about?

It seems to me that one of the most prevalent patterns of our world is the tendency for society to polarize over almost every issue or concern you could care to mention. It’s a matter of debate whether social media caused this polarization, or just made it more visible. But you only have to open up a popular platform, and there you see it writ large – if that person over there does not sign up to the program, they are not someone to engage in debate – they are ‘the enemy!’. You see it in various campaigns for conformity to religious and political ideologies, which spill out into protest marches. You see it on university campuses, where people who do not toe the line on certain political issues are not listened to and debated, but simply ‘cancelled’. Those who disagree with the majority are silenced, and shamed, and the pressure is on either to join the herd, or be excluded.

If that is a pattern that belongs to ‘this world’, a pattern that Paul calls us to resist, then we need to be thoughtful about how we apply the principles of the gospel. Because it’s terribly easy to take the gospel call to justice, and mercy, and apply it with that kind of pattern. To take a single issue or campaign – even one that is arguably a matter of justice -- and give it a divine mandate by applying the word ‘gospel’ to it.

Now, I am certain that we should continue to stand up – uncompromisingly -- for those who have, historically, been excluded by Church – and I’m certain that St Paul was saying the same. But the gospel calls us something yet bigger, more noble, more complex than driving a campaign for justice simply by silencing all the other voices in the room, and excluding those who will not comply.

The gospel of our Lord Jesus Christ does not allow us simply to turn church into a ‘safe place’ where we are insulated from people who think and act somewhat differently from us. The challenge is that, while we confidently claiming our own place in God’s family, we also allow for serious, kind, considered debate with people who think like us? (or not yet, at any rate). And of course I am not suggesting that we put up with a load of abuse (after all, Jesus himself was very clever at deflecting that sort of thing!) or to abandon the call to bring about justice, which Jesus himself modelled over and over again. But I do think it’s worth some subtlety of thought to ensure that we don’t treat the gospel as a divine mandate to reinforce whatever issue I am campaigning for.

Richard Rohr once wrote that religion can be both dangerous and delusional, because, he said, “If religion does not transform people at the level of both mind and heart, it ends up giving self-centered people a very pious and untouchable way to be on top and in control.”^[1] And that, I think, is why Paul urges us that we need to be transformed – from the inside out – because living the gospel to that level of integrity is not just a skill or a technique for changing the world. We can only live out the gospel, with integrity, through the power of the Holy of Spirit, and by allowing ourselves to be changed from within.

To put the focus on being transformed from within – and to place particular issues of justice as the outflow of the gospel, rather than the substance of it – gives us the capacity to step back from the trends and issues of the moment, to see all of them in the context of the arc of history (which, as Dr Martin Luther King so rightly said, bends towards justice!). Then we are able to ensure that we do not preach ‘the gospel’ of feminism, or ‘the gospel’ of eco-justice, or the gospel of any other issue – for these can be reduced to calls to action that appeal to external change. Rather, we preach the Gospel of our Lord Jesus Christ, which calls us to inner transformation, the outflow of which is justice and mercy. Some of the greatest advocates for justice knew this well: Dr Martin Luther King Jr., Dietrich Bonhoeffer, Josephine Butler, Catherine Booth, to name just a few — they knew the power and the necessity of inner transformation as the fuel for their work. They did not wield their cause like a sword to beat down the enemy: they fought tenaciously for justice, but their lives were equally marked by grace and patience.

It’s a subtle but important difference, one that I think is quite well illustrated by a popular T-shirt slogan that I’ve quite often seen worn at various campaign marches:

This very well-meant slogan is taken from the prophet Micah, but it shortens Micah’s original words, leaving off three vital words:

‘He has shown you, O people, what is good, and what does the Lord require of you: but to
do justice, love mercy, and walk humbly with your God.’

I think this is in the same ball park as Paul’s conform/transform distinction — Leave off the God part, and you have a call to action — good actions, for sure, but still external. But leave the God part in, and there is a recognition – as with St Paul – that true justice and mercy flow from a deep, inner transformation.

^[1] Richard Rohr, Contemplative Prayer

The background

Twenty years earlier, Jacob had cheated his brother out of the ‘blessing’ of the firstborn — he convinced his old, frail father that he was, in fact, his brother, and his father give HIM the blessing instead of Esau. As a result of which, Esau flew into a murderous rage, and Jacob fled for his life, making a new life far from home. Now, 20 years down the track, he realizes that the life he has made is not only dull, but far from what he was made for. And so he works up the courage to go back. On the last day of his journey, just in sight of home, he ends the day by sending his family and household across the river ahead of him. But then he sleeps one more night, alone, perhaps considering the various possible outcomes of the following day. What kind of a showdown will tomorrow’s meeting be? Will Esau still be in a rage, or open to reason? Will they have a stiff, resentful discussion while they work out an agreement? Might it even be moderately courteous? Or a flat out bar fight?

In the middle of these thoughts, a man appears. We don’t know at first who he is, though it becomes apparent that it’s a personification of God, or some kind of envoy. An angel? The Angel of the Lord? — the details are not completely clear.

The rest of the story is well known — they wrestle all night long, the Man gives Jacob a new name, Jacob won’t let go of him and demands a blessing, and the ‘blessing’ comes in the form of an injury that leaves him evermore with a limp.

Sir Jacob Epstein, Jacob and the Angel, 1940-1941, Tate

Two details worthy of a second look

1. the man starts the fight, not Jacob

Jacob, we have already discovered, has been quite used to lying, scheming, and conniving to get ahead in life. So he’s not afraid of a fight. Yet here, the implication seems to be that it is the Man who starts the fight, not Jacob. It’s a curious idea, that God would pick a fight with Jacob (or with you, or me!) — but perhaps it was simply the case that God needed to intervene in Jacob’s life for his own benefit, and this was the only way he could get his attention.

2. “I will not let you go, unless you bless me.”

Realizing he is in some kind of struggle with God, Jacob — who thus far in life has schemed and fought his way for everything — demands a blessing. What is happening here?
I can’t help but make the connection between this, and the blessing he schemed and lied to lay claim to, some twenty years earlier. He got his Father’s blessing back then, and the inheritance that went with it, and so far that had been of absolutely no use to him whatsoever. Perhaps Jacob had at last come to realize that all the benefits of this world are no use to you unless you live under the blessing of God. Maybe he was seeking forgiveness, in this blessing, for the terrible thing he did by stealing Esau’s blessing. Maybe he is hoping that — blessed, forgiven — tomorrow’s negotiations with Esau might go well?
But his long exile into a foreign land is bookended by two blessings — one he gained disreputably, but turned out to be as much a curse as a blessing, and one he needed desperately, as if his life depended upon it.

(As it turned out, the meeting with Esau went infinitely better than he could have imagined, but that’s a story for another day . . . )

²⁴Jacob was left alone; and a man wrestled with him until daybreak.²⁵When the man saw that he did not prevail against Jacob, he struck him on the hip socket; and Jacob’s hip was put out of joint as he wrestled with him. ²⁶Then he said, “Let me go, for the day is breaking.” But Jacob said, “I will not let you go, unless you bless me.” ²⁷So he said to him, “What is your name?” And he said, “Jacob.” ²⁸Then the man said, “You shall no longer be called Jacob, but Israel, for you have striven with God and with humans, and have prevailed.” ²⁹Then Jacob asked him, “Please tell me your name.” But he said, “Why is it that you ask my name?” And there he blessed him. ³⁰So Jacob called the place Peniel, saying, “For I have seen God face to face, and yet my life is preserved.”

Jesus took with him Peter and John and James, and went up on the mountain to pray. And while he was praying, the appearance of his face changed, and his clothes became dazzling white. Suddenly they saw two men, Moses and Elijah, talking to him. They appeared in glory and were speaking of his departure, which he was about to accomplish at Jerusalem. Now Peter and his companions were weighed down with sleep; but since they had stayed awake, they saw his glory and the two men who stood with him. Just as they were leaving him, Peter said to Jesus, “Master, it is good for us to be here; let us make three dwellings, one for you, one for Moses, and one for Elijah” —not knowing what he said. While he was saying this, a cloud came and overshadowed them; and they were terrified as they entered the cloud. Then from the cloud came a voice that said, “This is my Son, my Chosen; listen to him!” When the voice had spoken, Jesus was found alone. And they kept silent and in those days told no one any of the things they had seen. Luke 9:28-36

I posted an earlier version of this in February, but as tomorrow is the Feast of the Transfiguration, it deserves another visit! I love this story. It’s a warm weekend, and Jesus asks Peter, James and John to come with him up a mountain. Bear in mind that mountain tops, in scripture, are always associated with the revelation of God — so while it’s possible they thought they he just wanted to go on a weekend hike, they may well have had a hunch that something unusual was about to happen. Anyway, happen it did! For as they reach the mountain top, Jesus seems transformed in front of their very eyes: brilliant, radiant, shining as the sun. They must have squinted and shaded their eyes as they tried to look — and in the dazzling light, they saw him talking with Moses and Elijah. How is it that these two great heroes of the faith, long dead, are now standing here on the mountain? They have, seemingly, just walked through some kind of portal into eternity, a wrinkle in time. And Peter, wonderful Peter, immediately goes into overdrive. He sees that this is something momentous, and immediately thinks . . . what shall we DO? His suggestion of making three ‘booths’ (‘tents’ or ‘dwellings’) for Jesus, Moses and Elijah, can be interpreted in various ways. Some scholars make the connection between this and the Feast of Tabernacles, where people would live in tents to commemorate the long journey out of Egypt, through the desert, to the Promised Land — and looking forward to the Messianic Age.

An alternative reading, though, might simply suggest that, when faced with glory, people don’t know what to do with themselves. Peter, unsure of how to react to this remarkable encounter, tried to find a way to rationalise it, or contain it. How often do our rituals, policies, and church activities attempt to capture something of our faith, only to reduce it to something less startlingly glorious, but more palatable, more manageable? I am reminded of the priest-poet Noel Rowe, who once cautioned against trying to pin down transcendence. ‘…we cannot hold on to glory,’ he wrote, ‘or it turns from encounter to idea.’

I imagine Peter bustling about on the mountain top, trying to organize things for Jesus. But then they then heard the voice of God coming out of the clouds — ‘this is my son . . . LISTEN to him.’ And then they understood what the right response was: not to build tents, or call a debate, or organize a liturgy, but simply to fall down on their faces and listen.

There are, of course, moments when you will need to plan a liturgy, or draft a theological response,, or call a synod or church meeting to decide new policies. But unless those grow out of moments of flat out wonder, moments when you fall on your face and admit that you know nothing, moments when you are preparted simply to be amazed by God’s glory, all the organization in the world will come to nothing. Let us not domesticate God. Let us fall on our faces, and listen long enough that the kind of encounter that cannot be captured, is the one that will lead to our own transformation.

The Bechdel Test

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Elijah was afraid; he got up and fled for his life . . . He went a day’s journey into the wilderness, and came and sat down under a solitary broom tree. He asked that he might die: ‘It is enough; now, O Lord, take away my life, for I am no better than my ancestors.’Then he lay down under the broom tree and fell asleep. Suddenly an angel touched him an…

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Between 2014 and 2018 I was asked to lead worship at a series of conferences devoted to a theological examination of ecological issues. Choosing or creating hymns, prayers and readings for such occasions proved to be a considerable challenge, for the majority of the conference lectures and debates were presented with at least a sober, if not a despairin…

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I can quite see the good intent behind this idea, but I think it’s completely misguided, for two reasons. Let’s take a closer look:

First up, that’s not what Vonnegut actually said. Not at all. Vonnegut did write a note about the Beatitudes, but not with reference to the Creed. What he actually wrote was an observation that many people are keen to have the Ten Commandments painted on the walls of their churches, like a kind of founding statement, but not the Beatitudes, which might actually demand a change of heart. The Commandments deliver authoritative instruction; the Beatitudes—eight blessings named by Jesus—come to those whose lives are penetrated by virtue. Why do we prefer ‘Thou shalt not . . .’ to ‘Thou shalt…’? Is it easier to believe in judgment for negative behaviors, than in blessings for positive ones?

“For some reason, the most vocal Christians among us never mention the Beatitudes (Matthew 5). But, often with tears in their eyes, they demand that the Ten Commandments be posted in public buildings. And of course, that’s Moses, not Jesus. I haven’t heard one of them demand that the Sermon on the Mount, the Beatitudes, be posted anywhere. ‘Blessed are the merciful’ in a courtroom? ‘Blessed are the peacemakers’ in the Pentagon? Give me a break!”

Kurt Vonnegut, A Man Without A Country

Vonnegut’s comment was more political than religious in intent, and as pointed and interesting as you would expect. For the record, I think you could argue that the Beatitudes and the Commandments have more in common than he suggests. But either way, his comment has absolutely nothing to do with the practice of saying the Creed.

Secondly, it’s worth examining the idea that saying the Creed in worship is ‘just a list of stuff we believe in’. Certainly the creeds emerged through lengthy and vigorous debates in the early centuries of Christianity over exactly what we do (and don’t) believe. But they are more than merely a list of propositional statements. They aim not merely to articulate a set of doctrines, but to clarify WHO the God is that we believe in. To keep us focused on God, and to isolate any muddled ideas that mislead. You can find plenty of accounts of theological debate, heated conversations, and interpersonal disagreements that surrounded the various Creeds. But when we say the Apostles’’ Creed in church, it is not a recitation of doctrine to prove our membership, nor a statement of terms for an argument. Rather, it is a declaration of the God IN WHOM we believe.

There is all the difference in the world between a statement of belief in what is known, a statement of belief against probabilities, and a statement of personal belief. If I say ‘I believe that … (the world is round/the sun comes up in the east)’ I am affirming that I agree with what is widely known and acknowledged to be the case. If I say ‘I believe that … (the stock market will recover soon/the war will end by Christmas…) I am making a statement about a thing I believe that is not proven, but is a reasonable prediction, based on what is already known. But if I say ‘I believe in…’ that’s a different kind of belief.

Imagine that someone you care about — perhaps a son or daughter, a colleague or friend — is making a big decision, or taking a new step in life, and says to you, ‘what do you think?’ You might discuss the practicalities — their skills or ability, the risks and potential benefits. But when all of that is done, it’s not unusual to say to someone, ‘I believe in you.’ Not I believe that your risk will pay off, or I believe that this venture has legs. But I believe in you.

Saying the Creed in the eucharist has that kind of quality. Think about the shape and progression of the eucharistic service. The first sizable chunk of the eucharistic service is devoted to listening to God’s word through the scriptures — two or three readings and a psalm, elucidated in a sermon or homily. This is ‘the Liturgy of the Word’. The second large chunk of the service is ‘the Liturgy of the Sacrament’ where we bless and consecrate bread and wine, and then receive the presence of God as we eat and drink. And in between these two we say the Creed. After listening for God to speak to us through his word, and before we engage in the mystery of his presence in the sacrament, we pause to say — ‘I Believe.’ I believe in YOU: God, our Father and creator and maker — God, the son who took flesh and became one of us — God, the Spirit who indwells us and makes God’s presence real and tangible.

Not I believe that . . . but I believe in . . . I believe in God. And that’s why we say the Creed in worship — it’s neither a tick list of dogma, nor a call to action, but an affirmation of our faith IN God. We hear ourselves say it out loud, which assists us in making our faith real and tangible. We hear others around us saying the same, and know that we walk this journey of faith as a body of people, not as individuals. And as we say it in God’s presence, it is a declaration to God, of our commitment of faith. Yes, Lord, I believe — help my unbelief. (Mark 9:24)

Now the Lord said to Abram, ‘Go from your country and your kindred and your father’s house to the land that I will show you. I will make of you a great nation, and I will bless you, and make your n…

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“Although the words authorised for use in worship are written down in a book, they are designed to be spoken aloud, and – in the context of worship, which is a dialogue with God, and between God’s people their utterance in word and song should affirm and establish faith. For the liturgy to do its work, this speech quality needs to be grasped. Merely reading the book aloud in a mechanical or interior fashion, as if it is a set of ideas, effectively silences its ‘voice’. Consequently, the person leading needs to learn the skills to transpose reading to speech, much as a musician will make the journey from sight-reading notes from a manuscript to playing music.”

What does a presider/celebrant/worship leader need to learn in order to bring the words to life, without turning it into a hammy performance?

. . . if language takes you only to theory, not to encounter, it is hollow. Feeling, then, is not added by emoting in the delivery of language, but by entering into the poetics of the liturgy. Reading prayers and scriptures aloud, the need is not to attempt some amateur dramatics, but to rehearse the language aloud, understanding its cadences, attending to the emotional register of each section, and noting the direction of address – that is, at what points the address is direct to God, or some exhortation or encouragement addressed to the people, or where statements of faith made as a body (hymns and creeds fall into this category) themselves become ‘performative utterances’ in the instauration of faith, and the complexity of the Eucharistic prayer – a narrative that mixes an address to God with moments that call the congregation into the divine presence. This aspect of liturgical fluency is, arguably, the least well understood aspect of liturgical formation, and one of the hardest to master as a self-taught skill. Once the idea is grasped that liturgical language is, in essence, both spoken and dialogic, the process of developing fluency is similar to that of musicians learning a piece of music. Learning the notes is preliminary, but to get from technical mastery to making music requires the musician to feel their way into the sound and fl ow of the work, which often includes some memorisation. Similarly, liturgically fluency begins by studying the words in the book, and the order of play in the ritual. Simply reading from the book can make the liturgy what Bakhtin deemed a de-personalised, ‘secondary speech genre’; but a fuller grasp of the poetics, the rise and fall of the emotional fl ow, the direction of address, the dialogue between each individual, the congregation as a body, and God, breathes life into the words.

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Pentecost is remembered as the day when the disciples were filled with the Holy Spirit, miraculously got to speak languages they had never learned, and went out to preach the good news to huge crowds.

I don’t know about you, but I have, at a few …

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