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Make spirituality normal again

77 years ago, Britain did something crazy. It founded a health service that assumed everybody had the right to receive care.

On the 5th of July 1948, the National Health Service opened it’s doors, and it offered medical treatment for free at the point of use for the whole population. This wasn't a private charity, but it was the result of a Labour government who were determined to make a welfare state out of the rubble of war. Prime Minister Clement Attlee appointed South Wales miner-turned-politician Aneurin Bevan as the Minister of Health, and together they shepherded the National Health Service Act 1946 through Parliament and negotiated with reluctant doctors and dentists.

The NHS is now woven into British identity. Yet, it’s founding story is important in how we see ourselves. The system was created to care for bodies—i.e. stitches, operations, and vaccinations. The assumption behind the service was that physical illness is real and it demands a collective response. But it left behind a different kind of issue: mental health. Keeping the mind healthy by contrast, was largely left in the shadows. In 1948, people with mental illness were locked away in Victorian asylums and stigmatised with words like lunacy and mental deficiency. It would take decades for society to recognize that a real healthy person is mind and body.

There were various plans through the 50s and 60s to try and aid people with mental health, but shockingly, it wasn't until 1999 when the National Service Framework for Mental Health came into being. In the early 2000s, the National Institute for Health and Care Excellence (NICE) produced its first guidelines around schizophrenia, and since then more than 80 pieces of mental health guidance have been issued. And it wasn't till the 2019 NHS Long-Term Plan promised 24/7 crisis response services and a major expansion of mental health provision. That plan is underfunded and has much left to do. All the major shifts advancing mental health integration have happened within my lifetime. I can’t believe it was that recent!

There's a phrase which has only just come into being recently—policymakers have started talking about the parity of esteem. The idea that mental health should have equal status with physical health. Equal access to services, equal quality of care and equal resources allocated based on need, And even now, the journey is far from over.

The reason for that little tour through history is that it's clear that we humans resist integration. We draw neat lines around our bodies and medicalize them, and only recently have we expanded the circle to include the mind. But I think a big problem that still remains is that spirituality—the soul—is still left on the outside. Even though this is the place from which we make meaning, build hope, trust, and love. All essential things for human life- let alone flourishing.

A holistic approach to healthcare means we needs to support the whole person, including their physical, emotional, social, and spiritual well-being. Thomas Aquinas wrote that the soul and the body are not two separate substances but one composite being—that we are neither ghosts nor machines. The Eastern theologian Irenaeus famously said, "The glory of God is a human being fully alive." And more contemporary periphery theologians like N.T. Wright emphasize the embodied nature of faith—that we are what we love and how we love, not merely what we think. Dallas Willard spoke about the renovation of the heart as the ultimate project of discipleship. Each of these voices, and way more across history, tell us that human flourishing can't be restricted to the physical or even the psychological. We are ultimately mind, body, and soul.

So what would it look like to normalize spirituality in a culture that has only just acknowledged mental health?

  1. We could expand our definition of care. If the NHS was born to prevent people dying because they were poor, perhaps the next radical step is to prevent people from withering because their souls are starved. We accept that stress and trauma warrant therapy—could we accept that spiritual crisis—questions of meaning, guilt, loss, transcendence—warrant pastoral and communal care? As the founder of the NHS, Bevan insisted that inability to pay should never bar someone from medical treatment. Might we insist the inability to believe or belong should never bar someone from spiritual companionship?

  2. Chaplains are already around in hospitals, prisons, and schools. But what if they could be woven even more deeply into mental health teams, the community, and GP practices? People experiencing depression and anxiety often carry spiritual questions too. We seem to enjoy privatizing those questions or treating them as irrelevant, but we could provide spiritual professionals to accompany people in greater depth. This isn't about proselytising, but it is recognising that meaning-making is a part of healing.

  3. Tell better stories. The story of the NHS began with a vision—a society that refused to let people die because they were poor. The story of mental health reform began with the belief that minds matter as much as bodies. To normalise spirituality, we need a story that values the soul. Perhaps it begins with the ancient intuition that each person bears the imago Dei—the image of God—and that to care for one another is to honour that image.

  4. Use different labels. The label religion doesn't seem to have much weight or use in modern society, largely in part because it deals with things both unseen and sometimes untreatable. But I think Jesus would balk at the idea that it has it’s own societal category when religion is to do with how we live our life. It’s about how we connect with the world and the people around us, how deeply we can live in harmony with God and the impact of our lives will touch on areas like health, business, politics, entertainment, and work. Normalising spirituality means being honest about the deep roots of words, but also being able to use labels which invite rather than exclude. I don't want to defend our vocabulary; I want to explore venturing into new language.

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Reflection is good

Have you noticed how much of our lives we spend living in the fast lane?  Things seem to come at us on the other side of the road all of the time.  As humans, we learn to react and deal with new situations every day. A bit like facing one of those serving machines in tennis.  It can be relentless.  It can be hard to find time to take stock of our life experiences. 

Living by the sea, I am trying to carve out time during the day to slow down.  Either first thing in the morning, at lunch time, or after work.  It brings such a change of perspective.  Our relationship with nature will impact how much we notice, think about, and appreciate our natural surroundings, and is critical in supporting good mental health and preventing stress.  The fact that we have the sea on our doorstep is a real bonus, one we need to capitalize on.

Why not find yourself a quiet spot where you can connect with nature?  You will begin to connect with your senses, what you see, hear, smell, touch, and taste.  Might sound a bit weird, but tasting something from the earth that is perhaps salty will connect you more with nature.

Reflection is good; it helps us get quiet on the inside. It allows us to process events in our lives, whether they are good or bad.  Rather than leaving them locked up in a potential jack-in-the-box situation, our memories and emotions can be let out and articulated.  A bit like releasing homing pigeons from a cage.  They are free to fly as high as they want before returning home and joining the rest of our memories, feeling they have had time to express themselves.

The fact is, we don’t take enough time to reflect, which is why our emotional tanks can end up on empty.  So, if you can, deliberately take time out to reflect on the busyness of your life on a regular basis, you will begin to benefit from it and see that it is good for your wellbeing.

Why not begin by scoring yourself out of 10 for wellbeing?  If it needs topping up, then take some time out for yourself.


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Home

Home … wasn’t a place or a time or a person, though it could be any and all of those things: home was a feeling, a sense of being complete. The opposite of ‘home’ wasn’t ‘away’, it was ‘lonely’. When someone said ‘I want to go home’, what they really meant was that they didn’t want to feel lonely anymore. 

Kate Morton, Homecoming 


Home is a concept difficult to pin down and define or dissect. Yet it is also an experience common to all humans: the feeling of being home. 


It’s the chair that has moulded to your shape so it fits you perfectly; the smell that you can’t actually smell anymore because it is so well-known; the knowing of where everything is in a kitchen (logically ordered or not).


Having spent over a decade living in a different continent, speaking a different language and experiencing a different culture, home is something I have thought about a lot: feeling far from home, building a new home, welcoming people into our home. 


This was further compounded by the transition of moving back to the UK, a place I still thought of as ‘home’ to an extent, only to find that it wasn’t anymore. Both the UK and I had changed, moved on. We hadn’t thought to tell each other either so it was quite a shock. Maybe more to me.


So where is home? Where do I fit perfectly into that moulded chair? Where am I complete and not lonely?


The Bible deals with this restlessness we feel, this search for a true home. The language used in the Old Testament is less around home and more around land. God promises the people of Israel a land of their own: a home. Many of the books of the Old Testament centre on the people getting this land, travelling to it, taking possession of it, being exiled from it, returning to it… You get the picture.


Then in the New Testament, in the book of Hebrews, you get this amazing statement about Abraham:

By faith he (Abraham) made his home in the promised land like a stranger in a foreign country; he lived in tents, as did Isaac and Jacob, who were heirs with him of the same promise. For he was looking forward to the city with foundations, whose architect and builder is God.


The real home is this city designed and built by God Himself. We often call it Heaven.


A sense of restlessness is to be expected if this world as it is is not home at all. A homesickness even. But I think we do get glimpses and experiences of this home Abraham was looking forward to. 


And the great thing is that as Jesus said, in this home there are many, many, many rooms prepared for us (John 14:2). Getting to that home will feel amazing.


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Teflon and Velcro

It’s the unjustified email comment. It’s the unfair review. It’s the unsolicited negative comment made by someone who doesn’t know the full picture. And whatever it is, it sticks to us, irritates us, becomes our last thought as we try to sleep. Even though it is often only a small exception to the wider context of our lives, we can obsess about it and let it consume our thoughts. 

For most of us, when we hear positive feedback, it is unlikely to have the same impact. It may be nice in the moment but we don’t give those messages the same space to run through and occupy our minds. In the words of psychologist Rick Hansen, “Your brain is like Velcro for negative experiences but Teflon for positive ones.” This means that our brains tend to hang on to those experiences that are negative with far more grip and force, whereas the positive experiences are far more likely to slide off, leaving little or no lasting impact. 

There are possible evolutionary explanations to this. The ‘bad stuff’ that our ancestors may have encountered could potentially have killed them so focusing on them would have been to their advantage in ensuring that they survived. For us, it can be easy to let negative comments or events into our heads, giving them the power to shape our moods or feelings. 

How does this relate to the life of faith? The Bible says that we are “fearfully and marvellously made.” (Psalm 139:14) The creation story at the beginning of Genesis says that humankind was created in the image of God and that on seeing all of creation, God saw that it was very good. (Genesis 1) We are told that “Nothing in all creation will ever be able to separate us from the love of God.” (Romans 8:39) I could go on. But how easy do we find it to remain mindful of these parts of scripture or do we choose to listen to the other voices that give us contradictory messages?

Knowing that our minds have a bias towards negativity, we may choose to counteract that by reminding ourselves things that are positive or life-giving more often. Perhaps this might involve having a truth or a comforting verse visible in a prominent place. It could mean coming up with a mantra to repeat when we notice ourselves sliding towards downward cycles. We might want to journal or write down affirmations so that we can be more mindful of them. 

It can be good to start small. Even recognising when an unwanted thought is bothering us can be useful. Naming it and its effect may reduce its impact. Being kind to ourselves can also help reinforce positive messages. One way I do this is by having a few cards with notes inside that are meaningful from former students next to make desk, making it an easy thing for me to glance at if I need a mental boost. 

The God of the universe would want us to thrive and become the best version of ourselves. They want us to live as the “children of God” referenced many times in the New Testament as best we can. To do this, we need to gradually release the lies and distractions that can hook themselves onto our brain and to instead more fully embrace our true identity. 


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Telling the difference

Can you tell the difference between these two mobile phones?   On the outside, they look very similar, but the reality is that one has a SIM card in it and the other does not.  Can you tell which one?

The same can be said for people suffering from depression or anxiety.  On the outside, they can seem exactly the same as the next person.  But inside, they definitely are not.  Did you know that one in four people in the UK suffers from poor mental health?  Society uses clever words like “wellbeing” to label it.  My view is that the brain can get sick just as much as any other part of the body.  We just cannot see it so visibly.

Based on those government statistics, if you are in a room of ten people, at least two people have mental health issues.  If it is a room of twenty people, it grows to five people.  But in most instances, it is hidden.  People are suffering in silence.

So, what can we do about it?  I think there are a number of things.  We can become better informed.  Have a look at these statistics:

https://www.priorygroup.com/mental-health/mental-health-statistics

We can check in on our family and friends and make sure they are doing okay.  In our Tuesday group that meets at John and Mims, we start with a check-in.  Everyone gets the opportunity to share what is going on in their life, and then we pray for each other.  This is so important and gives people the opportunity to share where they are at.  This can vary from week to week.

If you don’t see members of your family very often, I would encourage you to pick up the phone occasionally and check that they are okay.  During lockdown, my dad was living on his own as my mum had just died.  I was worried he might fall and be left on the floor, so I rang him every day for one hundred days until things started to get back to normal.  I am not suggesting you do that, but stay in touch.  Send a WhatsApp message saying you are thinking of them and asking them if they are okay.

Alongside mental health, loneliness is another issue that many suffer from.  They will never tell you, but many suffer in silence.

Just over a year ago (Dec 24), it was reported that 3 million people in the UK felt lonely often or always.  That is shocking, don’t you think?

As Christians, we should be there for people.  I am sure we all know elderly people who don’t get out much.  Why not invite them over for Sunday lunch?  This is traditionally a family meal.  We can take for granted that we can chat and laugh together whilst others are sitting on their own with only themselves for company.

I know you know this stuff.  Think back to those mobile phones.  Which one has no SIM?  The answer is right in front of you; you just can’t see it.  I hope this blog will raise awareness of people suffering from depression, anxiety, and loneliness.  We have so much to be thankful for, and hopefully, we can reach out to help others less fortunate than ourselves.


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Clearing space at the table

Last week, we did a poll about how to help each other grow deeper in the spiritual life. Lots of people replied about needing help connecting with God around the meal table. On Saturday over brekkie, we chatted more specifically about how to purposely make space in our lives and around our tables for different folk to join in. We are a mixed bunch—people with families, couples, singles, house-shares and everything in between.

Personal hospitality feels a little counter-cultural in Poole. One vicar said they have been here 3 years without being invited around someones house for food. Our phones screen calls, our headphones build invisible walls, and doorbells have been replaced by "I’m outside" texts—all tiny signals that say, 'I’m busy, not now.' In fact, UK data finds that over 60% of under‑35s won’t answer an unexpected call, choosing texts or voice notes instead. And with nearly half of all UK adults reporting loneliness at least occasionally, it’s clear the spaces between us have widened.—all tiny signals that say, 'I’m busy, not now.' And yet we ache for a place where someone remembers our name, where there's some food left in the pot, where there’s a seat kept open on purpose. In a world that monetises attention, an unhurried meal is gentle rebellion.

We talked on the beach about the little Greek word oikos. It shows up all over the New Testament and usually gets flattened into “house” or “household,” but in the first-century imagination it was bigger: the whole web of relationships that centred on a home—family, workers, neighbours, strangers who arrive at dusk and somehow stay till dawn. When Acts says entire oikoi were turned upside-down by the Jesus story, it’s not talking about the housing crisis; it’s describing social ecosystems being re-patterned around grace. Oikos is every life your life regularly touches, stitched together by shared food and experience.

Jesus moves through oikos after oikos, sometimes as host, sometimes guest. He multiplies a kid’s packed lunch and feeds five thousand—host. He throws a Passover dinner that cracks history wide open—host again. But he also invites himself to Zacchaeus’s place—guest. He reclines in Simon’s house while a woman anoints his feet—guest. The Son of Man who “has nowhere to lay his head” shows us that real hospitality isn’t about lowering the drawbridge; it’s about reciprocal presence.

So how might we practise that here at Ocean Church? A few nudges:

  • Busy parents – think small. Invite someone to chop veggies while the kids orbit the table. Attempt one meaningful question about life.

  • Flat-sharers with tiny lounges – Use what you’ve got—floor cushions, snack bits, and one candle. You don’t need a dining room to make people feel at home.

  • Road-warrior commuters – practise guesting: ask your host city where it hurts? Buy a colleague a meal, listening more than you speak.

  • Strapped for cash – Pot-luck is old-school brilliance: everyone brings a bit, and together we tuck in.

  • Living solo – tag-team with another singleton and co-host. Shared work, shared joy, shared washing-up.

But just to be clear—this isn’t about adding another thing to your already full calendar. This isn’t about performing hospitality or competing with Instagram-worthy dinners. It’s about presence. Simplicity. Letting others into your actual life, not your curated one. If you need a permission slip: here it is. You already have what you need.

Which brings me to a teaser: this October we’re launching a little experiment—four weeks of shared meals in different homes, where we rotate houses, menus, and stories, discovering how host and guest blur. Details soon. For now, maybe we could keep clearing a little space for someone else.

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Gathering isn’t the main event-it’s life together

Here’s a piece I have written recently for a magazine. I wondered if you’d be interested too.

I’ve always been suspicious of the idea that church is something you “go to.”

Not because I’m against gatherings – far from it. But because the more familiar model most of us inherited was: turn up, sit down, sing, pray, listen, chat, leave. And somehow, even when the music is beautiful and the preaching is great, it can still leave you wondering – is this it? Is this what Jesus meant when he said “Come, follow me”?

Ocean Church began as an attempt to rediscover gathering, not as an event, but as a way of life. We meet on beaches, rivers, paths and around fire pits. We’ve baptised people in the sea and cooked bacon sandwiches in the rain. And in all of it, the question we keep circling back to is: what does it look like to gather as the church, when you don’t have a building, a stage, or even a Sunday service?

For us, gathering is less about attendance and more about alignment. We’re trying to live out a kind of 'sodal' expression of church – a scattered, mobile movement that complements the more 'modal' expressions people may be used to, like Sunday services. (If that is weird language to you, give it a google.) We’re not trying to replace the gathered congregation. We’re just asking: what if discipleship happens when church shows up where people already are – on beaches, in back gardens, during school runs, or over shared meals? What if gathering wasn’t a break from life, but a deeper dive into it?

We meet twice a month all together at Ocean Church, and a lot of preparation goes into food, resources, and curating thoughtful gatherings. But those gatherings aren’t the main event. They’re scaffolding for something deeper: a shared way of life. We believe that’s what Jesus meant to leave behind – not just services, but rhythms and relationships that shape us. So we say we’re not interested in being an event people attend– we want to be a community that people belong to. That means we’re trying to build our lives around a few simple but radical habits:

  • Invite someone to dinner each week.

  • Connect with God outside.

  • Worship as a household.

Not all the time. Not perfectly. But often enough that these habits begin to form us. Because the church is people – and people are shaped not just by what they say they believe, but by what they repeatedly do. Each time you do a habit, however small, it is a vote cast for the identity you want to step into. Gathering, for us, is about patterning our lives around Jesus shaped rhythms. 

These kinds of gatherings don’t always look “religious.” Sometimes it’s paddleboarding in silence. Sometimes it’s clearing litter from a riverbank. Sometimes it’s a meal where someone says something vulnerable and everyone pauses and you all know – in your bones – that God is here.

This isn’t new ground. Theologians have spent decades dismantling the divide between sacred and secular, reminding us that all ground is holy ground if we have the eyes to see it. And yet – that old divide still clings on. We have lost potential members and leaders because of it. Ocean Church is one small attempt to live out what we already say we believe: that God is not confined to buildings, liturgies, or official spaces. He’s out here, in the natural and the ordinary.

It’s now 20 years since Mission-Shaped Church came out. We have the words. We have the theology. What we need now are structures – calling, money, placements – to help more of this come to life. The balance is still out at the moment. For every sodal expression of church- there must still be dozens of modal ones. We still have a job to reclaim the word “gather” – not as a fixed calendar slot, but as a living network of relationships held together by Jesus.

Faith gets formed in kitchens and on coastlines. And my prayer is that the church could be something you don’t go to, but something you become.


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Senses

What are you feeling?


It sounds like an innocuous, innocent enough question, doesn’t it? But what - when you get down to it - does it actually mean?


What are your senses taking in at this very moment?


What one of the big five takes the lead? Taste, touch, sight, smell or hearing? Take a moment to notice your senses right now, where you are. What can you see, hear or smell? Is there a lingering taste in your mouth? What is your hand touching? What does it feel like?


Let yourself become aware of your senses.


And these are just the big five: the headliners, the celebrities and key influencers in the world of senses. What about their lesser known colleagues, the unknown, under-appreciated senses?


Neurologists, psychologists and sociologists disagree about the number of senses a human has. (I like to imagine the debate getting out of hand like the rival news reporters in Anchorman. Maybe even with other -ologists getting involved.) 20? 30? Even 50-something? (Look at this blog for some more details)


Some of those lesser known senses could include the sense of heat, or colour, or balance. Hunger, thirst, the need for oxygen. 


So, back to the question: what do you feel? What temperature are you? How’s your balance? How are your muscles? What is your skin feeling? Is it stretched taught or loose? Are the hairs on your arms standing tall?


Try closing your eyes and concentrating on these senses for a moment. You’ll have to open your eyes again in a bit to read the next part though…


Having taken a deep dive into all of this, I have been amazed again at the human body. How all these senses, however many there are, happen automatically, without our command. And the interconnectedness of our bodies and the senses: did you know that we construct flavour by combining taste, smell, touch and temperature? And that there is a connection between sight and the sense of our own heartbeat?


Then there is the whole question of how the modern world affects our use of our senses. Some psychologists argue that our senses are so underused that they can become over sensitive which may lead to stress, anxiety and depression. Or our senses simply atrophy over time and stagnate so we are less aware of the wonderful world around us.


At Ocean Church we believe that we are all spiritual. Where does a spiritual sense fit into this? How is this spiritual sense connected to all the others? Is this sense also underused in our modern world?


My two big takeaways from all this sensitivity are about appreciation and attention. Take a moment to appreciate how awesome your body and brain are in combining all of this different sensory information. We are truly fearfully and wonderfully made as Psalm 139 says. 


And secondly, what sense can I give more attention to? When next by the ocean, how can I pay attention to all of the sensory overload? What might God be showing my spiritual sense? How are they all interacting and feeding into one another? 


Maybe some of us are a little sensory deprived. How about paying attention to all of our senses and experiencing our heartbeat, spiritual sense and sense of balance on our next walk?


https://www.sensorytrust.org.uk/blog/how-many-senses-do-we-have


https://www.sciencefocus.com/the-human-body/how-many-senses-do-we-have


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Scars

My right knee has an irregular scar formed from two separate cuts caused by a cut when I was too young to remember. My mum told me that in hindsight, it probably should have been stitched up but she was a nurse by training and not inclined to make too much of a fuss. On my left knee, there is a slight indent sustained when I took a small chunk out of it at a holiday camp when I was eight or nine. My abiding memory from this is how surprised I was that it didn’t hurt. My neatest scar is from my appendix was removed but I consider it distinguished by the five-pence-sized mark above it from where it became infected. There are stories behind our scars. Ask most children and they will be happy to tell you about theirs!


Some of our scars are visible to others; some remain hidden. They may remind us of times of pain but they are also indicators of healing. Without our bodies repairing our skin, there would still be open wounds, at risk of infection. Few of us would wish them upon ourselves but they mark experiences gained, lessons learned and healing. 


Following the resurrection of Jeus, not all of Jesus’ followers had seen him. One of them, Thomas, remained sceptical of their accounts of having seen him risen. When Jesus appeared to the disciples again in John 20, he offers Thomas the chance to touch the hands and side which bore the evidence of the injuries caused in his crucifixion. As well as being proof to Thomas, the scars helped tell the story of what had happened to Jesus. They communicated that death was not the end; hope was not lost. The shame and agony of crucifixion was not the end of the story – love and hope were the winners.


Often our scars are seen as imperfections. Jesus’ scars were not removed from his risen body but were marks of the message of salvation and liberation that his life, death and resurrection spoke of. For followers of Jesus, perhaps this means that we follow one who is scarred, one whose body speaks simultaneously of suffering and healing. Our example is one who can intimately relate to all kinds of pain we may experience while also imparting the hope that pain is not the end. 


Our scars, physical or emotional, don’t mean that we are spoiled goods, unable to be used. They mark the unique experiences we have been through and testify to the healing of injury. On top of this, they give us a way that we can link ourselves to a God who too bore the scars of wounds inflicted and we can remember the ultimate hope demonstrated in the resurrection. 


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Mist, vapour and smoke

Have you ever spent time in the mist?


From afar mist and clouds look impressive, substantial and beautiful. Maybe you’ve passed through them in an aeroplane, or climbing a mountain, or in a cloud forest. Inside the mist you can lose your bearings, sound can be distorted and the landscape changes. It can feel all-encompassing, uncontrollable and disorientating.

 

But when you try to hold or touch mist, the reality becomes clear: it is insubstantial and transient, you can’t hold it: it’s like it’s not actually there, a vapour. It may appear solid, but when you try to grab onto it, there’s nothing there.

 

I’ve been reading Ecclesiastes in the Bible recently. The author of Ecclesiastes writes about Solomon who was incredibly successful, rich and wise. The most powerful king Israel have ever had. Yet Ecclesiastes determines all life’s successes as ‘hevel’ which could be translated as vapour or smoke or mist. Work, wealth, honour, self-indulgence, even wisdom, Solomon’s most famous success: all vapour.

 

Vapour is here today and gone tomorrow, like the clouds. You can’t catch it or keep it or bottle it up. It is passing, transitory, it doesn’t last and doesn’t satisfy.

 

Ecclesiastes describes the best that life has to offer, the things that we chase after as vapour, or in other translations as vanity or meaningless. A chasing after the wind. Hevel.

 

This world and all its trappings, treasures and treats are transitory, passing, like the mist, like a vapour. Although they can feel so permanent, all-encompassing and everlasting; they will pass away like the mist on a hot day.

 

But the Bible teaches of a deeper reality that is much more substantial and long-lasting than this vapour that constitutes the life we know. A spiritual reality; life after death. The physical reality that we now live in is, in reality, a mist. And the spiritual reality, that we cannot actually see or feel, is, in fact, much longer lasting and real. Hard to get your head round.

 

The conclusion of Ecclesiastes is that one day God will clear the hevel away and bring order and clarity. This life is temporary and fleeting and we can stop trying to control it, stop worrying and accept the mistiness. Everything in life is out of our control, like the mist. However, we can enjoy the simple, good things of life, like family and friends or a sunny afternoon. Experiencing and enjoying life as it is. More than this, we can trust God who can guide us through the mist and outlasts it.

 

Can we see through the mist to what is lasting?

 

*Thanks to the teaching of Andrew Wilson for the inspiration for this, as well as the Ben Folds Five song ‘Smoke’. Give it a listen, go on.


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Is wellbeing the new Gospel?

Green goo with a zen font in Sainsbury’s is now on special offer. The next package from tropics has gone up by 25%. A hot salt sauna has now opened up in Hamworthy park while others buy electronics to keep their pools at freezing temperatures all year round. We don’t just want to live anymore. We want to thrive. We want to optimise. We want to glow. Well I sure do anyway.

Apparently, the wellbeing industry around the world is worth $5.6 trillion. I’m not even sure how to quantify that number. It’s more than the GDP of the UK. More than we spend globally on education. More than we spend on normal pharmaceutics (and I thought that industry was bad enough). And it’s more than the combined value of Apple and Microsoft. It’s one of the biggest profit making machines on the planet- helping millions of people feel better.

But its built on an ache. We need to feel healthier, more alive. More whole and more connected. But we appear to still be lonely, overstimulated. We’re anxious and confused. We aren’t quite done yet because there is always something left to improve.

Wellbeing, at its core, should be simple: Move your body in ways you enjoy. Eat real food, including plants. Drink water. Get enough sleep. See your friends. Get outside. Get some sun. Do things that bring you life.

I’m grateful for more opportunities to exercise, more knowledge to read. Don’t get me wrong. We have more language available to us now. We speak freely about mental health and emotional wellbeing. We are able to articulate more clearly our feelings and teach our children why their personalities might affect their behaviour. I think my challenge is when healing becomes a transaction. 

Instead of keeping it simple, the wellness industry has built a mythology around it—one that says it’s complicated, elite, hard to get right, and best delivered by a certified guru in a stylish outfit. What should be common sense has been wrapped in jargon, monetised, and made mysterious. The result? A lifestyle that was once about rhythm and relationship has become a labyrinth of products, plans, and programs. Wellness isn’t just lived anymore—it’s bought.

Can’t sleep?- Try this new app

Bad gut health?- Here’s a new powder

Achy bones?- Holistic spa treatments are available


Funny isn’t it- so many of us are uncomfortable with the language of sin and forgiveness but we are prepared to spend trillions on broken and fixed? 

If healing becomes a transaction then I think we are still stuck in a system that broke us in the first place. The real sickness is not just inflammation or bad sleep. It’s the belief that you are something to be fixed. That your value lies in how effectively you function. That your worth increases with every green juice and downward dog. That wholeness is something you perform for others. If we stay in that place then the industry has you right where they want you.

The reason all this is on my mind is because at Ocean Church, we tap into aspects of wellbeing all the time- and I love it. It’s one of the things that makes us special. We paddle, we walk, we swim in cold water, we share food outside, we listen to the wind in the woods and we try to slow down. We do believe that movement, nature, the outdoors, silence- pave the way to wholeness and connection. They matter. They’re good. They’re gifts. So this isn’t a rant. It’s a question. 

What happens when wellness becomes a gospel of its own? 

Are there bits of the wellbeing industry which can begin to promise things it can’t deliver? 


The wellness industry says 

If it hurts, fix it. Fast.

The gospel says 

Sit in the pain. It might be where God is breaking the soil for something new. 


The wellness industry says 

You are enough. Just align your energy and you’ll find peace.

The gospel says 

You are loved- even when you’re a mess. Peace isn’t an absence of conflict. Peace is a person who finds you.


The wellness industry says:

We can fix you—but it’s gonna cost ya

But the gospel says:

Come, you who have no money. Come and eat. Come and rest. Grace is free—because it cost everything.


The wellness industry says 

Follow your bliss

The gospel says 

Follow Jesus. Sometimes through desert. Sometimes through wonder. Always towards death and resurrection. 


The wellness industry says 

Detox your life. Cut out toxic people. Protect your vibe

The gospel says 

Love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you. 


Jesus didn’t come offering self-care routines or inner peace hacks. He didn’t hand out scented oils and tell people to manifest abundance. His healing wasn’t about achieving a higher state- it was about restoring relationship. With God. With others. With ourselves. He didn’t avoid pain, he entered it. He touched lepers. Sat with the grieving. Walked into storms. He wasn’t afraid of the mess, and he never charged admission. Where the wellness industry often says, “Fix yourself so you can be worthy,” Jesus says “you’re already loved- now let’s walk together.” His way was slow. Embodied. Communal. Inconvenient. Full of interruptions. But always moving towards wholeness that didn't just make you feel better- it made you new. 

Everyone shares the same spiritual longing. We all have a soul. We all want to go home. I’m just not sure that becoming restored and whole is all about you- and I’m not sure it’s about being a transaction. 

I love green juice and saltwater and downward dogs as much as the next man. I love talking therapy and cold dips and nutritional advice. I love that we want to become happier healthy people. 

These are amazing gifts. But they aren’t the giver. 


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A pilgrim’s work in progress

If I’m on a pilgrimage, does that mean I’m a pilgrim? A pilgrim can be defined as someone making a journey to a sacred place for religious reasons. Am I comfortable self-identifying as a pilgrim? What are my ‘religious reasons’ and how are they motivating me? And what about if the destination of that ‘sacred and holy place’ is Swanage?! A plethora of questions, much like my mind much of the time. Thoughts sparking and flying, processing and planning. 


A group of seventeen of us embarked on a two-day pilgrimage at the beginning of April. I entered it with a fairly open mind about what to expect, hoping that our two boys would enjoy it too. From the start we discovered we would walk slowly. We noticed. Our journey was intentional. We listened to each other. We responded in the moment. We used our senses. We embraced simplicity. Simple physical acts carried meaning – throwing stones into a stream, making a story stick, taking off our shoes and feeling the ground beneath bare feet.

 

Too often I go through life trying to fit the next thing in. Evenings and weekends quickly fill with jobs and activities, meaning I am constantly moving onto the next thing. Going on a pilgrimage helped, for a short period, to strip that away. There was no to-do list. Less human do-ing and more human be-ing. 


The idea of thin places appeals to me. A thin place can be a moment of transcendence, where our often self-imposed division between the physical and the spiritual is reduced, where the connection to the divine is more palpable or intense. It can be where time and the eternal meet. In busyness and rush, it is easy to miss these encounters. One such thin place on the pilgrimage for me came when we walked in silence for about ten minutes. As it transpired, this coincided with waiting at a crossing for a steam train to pass. A time that would normally be filled with chatter was held in deep quietness, listening to the building crescendo of wheels on tracks, whistles and steam, quickly to be replaced by stillness. It makes me think of the story in 1 Kings 19 where Elijah doesn’t hear the voice of God in a hurricane or an earthquake but in a whisper. A reminder that to hear, we need to ensure we listen. 


Sleeping on the floor in a cold church. Eating a simple but wholesome vegetable stew. A buttercup growing amid a bunch of nettles. A pilgrimage experience that was not linear. 


In the last week, I’ve watched the latest season of Pilgrimage. What struck me was the variety of responses the celebrities had. One said it felt almost indulgent. Others found clarity in faith or renewed hope. For someone, there was an element of healing. On our shorter pilgrimage, there were a similar broad range of experiences which you can read in an earlier post. 


Answering some of the questions in my opening paragraph might seem the natural or logical way to conclude this blog. However, earlier concerns may no longer seem necessary or relevant. Priorities change. The focus has shifted. Pilgrimage was not an argument to be won or a point to be made or a lesson to be learned. It was an experience. 


I can’t tell you what your pilgrimage would be like, should you have the opportunity to go on one. But I can recommend it. And I can advise you to lean into it, to embrace it. There’s lots to be gained from slowing down, paying attention and allowing yourself to be malleable. And hopefully I’ll be there to walk alongside you on the next one Ocean Church organise. 


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Infinity

Infinity is a tricky concept. How can you understand the idea of something continuing forever? No beginning and no end?

Although, as I think about it now, I wonder if its easier to imagine infinity when you’re younger because it seems like you’ll live forever. As you get a bit older life seems less permanent.

I think nature gives us some great images of infinity. The waves lapping backward and forward on the shoreline as the tide comes in and recedes, comes in and recedes again. The ocean reaches to the horizon, but you know that it goes on and on. The first time my children saw the ocean they just stood and stared. Sometimes we still do.

I once got to see the spectacular Victoria Falls in Zimbabwe. It felt like I had never seen so much water, just pouring continually down forever. My brain couldn’t understand why it didn’t run out, there was that much water. A continually flowing waterfall is a great image of eternity.

Victoria Falls is called ‘the smoke that thunders’ because you can hear the falls long before you see them; a deep roar that builds to a crescendo. And the spray creates ‘smoke’ that drifts high and wide. Knock on effects of the infinitely falling water.

Ecclesiastes 3:11 says “He (God) has made everything beautiful in its time. He has also set eternity in the human heart; yet no one can fathom what God has done from beginning to end.”

I love the phrase “He has set eternity in the human heart”. Perhaps that is why we rage against the dying of the light and death feels so wrong.

But yet, what is eternity? As humans we are completely bound by time so trying to get our heads around this idea is near impossible. Even the images of infinity mentioned earlier aren’t really infinite. Waterfalls do dry up.

Psalm 90:2 says “Before the mountains were born or you brought forth the whole world, from everlasting to everlasting you are God.”

God is from everlasting to everlasting: no beginning and no end. Tense applies differently here, He is God; the Great I AM. This is a common translation of the name God gave Himself when meeting with Moses at the burning bush (in Exodus 3), but it could just as equally be ‘I will be who I will be’. When you look into infinity, tense loses its meaning.

At this stage of the blog post I’d like to wrap things up neatly and come to some kind of clever conclusion, but the idea of infinity doesn’t allow me to do that. I think that’s okay though. 

Faith and spirituality should lead us to moments of wonder and unknowing, recognising that we are small and finite and the God who is the Great I AM is other: wonderful and infinite, like an ever-flowing waterfall cascading down and down. Maybe wonder and worship is the appropriate response.


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Standing on the shore

When I was at university, I went bodyboarding with a group of friends at Easter. There wasn’t

a wetsuit available that fitted my muscular lanky frame so I just wore a pair of shorts. This

was a mistake. After leaving the water 20-30 minutes later, I was extremely cold and

according to those I was with, fairly incoherent. Put simply, I had symptoms of mild

hypothermia and felt out of sorts for nearly a week afterwards.

About ten years later, I found myself in the Dominican Republic. The group I was with took

part in a fantastic activity, scrambling up streams and gorges before sliding down again and

doing some coasteering-style jumps into pools of water. It was brilliant and I loved it.

However, the activity and temperature change in the water sent my body into a sort of shock.

Within a couple of hours, back at the resort, I was wrapped up in jeans and a hoody,

shivering relentlessly, despite the temperature being in the mid to high thirties. Fortunately,

the effects were more short-lived this time, perhaps aided by the self-prescribed medicinal

qualities of all-inclusive rum!

These somewhat adverse experiences mean that I don’t have a strongly positive relationship

with cold water. If I’m in a wetsuit or fall in off a paddleboard, I’m ok but my wife will testify to

my reluctance to go into the sea even at the height of summer. I don’t find it refreshing or

relaxing and I’d much rather remain in some sort of shade reading a book. As I was regaling

these anecdotes to John on a run recently, we enjoyed the irony of me choosing to be part of

Ocean Church.

In this season of dipping our church is practising, I have been ankle-deep in the water. Once.

It was a reflective moment and I’m glad I did it. But, if I am being truly honest, I know I won’t

hurry back to it. My body’s reaction to even the prospect of submerging myself in the sea

borders on a fear response. It means in one sense, I can’t fully get on board with a big part

of what the community and church I am part of is collectively doing and experiencing in this

season.

This sense of partial separation from what the church I am part of is practising is a feeling I

have had before. In the past there have been songs I have not felt comfortable singing

because some of the words I disagreed with. There have been practices I have not fully

understood, enjoyed or participated in for one reason or another. I’m guessing that this

phenomenon is not unique to me. And this, I believe, is all ok.

It is possible to get frustrated or disillusioned when we feel like we’re not taking part or

embracing something that the rest of our group is part of. However, the reality is that the

communities that we are part of won’t match perfectly to us all of the time. They are made up

of people like us, but at different stages on their journeys. When I am in this situation, it is

up to me to actively choose not to compare myself to others. The quote, “Comparison is the

thief of joy,” is widely attributed to Theodore Roosevelt and its message encourages us not

to seek self-worth and happiness based solely on others’ experiences.

We have choices when we are in this sort of situation. At present, I’m nearly entirely on the

dry land of the shoreline when it comes to dipping, whereas many are wading and

submerging themselves. Instead, I choose to cheer them on, despite knowing I won’t have

the same experience. I relate the daily reflections about dipping to my own life. When others

share their reflections, I don’t need to let bitterness or apathy in because I am in a different

place, but I will be glad that collectively we are moving forward.

Perhaps there have been or will be times where you don’t feel you fully fit in with a church or

other group. That’s ok. As I remind myself there will be for me, know that there will be other

adventures waiting for you.

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Pilgrimage 1: Some thoughts

We set off from Corfe Castle on Friday, April 4th, 2025. Sixteen of us, packed lunches in hand, some familiar faces, some new, all of us wondering what the weekend might hold. As we shared sandwiches and stories, we began to find our rhythm—one foot in front of the other, heading towards St George’s church in Langton Matravers.

The sun showed up for us, warm on our backs, while our guide, Hilary, gently invited us to slow down. To notice the wildflowers. The birdsong. The small invitations from God hiding in the hedgerows.

By the time we arrived, something had shifted. The walking had done its work. We were ready—not just to rest, but to encounter God in ways we hadn’t expected.

Here are some photos from the journey, along with reflections from the pilgrims themselves. May they stir something in you, too.

For me, Pilgrimage was a chance to feel God with me and a chance to play with my friends. I learnt that to complete a pilgrimage you have to go through lots of different things. My favourite thing was doing a human pyramid!
— Zach (10)
For me the pilgrimage was an opportunity to do what I love doing (walking with nature) with like- minded folk; meeting new people, appreciating and learning so much more and even enjoying the ‘silent’ walk! None of this is possible without the love and knowledge of God who puts us all in the right place at the right time
— Julia
For me pilgrimage was an opportunity to slow down and be thankful for all of God’s creation.
— Kelly
Pilgrimage was an opportunity to reflect and feel closer to God. I felt closest to God when standing in the middle of the church floor and when we did our silent walk. I enjoyed playing and chatting with the other kids and I found the sky larks impressive. When we did the story stick I found a buttercup hidden in some stinging nettles. I picked it for my stick as I felt it represented hope in the worst of times.
— Aiden (11)
For me pilgrimage was about being outside in nature, real life and meeting new people.
— Caitlin (13)
Pilgrimage was fun, sleeping in a freezing cold church. Spending time with others. I thought it was kinda cool about the skylark who sings when it goes up and comes down, but doesn’t sing when it’s on the ground. When Hilary spoke, I felt God’s presence like he was around and he was watching us
— Dylan (11)
I used to be a climber, so it was great having my hands on rock again. But what stood out was how, at first, it can feel like there are no opportunities—like you just can’t spot the holds for your hands or your feet. But then, once you get your hands onto the rock, everything changes. It becomes this really tactile experience. All the details of the rock—the shape of the holds, the texture—they just sort of come into your hands. And you start to feel more and more. So essentially, the more you feel those details, the more depth comes out for you.
— Ben
For me, Pilgrimage was a chance to intentionally take time out of busy life to connect with God, nature and others. I was challenged by really being present in the moment - not always reflecting on the past or thinking about the future - and how much more we notice and experience by being present. I loved both the physical journey and the spiritual journey we went on. It was such a blessing to experience the incredible beauty of creation, and to share in each others spiritual journeys. I loved the simplicity, the slower pace, and watching the kids loving life.
— Becky
I didn’t realize it was going to be a sort of condensed down version of parts of my story. Particularly being in a wilderness season...I really had a powerful time of just realizing all that God had done and bits what I had to let go of and a simple way of throwing a stone in the water or taking something off and throwing it back to nature to die in the ground- all those sorts of things that meant I was just really thankful at the end I was able to bring that give all that to him
— Suzi
It was a chance to slow down and be. ‘Normal’ life can feel like a string of tasks punctuated with, “Next, next, next.” Both the 24 hours before and after have contrasted significantly with our time walking, reflecting and noticing together. My experience on the pilgrimage was a welcome opportunity to be deliberately present and emersed in the ‘now.’ Busyness was replaced by a more contemplative attitude and contentment was found in simplicity.
— Si
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Intensity

Some things in life are intense. Storms, sunsets, bright shining sunbeams breaking through the clouds. Massive waves, blustery gales or tornadoes. They can be intensely good moments of beauty and awe and majesty or intensely bad moments of destruction and devastation.

How is this reflected spiritually? What does a high intensity spiritual moment look or feel like? High emotion or hearing from God? Feeling the Holy Spirit? Being close to God? Mountaintop moments where heaven seems close enough to touch, like Elijah’s experience discussed in this blog last week. Maybe it is also true that intensely bad times of life also draw us close to God. Times when we are not in control and cannot cope so look to a higher power for help and answers.

But what about times of low intensity? Grey skies and drizzle, when life is just a bit meh. What do we do with times of spiritual low intensity? When we don’t really feel, experience or hear God?

Here are a few suggestions, but it is clear there is no silver bullet!

  • Keep on turning up. Keep praying or seeking God, practicing spiritual disciplines, meeting in community.

  • Habits help. Regular spiritual practices, like seeking God outside can be built into everyday life. Like a regular habit of going to the gym even in times of low intensity, spiritual habits help us keep going.

  • Be honest! The book of Psalms in the Bible is full of incredibly high and low intensity moments. Some bits are brutal. Using the Psalms to pray and reflect feelings can be really powerful.

  • Find friends to walk with. Friends can help carry us through times of low intensity.

  • Remember that although God can seem distant, He can actually be completely present. Read this from Henri Nouwen for more: https://henrinouwen.org/meditations/gods-absence-and-presence/ 

I guess the key is to cling to God in high and low intensity moments.


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Why you can’t feel spiritual when you’re in survival

So, it seems I'm still learning a lesson- one that I touched on in my last post. We are now a few weeks into this dip a day stuff and I seem to be still learning the same lesson...It's cold. And facing the cold is quite a challenge. You need energy from the get-go to even start a dip. To face the moment when your skin shrinks and your breath is taken away, and you want to be back in bed with a cuppa.

More specifically, the moment when I am in the water was supposed to be the spiritual bit. The bit where I feel most connected to God. In prayer, peace and when all things click into place. But here is my issue. When I am in the water is the exact moment when I feel the least spiritual of all. Im freezing, all i can think about is the water and the cold and my body. 

And what I’m realising is this: when you’re in survival mode, it’s nearly impossible to be spiritual. Your body is screaming "Get out!" Your brain is scanning for threats. You’re tense, guarded, braced. And in that place, you can’t really listen. You can’t really pray. You can’t even be fully present. Or at least I can't.

You aren't the master of the cold. So the cold becomes a teacher.

And here's the thing: a lot of us are in cold water all the time, metaphorically speaking. Not by choice. Not for Lent. Just... life.

For some, it’s depression. That grey fog where even brushing your teeth feels like its too much. For others, it’s anxiety—this buzzing alarm system that never turns off. For others still, it’s the hunger in your belly or the dread of checking your bank account. These aren’t abstract spiritual ideas. These are survival situations.

And when you’re just trying to keep the lights on—emotionally, mentally, financially—spirituality can feel like a luxury. Like something for people with energy. Or margin. Or peace.

But here’s what I’m beginning to believe: it’s not that spirituality isn’t for you when you’re in survival mode. It’s that it looks different. It’s quieter. Smaller. Maybe it’s just sitting in the bath and crying and saying one honest sentence to God. Maybe it’s asking for help. Maybe it’s letting someone else hold the faith for you, just for a bit.

Survival doesn’t cancel your spirituality. It just shifts the language.

In the Bible, I love the story where Elijah—fresh off this massive spiritual high, calling down fire from heaven just collapses under a broom tree and begs God to take his life. He’s done. Burned out. Terrified. Hungry and alone.

It’s one of those moments in scripture that’s uncomfortably human. This prophet, a giant of faith, reaches his absolute limit. And he doesn’t hide it. He doesn’t pray some polished prayer or put on spiritual airs. He just breaks. Falls apart in the wilderness.

And what does God do? He doesn’t roll his eyes. He doesn’t say, "C’mon man, toughen up. You’ve already got miracles under your belt!" No. He sends an angel who touches him gently. Gives him food. Lets him sleep. Then wakes him again with more food. More rest. Not once does God try to spiritually bypass Elijah’s exhaustion. Because God gets it.

God knows that sometimes the most spiritual thing you can do is eat a proper meal and take a nap. Because God knows you can't walk forty days and nights to the mountain if your blood sugar’s low and your cortisol’s through the roof. 

Spiritual life doesn’t start with a mountaintop. It starts with a meal. A nap. A little bit of kindness for your nervous system.

Sometimes, there's nothing to prove, nothing to do, no race to be won. and God know this. So, cut yourself a break. 

You might not be able to feel spiritual when you are in survival. 

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Identity and purpose

The story is told of a traveller who stumbles across an outpost. The Roman sentry there shouts down, “Who are you? What are you doing here?” Shocked to be on the wrong path, the man freezes. “Who are you? And what are you doing here?” demands the soldier once more. Taking stock of the situation, the traveller pauses before saying, “I will pay you twice what you earn if you will come to my house and ask me those questions each morning.”

Where our identity is based is crucial to us. So many factors can affect it. We are bombarded by messages concerning our identity from infancy, with some more positive and constructive than others. There are other messages, from friends, social media and society that can affect our self-worth. It can be so simple to be sucked into lies about our value or to undersell ourselves with expressions such as “I’m just a teacher” or whatever descriptor you would apply to your circumstances. We can also so easily be lured into negatively comparing ourselves to some external ideal.

In contrast, Psalm 139:14 reminds us that we are “fearfully and wonderfully made.” I wonder what it would be like to truly believe this, to begin each day being reminded of it. Perhaps you can sit with those words for a few minutes. Consider their impact on you and what this tells you. 

The question “What are you doing?” can feel almost confrontational. Does it challenge us? Our purpose, like our identity, can feel fragile. It is easy to downplay the roles that we have, and the adverbs of ‘just’ and ‘only’ can too easily sneak their way into our vocabulary when we describe our actions and what we do. 

One thing I have noticed more recently is that many of the messages in the Bible that seem linked to purpose are given collectively. For example, the often-quoted passage of Jeremiah 29:11 which says, ‘“For I know the plans I have for you,” declares the Lord, “plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future,”’ was spoken to the group of Jews who had been exiled into Egypt. In our individualistic society, we can forget our purposes are at least partially communal. This is one of the things I like about being part of Ocean Church, where we strive to be part of a community of adventurers, embodying faith through shared experiences. It’s not all down to me – but I am part of a community who are intentionally seeking transformation and have my role to play. 

“Who are you? What are you doing here?”  We’re back where we started. There may not be a Roman sentry demanding our immediate response but the challenges remain as we grapple them, encouraging us to focus on our identity and purpose. Which leads us inevitably to, how do you answer these questions?


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pebbles

Do you have a favourite stony beach? Don’t get me wrong, we all love a sandy beach and all that it entails: sandcastles, massive holes, comfortable sunbathing and so on. But a stony beach is great in its own right. Our favourite has long been Budleigh Salterton from when we lived in Devon. Aside from having an incredible name and a teashop that serves a high class cream tea (the secrets in the doilies), the pebbles on the beach are perfect. 


I love the approach to the seafront. As you get closer you can hear the suck of the waves on the pebbles and the clack and rattle of the smaller ones rolling over each other as they get dragged interminably out to sea and back to shore. A place to hear the very voice of God.

As a family we play ‘choose your favourite pebble’. Rock* and roll, I know. But which one to choose? Pearly white, reflecting the sun or multicoloured with hints of pink and bluey green? Perfectly smooth or pitted and cracked with imperfections? Rounded and oval or misshapen? Fat or flat? Or what about the one with the hole right through it?


Next time you go to a stony beach try playing our game. Feel the pebble you choose. Is it smooth or grainy? Consider it, its weight, shape and colour. Pebbles are formed over long periods of time; the friction of water and being battered by other pebbles smoothing edges and shaping them, making them beautiful. Where has your pebble come from? Where did its journey start? Maybe a desert or a volcano, depending on the type of rock.


Could you allow God to speak to you through your pebble? What journey are you on? Where did it start? What events of life have worn you down or smoothed your sharp edges? How have you been battered or smashed, ground down, but then moulded and shaped? What imperfections are there?

In some ways I feel battered and broken, worn and ground down. Certainly feeling the mileage these days. But I completely believe that God is shaping me, like a pebble in the ocean. Maybe not beautiful yet: does that mean more friction to come?


2 Corinthians 4 verses 8-10: “We are hard pressed on every side, but not crushed; perplexed, but not in despair; persecuted, but not abandoned; struck down, but not destroyed. We always carry around in our body the death of Jesus, so that the life of Jesus may also be revealed in our body.”

I’ll let the great Paul Weller have the final word.


Like pebbles on a beach

Kicked around, displaced by feet

Oh, like broken stones

They’re all trying to get home


(Broken Stones by Paul Weller)


* Pun intended. Apologies.



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on being cold

Something was amiss in Shell Bay. There was plenty of us, it was a beautiful day with lots of potential to encounter God in the elements. Still, there was one nagging feeling that affected our time there. Obvious to some. But not me.

It was cold.

I felt it more on Saturday, trudging into the harbour for a cold dip. The initial shock stole my breath and my body didn't seem happy. As soon as I put my shoulders in, I thought it was now time to get out. I realised later that I had seen the dip as a challenge, something to achieve and overcome, not something to experience or be present to. It turns out that organising dips might be easier than actually dipping. 

Sometimes at Ocean Church, we have a "battle through" mentality. We keep going with what we have planned regardless of how people are feeling, pushing forward because we think the program is more important than how the conditions are affecting us. But perhaps the cold teaches us something different. Perhaps it's not always about pushing through, but about listening—pausing to notice what the moment is asking of us. Sharing information on the beach can be difficult—words get lost in the wind, attention shifts with the waves, and sometimes, what we try to say doesn’t land.

So how, then, do we deepen faith? how to we tell the Christian story to each other? Maybe faith isn't just about resilience but about responsiveness, about knowing when to press on and when to let the cold shape us, guide us, even change our course. Maybe deepening faith isn’t just about talking but about experiencing, about paying attention to what’s happening around us, what’s stirring within us, and how God is already moving in the silence, in the elements, in the very things we often try to push past. God might be objective, but our experience of him is so fragile and changeable. Ocean Church provides the chance to prioritize embodied faith—engaging with God through experience first, before processing it cognitively. 

Cold exposure triggers a series of physiological responses in the body. When we are exposed to cold, our blood vessels constrict to preserve heat, redirecting blood flow to our core. This helps keep our vital organs warm but leaves our hands and feet numb. Shivering then kicks in—our muscles contract involuntarily, generating heat but also making it harder to move with precision. Prolonged exposure can slow brain function, making it harder to focus, process information, and even articulate thoughts clearly. The cold is hungry. It demands energy, drawing our attention inward toward survival rather than outward toward engagement.

So what does this mean for faith in outdoor spaces? The cold/ wet/ heat/ (insert other distracting conditions here) shouldn't be an elephant in the room, nor something we tut about. It means we need to recognize the effect of the elements on our ability to be present and call it out into the open. It means adapting how we worship and learn, making room for movement instead of stillness, for action rather than long discussions. It means embracing warmth—through shared physical activity, storytelling, or even simple rituals like holding a warm drink together. If cold narrows our focus to what keeps us alive, then maybe faith in these spaces needs to be about what brings us life. Not just enduring the elements but responding to them in ways that deepen our connection—to each other, to creation, and to God.

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