Category Archives: Into Culture

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?

Into Culture: House MD

I continue to return to the question that remained unanswered by the speaker at the Anglican Network of Intercultural Churches,

Can you name a positive attribute of Englishness and a then name a negative attribute of Englishness?

Despite the ease with which, well justified, negative attributes came to his mind on ‘the English’ he could only find himself able to speak about the positive aspects of the establishment of the Church of England (interestingly he quickly undermined that by also listing the vastly more profound negatives!) The English in the room remained silent and there was no follow up. Maybe self-deprecation is the most English of cultural traits! Maybe, to be truly English is to always despise yourself more than anyone else (or at least to present as such) as a form of defence. The challenge comes when you are only left with the self-defeating narrative and it is only you who you are battling with.

As Bradford continues towards City of Culture it is this cynical, defeatist spirit of our age and culture which seems to be the most pressing and most powerful. How will our fortunes change as a city, let alone a nation, if we do not talk about our greatest threat: our own self-loathing? How do we avoid the historical pattern of falling prey to a counter, nationalistic fervour that has famously swept many other nations into the arms of totalitarianism?

As someone who works in the intercultural space, I am particularly aware of the need to be secure in my own cultural biases and lenses in order to engage in those of others. What this means is being able to explore and experience the cultural assumptions of others whilst remaining both objective and yet unthreatened by them. As part of my ongoing development, therefore, I have been exploring what it means, for me, to be ‘English’.

There have been a few books that have proven helpful. The most recent one is ‘England: seven myths that changed a country and how to set them straight’ by Tom Baldwin and Marc Stears. In this book James Graham, a British playwright famous for TV drama, ‘Brexit: The Uncivil War’ and the play ‘Dear England’, articulated the spirit of our age that I fear will rob us of the necessary imagination to reform our nation’s future. 

Living in England for the past decade has felt like we were at the end of the TV series that just wouldn’t get to the end. It was financial austerity and the financial crisis too. Then, through the Scottish referendum through to Brexit – every relentless, exhausting, unprecedented week we were having – it just felt like everyone was pushing the button and the country just would not reset. People would not stop recommissioning this awful drama. People are trying to press the punch button but it’s just not reseting.

James Graham in, Tom Baldwin and Marc Stears, ‘England: Seven Myths That Changed a Country and How to Set Them Straight’ (London: Bloomsbury, 2024) p.233

We have a problem, we all can feel it, but we cannot agree upon the solution. I believe we cannot find the remedy because we have yet to clearly identify or articulate the real diagnosis. We know we’re sick; we just don’t know how or even why. A systematic approach to diagnoses starts with the ‘what’, discerns ‘how’ and discovers ‘why’. Once we’ve identified ‘why’, we can then discern the required treatment. Too often teams want to fix a problem and they waste time trying to treat the symptoms rather than doing the deeper work of discovering and curing the cause. This results in continued remissions and the subsequent time spent on managing the returning symptoms, albeit in slightly different forms.

My conjecture is that we must take each presenting issue or symptom of ‘what’s wrong with this country’ and articulate how it has come to be so. This will require detailed study of the regression towards this state and to work out if this problem has always been the case (it may well have been). Once we have accurate, objective data on how this problem has arisen we can then turn our mind on why it has developed in this way. When there are multiple factors at work in a complex system like that of a whole nation this is harder to do and there is a need to apply practical experiments to navigate through the process of diagnosis. Like the fictional process in the American drama, ‘House’, there may need to be some brutal testing of theories to discover the true cure for the illness.

If we take this diagnosis process as a possible path to the right treatment we have two prior questions before we begin it: ‘who’ and ‘when’? 

Who should be diagnosing? What group should be investigating and what skills/characteristics will be required within that group?

The second question, however, is key. How do we give such a group the necessary time and freedom to explore the differential diagnosis required? How do we gift them the time to research, debate and further interrogate options? In an age of increasing sense of urgency, the ‘relentless, exhausting, unprecedented weeks’ that our media culture now perpetuates for their own needs of ‘click bait’, this time is part of the solution.

When one is in crisis mode the natural tendency is to fight fires and those whose instincts and job it is to do that (managers) become the drivers of decision making. 

We just need to do this before…

The issue “seems obvious” but then the solutions don’t work. This is where Gregory House’s cynical maxim comes in:

Everybody lies.

We tell different types of lies. I know, for example, I lie to myself when I am scared and lonely that I am misunderstood and overlooked. I then fixate on a solution and aggressively pursue it because I am unable to be truthful and vulnerable and admit that I don’t know. We all lie; to cover up our ignorance, indecisiveness and/or intolerance. It takes time and a boundaried space to bring those to the light and allow them to teach us about the deeper factors at play in situations. We, as a nation, have also lied to ourselves.

This is what was explored in Baldwin and Stears’ book about the myths of England. Their conclusion is that England is a complicated, contradictory country (much like Pakistan in Declan Walsh’s summations) and that we must always seek to gather all the information; accurately and thoroughly, being mindful that all information may be faulty in its presentation (“everybody lies”). Time, therefore, is required to interrogate and to do so with precision and focus.

This process is what is lacking in our politics and wider social conversations. This lack of creativity is a symptom, but one that is worth investigating. It leads me to consider what hinders creativity. I began to unpack this in a previous post ‘Into Culture: The Empty Space‘ and I have outlined in much more detail in my BA dissertation ‘The Divine Collective: how modern ensemble theatre practice can help establish creative Christian communities’. Primarily, the issue is common in groups/organisations/nations when they are under pressure; that of, fear and unprocessed grief.

I had wanted to write this month on the notion of patronage (maybe next time!) and about the social narratives/models that are available to shape our corporate identities. The selection of them is not straightforward nor without significant risks but there is a pressing need to find something that will help steer us in a new direction to health and prosperity. 

In order to avoid the threat of totalitarianism, on the political right or left, we must defend ourselves against the temptation to myth making based on distorted histories and lies about ourselves. We must rightly diagnose the underlying causes of our intractable problems and avoid the knee-jerk, simplistic prescriptions that will only cure some of the symptoms whilst the disease goes undetected. In the end this will only lead to managing the pain as we enter into palliative care.

Don’t worry. I won’t leave us on that defeatist note. I started by saying I wanted to counter that! I do think there is an increasing appetite for big conversations. There is a renewal in the social patterns that encourage social cohesion. This increasing hunger for such cohesion bubbles underneath Bradford’s City of Culture conversations. How do we break the ground and allow the fountains of healing release to flow? How do we enable such deep diagnostic debate to occur and to ensure that we find the available cure in time? This is where the arts can, if they are allowed, play their part. Or, at least, that is the kind of art I’m interested in!

Into Culture: Prophetic Imagination II

Last month I reflected on two experiences that highlighted for me the need to engage further in the question of ‘Englishness’ and how we as a country, going through deep self-examination, may be led to a place of redemption and hope. I used the phrase ‘prophetic imagination’. This phrase was coined by Walter Brueggemann and, using Old Testament and other ancient stories, outlines a means by which creative resistance to cultural narratives can lead to liberation and hope of all peoples: oppressed and oppressors.

Over the last two weeks I have found myself preaching on different parts of the Major Prophets (Isaiah and Jeremiah). Some of these passages are, what I might identify as, ‘Zionist texts’. These passages from the great Old Testament prophetic tradition are those that paint a vision of the ingathering of the people of Israel to Zion. With the current reprisal of the long and intractable conflict in the Holy Land these particular passages have taken on a painful and darker tone. They are, however, meant to be visions of hope and of redemption. The majority of Isaiah is a litany of abominations against God’s will and these latter chapters, pivoting in chapter 53, portray the wrongs being righted in God’s gracious economy and an image of God’s reign on Earth being manifested.

The very fact that passages that are meant to inspire hope and open the possibility for change are now seen as passages encouraging oppression and division says something about the spiritual undercurrents at work here. These preaching opportunities have given to me reason, therefore, again to try and inspire a prophetic imagination that currently is dormant in our country; politically, spiritually, and socially.

The first preaching occasion was at a civic service, celebrating the Lord of Mayor’s year in office. The original readings for the evening were Deuteronomy 9:1-21 and Ephesians 4:1-16. My colleague and I didn’t feel as though these would speak to the congregation gathered, many of whom were not Christian and some were from other faiths. We looked at the alternative weekday lectionary and it prescribed Jeremiah 31:10-17 and Revelation 7:9-17. We felt these worked better with the Psalm (112).

Wealth and riches will be in their house,
   and their righteousness endures for ever.
Light shines in the darkness for the upright;
   gracious and full of compassion are the righteous. (Psalm 112:3-4)

The Lord Mayor’s office rightly raised a question about the Bible passages and wanted reassurance that it would not cause offence or distract from the purpose of the service. My task was set!

I began by talking about my impression of the role of Lord Mayor and how the current councillor in this role has held it in particular. I commented on the uniqueness of this year in which he had served; a visit from the King, a coronation, and then, for over half of his term, the Middle East crisis felt particularly strongly here in Bradford. The ceremonial role, like that of a representative of the Cathedral church, brings with it a strange expectation to ‘say something’ at events. These events often do not warrant any input from us who are, in my mind, inappropriately ‘billed’ alongside more impressive and important individuals. What then do we say when asked to speak?

I moved onto the Jeremiah passage. I named the use of this passage for the Zionist cause who have continually quoted this as a basis for division and their vision of exclusive claims on the land and territory of Mount Zion. The prophetic literature, however, does not, collectively, share that vision. Isaiah, similarly has passages which describes the future return of the people of Israel to the land promised to them, but the vision does not stop there. The imagery extends out further to encompass all peoples and particularly foreigners, widows and orphans.

If we place this passage, I said, with the imagery of the revelation/prophecy of John we see this echoed.

After this I looked, and there was a great multitude that no one could count, from every nation, from all tribes and peoples and languages, standing before the throne and before the Lamb, robed in white, with palm branches in their hands… Then he said to me, ‘These are they who have come out of the great ordeal; they have washed their robes and made them white in the blood of the Lamb. (Revelation 7:9 and 14b)

What we are lacking in Bradford and, indeed, in the wider culture is a voice that speaks with genuine hope. Hope that gives a vivid picture of the possibility of change. So overwhelmed and captive to the spirit of cynicism, skepticism and apocalyptic paranoia and conspiracy that we cannot bear any possibility of optimism. We are fearful of dreaming because we have been disappointed too much or we have been fed a diet of positivistic lies which have stripped us of substance and trust. We have been collectively abused and traumatised not just from external malignant agents, real and imagined, but also by ourselves. The reason that the public events Lord Mayors tend to be invited to request them to ‘say a few words’ is that people long to have their lives validated and made concrete in the words of symbols of our collective identity.

Despite the prophet Jeremiah painting a positive image of restoration they are deeply rooted in the reality of lament and grief.

Thus says the Lord:
A voice is heard in Ramah,
   lamentation and bitter weeping.
Rachel is weeping for her children;
   she refuses to be comforted for her children,
   because they are no more.
Thus says the Lord:
Keep your voice from weeping,
   and your eyes from tears;
for there is a reward for your work, says the Lord:
   they shall come back from the land of the enemy;
there is hope for your future. (Jeremiah 31:15-17)

Even the Revelation passage has an acknowledgement of grief. This is what is needed in Bradford and in our wider culture: an uncompromising grasp of the real grief, fear and a confident enacting of lament. This should not be the lament which perpetuates the violence of the system we are all trapped in; it is a lament of surrender and sacrifice. This is the path to the richer, more solid, more real hope depicted in the prophetic literature of the Bible.

The second sermon on this theme was a Sunday morning where I was called to preach on Acts 8:26-40. At the heart of this passage is a bible study on Isaiah 53:7-8. I had outlined that persecution and violence had scattered the Early Church and Philip had found himself amongst foreigners (Samaritans) and his evangelistic ministry had seen many new converts from that area. The Spirit of God drives him back to his home; a place of trauma and pain (interestingly the road between Jerusalem and Gaza) and he finds there an Ethiopian who longed to be part of the Jewish faith but, due to him being a eunuch he would not have been able to to perform all the necessary rituals to be a full proselyte, i.e. circumcision. He is reading the prophet Isaiah and he would have read about Ethiopia being paid as a ransom for Israel (Isaiah 43:3); his people being exchanged for this people who will never treat him with full dignity.

Isaiah is unflinching on the many abominable acts of disobedience that had caused the wrath of God to be poured out upon them scattering them into exile. Despite glimpses of hope, comfort and restoration nothing is fully expressed until the later chapters (54 onwards). Chapter 53, the passage this Ethiopian eunuch is reading, is the pivot. It is the three-dimensional description of the Messiah who will enact the change and usher in the Kingdom and rule of God, not through the means of man but the paths of peace. To quote Óscar Romero, he only enacts a ‘violence of love’. After this chapter the eunuch will hear of the extending vision beyond Israel to all nations, including eunuchs.

For thus says the Lord:
To the eunuchs who keep my sabbaths,
    who choose the things that please me
    and hold fast my covenant,
I will give, in my house and within my walls,
    a monument and a name
    better than sons and daughters;
I will give them an everlasting name
    that shall not be cut off. (Isaiah 56:4-5)

For the eunuch to be known as part of God’s family he thought he needed circumcision and baptism. The first had been denied him as a eunuch. The second would not have been considered or if it was it was not complete. In the new vision of God’s Kingdom led by a suffering servant, it was enough and he leaves rejoicing. Another white robed child standing in the great multitude of the intercultural Kingdom of God.

Finally, that same day in the evening, I preached on Isaiah 60:1-14 and Revelation 3:1-13. I repeated my set up that I had done as part of the Lord Mayor’s service and briefly brought in the story of the Ethiopian eunuch and essentially called out for us to awaken our imagination to fight the overwhelming temptation and addiction to cynicism and skepticism. That despite thick darkness covering the earth we must see that God’s light will shine upon us not to divide us off from others but so that all might be drawn to us and thus into that saving light.

Bradford, City of Culture 2025,

Lift up your eyes and look around;
   they all gather together, they come to you;
your sons shall come from far away,
   and your daughters shall be carried on their nurses’ arms.
Then you shall see and be radiant;
   your heart shall thrill and rejoice,
because the abundance of the sea shall be brought to you,
   the wealth of the nations shall come to you.
A multitude of camels shall cover you,
   the young camels of Midian and Ephah;
   all those from Sheba shall come.
They shall bring gold and frankincense,
   and shall proclaim the praise of the Lord…

For the coastlands shall wait for me,
   the ships of Tarshish first,
to bring your children from far away,
   their silver and gold with them,
for the name of the Lord your God,
   and for the Holy One of Israel,
   because he has glorified you.
Foreigners shall build up your walls,
   and their kings shall minister to you;
for in my wrath I struck you down,
   but in my favour I have had mercy on you.
Your gates shall always be open;
   day and night they shall not be shut,
so that nations shall bring you their wealth,
   with their kings led in procession. (Isaiah 60:4-6, 9-11)

This vision, however, is not an easy salve to pour on to make all things well. This vision is hard won. It is a vision that is rooted in the uncompromising experience of real exile, grief and trauma. It is a vision that accepts that what will draw them is not innate but given by grace. The light will shine upon us if we turn to face it, to look at it and acknowledge it. This is the action that I feel will be the prophetic pivot needed in Bradford and the wider culture: honest acknowledgement of pain we have experienced and pain that we have inflicted. To not flinch at our realities and not settle for the same easily reached conclusions and solutions. To neither remain silent when well meaning tropes are forced upon us when we don’t fully understand or agree with them nor to violently shout counterarguments and seek to undermine those who are foreign to us.

If we can use 2025 to commit to each other the posture of humility and curiosity then we may begin to find that we live lives of hospitality, rootedness, innovation and interculturality… which happen to be the values of Bradford Cathedral. Funny that.

Into Culture: Prophetic Imagination I

I finish this month, as Canon for Intercultural Mission and the Arts, having experienced an intense period of engagement in intercultural theory and practice. I helped to organise a conference of intercultural churches and then went into Holy Week where we, as a Cathedral, along with friends from other churches, spent some time each day out in City Park inviting people to talk about faith and Jesus. Both of these have caused me to ask questions about intercultural ministry and about the current evolving culture in the UK.

Back in July I wrote about Bradford (click here), exploring its history and drawing some suggestions as to what categorises something as ‘Bradfordian’ and, in part, also ‘English’. Of course, as with most historic study, there was a large amount of personal bias as to what sources I used and through what lenses I examined them. I received a number of personal responses from readers from Bradford who shared some of my conclusions particularly the questions raised about the opportunities afforded to us as City of Culture 2025.

I don’t want to rehearse those observations again but rather pick up on two points that I raised and further unpack them in light of my intense fortnight of intercultural ministry.

The conference was a gathering of self-selecting ‘intercultural practitioners’ in the Church of England seeking to network with others. The programme was packed with experienced and wise speakers ranging from academics to those engaged in intercultural practice. It was only the second such conference run by the emerging Anglican Network of Intercultural Churches (ANIC) of which I am on the steering group for.

The conference was funded in large part by the Racial Justice Task Group of the Church of England and, therefore, had a particular emphasis on racial justice. During our conversations, however, I started noticing a subtle and uncomfortable experience: it was rare that my culture, my ethnic heritage, my race, was talked about using positive language. 

I understand that being ‘British’ or, worse, ‘English’ is problematic as we rightly face up to and come to terms with our colonial past and our own involvement in slavery and exploitation. I know that this work is important and critical if reconciliation, not just with fellow human beings but also with ourselves, is to be achieved. But, in a space where we were being encouraged to honour each other’s cultures and heritages, I did not feel as though that was being done for me, even by those advocating for such an approach. I found this curious.

As I say, this was done subtly; for example, as with all conferences, there was a timetable. This particular programme, in my mind, was overly tight and unrealistic. I attempted to raise the issue in a planning meeting but my view was dismissed and told that it would be fine. On the first day, however, the timings were in disarray before we had even welcomed people to the conference! We were running thirty minutes late and that impacted a whole lot of things. People from the front (from global majority heritage backgrounds) explained the situation by bringing out the cultural trope, “African time” or ‘South Asian time”; basically, relying on the understanding that “In Britain you have watches. In Africa we have time.”

As someone on the autistic spectrum, who struggles with ‘rules’ changing and who likes order and structure, particularly in regards to time, I attempted to accept this cultural difference but found myself feeling increasingly belittled when this cultural idiosyncrasy moved from a knowing joke to the insinuation that it was something that I needed a form of healing from. When I pointed out that there would be people arriving at the Cathedral for a service which they had graciously changed the time of to suit us, and that we were going to be half an hour late for, my concern was brushed away by an individual with a, “stop being so English.”

I have reflected before about how I feel when someone is late. Back in 2014 I wrote,

…it is not true that they’d rather be vacuuming a house than making the allotted time for meeting me but when you’re the one sat twiddling your thumbs, unable to start something in case you get interrupted, you can feel powerless to their ‘whims’. This is the problem with lateness: it is a power play. Lateness creates an imbalance in a relationship because one person refuses to be changed by the desire of another whilst the second party has committed and become beholden to the first.

CHAPTER 43: LATE-COMERS TO THE DIVINE OFFICE AND MEALS

The difference in timings is, due to my neurodiversity, a particularly challenging cultural difference for me. I don’t expect people to change their cultural approach to time to suit me but I found it hurtful when my embarrassing but instinctive sensitivities were dismissed completely by strangers. I tried to build relationship by being vulnerable and telling some key people that I had neurodiversity and tried to explain what it physically felt like when things are changed; the panic, the fear, the psychosomatic scratching on the inside of my head but they didn’t seem to understand.

I felt alone and frantic.

Of course, as I wrote back in 2014, different notions of time touches on power. As the dominant, ‘host’ culture (being in England) there is a social dynamic in all forms of hospitality and the different cultural approaches to it. I have begun to explore some of these over the last year in relation to working at a Cathedral where we welcome many different guests. For intercultural relationships to develop there must be a mutuality from both sides which is complex when, historically, one’s ancestors have abused such social bonds so profoundly. Much more work on reconciliation is required and that demands much deeper relationships built in safe spaces. I am in favour of ‘Lament Into Action’ but I am unconvinced we have a vision for a fuller, more holistic and prophetic approach to lament, leaving any action hindered in its efficacy.

My familiar neurodivergent response to timekeeping was not the only reason this seemingly petty example was ‘uncomfortable’. The more subtle and disturbing experience was the unbalanced negativity towards white people that appeared at moments during our discussions. This is where more exploration on lament is needed.

One white, male speaker was told that he only mentioned his whiteness four times in a fifteen minute presentation and one of them was not used to critique its impact on others. I was baffled by this comment. I wasn’t sure what the point was and what the error had been on the speaker’s part. On another occasion a Nigerian speaker, who spoke powerfully on intercultural churches as a framework for truth, justice and reconciliation, suggested that Anglicanism continues to be used to extend ‘Englishness’. That was a perceptive and challenging point that deserves fuller unpacking, but it was his response to a question which made me concerned. The question was:

Can you name a positive attribute of Englishness and a then name a negative attribute of Englishness?

Now, he may have misheard or misunderstood, but he began his answer by naming a positive to the Church of England. His salient point about Anglicanism (of which the Church of England is a leading part) being an extension of Englishness may have been in his mind but he never gave a positive attribute to Englishness. I’m not suggesting that he was consciously avoiding the question but it went to highlight my sense that no one had spoken positively about what white, English culture brings to the intercultural party. This can lead to some white, English people (particularly men) feeling shame with no way of moving through that due to the unchangeability of their race or biological sex. This is, many are arguing, in part, a reason there is a tangible growth in more nationalistic, far-right sentiment in England today. The only seeming chance of hope is found in escaping the perceived imbalance of lament, or, rather, the perceived forcing to lament of one by another. The increasingly common response to the ‘woke agenda’ and the sometimes heavy-handed attempts to encourage lament is defensiveness, a refusal to participate and a retreat from relationship. This creates the intractable silos of polarisation.

Which brings me to Holy Week witness in Bradford city centre.

Standing outside, often in the cold and rain, on a lunchtime in our city centre, with a large wooden cross, singing hymns, reading the Bible and delivering a short talk on the importance of Holy Week for Christians was always going to be a tough task. I was surprised by the small number of people who had genuine conversations of faith. For each of these, however, we were also met by aggressive, baffled and insulted faces by many. The act of witness seemed to make many feel uncomfortable. There was a weary revulsion palpable by the passerbys.

Of the people who did stop and talk, many of them were clearly in mental distress, intoxicated or disproportionally aggressive and white. I was spat at, threatened, asked impossibly complex questions about conspiracy theories (“Why has God given me the message ‘1661’ in the clouds?”).

On Thursday it was my time to give a short reflection aimed at inspiring discussion on the topic of Jesus and the cross. Over the previous three days I had watched others attempt to do this in various different ways. Despite their best efforts, nothing seemed to be hitting the mark. I put it down to the context or to the weather but there was something more; something deeper.

I began my public reflection by saying that “talking about personal things, such as faith, is difficult and painful in this place and at this time.” Bradford has a history of conflict in inter-racial, multiethnic, interfaith relations. The riots of 2001 still loom heavy over the social story of our city and the undercurrent of suspicion has not shifted completely. What I was sensing during Holy Week was a return of these hostilities and our innocent presence in the public square was clearly skirting too close to this reemerging reality. In my talk I wanted to name that. To ignite a prophetic imagination in a people to dream and to hope of a better future one must start by acknowledging and lamenting the current state as fully as possible. For something to be healed it must be diagnosed and brought into the light. I wanted to start conversations with the unspoken: the aggression (fight response), the fearfulness (flight response) and the apathy (freeze response) in order that we might seek healing and redemption there. I wanted a shared sense of lament to all aspects of the breakdown in social relationships and trust between us all and to share in the healing together. Like Jesus did by taking on our humanity and reconciling himself to us in his death.

At the conference I tried to do the same thing. I was asked to speak on racial justice and I began my seminar by acknowledging the conflict within me; on the one hand a right sense of the optics of a white man leading a session of people mainly with global majority heritage and on the other a profound sense of how many white people excuse themselves from this important conversation. What was so uncomfortable about my observation of the reluctance to speak positively about Englishness was the unspeakable yet understandable and palpable distrust and unresolved trauma we all are feeling on both sides of the racial differences. I am inspired by Óscar Romero’s words.

Liberation that raises a cry against others is no true liberation. Liberation that means revolutions of hate and violence and takes the lives of others or abases the dignity of others cannot be true liberty. True liberty does violence to self and, like Christ, who disregarded that he was sovereign, becomes a slave to serve others.

Óscar Romero, ‘The Violence of Love‘ (San Francisco: Harper & Row, 1988) p.40

How do we constructively work towards intercultural relationships? How do we name the complexities of gifts both honoured and unwanted that we all bring to such relationships?

Two words: prophetic imagination.More on that next time.

Into Culture: The Good Samaritan

Back in November I published a short reflection on the passage from the end of Matthew’s gospel commonly referred to as the parable of the sheep and the goats. Fresh back from Pakistan I found myself reading the well-known passage through a different cultural lens. Like trying on new spectacles, the reading wasn’t clear, but it was different from my usual seeing. This month I have continued to find my reading of Scripture challenged, particularly in where I place myself and where the congregations that I have been a part of in the past have wanted to place me and themselves.

This post also marks one year since I started this particular strand of my blog. I began by reflecting on my performance of the story in John’s gospel of the encounter between Jesus and the woman at the well. Since then, I have ‘done a Ned’ on a few occasions at the Cathedral. I want to briefly outline how my process of producing such presentations connects with my reflections on trying to read the Scriptures interculturally. I will take just one example, from a service to mark the week of prayer for Christian unity.

This year’s liturgical material for the week of prayer for Christian unity was provided by Christians in Burkina Faso. They encouraged us to reflect on the parable, known by most of us as ‘the good Samaritan’. I was asked to ‘perform’ the story as part of our service and then to lead a short reflection. Most of the time my biblical presentations are done solo with me taking on all the parts. This means that I have to be clear as to where to situate different characters and defining them in body and voice. This particular story, which included the introduction between Jesus and the lawyer, potentially contains six characters (or seven if you include the inn-keeper).

My first decision, as always, is where to locate the congregation; the question is, “who are the congregation in this story?” This is an interesting question and cuts to the heart of my intercultural reading of Scripture. In the ‘famous’ biblical stories we often assume the same positions and places to ensure we learn the right lesson from them. In the opening exchange of this story, between Jesus and the lawyer, I wanted to situate the lawyer amongst the congregation so that it felt as though he was coming from amongst them, not so that they identified with him but that they experienced something of the crowd listening into the conversation between this man and Jesus. I placed Jesus behind the lectern which had been used by the leaders of the service up to this point.

After the exchange I chose to have Jesus move the lectern as though he himself was performing the parable for the lawyer. The next question, like the first was, “where do I place the congregation during the parable?” Bradford Cathedral is a building of two halves: one, the older part, sits at the west end and takes in the nave and aisle, the other, newer part runs from the chancel through to the east window. The architect of the 1960’s renovations and developments, Edward Maufe, delineates between these two parts. The west end can represent the ‘secular’, shared, communal space and the east end is the ‘sacred’, holy site of worship and praise. All the chapels are found in this east end whereas the west end contains the kitchen, shop, offices, etc. I decided, therefore, to use this demarcation to establish the road from Jerusalem to Jericho to run from east (Jerusalem) to west (Jericho). This ran down the central aisle between the congregation.

For those who do not know the famous story it goes as follows: a man was going from Jerusalem to Jericho and fell into the hands of robbers who beat him and left him for dead. A priest was also going down the road, saw the man and passed by on the other side. Then a Levite, who also travelled down the road, saw the man  and passed by on the other side. Finally a Samaritan was also walking down the road but he came near to him and tended his wounds, put the man on his own donkey, took him to an inn, paid for bed and board and said to the inn-keeper that he would return and pay for anything that is spent on looking after the man. Jesus then asks, “Which of these three was a neighbour to the man.” To which the lawyer replies, “The one who should him mercy.”

This is interesting because the whole story is Jesus’ answer to a question from the lawyer in the introduction. Having clearly stated that one of the great commandments of God is ‘to love your neighbour as yourself’, the lawyer asks,

“But who is my neighbour?”

In the usual reading of the story, told and explained in Sunday schools and assemblies through the generations and across the UK (at least), the teaching is that we should be kind to others like the Samaritan. That we should ‘do likewise’. Sure, that’s great and we should but that is not the question. The question is: who is the neighbour that I am to love? The parable answers the question by identifying the Samaritan as the neighbour and, therefore, the one we should love. We should love, logic dictates, the one who showed us mercy not, as we are taught, the poor man who is left disfigured, alone and near death.

Like the parable of the sheep and the goats we are taught from a young age, in an attempt of simplifying this teaching, like some moralistic fable, to be the person with agency and power in the story. We are enculturated to identify with the Samaritan or, if we want to really challenge ourselves, the priest and Levite. I have never been asked, nor have I ever asked of myself, to identify with the man who falls into the hands of robbers. So, in order to drive this point home, I began by emphasising the word ‘neighbour’ in the lawyers question (you’ll see why later).

Then, having presented the road running through the congregation with the congregation facing ‘Jerusalem’, I presented the priest and Levite travelling east towards Jerusalem (with the congregation). The man falls in with robbers and I indicated that he fell across the ‘road’ in a sweeping gesture that began at the floor but finished taking in the congregation. The priest and Levite then ‘pass him by’. I chose to characterise the priest as someone who clearly was fraught and anxious. This sense of feeling the burden of pastoral ministry and legitimising the need to care for himself before he could show care for others (I little soap box I get onto whenever someone twists this commandment to say that it means we must first love ourselves before we can love others.) The priest stepped over the man, looked back with guilt and concern but decides to move on. The Levite I chose to present as someone who did the bare minimum and, having stepped over the man, took a selfie with him and then (speaking a few extra, added words to Scripture) typed, “thoughts and prayers” before moving on.

Then came the Samaritan. As he was travelling towards the congregation I made sure that each of his many actions (saw him, had compassion on him, came to him,  bound his wounds, poured on oil and wine, set him on the donkey, brought him to an inn, took care of him…) were performed at the congregation as though they were receiving these acts. When the final ‘punchline’ is given I merely had to emphasise the word ‘neighbour’ and indicate where the lawyer was standing to make the link. The lawyers embarrassing response (“the one who showed him mercy”) was, therefore, performed standing amongst the congregation towards the front where the Samaritan had just performed his acts of kindness towards them.

Of course, to really explore this cultural twist, I needed to unpack it in my reflection. When considering what else needed to be said I then took out the material prepared by our brothers and sisters in Burkina Faso.

The reflections encourage us to consider the perspective not only of the one who showed mercy, but also of those who passed by. Many of us will have been unaware of the threat faced by communities in Burkina Faso before reading this material. It is a powerful reminder of the many neglected conflicts that continue to destroy lives and devastate communities around the world, when only a limited number can capture, and fewer still can hold, the attention of the world’s media. The Church is called to be an advocate for those caught in these forgotten conflicts, and to amplify the voices of those who feel forsaken.

Churches Together in England, ‘Go and Do Likewise’, the English pamphlet, Resources for Week of Prayer for Christian Unity 2024, https://ctbi.org.uk/wp-content/uploads/2023/09/WPCU-2024-English-pamphlet-Final.pdf, p.2-3

They were asking us to identify with those who passed by whilst they situated themselves as people who feel passed by, i.e. the man who fell into the hands of robbers. Their request is right and worthwhile but what, I asked myself, would it be like if we placed ourselves in their shoes and tried to imagine what it feels like to fall into the hands of robbers and be reliant on the mercy of ‘strangers’? In addition to this, the deliberate identification with the man who fell into the hands of robbers forces us to feel the lack of agency felt by so many who rely upon our ‘mercy’ and charity. In that experience we are opened, I suggested, to receiving from our brothers and sisters to whom we feel it is our duty to ‘care for’ and look after, like the white saviours we still sometimes try to be.

If I were to perform this story again, however, I think I would not perform any of the other characters apart from the man beaten and left for dead. I would tell the story on the floor indicating the other characters passing by and the Samaritan in front of me. This would have given the direct punch that I felt was needed to rupture our established reading of this particular story… you live and learn!

Into Culture: Lingua Communis III

At the start of this month I began reading ‘Babel: an arcane history’ by R.F. Kuang. This book is a fictional history set in Oxford in the early 19th century. It follows the story of a young Chinese orphan, later known as Robin Swift, who is adopted by a linguistic professor who works for Babel: ‘Oxford University’s prestigious Royal Institute of Translation’. It is also a work of fantasy as the centre of Babel’s work is ‘silver-working’. In the reality of the book, silver holds magical properties when used by translators and the British Empire is powered by it. 

Silver is used by etching pairs of words that are translations of each other; one English, the other another language. The magic is derived from what gets lost in translation. The first example given is the pairing of karabos, in Greek, and caravel; both mean ‘ship’ but karabos also means crab or beetle. When the silver bar with these two words etched on them are put on boats the fishermen catch more fish due to the magic association of crabs/sea creature… you really need to read the book to fully grasp how this ‘works’.

Babel is a great story full of intrigue and excitement but what has struck me is its exploration of language across cultural divides and the role translation has played in empire. This is something that I am continually reflecting on in my role, particularly when trying to create spaces for many nations and tongues to come together in worship. I did this at our recent international Christmas event where we shared Christmas traditions from around the world. I wanted to make the event as accessible as possible to those who did not speak English and so began work on translating the service booklets to help guide those of different languages through our time together. Although we had limited, non-English speakers, those who came appreciated the effort we had put in to producing as many variety of translations as possible. 

The process of creating these translations brought up fascinating conversations with those who were helping me along the way. This was particularly the case when I was trying to get a metric translation of ‘O Come All Ye Faithful’ and ‘Hark the Herald Angel Sings’. I wanted to have a moment when everyone was singing to the same tune but in their own language. I had experienced this when worshipping with my Urdu speaking friends at their Christmas service. They had Urdu words being sung to the traditional tunes for these two songs. I then found versions in various other languages, e.g. French (for D.R.C.), Arabic, Farsi, etc. This raised an important question: in choosing the words, was it more important to get the meaning close or the meter right?

This question reminded me of the reflections I have had about writing theology within the structure of metric poetry. There is the same tension when selecting words and phrases to express a theological/spiritual truth when there are restrictions on syllables and rhymes. Babel explores this tension and pitches the alternative arguments really well.

But this is not necessarily the thing that I want to explore this month.

Here is a quote from the leading professor, Professor Playfair, in the fictional institute of Babel as he introduces the first year students to their work and studies.

“It is often argued that the greatest tragedy of the Old Testament was not man’s exile from the Garden of Eden, but the fall of the Tower of Babel. For Adam and Eve, though cast from grace, could still speak and comprehend the language of angels. But when men in their hubris decided to build a path to heaven, God confounded their understanding. He divided and confused them and scattered them about the face of the earth.

What was lost at Babel was not merely human unity, but the original language – something primordial and innate, perfectly understandable and lacking nothing in form or content. Biblical scholars call it the Adamic language. Some think it is Hebrew. Some think it is a real and ancient language that has been lost to time. Some think it is a new, artificial language that we ought to invent. Some think French fulfils this role, some think English, once it’s finished robbing and morphing, might.”

R.F. Kuang, ‘Babel: An Arcane History’ (London:Harper Collins, 2022) p.107

Later in the story Robin, the main protagonist, is with his guardian, Professor Lovell, discussing this idea. Professor Lovell believes this notion is ‘poppycock’ but not before he recalls the account in Herodotus’ ‘The Histories’ (Part 1, Book 2, paragraph 2) where the historian tells a story of the Egyptian Pharaoh Psammetichus I. In order to assess the innateness of speech in humans, Psammetichus I performed an experiment on two infants who were placed in a remote place by a shepherd who was not allowed to speak in their presence. After two years, the children began to speak and they repeated the word becos, which turned out to be the Phrygian word for bread. This proved, in Psammetichus’ mind, that Phyrgian was the innate language of humanity.

This story, according to the fictional character of Professor Lovell, is totally fabricated and similar experiments done elsewhere would provide different results. I agree with this view but it is interesting to ponder the nature of language and what is the truth in the Genesis story of the Tower of Babel. Is there an Adamic language? What are the implications of the limits of translation in diplomacy and ultimate unity across linguistic divides? Robin Swift extrapolates from Professor Playfair’s concept of an Adamic language.

Well – since in the Bible, God split mankind apart. And I wonder if – if the purpose of translation, then, is to bring mankind back together. If we translate to – I don’t know, bring about that paradise again, on earth, between nations.

To which Professor Playfair enigmatically responds.

Well, of course. Such is the project of empire – and why, therefore, we translate at the pleasure of the Crown.

I have been pondering the concept of a lingua communis since April last year. This is not some lexical holy grail as is pondered by Professor Playfair in Babel but rather the search for an intercultural process of understanding. At the heart of my reflections is a desire to find a meaningful, tangible and, hopefully, effective approach to unity across difference. Language will play a significant role, even if it only is at the start of any process. There is, however, profound limitations on linguistics and translations, as I am exploring further in my reading of Babel. 

The biblical solution to the tragedy of the Tower of Babel is not some man-made process of linguistic homogeny but rather a spiritual antidote which in many ways bypasses the lexical limitations. It is telling, in the narrative of Kuang’s Babel, that Professor Playfair’s assumed response to the punishment by God for humanity’s hubris is more hubris; thinking that we can translate our way out of the ‘curse of God’ (Kuang, ‘Babel’, p.108).

At Pentecost, God gives the solution to the confusion of Babel. The Holy Spirit enables all to understand other languages. What this looked and felt may feel lost to history but I believe that the same Holy Spirit is alive and active today. The process for unity of heart and mind must start, not in my attempts to translate my way out of the ‘curse of God’, but to humble myself in his presence and to seek understanding that transcends linguistic differences.

Our experience at the International Christmas event at Bradford Cathedral was that there was something uniting about singing together even though we did so in different languages. There is something profound about music being a form of universal language. As I regularly sit in choral evensong, listening to the anthem and encouraging the congregation to engage in it, it is often the music rather than the words that I point them to.

There remains an area of future research for me. It is the area of cultural unity. I have always been profoundly aware of the impact of a lack of shared socio-cultural narratives. Read any of my posts over the years I have been writing and you will find them shot through with this ‘Hauerwasian’ problem. As I prepare my talk on racial justice for the upcoming Anglican Network of intercultural Churches Conference, I return to this intellectual landscape again and again.

I encourage you to read Babel… I just need to find time to finish it!