The Left, The Right, and the Salt Marsh
This is a photo I took last week on the bridge at the far end of Hamworthy Park, near where we sometimes meet for Ocean Church.
The whole bridge now has these England flags adorning it. As I walked over, what struck me wasn’t just the flag itself or the sheer quantity of them, but the conversation now feels very close to home. The first voice painted the flag. The second voice wrote across it: “Don’t normalise racism.”
Apart from the fact that the bridge looked far better without any of this artwork, what you see here is two perspectives unwilling — or maybe unable — to sit in the same room. One insists England needs firmer borders, stricter rules on who comes in and how they’re treated. The other insists we’ve become hostile, unwelcoming — or worse.
I understand the tension here. My concern is that we don’t seem to have spaces where people can disagree peaceably. When uncertainty hangs in the air, people feel their way of life — however they define it — is under threat. And when fear takes over, we drift into silos. Certainty gets outsourced to more extreme voices.
It all makes me think of the salt marsh.
You’ll find salt marshes all along our Dorset coast — places like Poole Harbour, where mudflats and creeks stretch out into the tide. At low water you’ll see curlews probing the mud with their long beaks, oystercatchers darting about, and flocks of Brent geese gathering in winter. In the shallow creeks, young sea bass and flounder hide from bigger predators, using the marsh as a nursery. Plants like samphire and sea lavender cling to the edges, holding the mud in place and quietly feeding the whole system. What looks like wasteland is actually teeming with life — and all of it depends on the tension between land and sea, fresh and salt, stability and change.
And it strikes me: the marsh doesn’t survive by one side winning. If the sea takes over, everything drowns. If the land walls itself off, everything dries up. The flourishing comes from holding the tension, making space for both realities to meet and shape each other. Life is born in the in-between.
That’s what Paul is getting at in one of his letters in the New Testament, the part of the Bible that tells the story of the early church. He was writing to a group of people in a city called Ephesus, in what is now Turkey. Back then, there were two main groups trying to follow Jesus: Jewish people, who carried centuries of tradition, law, and culture, and Gentiles, which basically meant everybody else. These groups didn’t just have differences; they had walls between them — suspicion, prejudice, hostility. Each thought the other was missing something essential.
Paul’s radical claim was that Jesus broke down those walls. He didn’t do it by pretending the differences didn’t exist. He didn’t say, “Forget your history, flatten it all out.” Instead, he insisted that the cross — the death and resurrection of Jesus — had created a new kind of community. Not Jews who had to become Gentiles. Not Gentiles who had to become Jews. Something entirely new. He calls it “one new humanity.”
The idea is this: the peace Jesus brings isn’t about one side winning, dominating, or painting over the other. It’s about creating a space where differences don’t have to lead to division. Where there can be humility, mutual respect, and shared life. A bit like the salt marsh — it only flourishes when the land and sea keep their dance going, when neither is allowed to swallow up the other.
And maybe that’s the challenge for us right now. The temptation is to let flags, slogans, or online shouting matches become the whole story — one side painting over the other until all you see is conflict. But if the marsh teaches us anything, it’s that life is born in the tension, not in its erasure. Humility creates room. Space for difference doesn’t mean weakness — it’s actually what holds an ecosystem, or a community, together.
That’s why Paul’s vision of a “new humanity” still speaks today. The Jesus way isn’t about pretending we’re all the same, or forcing everyone into one box. It’s about building a shared space where hostility doesn’t get the last word. Where we can belong together without having to agree on everything. Where peace is more than just the absence of fighting — it’s the presence of justice, welcome, and mutual respect.
And here’s the hopeful part: I’ve already seen people choosing that way. A friend of mine recently wrote on Facebook:
“Hi friends/neighbours. I’m noticing some division between us relating to opinions around ‘our country’.
I’m someone who names themselves as a welcomer of people seeking asylum. I know that there are friends nearby who have a different opinion.
So, my friends/neighbours… Would you like to meet up for a coffee and a 1-1 walk up and down our beautiful estate? We can listen to one another and try to understand each other’s point of view, (without trying to persuade or make each other believe something different).
I’m hoping that by this teeny action, we could maybe build a more united community that has room for difference without hatred here on fabulous ********. DM me if you want to meet for a walk and talk. xxxxx”
That’s the salt marsh in real life. Not erasing difference. Not shouting louder. Just holding the tension with humility, and letting new life grow in the space between.
How might you live in the marsh this week?
