Into Culture: Provisionality Defined

It has been a difficult month.

After months of planning, the intercultural conference I was organising was cancelled at the last minute due to a lack of funding. This wasn’t a minor event or distraction. I had invested a huge amount of energy and passion into it and had a great vision for it. It was meant to be a space where people from vastly different cultural backgrounds could come together to dream: a fragile but vital act in a world increasingly defined by division.

And yet, with a single email, the structure we had painstakingly built collapsed.

The cancellation wasn’t just an administrative setback; it felt like an indictment. Had I been naïve to believe this work mattered enough to secure funding? Was intercultural ministry just a well-meaning aspiration rather than a necessity? As I sat with the news, I felt the creeping temptation to retreat; to step back from the discomfort of advocating for something that, apparently, wasn’t a priority for everyone else.

But instead of stepping back, I found myself writing from the ruins.

With the conference gone, I turned to the academic journal article I had been meaning to write for months. What had previously felt like an abstract exercise, an attempt to articulate ideas that had been swirling in my mind, now became urgent. The cancellation forced me to confront the very questions I had been wrestling with: Why does intercultural ministry matter? Why does it so often feel like the latest fad? How do I articulate its significance, not as an optional endeavour but as a necessary gift to the Church of England?

Perhaps this was what I needed. The push to put into words what I had been struggling to articulate. The conference would have been an event, but writing would be an argument, a case that could not be as easily dismissed as a line in a budget.

And so, in the space where the conference should have been, I wrote.

Intercultural ministry inhabits no man’s land: the space between entrenched identities, where categories lose their certainty and encounter becomes possible. It is a place where cultural and theological boundaries are suspended just long enough for something new to emerge.

But it is not a comfortable space. The world prefers fortifications, fixed identities, clear allegiances, firm distinctions between inside and outside. Even within the Church, we too often treat diversity as a problem to be solved rather than a gift to be received.

Yet no man’s land is where transformation happens. It is where encounter moves beyond tolerance into something riskier: the possibility of being changed. It is a space that resists resolution, where we are required to remain, even when there are no clear answers.

Augustine’s corpus permixtum offers a theological vision of this space. The Church, he insists, is always mixed, unfinished, in pilgrimage, provisional until the eschaton. Against the Donatists, who sought a pure Church free from compromise, Augustine argued that any attempt to enforce purity before the final judgment was not just futile but theologically misguided. The wheat and tares must grow together. To be the Church is to inhabit that tension.

This is no man’s land as a theological reality. It is not an unfortunate byproduct of cultural difference but the very space where grace does its work. The impulse to resolve, to fix identity, to enforce certainty. These are the real dangers. Augustine understood that provisionality is not weakness but faithfulness: the refusal to collapse history into resolution, the willingness to dwell in the unfolding mystery of God’s work.

But if no man’s land is the necessary site of encounter, how do we remain there without being paralysed by uncertainty? How do we engage without defaulting to either avoidance or control?

Improvisation is what allows us to remain in no man land. It is not the absence of structure but the ability to shape meaning in real time. It is the posture of responsiveness, the refusal to impose a script onto an encounter before the other has had a chance to speak.

The instinct, in uncertain spaces, is either to withdraw or to dominate, to retreat to what we know or to force an outcome. But improvisation resists both. It assumes that truth unfolds in relationship, that we do not come to intercultural engagement with all the answers but discover them in the process.

Stanley Hauerwas speaks of Christian ethics as improvisation within a shared narrative. We do not act in a vacuum; we inherit a story but the story itself remains in motion. Kevin Vanhoozer extends this further, describing doctrine as improvisation in response to history as an ongoing engagement with God’s unfolding work in the world.

Improvisation allows us to stay in no man’s land when the temptation is to resolve the tension too quickly. It allows us to respond in the moment, to listen deeply, to shape meaning as we go. Improvisation without direction, however, can become either chaotic or manipulative. It requires an ethic as a way of ensuring that our engagement is neither passive nor coercive, but genuinely transformative.

If improvisation is the mode by which we remain in no man’s land, then inclusive othering is the ethic that ensures we do so faithfully.

Othering is often framed as exclusion, a way of defining oneself against another. Inclusive othering refuses this binary. It acknowledges difference without reducing it to opposition. It insists that engagement is possible without assimilation, that unity need not come at the cost of integrity.

Paul Ricoeur warns against two failures: the absolutisation of culture, where difference becomes impenetrable, and the erasure of culture, where distinctiveness is lost in the pursuit of sameness. Inclusive othering navigates between these extremes. It allows for mutual transformation without coercion.

This is not comfortable. It requires a commitment to remain in the tension of difference, to resist the easy exits of withdrawal or dominance. It asks us to trust that relationship itself is formative and that even when no agreement is reached, something vital is taking place.

And so, I return to the original question: Is intercultural ministry a necessity, or just a luxury?

Funding has not been secured, in part because the argument for intercultural ministry has not been persuasive. Writing forced me to clarify what I had already sensed: this work is not peripheral. It is the only viable way forward.

Without it, we entrench division. Without it, we mistake tolerance for engagement, proximity for relationship. Without it, the Church risks irrelevance, offering certainty when the world cries out for wisdom.

The Church of England finds itself caught between conflicting pressures: a fractured institution seeking coherence, a shifting society demanding relevance, a cultural landscape marked by division and distrust. It is tempting to respond to these crises with control, to seek definitive solutions, to shore up institutional identity in the face of decline.

What if the way forward is not resolution, but a deeper commitment to provisionality? What if, rather than retreating to entrenched positions, we learned to inhabit no man’s land? To lead not with fixed answers but with an openness to encounter? To rediscover the art of improvisation, responding to the Spirit’s movement in history rather than dictating the terms of engagement? To embrace inclusive othering, holding our convictions with integrity while remaining radically open to the transformation that only relationship can bring?

This is not weakness. It is faithfulness.

The Church is being called, once again, into the risk of relationship; not to dictate, but to dwell; not to dominate, but to discern.

Intercultural ministry is the work of inhabiting no man’s land, of improvising faithfully in the face of uncertainty, of othering in a way that does not exclude but transforms.

If the Church of England is serious about its future, it must learn to stand in this space. Not as a concession, but as a calling.

Improvisation remains. No man’s land remains. And that is precisely where we must learn to stand.

Into Culture: Cultural Fasting

This month, I preached a sermon about storms—the relentless, exhausting experience of being tossed about, crying out, and wondering when it will end. To introduce this theme, I shared a personal story about Billy the Goat, a small stuffed animal my son has adopted, but which was originally given to me as a reminder of a prophetic word spoken over me during a particularly difficult season of my life. A minister had prayed for me and saw a mountain goat perched high on a craggy landscape, while sheep grazed below in the lush valleys. The words he spoke to me were:

You were built for the crags.

It wasn’t the encouragement I wanted at the time, but over the years, I’ve come to recognise its truth. Maybe some of us are made to endure the harsh terrains of life, drawing sustenance from the challenges that others may not survive.

In my pastoral context, I rarely meet anyone who isn’t facing some storm—whether personal, political, or social. We are living in a moment marked by crisis, social upheaval, and overwhelming pressure. It’s exhausting. As I preached on the storm narrative from Luke 8:22-25, I was struck by the overwhelming question: When will it end? But I wonder: Is this the right question to ask?

In a culture increasingly driven by crisis—a culture obsessed with urgency, drama, and overstimulation—I’m beginning to suspect that the question we should ask is: What if we’re being trained to drown?

What if, instead of asking when the storm will cease, we asked how we can learn to navigate it? And so, this Lent, I’m contemplating a different kind of fast—not one from food, but from the culture that seems to be constantly generating storms. It’s not that I’m retreating from the world, but I want to explore what it would look like to fast from the ceaseless consumption of media and social distraction. To pause, take a step back, and learn to engage with life’s challenges in a deeper, more intentional way.

As we grapple with the constant storms in our lives, I’m reminded of Shakespeare’s Hamlet, specifically his famous soliloquy:

To be, or not to be, that is the question: Whether ’tis nobler in the mind to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, or to take arms against a sea of troubles, and by opposing end them?

In these words, Hamlet wonders how one can endure the myriad injustices that shape life—from the most intimate betrayals to the systemic failures of society. His personal suffering is set against a backdrop of broader societal corruption. Hamlet asks whether he should passively endure these injustices or actively fight against them, though he seems uncertain about his ability to do either. The question he poses is not just philosophical, but existential; essentially asking, “Am I a passive victim, or do I have the agency to change my fate?”

This question resonates with our contemporary experience of crisis. We, too, live in a world that often feels overwhelming and out of control. The media thrives on urgency. Everything is unprecedented. Everything is a crisis. The sheer volume of information we consume is exhausting, pulling us from one catastrophe to the next, leaving us, like Hamlet, to ask:

Whether ’tis nobler in the mind to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, Or to take arms against a sea of troubles, and by opposing end them?

The weight of crisis after crisis dulls our resistance, saps our strength, and leaves us in a state of near paralysis. It’s as if the constant bombardment of noise is designed to make us surrender, to give up on clarity, to numb us into compliance. The media, politics, and even the systems of power rely on this sensory overload. They know that when we are too tired to think clearly, too overstimulated to resist, we become easier to control. I see it in my newborn son. When he fights sleep, I sometimes flood him with sensation—rocking, shushing, bouncing—until he can’t resist any longer. The world does the same to us. It doesn’t want us awake; it wants us numb, exhausted, compliant.

We experience ‘the slings and arrows of life’ in various forms—personal struggles, societal injustices, and the constant barrage of media and political crises. In the face of this, it’s easy to feel powerless, overwhelmed, or even paralysed. Just as Hamlet contemplates his own powerlessness, we may wonder: Do we have agency to change our circumstances, or are we merely at the mercy of forces beyond our control?

This is where cultural fasting comes in—not as an avoidance, but as an intentional act of reclaiming agency. Hamlet’s existential crisis is a reminder that we must face our pain and our circumstances with clarity and resolve. In much the same way, we must reclaim agency in our response to the crises of today. This doesn’t mean we ignore the storm; it means we learn to act within it, with purpose and intention.

The storms of life may not subside anytime soon. The crises—personal, social, and political—will continue. But the question for us is whether we will let ourselves be overwhelmed by them or whether we can find ways to act meaningfully within them.

In Luke’s gospel, the disciples cry out in the storm:

Master, Master, we are perishing! (Luke 8:24)

They don’t ask for the storm to stop. They just cry out. And Jesus responds—not by explaining, not by offering an action plan, but by being present.

We often pray for circumstances to change, for the storm to end. But Jesus calls us to ask for the Holy Spirit—not escape, but presence.

Hamlet, caught in his own storm, wrestles with the temptation to escape:

To die—to sleep, No more; and by a sleep to say we end The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks That flesh is heir to…

But the answer isn’t withdrawal or surrender. The answer is to learn to stand firm. To discern when and how to engage. To root ourselves in something deeper than the chaos of the moment.

Lent is often framed as a time of deprivation, of discipline. But I prefer to engage with the season as a time of reorientation. What if fasting from media and cultural noise isn’t about retreat, but about finding nourishment in the crags of that landscape; learning to be present in the storm rather than demanding it cease?

Again, this is where I believe cultural fasting can help us reclaim our agency. By stepping back from the noise, we could create space to think, to discern, and to act with purpose. We can choose how and when we consume information, and we can choose to engage with cultural texts and crises in a more reflective and meaningful way.

This could look like:

  • Setting specific times for news consumption and intentionally stepping away afterward to process it.
  • Practicing a form of lectio divina with cultural texts (films, books, articles) and news items instead of passively consuming them.

Instead of being bombarded by culture, this is about making room to see it more clearly. So:

  • Choosing one meaningful cultural artefact each week (a book, a play, a work of art) and intentionally engaging deeply with it rather than superficially.
  • Committing to discuss what’s encountered culturally with others rather than just absorbing it alone.
  • Reading against the grain—approaching media with discernment, asking: What is this shaping in me?

The storm is not going to end. But we are not powerless in the face of it. The armour of God, as described in Ephesians 6, is not just a metaphor; it’s a practical guide for standing firm in the face of life’s challenges. Truth, righteousness, faith—these are not abstract virtues but practical tools for resilience in the storms of life.

So, this Lent, I invite you to join me in fasting from the constant churn of cultural crisis. Rather than passively consuming media and information, let us actively choose how we engage with the world around us. Let us reclaim our agency by stepping back from the noise, reflecting on what truly matters, and choosing to act with purpose in the face of the storms.

The Lord is with us, even in the crags. And there is nourishment—if we know where and how to look.

Into Culture: Enter Hugo

It’s 3 o’clock in the morning, and I am sat in a maternity ward in Bradford Royal Infirmary. My son, Hugo, is 15 hours old. My wife is attempting to sleep in the single bed provided. I am sat in an uncomfortable chair, with Hugo next to me in a crib. I am prepared to not sleep tonight; I will be there to ensure that my family does.

We had no visitors at visiting time, as we didn’t know when we’d be arriving in the ward. We are self-contained, efficiently prepared for all eventualities, armed with information and research to help us navigate the first few days of parenthood. We have systems in place, with contingencies on contingencies, to ensure that we keep calm and carry on. In the reality of it, however, both Mumma and Papa are out of our depth.

We share this ward with three other families. I know intimate details of their lives, not by choice, but by proximity. Speakerphones and raised voices mean I have been drawn into their anxieties, their frustrations, their joys. After eight hours, we have become a strange kind of community of voices; segregated by curtains, yet woven together by the night’s sounds and struggles. I only glimpse them in stolen moments: as I fetch water for nappy changes, as I step into the corridor for air, as I pass the midwives at their station.

This is a microcosm of Bradford on the second day of its year as UK City of Culture.

One mother, from a working-class estate, is accompanied by her own mother. The father of her baby is wanted by the police for assault, and the grandmother has no hesitation in making her contempt for him known. There is no peace between them—only frustration, which they take out on each other, the baby caught in the crossfire of their exhausted exasperation. They are both scared, though neither would admit it.

It breaks my heart to see how cycles continue, how patterns of survival become cultural norms passed down through generations. The stories of their pasts are being written into this child’s future before he even knows what it means to have a name. The choices they have made—some freely, many not—have been shaped by conditioning, by the limits placed on them before they even had a chance to dream of escape.

This is working-class Bradford. It is raw, resilient, often overlooked. There is a dignity in this community, but also a deep wariness of institutions, including, at times, the Church. Estate ministry is a particular calling and the Church of England struggles to do it despite our ontological commitment to stability in place through the parish system. The working class remains the most underrepresented group in the pews and in leadership, despite louder conversations about race and gender.

What does the gospel mean to this mother, to this grandmother? Does it sound like another well-meaning social programme, a new initiative that will run its course and leave them where they started? What words would Christ speak to them, if not from a pulpit, then from a hospital chair at 3 a.m.?

Next to them is another mother, one who speaks no English. Urdu fills the air between her and the man beside her—husband, father, I cannot tell. He is significantly older and serves as her translator, though not always faithfully. The midwives, patient yet perplexed, struggle to understand why she is not urinating, why the baby is dehydrated. She cries only when she thinks no one is watching.

How long has she lived in Bradford? Why does she not have a basic grasp of the language? How vulnerable she must feel, relying entirely on the men in her life to interpret her most fragile moments. I voice my concern to a midwife, who assures me they are monitoring the situation. I trust they will do right by her; but will she know? But will this mother even know if she is being cared for? Will she trust their help?

The gospel calls us to welcome the stranger, but what happens when the stranger has no means to hear the welcome? I have spent the last two years thinking about intercultural mission, about the tension between preserving identity and embracing community. But here, in this maternity ward, the theory is stripped bare. It is not about initiatives or theories; it’s about whether this woman, right now, has someone who can truly see her, listen to her, advocate for her.

Next to us, another South Asian family. A young mother, exhausted and afraid, a husband who does not seem to understand, or perhaps does not care. She speaks English; he does not. The divide between them is both linguistic and emotional. She sends him away, then calls him back, then sends him away again. A sister arrives, bringing advice that is unwelcome. Everyone is tense.

There is a forcefulness in their interactions, a refusal to yield that I have seen before. It is a strength, a survival instinct that allows people to carve out their space in a world that would rather not make room for them. I, in my tiredness, in my innate Englishness, have found myself silently pushing back—physically, as their space encroaches on ours, and emotionally, as their volume and presence overwhelm my senses. Colonialism emerging from ancestral depths!

Each of us, in this microcosm of Bradford, are vulnerable in different ways and it seems that we’re forced, therefore, into survival mode exhibiting certain defence mechanisms and unconscious traits we have little control over. I imagine what interpretation our temporary neighbours make of this essential middle class, professional white couple. I imagine what these families are like in less oppressive environments.

I feel my own edges harden. I am already emotionally and sensorially overwhelmed and the heat, noise and smell has an increase intensity due to my already established sleep deprivation. I feel the instinct to retreat into my own bubble, to shut it all out and attempt to regulate. The fatigue amplifies the differences, and I catch myself falling into the same tribal impulses that I spend my life trying to deconstruct.

And then I look at Hugo.

Here he is, in his crib, fresh and unshaped by the world ex uteri. His lungs, his eyes, his tiny hands—all of them unburdened, not yet tethered to the weight of culture, class, language, or expectation.

But he will be.

He will grow up in Bradford, in a city of shifting cultures, of inevitable clashes, of unspoken assumptions about who belongs where. He will learn from us, his parents, how to navigate it all—how to hold his identity with grace, how to make space for others without losing himself. He will learn, I hope, that borders can be places of meeting as well as division.

What will his inheritance be?

I think of Jesus, entering into the mess of the world—not from a distance, but from within. I think of his refusal to let culture, class, or law dictate whom he should love. I think of the stable, the vulnerability, the very human struggle of his earliest days.

And I think, perhaps, that is the answer.

Not to separate, not to retreat, but to step deeper into the tension. To be fully present in the complexity, to listen before speaking, to offer himself without condition.

Hugo shifts in his crib, his tiny face peaceful. I place my hand gently on his chest and whisper a prayer—not just for him, but for the mother across from me, for the woman crying behind the curtain, for the families fighting through their fear, for this city of birth and rebirth.

We are all newborns in some way, all learning how to live in a world that does not always make sense.

And maybe, just maybe, we can learn together.

Into Culture: Inclusive Othering

This month, I had the privilege of sitting on a panel at the Rosa Park Symposium at the University of Bradford. The theme of the day was “Creating a Reimagined Sense of Inclusion through Arts and Culture,” and our panel explored “Growing Inclusion: Leveraging the Transformative Power of the Creative Sector.” The whole day was an enriching and challenging series of presentations and conversation, filled with optimism, bold visions, and creative energy. Yet, I found myself experiencing an inner conflict.

As I listened, I heard familiar slogans advocating inclusion, framed in language that, though well-meaning, often felt either too idealistic or too reductive to capture the complexities of our fractured world. The rhetoric often felt tired, rehearsed, or, at times, naïve. If inclusion is so straightforward why do we remain so frustratingly stuck? What troubled me more, however, was my own response. While I felt critical of some ideas, I realised I had little to offer as an alternative: a constructive, fresh lens through which to view the challenge of inclusion.

Due to time constraints I was unable, during our panel discussion at the end of the day, to unpack a nascent concept I’ve been developing: inclusive othering. This meant it was not given its opportunity to be discussed and honed as I had hoped it might. Inclusive Othering is a framework born of my own wrestling with difference and unity, inspired by a blend of theological reflection, improvisational practice, and the work of thinkers like St Augustine, Stanley Hauerwas, and Nelson Mandela. But before I explore it here (still relatively unworked), I want to pause and reflect on the impasse in today’s inclusion conversations that became so evident during the symposium.

Conversations about inclusion often stumble over an inherent tension: inclusion implies openness, but in practice, it often involves boundary-drawing. What is included is, by its very nature, defined in opposition to what is excluded. This paradox becomes particularly sharp in progressive spaces, where the desire to create inclusive environments sometimes leads to the exclusion of those who do not align with the values or ideologies of inclusion.

At the heart of this dynamic is the concept of ‘othering’. Othering is the process by which we define and treat certain individuals or groups as fundamentally different from ourselves. It often involves reducing the ‘other’ to a set of characteristics that justify their marginalisation or exclusion. Historically, othering has been a tool of oppression, reinforcing social hierarchies and justifying injustice. However, in contemporary conversations about inclusion, othering takes on a new, more subtle form. Progressive spaces may unintentionally ‘other’ those who resist or critique the dominant narrative of inclusion, labelling them as obstacles rather than participants in the process.

This ironic exclusion mirrors the very dynamics these spaces seek to dismantle. It often reinforces binary distinctions between the “enlightened” and the “ignorant,” the “tolerant” and the “bigoted.” While boundaries can be necessary to protect marginalised groups, they risk creating their own forms of exclusion, perpetuating division rather than healing it.

Philosophically, this tension plays out in debates between universalist and particularist approaches to inclusion. Universalist perspectives emphasise shared human values and the flattening of differences to create common ground (“we are all essentially the same”). Particularist perspectives, by contrast, insist on the importance of honouring specific identities and histories, even if that creates friction (think identity politics). Both approaches have merit, but both also risk perpetuating exclusion in different ways: universalism by erasing difference, particularism by entrenching it.

This impasse creates a troubling stalemate. How can we move beyond it? How can we embrace the richness of difference without turning it into a weapon? How can we create spaces where inclusion doesn’t come at the cost of exclusion?

Inclusive othering seeks to chart a path through this tension. Rather than resolving the paradox of inclusion by choosing either the universalist or particularist perspective, it hopes to reframe the conversation entirely. It begins, like the particularists’ approach, with an acknowledgment of difference. Instead of treating difference as fixed or ontological, however, it adopts an improvisational perspective: differences are seen as temporary and dynamic, inviting exploration of how shared spaces can be constructed. This approach resonates with Vincent Donovan’s reflections on mission: 

…the unpredictable process of evangelization, [is] a process leading to that new place where none of us has ever been before. When the gospel reaches a people where they are, their response to that gospel is the church in a new place, and the song they will sing is that new, unsung song, that unwritten melody that haunts all of us. What we have to be involved in is not the revival of the church or the reform of the church. It has to be nothing less than what Paul and the Fathers of the Council of Jerusalem were involved in for their time – the refounding of the Catholic church for our age.

(Vincent Donovan, Christianity Rediscovered (London: SCM Press, 2009) p.xix)

Similarly, Nelson Mandela exemplified this ethos in his leadership. He recognised the deep divisions within South Africa but refused to let these define its future. Instead, he practiced a form of inclusive othering by inviting former adversaries into a shared project of reconciliation, rooted in mutual respect and the belief that difference could be a creative force rather than a barrier.

Inspired by St Augustine’s understanding of our communal identity, inclusive othering invites us to see the ‘other’ not as a threat but as a partner. For Augustine, we are most ourselves not in isolation but in community. In this view, unity is not the absence of difference nor is it the attempted version of tolerance; ‘good disagreement’. Inclusive othering is a process of mutual engagement, where difference is not erased but embraced as essential to the work of building a shared life. It resists the urge to flatten differences into sameness or to let them become walls that divide. Instead, it invites us to hold the tension between unity and diversity, seeing the other not as a threat but as a learning partner.

Improvisation provides the practical basis for engaging in difference and good improvisation begins with the discipline of listening, and commitment to risk-taking and results in co-creation.

Firstly then, to listen deeply is to be obedient. 

The very word obedience has a treasure hidden in its history. If you unpack it, ob audiere, to listen intently is the language of love. When you really love, you listen intently to know what the one you love wants to happen.

(Columba Cary-Elwes, Work and Prayer: The Rule of St. Benedict for Lay People (London: Burn & Oates, 1992) p.182)

Improvisation requires that you ‘love’ your fellow performer. This is often an act of will and an intentional posture you must take on. What I mean by ‘love’, in this case, is to decide to trust the other and to listen intently to not just what they say but how they say it and what they don’t say. Before I make any offer on stage I watch, listen; obey my scene partner/s. This form of improvisational listening involves humility and an openness and expectation to being changed by what we hear. I could bring in the ethical ideas of Stanley Hauerwas here but it will be enough to offer this insight for reflection.

Being disciplined in obedience is perhaps the key virtue of a good and faithful performer. This is a skill that can be acquired only in communities that foster an “ecology of hope,” what Nicholas Lash calls “schools of stillness, of attentiveness; of courtesy, respect and reverence; academies of contemplativity.”

(Stanley Hauerwas, Performing the Faith: Bonhoeffer and the Practice of Nonviolence (London: SPCK, 2004) p.100)

Once an improviser has begun to learn and inhabit this posture of love, humility and obedience, they must then layer on the commitment to risk taking. Once they’ve listened, they must offer something back; their perspective, their story, a gift. This requires vulnerability and trust only built by the first step. This is where we return to the notion of love. Love is not love if it doesn’t risk loss, abandonment, dare I say, abuse. the most meaningful and transformative relationships are the ones that ask you to risk being hurt. Improvisation, like all relationships, assumes a willingness to risk relational failure, trusting that grace can emerge even in the messiness of human interaction.

Finally, once the pattern of gift exchange is established within improvisation, an improviser then must resist the desire to “win” the interaction but to create something new; a shared narrative, a collaborative work, or, in the case of inclusive othering: a reimagined community.

Inclusive othering is not without its tensions. The balance between unity and difference is fraught. Too often, calls for unity silence marginalised voices in the name of harmony, while particularism risks entrenching division. Unity, in this new framework, is not about erasing difference but embracing it as a creative force. It sees relationships as dynamic, unfolding, and co-creative; resisting static notions of inclusion that demand conformity, instead inviting us to engage in a process of mutual transformation.

Moreover, the improvisational nature of inclusive othering may feel unsettling to those who crave certainty. It demands a willingness to step into the unknown, to embrace relational tension, and to trust that grace can emerge even in failure. Yet, these challenges are also its strengths. Inclusive othering will only thrive on humility, curiosity, and adaptability.

Imagine a community workshop, for example, where participants from diverse backgrounds share their stories through improvisational exercises, stepping into each other’s shoes and perspectives. Imagine a policymaking process that centres marginalised voices through iterative feedback loops. Imagine a church service where liturgy becomes a co-creation, weaving together the cultural symbols of all participants. These are some potential practical experiments in inclusive othering. They embody the belief that difference is not a problem to solve but a catalyst for building something new and truly shared.

Into Culture: Kingdom Justice?

Earlier this year, I delivered a paper entitled Kingdom Justice? at the Anglican Network of Intercultural Churches conference. In it I argued that justice is never acontextual, i.e. justice is always shaped by the culture and context in which it is pursued, but this is rarely acknowledged when discussing various topics of social justice. I was invited to revisit this thinking at a recent Deanery Synod. On the day of the Synod, however, the resignation of Justin Welby, the first Archbishop of Canterbury to step down from office, shifted the conversation. His decision came amidst mounting pressure over the Church of England’s failure to adequately address historic abuse cases and embed a robust safeguarding culture.

My original paper attempted to challenge the cultural assumptions underpinning how we interpret and pursue justice. It must involve asking whether our understanding of justice is embedded in a shared set of values and narrative and is able to deliver meaningful and transformative change for all people involved rather than privileging simplistic solutions that risk compounding harm rather than addressing its roots.

Yet, I became increasingly aware of the abstraction of this argument when juxtaposed with the visceral pain of safeguarding failures. Calls for justice are never merely theoretical; they always emerge from deep wounds, institutional betrayals, and a pervasive sense of disillusionment. Augustine’s engagement with the Donatists in his time offers surprising and provocative insights into this particular, contemporary crisis. His theology compels us, both critics and defenders of the Church, to think more deeply about the naure of justice, evil, and the redemptive possibilities of grace.

In the recent debates around safeguarding in the Church of England, justice continues to solely be shorthand for accountability, transparency, and the punishment of wrongdoers. These are, of course, essential elements to consider as any just response, yet, as I argued in Kingdom Justice? and based on Augustine’s well argued definition, justice is deeply relational, concerned with restoring right relationships with God, others, and creation. It is also profoundly contextual, shaped by the realities and shared values of the community in which it is enacted.

This contextual nature of justice is often overlooked in Western culture, where justice is increasingly framed in legal or transactional terms. The predominant response to the Church of England’s safeguarding crisis from all sides of the debate reflects this assumed framing, emphasizing retribution and systemic reform. While necessary, these responses risk being insufficient as they fail to address the deeper causes of harm or offer a vision for healing and reconciliation. They can also fall prey to a simplistic view of evil that locates the problem in a few bad actors and/or outdated policies, rather than recognizing evil’s insidious presence in disordered systems, relationships, and values.

In Augustine’s day, the Donatists were deeply concerned with the holiness of the Church, insisting that it must remain pure and untainted by association with sin or compromise. They rejected the authority of bishops who had lapsed under persecution, arguing that their actions invalidated the sacraments they administered. Augustine countered that the Church is a corpus permixtum (a mixed body), inherently flawed yet sustained by God’s grace. He warned against the Donatists’ purity ethic, arguing that perpetuated the fractures in the Church’s unity and denied God’s transformative power of grace. Prioritising and pursuing purity through exclusionary action often results in embedding division and relational breakdown rather than discovering the healing that Jesus embodied and revealed.

Modern parallels to the Donatist instinct are not hard to find. The increasingly urgent demand for a ‘pure Church’, free from scandal and compromise, in its various and competing guises, seems obvious. Survivors of abuse, advocates, and disillusioned laity have seen firsthand the devastating consequences of institutional failure. Their anger at the Church’s hypocrisy is righteous, and their calls for justice are urgent. Yet there is also a risk in framing the Church’s failings in purely moralistic terms, as if the removal of corrupt leaders or the implementation of perfect policies will restore its holiness. Our approaches, unintentionally, replicate the Donatist impulse, seeking purity through exclusion rather than transformation.

Complicating this dynamic further is Western culture’s dominant concept of justice, which often equates it with punishment. In safeguarding, this can translate in different ways to a focus on identifying perpetrators, removing them from positions of power, and preventing future harm. While these steps, again, are crucial, they do not address the underlying systems and cultures that have allowed abuse to occur in the first place. They have also repeatedly left survivors still feeling unheard and unsupported, as justice becomes procedural rather than relational.

Guide Nyachuru, one of John Smyth’s victims

Augustine’s understanding of evil offers a counter-narrative. For him, evil is not a force in itself but the distortion or absence of the good. This means that evil cannot be discussed as some thing that can be dealt with directly. Addressing it can only involve restoring what has been lost or broken. In the context of safeguarding, this suggests that justice must go beyond punishment to include processes of healing, reconciliation, and the reordering of, what Augustine called, ‘disordered loves’. For Augustine, Church unity was not an excuse to overlook sin but the context in which sin is confronted and transformed. The Church must resist the cultural tendency to scapegoat individuals, recognizing that abuse distorts and disintegrates relationships throughout the society/community in which it occurs. True reform, therefore, only comes through a shared commitment to repentance, healing, and renewal; a process that will be slow, painful, and profoundly relational.

This is a different way of addressing the safeguarding crisis in the Church of England. Rather than seeking justice through punishment and purity through exclusion, Augustine prescribed an intentional mending of the specific trust and relationships that have been broken. He engaged the Donatists with intellectual rigor and pastoral sensitivity, hearing their pain and acknowledging the validity of their concerns while prophetically reminding all of the vision of the Church as a community of forgiveness and reconciliation. Similarly, the Church today must create spaces where survivors, clergy, and laity can engage in honest dialogue without fear of defensiveness or retribution, working together towards our shared hope. Independent safeguarding oversight bodies are essential, but they must be integrated with theological reflection to ensure that accountability is paired with grace.

The safeguarding crisis reveals a distortion of priorities, where the Church has too often valued reputation over truth, and institutional preservation over the care of the vulnerable. A commitment to reordering these loves must begin with a cultural shift—embedding safeguarding as a theological and missional imperative rather than a bureaucratic necessity.

The safeguarding crisis confronts the Church of England with its deepest failures, but it also grants us a great opportunity: to embody a justice that is neither transactional nor retributive, but profoundly relational and redemptive. This is not an easy path. It requires the Church to walk the way of the cross, acknowledging its sin, bearing the weight of its failures, and trusting in the redemptive power of Christ. But it is the only path that leads to true justice—a justice that heals wounds, restores relationships, and reflects the love of God in a world desperately in need of hope.

Into Culture: Improvisational Leadership

This month I have been blessed to perform twice in York; once with my wonderful long-form improvisation comedy troupe, Fool(ish), and the other as a regular at the monthly Right Here Right Now at Friargate Theatre. In preparation for the Fool(ish) show Not Gonna Lie at York Theatre Royal we had an intensive run of weekly rehearsals which meant I had to drive across to York from my home in Bradford. These creative outlets/escapes from everyday life and ministry are an absolute lifeline to my wellbeing and I love the community that exists with my fellow performers.

I have also been reading Tony Blair’s new book, On Leadership, and I have found myself drawn to his concept of a leader’s ‘hinterland’. Blair suggests that behind every great leader is a rich personal depth, a hinterland filled with passions, interests, and creative pursuits that feed their inner life. It’s a reminder that leadership isn’t just about what you do on the public stage; it’s about who you are behind the scenes, the broader life you cultivate outside the demands of your role. This interaction between the public performance and the private ‘rehearsal’ space has meant I have been reinvestigating my own leadership and drawing learning from my knowledge and experience of improvisation.

Improvisation, at its core, revolves around trust and generosity. On stage, without a script, the story is built through the free and generous exchange of offers—gifts between performers. This demands immense trust in your fellow actors to receive and build on what you offer, rather than rejecting or blocking it. In improvisation, accepting offers leads to a process of reimagination, where the unexpected becomes an opportunity to explore new narratives and ideas. Therefore, before going public on stage, groups must build that trust between performers. Without this the performances are stale and hard work. If you manage to build it, however, you experience the magic of co-creating ideas from nothing. In leadership, this same principle applies.

Generosity, in both performance and leadership, is about giving space to others; to let them contribute, fail, and grow. In Fool(ish) Improvisation, we practice a collaborative approach, not just in shows but also in how we run the company. Decisions about publicity, communication, and rehearsals are shared responsibilities. Although Paul Birch and I started Fool(ish), everyone’s contributions are equally valued, and we rely on each other to bring their best. Paul and I always hoped to build this culture of sacrificial generosity. We’re so glad to experience it and we know it is not easily built nor easily maintained, but it’s the heart of what we do.

At Bradford Cathedral, we are navigating a period of uncertainty and change, where trust can feel fragile. Financial pressures and organisational transitions have left people understandably cautious. In this context, rather than leaning into this improvisational spirit, embracing the unknown and trusting the process, I have found myself trying to control the narrative, inadvertently stifling the creativity and contributions of those around me. This instinct stems from a desire to ensure that everything runs smoothly, but it undermines the very principles of generosity and collaboration that I value. In my attempt to make a good public performance I have neglected the essential rehearsal process.

This has become a learning point for me. Blair’s hinterland concept challenges me to reconnect with my deeper self and rediscover my improvisational and ‘kenotic’ leadership style: one that embodies generosity and humility. Kenosis, the theological concept of self-emptying, invites me, as a leader, to prioritise the needs and voices of others, allowing space for their contributions to flourish. In the same way that kenosis calls for a letting go of one’s own control, improvisation requires a performer to relinquish their need to dictate the outcome. Instead, the focus shifts toward co-creating a shared experience, trusting others to contribute, fail, and grow.

In improvisation, the most powerful moments come when you step back, allowing others to take the spotlight, and trust that their offers will move the scene forward. This self-emptying, this kenotic release, is not passive but actively generous, making space for the unknown to emerge. In leadership, the same principle applies: a kenotic leader, much like an improviser, seeks not to dominate but to empower others. This mindset of releasing control, whether on stage or in community, fosters an environment where collective creativity can thrive.

In both improvisation and leadership, kenosis demands vulnerability. By prioritising the success of others over your own needs, you create the conditions for something greater to emerge, whether it’s a compelling improvisational scene or a thriving community. The leader, like the improviser, is called to a posture of generosity, making space for the voices around them to shape the collective narrative.

A hinterland is not just about reminding the leader that there is a life outside of their role; it also ensures they remain rooted in trusting relationships with people who interact with them out of role. A leader with these important, grounding, personal communities draws from their own reserves, giving to others who are hesitant the trust they have experienced in their hinterland. This requires patience and courage. It is not just about expecting people to meet us halfway; it’s about leading from a place of abundance. When we cultivate our own personal depth—our hinterland—through passions, creativity, and reflective practice, we can give without expecting immediate reciprocity.

In both theatre and ministry, trust and generosity are foundational to building a strong community. Theologically, these concepts are grounded in grace—leading with an open heart, offering yourself and your leadership freely without demanding anything in return. Christ’s leadership, rooted in self-giving love, provides a profound model for leading through times of uncertainty. Even when his disciples doubted and faltered, Christ trusted them, allowing space for them to grow.

However, in today’s political landscape, we are witnessing an increase of polarisation and a pervasive sense of mistrust and, just as individuals in the political sphere feel disillusioned, the same sense of disenchantment can emerge when trust is fragile within our own circles. The erosion of trust, whether in politics or community leadership, undermines the foundations of collaboration and shared purpose.

In improvisation, when trust breaks down, we return to the principles of generosity and collaboration to rebuild the creative process. This same return to first principles is essential in leadership, whether navigating smaller communities or a broader social context. When political discourse becomes transactional rather than relational, and when leadership focuses on control rather than trust, we risk losing the very bonds that hold communities together. In this sense, improvisational practices offer a model for rebuilding societal cohesion: just as a scene is co-created through shared trust on stage, so too must we foster collaboration and openness in leadership, both in our communities and beyond.

The creative space of theatre, like the one I find in Fool(ish) and Right Here Right Now, offers a counter-narrative to this political disillusionment. In our life together both the private rehearsals and the public performances, we seek to model a different way of being together; where ideas are shared generously, where vulnerability is celebrated, and where each person’s contribution is lovingly handled and grown. This stands in stark contrast to the often adversarial nature of contemporary political and social dialogue. By embodying these principles of trust and generosity, we not only enhance our performances but also create a microcosm of what is possible in the wider world.

An improvisational approach to leadership at Bradford Cathedral could significantly influence our communal life and contribute positively to our broader social context. By fostering an environment where creativity thrives and every voice, generously offered, is heard within a trusting community, we could encourage collaboration within our community. This will help us navigate the uncertainties we face, inviting others to take part in co-creating solutions rather than merely following directives.

This spirit of reimagination underpins a new series of events, Re:Imagine, at Bradford Cathedral. These events are designed to ignite our collective imagination and envision a different future for our community, drawing on the rich entrepreneurial spirit that has shaped our beautiful city. Each event will be unique, but they will share a commitment to fostering creativity, innovation, and collaboration—principles deeply rooted in the practices of improvisation.

By intentionally integrating improvisational principles into Re:Imagine, we aim to create a collaborative atmosphere where participants feel empowered to share their ideas freely, knowing that their contributions will be valued. Just as in improvisation, where every performer’s input shapes the narrative, these events will prioritize the process of co-creation, encouraging attendees to build upon one another’s contributions without the fear of rejection. Each session will begin with open-ended prompts that invite participants to explore topics from multiple perspectives, mirroring the improvisational practice of “yes, and…” a technique that fosters a culture of acceptance and expansion. In this way, we hope to cultivate an environment where trust can flourish, allowing diverse voices to be heard and new ideas to emerge organically. I have been experimenting with this improvisational approach since starting at the cathedral. You can read about it here and, in more explicitly ways in my published article, “Improvisation As Intercultural Practice“

I’ve come to realise that the principles of trust, generosity, and collaboration are essential practices for me and can transform communities and society in general. Reflecting on my experiences in both improvisation and ministry, I recognise the importance of my hinterland, not just how it helps me to lead effectively but also how it roots me in a community that nurtures creativity and trust. I’m learning again to lean into my hinterland: a place of curiosity, joy and silliness where my people, foolish people, ground me, trust me and are abundantly generous to me. My visits to this place remind me of the person and leader I want to be. I hope to be a patient, trusting, and generous leader, believing that together, my community can co-create, out of nothing, something greater than any one of us could achieve alone. I want to encourage my colleagues to join me in cultivating an environment where every voice is heard and valued, where we can co-create a future filled with possibility. Though we face uncertainties, I am hopeful that by embracing an improvisational approach to leadership, we can navigate these challenges together and create a vibrant, trusting community. Ultimately, my commitment to embodying trust and generosity is not just about my role as a leader; it is about fostering a culture where creativity can flourish, and where together, we can craft narratives that reflect the richness of our shared experiences.

Into Culture: Tortured Artists

I preached this month on the poetic (you can listen to it here) particularly in the wisdom literature of the Old Testament. I explored how true poetry paradoxically brings clarity in articulating the inexpressible aspects of human experience whilst maintaining a sense of transcendent mystery. Great poetry, I said, should both reveal and veil the truth, allowing us to encounter the ineffable without confining it to rigid concepts. This same artful balance between disclosure and concealment struck me while watching My Week With Marilyn, a film set during a brief week in 1956 when Marilyn Monroe, struggling with fame and personal insecurities, forms an unexpected bond with Colin Clark, a young production assistant.

The film dances between exposing Monroe’s fragility and reinforcing the myth of the ‘tortured artist’, a trope that culture has long glorified. As I watched, I found myself asking whether Monroe’s art was, in essence, poetic: what truths were being uncovered in her performances and what mystery was being hidden?

In My Week With Marilyn, Monroe’s genius is portrayed as inextricably linked to the public knowledge of her suffering. Her brilliance seems to emerge through the cracks of her fragile ‘self’, reinforcing a narrative that talent is fuelled by the revelation of an image of personal pain. But this narrative left me uneasy. While the ‘tortured artist’ is a seductive concept, it reduces creativity to suffering and risks limiting the person behind the art. Does this myth truly capture the nature of artistic expression, or does it lock it into a narrow, harmful vision?

As an artist, I have wrestled with this myth. For a long time, I was trapped feeling that the disclosure of suffering was the key to accessing a depth in my poetry, particularly when I was publicly grieving the loss of my wife, Sarah. During that time, I became prolific in my writing, effortlessly tapping into deep wells of emotion. I was lauded for this and revelled in the encouragements. Yet, over time, I found this approach to be spiritually and emotionally draining. It left me clinging to pain as if it were essential to my identity as a poet. Watching Monroe’s portrayal in the film stirred these familiar questions in me: Is it possible to create from a place of healing rather than from our wounds? Can art come from scars rather than pain?

Our culture increasingly places value on victimhood, particularly in the arts. Suffering is often seen as a marker of authenticity, elevating those who endure hardship in to the realms of ‘great’. But it’s important to distinguish between acknowledging pain as part of the human experience and glorifying it as the sole requirement for the poetic/creative art. This is evident in My Week With Marilyn, where Monroe’s performances in the film, particularly in her famous scene from The Prince and the Showgirl, reveals a vulnerability that made her beloved by audiences, but we are left wondering: was this vulnerability merely a product of her personal pain, or a conscious artistic choice by Monroe herself or those around her? The film leaves little room for imagining how her creativity might have evolved to also express a path to healing and hope.

Vincent van Gogh is also remembered as a ‘tortured artist,’ with his mental anguish frequently tied to the interpretation of his art. However, to reduce his work to a mere expression of suffering overlooks the deep sense of hope, beauty, and reverence for life that pervades much of his art. Despite his personal struggles, van Gogh’s paintings are consistently filled with vibrant colours and an emotional intensity that conveys awe and wonder at the world around him. His works reflect not just pain, but a profound yearning for connection, and spiritual solace. In this sense, van Gogh’s art is a testament to the possibility of creating from a place that acknowledges suffering but ultimately strives toward hope and transcendence.

This is where the balance between revealing and veiling, so important in poetry, is lost in the My Week With Marilyn. By revealing and overly-relying on Monroe’s private pain, we cut off the opportunity keep the essential mystery that evokes real beauty. Her story, like many others in popular culture, is framed within the ‘tortured artist’ myth, which insists that true beauty comes solely from brokenness. Although I do not deny the truth of this, I question the notion that beauty must remain rooted in suffering. True beauty may emerge from wounds but what truly inspires is the journey through them. What if, rather than fixating on Monroe’s pain, we asked a different question: What would healing have looked like for Monroe?

This led me to a broader reflection on how our culture glorifies suffering. It’s as if we believe pain is a prerequisite for greatness, that only through brokenness can we create something meaningful. But this is a distorted view of both creativity and the human experience. In my opinion, we are not called to remain in our brokenness, but to move through it, to heal, and to create from a place of wholeness.

My faith in Christ has profoundly shaped my understanding of art and life. In the Christian narrative, suffering is not the final word. While pain is a part of life, it is not where we are meant to dwell. The cross, with all its agony, leads to resurrection—a powerful symbol of healing and renewal. Jesus bears the scars of His crucifixion, but those scars are signs of victory, not defeat. They represent a suffering overcome, not a suffering glorified.

This distinction between wounds and scars is crucial. Wounds are raw, unresolved, and ongoing sources of pain, while scars are healed wounds; marks of what we’ve endured, but should not define us. In Christ, we are invited to move beyond our wounds and embrace healing. Our scars tell a story, not of victimhood, but of redemption. This overturns the ‘tortured artist’s’ power by reversing what is revealed: wounds glory in the exposing of pain, scars promote the healing whilst hinting but, ultimately, obscuring the pain.

In my own journey, I’ve come to realise that my creativity doesn’t need to be fuelled by pain. When I stopped creating out of my wounds and began to create from my scars, I found a deeper, more authentic voice. Creating from scars, rather than wounds, means drawing from a place of resilience rather than raw pain. It’s art that acknowledges the past but doesn’t dwell in it. This kind of art not only reflects suffering but also points to the possibility of renewal, offering hope to both the artist and the audience.

Our culture, especially in the arts, needs to move beyond its fixation on victimhood. We don’t need more tortured artists; we need more healed ones. Maya Angelou, for example, whose early life was marked by trauma and hardship, also found creative strength not by remaining in her pain, but by moving through it. Her poetry and memoirs often reflect a journey of healing, culminating in a powerful message of resilience and hope. Angelou’s art, like the scars she carried, does not dwell in victimhood, but instead points towards transformation. The world is crying out for this kind of art that taps into the healing that only Christ can offer; healing that turns wounds into scars, pain into redemption, and suffering into hope. In this healing, we are not diminished but set free. Our creativity flourishes, not because we are broken, but because we have been made whole.

In the end, My Week With Marilyn is a an incomplete reflection of the truth. It reveals much about the pressures of fame and the cost of genius, but there seemed to be little behind the veil that inspires the imagination towards the possibility of healing and transformation. As artists and as people, we are not called to live in our wounds. For something to be truly poetic and beautiful it must reflect not just the pain of the human experience, but, more importantly, the profound hope that lies beyond it.

Ultimately, the myth of the ‘tortured artist’ oversimplifies the complexity of true creativity by presenting a narrow narrative that equates suffering with authenticity. This perspective neglects the profound potential for redemption and healing that lies beneath the surface of all great artistic expression. In doing so, it fails to acknowledge the rich, veiled dimensions of the human experience—those depths that can inspire awe and beauty. True artistry emerges not from the confines of pain but from the journey of transformation, where the scars of our past become symbols of resilience and hope. It is in this delicate balance between the revealed and the veiled that we find the most profound expressions of beauty, inviting us to recognise that healing and redemption are integral to the creative process, not merely the backdrop against which it unfolds.

Into Culture: Tale of Two Cities

In my reading at the moment, I am currently inhabiting two vastly different worlds: one, the dark, Gothic corridors of ‘The Hunchback of Notre Dame’ by Victor Hugo, and the other, the contemplative and theological depths of ‘The City of God’ by St Augustine of Hippo. At first glance, these two texts seem to come from different places; one a romantic novel from 19th-century France, the other a theological treatise from 5th-century Rome. Yet, as I delve into the opening chapters of both works, I am struck by a common thread: the place of the arts in society and how they are used by seemingly competing visions of our world.

I have also been thinking again this month about the architectural design of Bradford Cathedral and how, I have been told, Edward Maufe, the architect who designed our East end, wanted to articulate a coming together of the mundane and the sacred. The West end was to be experienced and understood as a convening space for the whole of Bradford society. The East end would be the focus of sacred worship. Whether that is true or not I don’t know but there is a strong architectural difference between these two spaces in our Cathedral. 

The interplay between these two spaces is characterised by St Augustine as two cohabitating ‘cities’; the City of God symbolising the divine, eternal order and the City of the World symbolising human civilisation with all its flaws. I want to examine briefly the more nuanced interaction between these two ‘cities’ to see if there is something fruitful to be found for us at Bradford Cathedral to offer our city as we head into 2025, where Bradford will be UK City of Culture, as well as other Cathedrals as they wrestle with the stewardship of their own sacred/secular space.

Hugo begins his story, not with the titular hunchback, Quasimodo, but with a scene set in Paris’s grand cathedral, Notre Dame (arguably a major character in the book) during the Festival of Fools. In these opening pages, we are introduced to the clash between the religious order represented by the cathedral and the chaotic, almost carnivalesque atmosphere of the festival outside. Here, art is both sacred and profane, elevated and debased, reflecting the dual nature of humanity itself. 

Similarly, Augustine, in the opening books of ‘The City of God’, discusses the dichotomy of the two cities: the City of God and the City of the World. For Augustine, the City of the World is marked by its temporal, fleeting nature and its inclination towards sin and self-glorification. Yet, even within this human city, Augustine acknowledges the presence of art, culture, and human achievements, which, though marred by sin, still bear the potential to reflect divine truth. In the early chapters, he argues that the polytheistic worship and rituals of the Graeco-Roman world which heavily influenced and controlled the public performances and artistic artefacts is more to be blamed for the fall of that civilisation than the acceptance of Christianity into their cultural milieu.

Bradford Cathedral aspires to be a beacon of spiritual and artistic expression amidst the bustling life of our city. Its walls, filled with history, uniquely tell the story of the whole community and its faiths. Just as Hugo uses Notre Dame to symbolise the connection between the sacred and the secular, Bradford Cathedral serves as a constant reminder of the spiritual heritage and the rich cultural tapestry that defines the city of Bradford. It is a space where the divine meets the everyday, and where art, I aim to show, can serve as a bridge between the two. 

In reflecting on these two great works, it becomes clear that the arts have always occupied this central place in human society. They are a means through which we explore our relationship with the world around us, with each other, and with the divine. Whether in the grand architecture of a cathedral, the lively performance of a play, or the quiet contemplation of a painting, the arts offer us a glimpse into the deeper truths of existence.

Hugo and Augustine remind us that the arts are both a gift and a responsibility. They have the power to inspire and uplift, but also to distract and lead astray. As we engage with the arts, whether as creators or as audience members, we must do so with a sense of discernment and purpose. We must strive to see beyond the surface, to seek the truth that lies beneath, and to recognise the metaphysical fingerprints, whether good or bad, in the works of human hands.

In a world that often seems consumed by the immediate and the material, the arts call us to remember the eternal, to lift our eyes towards the heavens even as we walk the streets of our earthly city. They remind us that we are more than the sum of our parts, that we are creatures of both body and soul, and that in every brushstroke, every note, and every word, there is the potential to glimpse the divine.

The opening chapters of ‘The Hunchback of Notre Dame’ introduce us to Pierre Gringoire, a struggling playwright whose dramatic piece is set to be performed during the Festival of Fools. Gringoire embodies the romantic ideal of the artist: impoverished, passionate, and slightly out of touch with the mundane concerns of everyday life. His work, a Mystery play titled ‘The Good Judgment of Madame the Virgin Mary’, is meant to be a serious, thoughtful exploration of divine justice. Yet, it quickly becomes evident that Gringoire’s high-minded artistic vision is out of sync with the boisterous, irreverent mood of the crowd.

The Flemish visitor, Jacques Coppenole, crystallises this disconnect when he dismisses Gringoire’s Mystery as a waste of time, preferring the spontaneous entertainment of the festival over the playwright’s carefully crafted narrative. Coppenole’s comment is not just a critique of Gringoire’s play but a broader statement on the role of art in society. To Coppenole, the art that matters is the art that entertains, that is immediate and accessible. Gringoire’s highbrow ambitions are lost on a crowd that craves spectacle, not contemplation.

Hugo uses Gringoire’s predicament to illustrate the fragile place of the artist in society. Gringoire’s struggle to have his work appreciated reflects a larger struggle between different conceptions of art: art as a serious, almost sacred endeavour, and art as entertainment, something that should delight and distract. Hugo’s portrayal of Gringoire is sympathetic but tinged with irony; the artist is seen as a tragic figure, striving for an ideal that the world, in its indifference or ignorance, fails to recognise.

Augustine, too, is concerned with the role of art, but his focus is on the potential of art to lead people away from God. He acknowledges the beauty of the arts but warns against their capacity to distract and mislead. For Augustine, the highest purpose of art is to direct the soul towards the divine, not to entertain or merely please the senses. In this light, Gringoire’s predicament can be seen as emblematic of a deeper tension: the artist’s desire to convey truth and meaning versus the public’s desire for amusement.

I find myself caught in this tension. I, obviously, tend towards the Gringoire/Augustinian direction but we at Bradford Cathedral must constantly navigate the balance between art as sacred and art as entertainment. I return, again and again, to my reflections on the Empty Space and how we might make meaningful and prophetic contributions to the cultural narrative of our city whilst having to ensure such endeavours provide us with, understandably necessary, financial return. Like Gringoire, I must remember that there is no measurable point in expending time and money in creating a statement if no one is going to hear it or it leads to the closure of the means to share it.

Gringoire’s failure to connect with his audience is not just a personal failure but a reflection of society’s failure to appreciate the deeper value of art. The public’s preference for the rowdy, unrestrained entertainment of the Festival of Fools over Gringoire’s thoughtful play mirrors the City of the World’s inclination towards the immediate and the material. It is a reminder of how easily society can overlook the things of true, lasting value in favour of the fleeting pleasures of the moment.

Both Hugo and Augustine recognise the profound impact that artists have on society. For Hugo, the artist is a visionary, someone who can see beyond the mundane realities of daily life and capture the essence of what it means to be human. The artist is both a creator and a communicator, someone who bridges the gap between the sacred and the secular, the eternal and the temporal. Through their work, artists invite us to see the world anew, to recognise the beauty in the ordinary and the extraordinary in the everyday.

Augustine, while perhaps more circumspect, also acknowledges the power of the artist. He understands that artists have the ability to shape the minds and hearts of their audience, to lead them towards truth or away from it. Augustine calls for artists to use their gifts wisely, to create works that not only delight the senses but also elevate the soul. For Augustine, the ultimate purpose of art is not self-expression or entertainment, but the glorification of God.

In the end, both Hugo and Augustine challenge us to consider not just the place of the arts in society, but the place of society in the grand, divine tapestry of creation. Gringoire’s plight is a poignant reminder of the fragile position of the artist, caught between the demands of the world and the pursuit of a higher ideal. His failure is not just his own but a reflection of a society that has lost its way, that has forgotten the true purpose of art. Yet, even in this failure, there is hope. For as long as there are artists like Gringoire, striving to build, create, and imagine, we can participate in the ongoing story of the world, a story that began long before us and will continue long after we are gone. In this, the arts are not just a reflection of society—they are a bridge between heaven and earth, a testament to the enduring and transcendent nature of the human spirit…

… how can we translate that value to also be financial? Answers on a postcard and sent to Bradford Cathedral, please!

Into Culture: No Bad Parts

I remember reading ‘Falling Upwards’ by Richard Rohr many yers ago after recommendations by a few people. I read it with high expectations. I was not only disappointed by the end but unusually suspicious by its general thesis. There was lots in it that resonated and some ideas that, despite some sense of dubiousness, I wished, maybe even hoped, were true. In the end, however, I was not convinced. It lacked, to my mind, evidence to back up conclusions that overstepped the capability of the writer or the field in which it was written. It attempted, unsuccessfully, to provide a holistic narrative that would lead to perfect healing and utopia. It was a helpful story but one that remained unsubstantiated.

What made my response to the book more unsettling was that my negative response was, as suggested by the thesis itself, precisely the thing about me that needed the most healing. In other words, the fact that I questioned the premise of the book showed that the premise was right. When I found myself in this particular thought loop I became aware of the almost cult like thought pattern/methodology. Intrinsic to the thesis was the inner-rationale against any criticism or questions.

This month I read ‘No Bad Parts’ by Richard Schwartz. I finished the book with some of the same feelings I had to ‘Falling Upwards’. Both books, I feel, indulge within the popular therapeutic deism of our age and culture. Along with this is a subtle form of cultural arrogance that often accompanies progressive, post-Enlightenment ideas, particularly in the field of pschology and other metaphysical subjects. I want to briefly use the perspectives of St Augustine and the wider Augustinian theological tradition to critique IFS, particularly on the nature of the self, sin, and the path to spiritual wholeness.

‘No Bad Parts’ acts as an introduction to the concept of Internal Family Systems (IFS) therapy, which posits that our self is made up of innumerable parts who can act in ways that harm us and others. IFS suggests that these parts should be shown love and be embraced rather than rejected. Schwartz’s central argument is that our healing and wholeness comes from understanding and integrating all aspects of the self, even those that seem negative or harmful. Like Rohr’s book, I am on board with this basic paradigm and can see lots of potential. I believe most of what Schwartz’s proposes to be beneficial and can see many connections with other reading that I am doing on unity within Trinitarian theology. There are, however, some places where, I think, he overstates his case and fails to back up anecdotal and experiential claims. The ease with which these aspects of his work are slipped in and established as ‘key’ makes me wary. It’s like a salesman who offers you a solution to your problem and, just as you sign up to the programme, slips in, “And, of course, we’ll need to amputate your legs but you’ll hardly notice they’re gone.”

But even as I characterise Schwartz’s work in this negative way, I notice that this response is explicitly named as proof that the system works. This is, in the schema of IFS, a protector ‘part’ trying to hinder the unburdening of an exile and thus obstructing healing. Despite there not being any ‘bad parts’ there seems to me ‘misguided behaviours of parts’.

Your inner world is real. Parts are not imaginary products or symbols of your psyche; nor are they simply metaphors of deeper meaning. They are inner beings who exist in inner families or societies…

Richard Schwartz, No Bad Parts: Haling Trauma and Restoring Wholeness (London: Vermilion, 2021) p.209

This claim is made with only, albeit supposedly significant, anecdotal evidence rather than empirical evidence. This, interestingly, is named by Schwartz in the final page as the kind of controlling thought that an ‘inner critic’ uses to protect an exile and not allow Self to lead.

I’ve found and worked with several parts of myself – the one who uses my father’s voice to hector me about how unscientific all this is…and the one who still doubts the reality of the inner world, despite decades of evidence.

Schwartz, No Bad Parts, p.214

Again, I am not here to attempt to discredit the benefits and efficacy of this therapeutic approach but there is a lot resting on a metaphysical framework that is seems enticing and exciting and yet lacks any rational attempt at setting out its reality. There is ample use of scientific concepts and words that echo the overriding image that is the basis of IFS but it still lacks direct neurological and psychological grounding. Much is left to trust in Schwartz’s interpretation of his experience with clients working on this approach.

Even his worthy efforts to synchronise his theories with spirituality follow the same trajectory: it all sounds good, plausible and full of potential and then it takes an ominous turn for me (or a part of me) and I’m left uncertain about where it went wrong. Schwartz clearly tries to engage with Christianity but mostly the contemplative tradition and fails to address any of the long theological tradition. Much more is made of Buddhist spirituality which is understandable as this tradition is, essentially, atheistic/agnostic to a particular deity or god and, therefore, lacks any theological coherent narrative. Schwartz repeatedly names the possibility of a god that he refers to as SELF (distinct form the Self of the human person) but this is not an essential element to the healing process.

What IFS lacks, in my opinion, is an explicit, systematic theological and moral framework within which it operates. Without this, the whole process, well meaning and desirable as it is, becomes open to charges of moral ambiguity and inner confusion. IFS relies upon a lot of preconditional moral beliefs that are not explicitly acknowledged or are left unjudged by client and therapist. By using words such as ‘good’ and ‘bad’ and identifying parts that are acting in particular ways and judging them in need of healing all requires a framework that is lacking. There is a risk, therefore, that without a therapist who leads your interactions with the parts you can become stagnated in the process and behaviours are rationalised rather than resolved.

St. Augustine also believed in the intrinsic goodness of creation, including the human self, as everything created by God is fundamentally good. However, he also emphasized the presence of sin and the flawed nature of humanity due to original sin. Augustine and the later tradition that was inspired by his theological writing, talked about sin as a ‘disintegration’ of God’s good creation. They talked about the effects of sin as being a ‘disharmony’ and the role of spiritual renewal as a re-integration, re-harmonising, re-uniting. While Schwartz sees all parts of the self as valuable and in need of integration it stops short of true inner unity, or oneness, due to Schwartz explicit lack of mono-mind thinking. We are to remain internally multiple but constantly striving towards peaceful cohabitation. Augustine on the other hand promotes the idea that we are singular in our identity and that integrity is a form of unity, devoutly to be wished.

For Augustine, sin is also a deviation from God’s will, and the path to redemption/healing involves confession, repentance, and the grace of God. He believed that true healing comes from aligning oneself with God’s will and seeking His forgiveness. Schwartz’s approach focuses on internal psychological processes without necessarily invoking the need for divine intervention. IFS suggests that self-acceptance alone is sufficient for healing. Augustine, however, would argue that without divine intervention, our efforts remain incomplete. It is through God’s grace that our wounds are healed, and our true selves are restored.

Hugh of St. Victor was a medieval theologian whose work on spiritual formation expanded Augustine’s concept of ‘disintegration’ of the self. He suggested that sin divides the inner and outer world into conflicting parts. The work of reformation is, literally a re-formation of that which is disintegrated. There are clear resonances with the experience of Schwartz and his clients. Hugh goes on to emphasise the importance of contemplation to further understand one’s self but, diverging from Schwartz, he specifically calls us to look for the Divine Form as the goal of our own unity. He argues that the ultimate goal of understanding the self should be to better know and serve God. IFS, in contrast, risks fostering a form of self-centeredness if not given a more robust teleological/eschatological goal or model.

The interest in the work of Schwartz, Rohr, Jordan Peterson and many others shows an appetite for the metaphysical elements of our culture. The purely materialistic philosophies which have held power over the West for a century or more is beginning to crumble and become dissatisfying. There is an increasing desire to ‘re-enchant’ our world. The study or understanding of metaphysics, however, has been so long abandoned that in its rediscovery we remain relatively naive in our grasp and use of it.

If you listen to the language and tone of cultural discourse in recent years you will notice how much of the discussions slip easily into the metaphysical realm. Words of wisdom just need to sound nice without any deeper coherence put upon them. This where populism has grown from; the inability to critique metaphysical ideas and analyse them sufficiently. Take the US election as an immediate example. Gone are the policies and economic decisions that are needing to be made. Now the electorate are being placed within a cosmic, apocalyptic battleground. This has more of the Hollywood blockbuster than serious discussions as to the legalistic programme needed to maintain society. The debate has been firmly planted in the realm of morality but without establishing the foundations and rules as to how to navigate such a world. This use of metaphysics lacks the traditional rigour and protection from pure fantasy and speculation.

The danger, of course, is that we mistake metaphysics with fiction and we enter the metaphysical realm and lose any connection or relationship with the physical world. Metaphysics is only useful if it informs and strengthens our understanding of the physical world and we can only really harness the true power of the metaphysical if it also is shaped and understood through the physical world. The divorcing of these two realms leads to disconnection and confusion. My theological forebears, such as St Augustine and Hugh of St Victor understood the need for the careful rigour of ensuring that what is experienced is understood through reason and logic.

Our culture has lost that rigour. As we reopen the metaphysical box and find enchanting things within we’re in danger of going too far wishing things into existence and place our hope in things which are not real, true or beneficial. As we dabble in these non-materialistic elements of our experience and go in search of the long lost moral framework that brought stability to our life together, we need to re-learn how to handle such things and to measure them and test them for truth. If we fail to take that task seriously we will find ourselves lost and trapped in an inner world, separated from reality, further disappointed and disillusioned.

I want to finish by raising a growing concern I have on the sheer number of people who are caught in conspiracy theories. Indeed this way of thinking is so insidious that I regular find myself uncertain as to what I think I know is real or fiction. The media has no interest in promoting the important, nuanced work of teaching metaphysics to their readership. The act of persuasion now lacks the basic framework of philosophical debate involving logic and reason. Instead of discussion and discovery of truth we have linguistic and rhetorical trickery that baffle and confuse. We do not encourage each other to judge/discern the difference between right and wrong, true and false. In our post-modern, subjective culture if you can imagine it, it is real. As I say, this is the soil in which populist, extremist ideologies grow and flourish. It is in this morally ambiguous, untestable environment that the vulnerable, the busy and the fearful are abused and led into their own intellectual prisons which we call ‘cults’.

This week alone I have had five conversations with visitors in the Cathedral all of which have quickly entered into metaphysical discussions where my conversation partner has tried to persuade me of a reality which is unmeasurable and unprovable. There is a growth in this form of gnostic knowledge; you either know or you don’t. I have remained unpersuaded and when I pose alternative interpretation of events they have looked at me with pity as if I lack the gift to see. On two occasions I have felt confident enough to name the illogical aspect of their argument and have encouraged them to be more precise in their disputation to persuade me. This has caused them to become more agitated and aggressive and, on one occasion, I have been blamed for the change in the tone of our conversation. Ironically, of these five conversations, in three of them it has been insinuated that I am ‘far right’ and in the other two I have been called ‘woke’. I guess that shows I am in the middle!

What I am seeking to highlight is that this unfamiliarity with the discipline of metaphysics has opened us up to a cultural destructive emphasis on vacuous rhetoric and misuse of imagination. Schwartz’s work in IFS is, I believe, a genuine, benevolent attempt at bringing peace and healing to people specifically to the kind of people I encounter visiting the Cathedral. There are elements of this therapeutic approach that I think have merit and could prove to be healthy and real. At this stage, however, the manner in which it is written about by Schwartz feels too speculative and confusing. The lack of foundational proof of the reality of parts, for example, means that IFS moves, in my mind, to be positive thinking adjacent rather than engaging in rational and reasonable exploration of the complexities of non-material reality.

I for one would rather seek unity in the One who reconciles all things in Himself. That story has been tested over centuries of theological thought. I’ll stick with Augustine for now: thank you.

Into Culture: Patronage

When the Bishop of Bradford asked me back in 2022 to develop a strategy for the faith communities engagement with City of Culture I immediately researched previous examples to learn from them. I found a repeated experience of faith communities in the three previous City of Cultures (UK City of Culture is distinct and different from the European Capital of Culture, although many confuse the two). All the reports had seen faith communities feeling overlooked, disconnected and ‘done to’ for other people’s ends. They had attempted to engage through production and contributing artistic products or cultural artifices to the packed programme. Many committed significant resources to contributing to the programme with unique offerings but, when the year came, their offering was lost in the packed schedule and audiences did not connect with their work as much as they had hoped. This caused understandable disappointment and led to compounding a cynicism about the whole project. 

I was clear, therefore, as we looked ahead to Bradford being the UK City of Culture in 2025, that the faith communities would be clear, from the outset, what a feasible expectation of their involvement should be. I suggested that our strategy should be underpinned by the word ‘patronage’. I proposed we ‘patronise the arts without patronising the artists.’ What I meant by this was that we should seek to become patrons akin to the old medieval system whereby we support and encourage the artists to produce work of great value and to play our appropriate role in its production. In practice this meant: 

  1. to offer our resources to the arts and culture professionals for their use, e.g. space, stories, funding, etc. 
  2. to attend and promote the arts and cultural offers and engage with artists in discussing their work and finding points of connection with them.
  3. to volunteer and encourage others to volunteer to ensure the events go smoothly and more people feel the programme is for them.
  4. and to play our part in (re)shaping the cultural narrative.

The problem with this strategy was that the word ‘patronage’ has negative connotations due to its obvious linguistic links with ‘patriarchy’. Even saying we should ‘patronise’ the arts, although technically correctly, is more commonly associated with condescension. This cultural rejection or negating of the whole ‘patri-‘ cluster of words makes the activities that are best described by them difficult to recommend or enact.

During his recent visit my father-in-law became aware that the word ‘patronus’, from the Harry Potter world, is Latin for ‘protector’. Although I was aware of this etymological root I hadn’t quite connected it with my current pondering on the nature and concept of patronage. 

St George has been the official patron saint of England since Tudor times having been named the patron saint of the Order of the Garter by Edward III. George was of Cappadocian Greek descent, meaning he came from the region now known as Turkey. He, at no point, visited England and it is likely never knew of England. He was a Christian soldier in the Roman army but due to the persecution of Christianity he was martyred around the third century. He is now more famous for a legend that arose about him in the eleventh century. The story goes that George faced a fierce ‘dragon’ that was wreaking havoc in Libya and slaughtered it, thus saving the king’s daughter from being offered as a sacrifice. George’s bravery and rejection of monetary reward inspired the whole city to become Christian.

One can see why this story resonated with Edward III, who, though vastly outnumbered by the large French army still won several victories in battle. It is here, one could argue, that the English preference to the cultural narrative of ‘the underdog’ began. This particular social story echoes through to our time and continues to impact our collective decisions and instinctive responses, particular in times of conflict.

A patron saint historically was believed to be a saint who intercedes on behalf of a particular nation, craft, person, etc. They are elected by said nation, craft, person, etc. and looked to to protect and support their life and work. Although I understand the theological concept of the intercessions of dead saints and the wider concept of ‘the communion of saints’, I am not convinced by the rationale given and so don’t engage in the promotion of the idea in its common usage. I do, however, appreciate the power such personalities can have on particular people and communities. I believe the benefit is not about the spiritual intercession of the saint but the narrative construct that can inspire the living body that elects it as a patron. I happily celebrate patronal feast days and engage in the stories of saints on their particular anniversaries to pray for those that seek to imitate certain noble characteristics or feel particular resonance with them.

An issue has arisen, however, when I understand the patronage of saints in the way outlined and then seek to define the patronage of the Church to the Arts. In trying to square the circle I have also been thinking about Bradford Cathedral’s patronage of several parishes elsewhere in the Diocese. These patronal relationships are common in all parish churches across England. The patron is not the same as the patron saint of which the particular church is named. The patron has a particular role, historically held, to present particular candidates into the role of parish priest. In the 20th century most diocese went about collecting up ‘patronages’ in order for the Diocesan Bishop to have freedom to appoint who they wish to ecclesiastical livings. Some churches remain within specific organisational patronages (CPAS, The Church Society, Simeon’s Trust).

The Dean of Bradford has rightly, in my mind, decided to redevelop the role of the patron beyond just the recruitment process. In our strategy we have specifically named our aspiration to support and resource our patronage churches. This patronage will look different for each of our churches depending on needs. Some of our patronage churches are growing, lively places of faith with enough resources to sustain their important mission and ministry, whilst others are struggling in different ways. The immediate decision, to enact our strategy, was to offer our resource of clergy time to help maintain worship in all of the places by taking Eucharistic services when there is a vacancy. It has also meant that we have engaged with some in offering advice and consultation to assist in their own growth and development. The Dean also meets regularly with incumbents and encourages them personally.

If patronage is primarily about protection but also, in some way, narrative shaping, what might this mean both for the patronage relationship between the Cathedral and other churches and for the Church and the Arts?

Returning to the topic of patron saints, for a moment. Back in 2021, The Rest is History podcast did an episode on St Cuthbert. Tom Holland, historian and co-host of the podcast, was proposing to adopt St Cuthbert as the patron saint of England. He has developed this idea elsewhere and I am favourable to this suggestion due to the form the cult of St George can evolve into. The problem, I would argue, is that the story of St George shapes those who take it for their own collective story in a particular way: value is placed on defeating enemies with physical strength. That particular myth connects with some darker impulses of human beings and explains, for me, the way in which St George’s cross can now be adopted. Who we’ve chosen to ‘represent us’ in the world says something and gives, in my mind, an unhelpful foundation to the story we project outwards. Does St George focus others’ attention on particular characteristics of ‘English’ and not on other repeated behaviours and actions that we may want to be known for?

If St Cuthbert, on the other hand, were to be the patron saint of England how might it resonate with other parts of our national character?

St Cuthbert is described by Bede as ‘a very pleasant and affable man’ often citing his patience and forbearance as major characteristics. He is depicted, primarily, as a teacher, travelling to places ‘which others feared to visit and whose barbarity and squalor daunted other teachers.’ This brings out a different quality to our painful colonial past. I’m not suggesting that it justifies all, or even most, of the horrific, historical actions by our country on others’ but it does offer a little balance, suggesting that some of our explorations and ‘missions’ may have been done for other, more noble intentions. I am also not suggesting that the language used by Bede in the quote above is language that I would use to describe the many English people who have gone to other places and helped alleviate poverty and health crises.

St Cuthbert was also a reluctant public figure. This may be a personal resonance and not something that is shared widely by my fellow citizens but I get the sense that St Cuthbert was a home bird. He liked being in his own place and being called to go elsewhere was a cost to him. Now, it is true that the English are famous for our desire for home ownership. The data shows that we place a higher value on this than other nations. 

The Englishman’s house is his castle.

Last month I mentioned Jeremy Paxman’s book, ‘The English: A Portrait of A People’. In it he explores the English character in its glory and its deep problems. He comes to a summation that I think is an interesting image of what it means to be English, as opposed to British.

Yet, for all claims that the country is ‘finished’, the attitudes of mind that made the English culture what it is – individualism, pragmatism, love of words and, above all, that glorious, fundamental cussedness – are unchanged.

Jeremy Paxman, ‘The English: A Portrait of a People’ (London: Penguin, 1999) p.264

This patronage would frame our sense of ourselves differently from the legend of St George. My impression is that the story of St George no longer resonates enough with us as a people (except during sporting competitions and military conflicts). The use of this dragon-fighting legend to frame and interpret the ‘Blitz spirit’ has been used to justify reckless political endeavours as we pose as miraculous underdogs. One can view the coming together, the forbearance and patience seen during the war through a different qualitative lens if we see it as following the St Cuthbert way. The motivation is different as is the character in which we move forward.

So what of patronage?

The role of a patron, I want to suggest, is to give shape to a person or communities’ cultural narrative. It is to direct them towards that which they want to express to others. To give them a narrative protection and to support them in their exploration and articulation of themselves into the world.

We might want to explore this at Bradford Cathedral as we interact with the churches to which we hold a patronage. This might be that our vision, values and narrative is shared with them. The protection we could offer these churches is in advocacy, particularly those who feel vulnerable to closure by bringing to them our charisms of hospitality, rootedness, interculturality and innovation. We don’t want this patronage relationship to be imposed but want it, like the election of patronal saints, to be desired for the benefit of the patronised (not condescended!)

The Church will need to be more confident in its own story, vision and values if it wants to position itself as a patron of the Arts. Like the relationship between the patronage churches and the Cathedral, ‘the Arts’ has not chosen or elected the Church as their patrons. How might each (potential) patron so inspire their (potential) patronage to look to them to help shape their own articulations of themselves to others? What might the offer of patronage look like in the 21st century where most artists turn to the patronal Arts Council, National Lottery or other trusts who all desire them to fulfil set strategic criteria that fit particular cultural values?