Tag Archives: inclusive othering

Into Culture: Provisionality Defined

It has been a difficult month.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This is not weakness. It is faithfulness.

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

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

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

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

Into Culture: Inclusive Othering

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

…the unpredictable process of evangelization, [is] a process leading to that new place where none of us has ever been before. When the gospel reaches a people where they are, their response to that gospel is the church in a new place, and the song they will sing is that new, unsung song, that unwritten melody that haunts all of us. What we have to be involved in is not the revival of the church or the reform of the church. It has to be nothing less than what Paul and the Fathers of the Council of Jerusalem were involved in for their time – the refounding of the Catholic church for our age.
(Vincent Donovan, Christianity Rediscovered (London: SCM Press, 2009) p.xix)

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

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

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

Firstly then, to listen deeply is to be obedient.

The very word obedience has a treasure hidden in its history. If you unpack it, ob audiere, to listen intently is the language of love. When you really love, you listen intently to know what the one you love wants to happen.
(Columba Cary-Elwes, Work and Prayer: The Rule of St. Benedict for Lay People (London: Burn & Oates, 1992) p.182)

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

Being disciplined in obedience is perhaps the key virtue of a good and faithful performer. This is a skill that can be acquired only in communities that foster an “ecology of hope,” what Nicholas Lash calls “schools of stillness, of attentiveness; of courtesy, respect and reverence; academies of contemplativity.”
(Stanley Hauerwas, Performing the Faith: Bonhoeffer and the Practice of Nonviolence (London: SPCK, 2004) p.100)

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

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

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

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

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