Tag Archives: vocation

Into Culture: Tarshish

I remember, some years ago, my dear friend, Dave, coming back from a leadership training course. We met to reflect together on what he had gleaned and one thing has stuck with me ever since. They had been studying the story of Jonah and had asked a different question to that which most of ask when engaging in this tale of the reluctant prophet. They were asked not “what is your Nineveh?”, that familiar prompt about the place you would rather not go, but instead, “what is your Tarshish?”, the fantasy you reach for to justify your avoidance.

I can’t remember how Dave, personally, responded to that question but I do remember, in the course of our conversation, him turning to me and, in the way only close friends can, saying, “Ned, your Tarshish is academic monasticism.” It hit me hard and I continue to carry those words with me. It was said with knowledge and love and I knew, immediately, there was deep truth in it. I do find myself in times of pressure and uncertainty, retreating to a world of books, ideas and ordered thought. This imagined place is where I dream of complexity being contained, rather than encountered.

I am in such a season at the moment in ministry where the demands are increasing, and the metaphorical plates are wobbling. My everyday experience is of managing experienced chaos and change. I have also been helping to induct a new Dean whilst we continue to navigate staff departures, shifting responsibilities and the quiet accumulation of strain that comes when there are too few people to carry too much. We are, at present, feeling a certain amount of fragility with that sense that what is being held together is being held by attention, goodwill and, at times, sheer endurance.

It is in that context, I found myself in a conversation with my new colleague about my own sense of vocation. We, inevitably spoke about theology and its place within the life of the Church. A suggestion that I have heard before was to consider whether theological education is what God is calling me to. My response, slightly rehearsed, was dismissive: I have been burnt by rejection for such roles in the past and then, Dave’s comment surfaced again. Is this ‘fit’ and personal desire, Tarshish? I also am noting the return of the impulse to pursue doctoral studies. This seems foolish when my life is so full of the necessary duties of holding a community and organisation at this time.

And finally, I found myself sitting with a friend who is part of an informal group called Café Theology. We meet at times to ‘geek out’ about theology. It is a group of people who have either done or are engaged in doctoral studies and for whom conversations on a more academic subject is pleasing and encouraging. On this occasion he had called a meeting at the request of a bishop who wanted to reflect on the theology at the heart of a practical challenge in the diocese. In the course of the conversation I found myself asking, perhaps, a deeper question: what is theological work for, in a cathedral, in a diocese or in the Church that often feels as though it no longer quite knows how to make space for it?

I have been reading the Pastoral Rule of Gregory I. It’s striking, reading it through the lens of a season like this, how little sympathy Gregory has for the idea that one might simply step away. He writes as one who knows both the attraction of withdrawal and the cost of responsibility and refuses to allow either to become absolute.

The pastor, he insists, must be ‘near to all in sympathy’ and yet ‘lifted above all in contemplation’. The tension is not a problem to be solved but a vocation to be inhabited. Gregory is acutely aware of the temptation to choose one side at the expense of the other. There are those, like me, he suggests, who long for the quiet of contemplation not because they are necessarily called to it but because they wish to avoid ‘the burden of others’. Equally, however, there are those who are so immersed in activity that they lose any sense of God, in whose name they act. The danger lies not simply in withdrawal or not, but in the imbalance between the two. To flee into the cell can be avoidance; to remain endlessly in the crowd can be another form of it.

What Gregory refuses, therefore, is the clean distinction I find myself wanting to make. The question is not whether I am called to Nineveh or to Tarshish, but whether either can become a way of evading a deeper call to be stretched between attention to God and the service with and for others. And yet, alongside Gregory’s resistance, there sits another voice, for me. It is quieter, more interior but no less demanding and it’s in the opening of the Proslogion by Anselm of Canterbury.

Come now, insignificant man [sic.], leave behind for a time your pre-occupations; seclude yourself for a while from your disquieting thoughts… Attend for a while to God and rest for a time in him. Enter the inner chamber of your mind and shut out all else except God…
Anselm of Canterbury, Proslogion, in Hopkins, J. and Richardson, H.W. (trans.), Anselm of Canterbury, vol.1 (London: SCM Press, 1974) p.91

It is difficult to read those words without feeling the invitation to do something that sounds, at first, dangerously like Tarshish. In a context of institutional fragility and accumulated demand, the invitation to step away, to shut the door and to seek God in the ‘inner chamber of the mind’, feels less like temptation and more like necessity. Anselm does not apologise for this movement inward. He insists upon it. There is, he suggests, a kind of attention to God that cannot be sustained in the noise of constant activity.

But even here the movement is more complex than it first appears. Anselm’s ‘escape’ is not a destination but a discipline. It is bounded, ‘for a time’, ‘for a while’. It is ordered towards a return, not a permanent, sustained removal. The one who withdraws does so, not to abandon the world, but to re-enter it more truthfully, more attentively and more capable of love. The inner chamber may not be a refuge from vocation but a condition for it.

The difficulty, of course, is that the line between discipline and desire is rarely clear. What begins as a necessary withdrawal can become a preferred one. The space in which we seek God can slowly become the place in which we hide from everything else. And so Dave’s question lingers, uncomfortably. When I imagine a life of study, reading and theological depth, am I responding to a call or constructing an escapist fantasy?

Perhaps the more unsettling possibility is that the categories themselves have become unstable. If Gregory is right, then neither action nor contemplation can stand alone. If Anselm is right, then without some form of withdrawal, even our action becomes disordered. Which leaves the question not simply of what I should do, but of where such a life is meant to be held. What kind of ecclesial space could sustain both the inward attentiveness Anselm demands and the outward responsibility Gregory refuses to relinquish? And, more pressingly, do our current structures make that kind of life possible or do they quietly force us to choose between them?

It is worth returning, at this point, to that small but significant moment with my friend from Café Theology. When faced with a practical challenge in the shared life of the diocese, a bishop responded to the suggestion that we did not begin with strategy, policy, or management frameworks, but with the theology at the heart of issue and asked for my friend to “assemble the avengers” (direct quote from the bishop!) There is, in the request, something both deeply traditional and quietly radical. It gestures toward a vision of the Church in which theology is not an optional extra, nor a specialist pursuit for the few but the very medium through which we discern, decide, and act together.

And yet, the fact that this request felt noteworthy is itself revealing to me. It suggests, again, how unusual it has become to expect theological reflection to sit at the centre of our common life rather than on its margins. In previous posts, I have found myself circling this absence: the way in which theological seriousness can feel fragile within our ecclesial structures; the way cathedrals, in particular, risk becoming places of aesthetic excellence, liturgical provision, or cultural engagement but not sustained sites of theological rigour. It’s not that we have abandoned theology, exactly, but we have, perhaps, lost confidence in where it properly belongs.

Historically, of course, the answer was, perhaps, clearer. The cathedral is not simply a large, symbolic church. It is the cathedra; the seat of the bishop’s teaching ministry. It is, or ought to be, the place where the Church’s thinking life is gathered, tested, and offered back, not in abstraction from its realities, but with deep engagement with them. A bishop should teach not only through personal pronouncements, but through a community, a body of clergy and laity, who can attend to Scripture, tradition and context with patience, depth and imagination.

Which raises a possibility that feels, at once, obvious and strangely neglected: what if our cathedrals were more intentionally configured as centres of theological reflection for diocesan life? What if Deans and Residentiary Canons were recognised, not simply as senior administrators, liturgists, or public figures, but as theological reflectors within the life of the Church? Not producing theology at a distance, but engaging the lived questions of the diocese with seriousness, time, and disciplined attention.

I have, in quieter moments, tried to name something like this before. In my last Ministerial Development Review, I found myself tentatively suggesting that part of my vocation might lie in precisely this space of holding together pastoral responsibility, liturgical life, and sustained theological work for the sake of the wider Church. The response, though not entirely dismissive, was marked more by scepticism than curiosity. It did not quite fit the current, available categories. There was, it seemed, little sense that such a role could, or even should, be intentionally shaped.

Perhaps that is the deeper issue: without recognised spaces in which theology and ministry are held together, the tension Gregory names and Anselm qualifies does not disappear; it simply becomes privatised. It is pushed back onto the individual who must decide whether to carve out time for study (at the risk of appearing disengaged) or to surrender it entirely (at the cost of theological depth). In such a context, it is hardly surprising that doctoral study begins to look like, for me, Tarshish, but what if that is a failure not of my individual discernment but of ecclesial imagination? What if the question is why the Church finds it so difficult to sustain thinking within its own life? The bishop’s keenness to begin with theology suggests that the desire has not totally disappeared. The question now is whether we have, or can create, the forms, the habits and the shared commitments to make that instinct something more than occasional.

If Gregory is right, then the Church needs ministers who can live between contemplation and action. If Anselm is right, then such a life requires disciplined spaces of withdrawal and attention. The challenge then is not simply personal, but structural. The task is to imagine communities in which this tension is not borne alone but held in common. It may be that the cathedral, properly understood and re-configured, remains one of the few places where such an imagination could begin to take shape.

If that imagination is to take shape, however, it cannot remain at the level of aspiration. Organisational re-structuring won’t hold it, nor will titles generate it. Even a renewed vision of a cathedral as a centre of theological reflection will falter if it is not sustained by something more ordinary, more demanding and more easily resisted: a shared pattern or Rule of Life.

This is not a new idea, as many long time readers of my blog, or readers of my book (self promotion: Ash Water Oil: why the Church needs a new form of monasticism) should know by now. Historically, the very word canon gestures toward it. The residentiary clergy of cathedrals were not originally just office-holders. They were those who lived according to a canon/rule. My own academic work on Hugh of St Victor and the Augustinian Rule has only deepened my awareness of this inheritance and shaped my own vision of clergy who inhabit a shared rhythm of prayer, study and common life, in which theology is not an occasional activity but a habitual way of being. More recently, I have found myself drawn to the life of the Oratory of Saint Philip Neri: a community without vows, yet bound by a shared commitment to prayer, conversation, and intellectual seriousness held within friendship.

It is, perhaps, telling that I find myself looking at these resources because in the present moment such a life is rarely named or lived. In the absence of a shared rule at Bradford Cathedral, I’ve begun (tentatively and imperfectly) to articulate something like a personal Rule for Theological Living. I shaped it to structure my life to ensure the demands of ministry don’t crowd out those things that keep me connected to God in the way in which I tend to encounter him.

At its heart is a simple conviction that theology is not something I occasionally do but, rather, something I am called to live. That every sermon, conversation, meeting and moment of study participates, however partially, in the Church’s ongoing attempt to think truthfully about God and to do so in a way that builds communion rather than fragments it. That conviction, however, requires form if it is to survive contact with reality and so the Rule attempts to name, in deliberately modest ways, a set of commitments and rhythms.

The Rule seeks to name a set of virtues that are less about intellectual capacity and more about posture: humility, in recognising the provisional nature of all our speech about God; clarity, in refusing to hide behind unnecessary complexity; hospitality, in making space for others to think and speak; and courage, in naming what needs to be named, even when it unsettles. These are, I feel, the difference between theology that builds up and theology that merely performs.

Perhaps most practically (and most challengingly) the Rule attempts to establish daily, weekly and monthly rhythms that carve out space for sustained attention. There is an invitation, at the start of each day, to a short period of prayer and reading. Then there is a more extended engagement, again, each day, of study and writing. There’s a weekly period of deeper focus and, finally, a monthly act of public reflection (these blog posts currently act as those!). None of this is meant to be heroic. All of it is fragile but it is an attempt to resist the slow erosion of theological attentiveness under the pressure of immediate demands.

As part of Bradford Cathedral’s vision, we began to explore the possibility of a more intentional shared rule of life among the residentiary clergy. We didn’t want a strict monastic way of life that was inaccessible to others who didn’t live on site but some common pattern of prayer, study, conversation and rest that might encourage discipleship across our community. What might it mean to hold one another to account not only for outputs and responsibilities but for attentiveness to God and to the Church’s thinking life? To create, together, spaces in which Anselm’s “inner chamber” is not an individual escape, but a shared discipline and in which Gregory’s call to remain “near to all” is sustained, rather than eroded, by that attentiveness?

If such a life were even partially realised, it would begin to shift the questions with which I started and to my friend, Dave’s probing discernment which still unsettles me.

At this moment in time, the thought of doctoral study and a more ordered intellectual life feels like a relief I desire more than anything. It is an imaginative place where the noise quietens and the demands are, if not fewer, then at least more containable and I cannot pretend that this is not, at times, a form of Tarshish. I am less convinced than I once was, though, that the answer lies in simply refusing it. The deeper question I find myself asking is not whether I should go to Nineveh or flee to Tarshish, but why the journey feels so starkly divided in the first place.

If the reflections of Gregory the Great and Anselm of Canterbury are to be taken seriously, then the problem is not the tension itself, but our inability to hold it well. If that is the case, then the answer cannot be found in individual acts of discernment alone (important though they are) but in the kinds of communities we are able and willing to form.

At present, I suspect our structures do, more often than not, quietly force the choice. We reward activity and sideline attentiveness or we isolate theological study in ways that remove it from the shared life of the Church. The Church seems to perpetuate the binary that makes Nineveh relentless and Tarshish alluring and, in so doing, leave many of us attempting to hold together, alone, what was never meant to be borne individually.

This faint outline of another possibility has begun to emerge of a cathedral that is not only a place of worship and welcome but also a community of theological attention. A community that lives, however imperfectly, by a shared rule in which thinking, praying, and acting are not separated but sustained together. In such a place, the journey to the “inner chamber” would not be an escape from responsibility, but a shared discipline that deepens it.

In that kind of life, the caution Dave gave me still remains but it no longer is, “where am I escaping to?” but “how are we learning to stay, together?”

Into Culture: Consiglieri

I have often found myself drawn to and flourishing in the role of second-in-command, the lieutenant rather than the figurehead. I have served in this position on a number of occasions and, depending on the main leader, these have been some of the most enjoyable and affirming periods of my ministry.

Before he left Bradford Cathedral in January, my working relationship with Andy Bowerman was one of the most satisfying I have known and I have missed him and that relationship very much over the last two months. We had a creative trust between us: room to think, to test, to challenge, to shape. With him I discovered that the work itself, whether Chapter business, strategic planning, or pastoral oversight, was more than the sum of our parts.

In preparation for his leaving, I read Consiglieri by Richard Hytner. It was recommended to me after a conversation with an Archdeacon about my vocation and leadership style. In that conversation, I found myself repeating a familiar refrain I have said over the years, “I’m just more of a Gordon Brown than a Tony Blair.” It is a generalisation that gestures towards a personal view of myself and my strengths and weaknesses. My natural habitat is not at the podium but in the room behind it, not in the delivery of the speech but in the shaping and phrasing of its argument.

My personality, both as I experience it and whenever I have been ‘profiled’, is one of behind the scenes as an advisor or consultant. I am an INTJ (Myers Briggs), ‘Executive’/‘Innovator’ (Belbin), Type 1 (Enneagram). Gallup Strength Finder identifies my particular strengths in: ‘Input’, ‘Strategic’, ‘Learner’, ‘Achiever’ and ‘Restorative’. Essentially I am best researching, gathering and processing data and information, learning new things and connecting them in creative ways with other ideas. I work independently but need others to feed me information and data in order that I can help the group achieve new things and get jobs done to the highest level.

Last month I shared some ministerial images (click here) that have continued to emerge as ‘narrative setters’: the watchman who surveys the horizon from the walls, alert to shifts and movements that others might overlook. It is the mountain goat, navigating difficult terrain that is inhospitable, not because the lush fields below are wrong or unworthy, but because the path above requires skill, attention, and courage. It is the pioneer, clearing space within inherited settlements so that new life can emerge without abandoning what has been entrusted.

Now, as I welcome a new Dean to Bradford Cathedral I am reflecting again on what this vocational shape looks like in a cathedral context as well as in the wider Church? What might this all mean for me personally and vocationally over the next five, ten, or twenty years? How can this particular instinct inform the design of roles, the formation of communities, and the cultivation of ecclesial attention?

Hytner’s account of the consiglieri rescues the adviser from caricature: the shadowy fixer or manipulator behind the throne. Instead, he presents a figure of judgment, discretion, and relational intelligence. The consiglieri stands close enough to influence, but far enough away not to be consumed by power or pressure. They observe, they test, they counsel; they can restrain without domination, guide without claiming. To use Tolkien language: this is Gandalf.

This resonates with my own sense of vocation. Those vocational images (watchman, mountain goat, and pioneer) are all about careful attention, deliberate navigation and courageous, often hidden, labour. Seeing patterns, holding tensions longer than others and shaping decisions without claiming them all feel profoundly aligned with the way I serve. Yet Hytner’s model assumes a single, clearly defined centre: the leader. Authority, even exercised with wisdom, is derivative. “I” is always in relation to someone else. In the Church, however, authority should rarely be reduced to a single individual. The bishop, priest, deacon, lay leader, etc. exercise particular responsibilities, yet all operate within a wider, relational economy of discernment. Power if done appropriately in the Church is dispersed, mediated by communal practice, and ultimately offered back to God. Leadership is never only a function of personality or office; it is a shared vocation.

Hytner presents the consiglieri as an individual. Reading him ecclesially, however, encourages a subtle shift: from role to rhythm, from individual person to shared practice. My question of Hytner’s assessment is: if the consiglieri’s function is so valuable in a single-leader context, what might happen when it is distributed across a community? What if the quality of spacious, patient attentiveness could be embedded into the culture of, say, a cathedral chapter, a diocese, or in any form of church leadership team? Could the Church itself cultivate the capacity to advise itself faithfully, rather than relying on the presence of a singular adviser to a singular leader?

This is where the various monastic traditions offer insight. Monastic rules have long grappled with the question of authority distributed across community life. Each tradition provides distinct approaches to forming leaders who can hold tension, offer counsel, and shape decisions without resorting to domination.

The Rule of St Benedict (probably the most well known of the monastic Rules) has as its second chapter ‘the qualities of the abbot’. That says something in itself: that after a prologue and a chapter on different types of monks and customs, Benedict decides to outline the role of abbot. What follows is not a job description but a theological vision of leadership as a form of accountable, relational and deeply attentive stewardship.

I have had the privilege of encountering several Benedictine abbots/abbesses in my time and they never strike me as CEOs or managerial leaders. They, in line with the tone and character of the Rule, “hold the place of Christ” in the monastery. They never hold the position as a claim to authority for its own sake but as, I would say, a profound burden of representation in which every decision is weighed not only for its efficiency but for its justice, its mercy, and its formative impact on the whole community.

Benedict insists that the abbot must adapt to the needs of each member of the community: firm with some, gentle with others, always attentive to the particularity of the person before them. Leadership is agile and adaptable; not flattened into uniformity but stretched across difference, held together by a kind of unifying attentiveness. The abbot is seen less as a controller of outcomes and more a cultivator of the shared life as an environment in which others can flourish.

Crucially, the abbot is bound into a web of accountability. They must listen to the counsel of the community, especially in matters of importance, as they will give an account before God for how they have exercised his care. Authority is reframed not as possession but as responsibility held in tension: decisive, yet porous; directive, yet listening. The abbot must lead, but they must also be led by the Rule, by the community, and ultimately by God.

What begins to emerge is a model of leadership that resonates deeply with the consiglieri instinct but relocates it within a communal and theological frame. The abbot remains the leader, bearing responsibility and, at times, making decisions that cannot be deferred, but does so as one continually shaped by the counsel of the community. They are not a solitary decision-maker but a leader formed within an advising body.

The attentiveness, discernment, and relational intelligence we might associate with the consiglieri are not concentrated in a single figure alongside him, either. Those qualities are diffused across the life of the monastery and drawn into its leadership through listening. In this sense, Benedict does not eliminate the consiglieri function so much as distributes it. Authority is exercised from within a shared discipline of attention.

It is important to note at this point that the abbot, in most monastic communities, is never permanently set apart from this dynamic. In time, they relinquish the office and return to the community as one among others. Leadership, then, is not an identity to be possessed but a role temporarily inhabited within a wider ecology of discernment. It is this ecology, rather than the individual office, that ultimately carries the wisdom of the community.

Alongside this, the Rule of St Augustine offers a slightly different but complementary vision. Where Benedict begins with the abbot, Augustine begins with the community itself. His Rule opens not with hierarchy, but with unity: “live together in harmony, being of one mind and one heart on the way to God.” Authority is not absent, but it is deliberately de-centred, embedded within a shared life ordered towards charity. The superior is present, but almost understated; what matters most is the cultivation of a common disposition: humility, mutual submission, and a willingness to place the good of the whole above the assertion of the individual will.

Leadership, in the Augustinian frame, emerges from attentiveness to relationship. Correction is to be exercised carefully, privately where possible, always with the aim of restoration rather than control. The Rule resists the temptation to formalise authority too tightly, instead trusting that a community formed in charity will generate its own patterns of accountability. To lead, in this context, is, primarily, about guarding unity: to notice when relationships begin to fracture, when speech becomes careless, when possession or status begins to distort the common life.

The Oratorian tradition, shaped by Philip Neri, introduces yet another inflection. Unlike the more formalised structures of the Benedictine or, to a lesser extent, the Augustinian life, the Oratory resists binding itself to a single, prescriptive rule. Instead, it develops a pattern of life grounded in prayer, conversation, preaching, and pastoral attentiveness, with leadership exercised in a markedly relational and improvisational manner.

Here, the superior holds authority, but it is softened by the ethos of fraternity and friendship. Decisions emerge through conversation, through sustained attentiveness to the movement of the Spirit within the community. Leadership remains responsive to people, to context, to the unexpected. Stability is not abandoned, but held lightly, allowing adaptation without loss of identity.

What is striking in each of these examples is the way the consiglieri instinct becomes almost ambient. It is not concentrated in a role but the community itself becomes a kind of living advisory body, capable of responding dynamically to new challenges without collapsing into either rigidity or chaos. Taken together, these traditions suggest that the same core qualities are being formed, but through more ecclesial grammars.

If the monastic traditions suggest that the consiglieri instinct can be distributed and diffused across a community, then The Undefended Leader by Simon Walker offers a practical framework for recognising how these dynamics take shape in lived leadership.

Leadership, Walker suggests, operates across two key axes: frontstage and backstage, and strength and weakness. The frontstage is the visible space of action, communication, and decision-making; the backstage is where reflection, processing, and relational work take place. Strength names the capacity to act, decide, and hold direction; weakness, in Walker’s reconfiguration, is not failure but a deliberate openness and an ability to listen, to receive, and to remain vulnerable to others and to God.

In addition, Walker names a third dimension to the four quadrants created by the key axes: expansion and consolidation. Some leaders are oriented towards growth, change, and new initiatives; others towards coherence, stability, and the careful integration of what already exists. Healthy leadership, he argues, requires movement across all of these spaces, rather than over-identification with one at the expense of the others. One should try to identify where their instincts lie so as to remain alert to stagnating in one area or to working too much in ‘natural spaces’.

My own instincts are to sit quite clearly within the frame of backstage rather than frontstage. I tend to prefer the work of consolidating rather than expanding but tend to find these are not opposites so much as interwoven movements, i.e. expanding by consolidating and consolidating by expanding. I also move between strength and a deliberate, attentive form of weakness.

Walker helps to make an important development to our reflections: the backstage is not simply a place one, individually, happens to occupy. It is a location in which particular kinds of work are done. It is where patterns are recognised, where tensions are held without premature resolution, where relationships are tended to, and (this is where it is important) it is where the conditions for faithful and effective frontstage action are formed.

Seen in this light, the “consiglieri instinct” is not merely about proximity to a leader, but about cultivating a capacity to hold and release: to gather insight, to weigh it carefully, and, when the moment comes, to allow it to inform action without needing to control it.

This begins to reframe the challenge for cathedral and Church leadership. The question is no longer simply who occupies which role, but how different modes of leadership are recognised and integrated. Backstage, consolidating leadership is not a lesser form; it is part of the ecology that allows the whole to function. Without it, frontstage leadership becomes reactive, isolated, and, ultimately, unsustainable.

What Hytner identifies in the individual, and the monastic traditions embed in community, Walker names as a pattern: leadership as a dynamic interplay of visibility and hiddenness, strength and receptivity, action and attentiveness.

Returning to the question I began with (what does it mean to have a consiglieri instinct in the Church) no longer feels like a question about role. It is a question of ecology and culture and how the Church learns to cultivate attentiveness, discernment, and relational intelligence not simply in individuals, but within its shared life.

I am not called, as I thought at the start of this year, simply to be a consiglieri. I am called to inhabit that instinct in a way that helps the Church itself become more more attentive, more patient, more able to hold tension without fragmentation or haste. That will mean continuing the work I recognise as my strengths: consolidation, pattern recognition, the careful holding together of people, ideas, and possibilities that do not easily cohere but it will also mean resisting the temptation to allow that work to remain hidden. If it is truly part of the Church’s life, it must, at times, be named, shaped, and even taught.

It may also mean contributing to the way we reimagine leadership in the Church of England more broadly: in cathedral chapters, diocesan teams, and national structures. Not by replacing existing models, but by deepening them and recovering a sense that leadership is not only about visibility or initiative, but about the disciplined work of attention.

Provisionally, but with increasing clarity, I find myself naming this as a vocation: to stand in the in-between spaces where authority is negotiated, unity is strained, and meaning is still emerging and to help hold those spaces open long enough for something faithful to take shape. If that sounds like the work of a consiglieri, it is; but no longer in Hytner’s sense of proximity to a single leader. It is closer to what the monastic traditions suggests as a participation in a shared discipline of discernment.

The watchman does not leave the city; he guards it.
The mountain goat does not abandon the flock; it finds the paths the flock may one day need.
The pioneer does not found a rival settlement; he clears space so that what already exists can breathe again.

In that sense, the vocation is not to stand behind the leader, but to help the Church itself become more fully what it already is: a body capable of attending, discerning, and acting together under God.

Chapter 60: priests who would live in the monastery

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Should a member of the priesthood wish to enter the monastery, permission is not to be immediately granted.

What is it God is calling me to?

Having discussed general principles of vocation and commitment for the last few weeks and having spoken earlier about a potential monastic understanding of vocation, the Rule now causes me to reflect on my own personal discernment. It’s been hard reading this chapter on the acceptance of a priest into monastic orders partly because it forces me to see my sense of calling to a form of monasticism from the other side.

This week I sat in front of a panel and answered questions of vocation. I think it went well. I answered as openly and honestly as I could but there will always be a small sense of disappointment in these situations due, in part, to always being unable to discern, precisely, the will of God. Discernment, for me, is a corporate activity; it is best done within a community listening to God together. This ensures personal agendas and egos are balanced and the Spirit can confirm itself through the Body of Christ.

What is it God is calling me to?

I have been asking that question for a year and a half now. My prayers have circled round this question as I have sought God’s leading for Sarah and I post-curacy. There have been some encouraging glimpses as God uses all the vehicles of communication to show us his plans and purposes.

But…

All of those glimpses are potential and not actual. Dreaming is easy (I can do it in my sleep!) walking them out is hard. Reality is a cruel beast with a seeming will of its own not easy to tame with our desires. The stirrings of my heart are one thing but what will happen may well be quite different.

There comes a point in the journey of discernment (and I have reached it now) where one falls on the mercy of another, usually a person in authority. This is an act of trust. In vulnerability one offers the dreams, the stirrings, the private wisps of conversation between ones heart and God and ask another to decide the path to take. This is never straight forward and the person to whom you pass those cherished fragments of one’s inner life to must handle them with great care. To trust that person with such treasure is made easier when it is done in relationship.

At some point in June/July I will head to my bishop with the fruit of my wrestling with God and ask him to discern my next step.

How do I communicate what I feel God speaking to me about?

Our lives, our vocation, everything that makes up the cocktail of what makes ‘me’ me is like a tightly knotted ball of odds and ends which are so intrinsically woven to discern what to do with it takes care; a mixture of gentleness and love alongside bold and decisive cuts. It is not something to hand over easily but, sitting with it in your lap won’t help either.

Yes, I feel called to ordained ministry as a priest. Yes, I feel called to the Church of England (for whatever reason!). Yes, I feel called to married life. Yes, I feel called to sit on committees/ strategy groups, Synods, etc. Yes I feel called to the ministry of reconciliation. Yes, I feel called to the wilderness context. Yes, I feel called to serve in the ordinariness of life and, yes, I feel called to monastic life, intentional community, a contemplative rhythm of prayer and action. What does this particular concoction of callings look like in practice? How do they connect and work themselves out? I do not know… and so the ball of confusion gets passed with great trepidation to the bishop with a prayer that God’s will be done in my life.

In the Rule of St. Benedict there is a sense that the call to priesthood is to be set under the call to be a monk. That monastic call supersedes the call to priestly ministry. This, for me, makes me reflect on how I see the priestly ministry. I still find myself considering it as a function rather than an ontology (a question of being). I see myself as being a priest in that I am someone who instinctively inhabits the ‘between places’ but I increasingly feel I am a monk in that I think I am at home in the wilderness with a gathered community of other desert dwellers.

The key question for me, as I wait for the call to move,

Where then is my home?

My answer (if I am forced to be so bold) is identifying the wilderness that is all around me and building the altars there. Abraham meets God in the journey and is called to encounter him there. There are increasing number of people who feel a similar call to establishing community of intentional disciples pitching a tent and setting up a place for God’s presence to be amongst them. Will the Church recognise this move of the Spirit which seems to be birthing monastic communities within the wilds of 21st century western civilisation?

Reflection

It can feel like what I am envisaging is having my cake and eating it! This chapter has highlighted that.

You want all the pleasure of being a monk without any of the cost

The New Monastic movement is criticised on this point, I know. How is it monastic if you’re not alone? If you rarely have to face the cost of poverty and chastity how is it any form of monasticism?

I do not have an immediate answer to that but I know that we will only come to an answer by living in those questions rather than jumping to some theoretical answers. The Desert Fathers and Mothers didn’t write out a plan, a strategy, a theory; they moved into the edge lands and lived, struggled, failed and persevered.

I want to end with a picture that I have begun to own for myself; the bear.

The bear is often a solitary animal but is fiercely social as well. They live in the wild and gently plod around existing in quite extreme environments. When you bring them into a different surrounding you have to cage them because they cannot be contained. They are wild, strong and dangerous when caged or cornered. They are resilient in their natural habitats but their defence mechanisms kick in when they are out of it and God have mercy on those who are on the receiving end of their fury.

As I wait in a context I don’t feel naturally comfortable in, my prayer is simple,

Father, lead me. Meet me. Strengthen and defend me.

Come, Lord Jesus

Chapter 56: the abbot’s table

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The abbot will eat with guests and travelers.

What does it mean to have ‘a calling’?

I have spoken at length on my understanding of ordained ministers within the life of the whole people of God. The tension, it seems to me, is most obvious around questions of holiness. By holiness I mean ‘set apart-edness’ of the clergy from the laity. Some would say that ontologically, the very substance of the ordained is different from the non-ordained, while others see no division accept in the function of the clergy. It comes down to an opinion on whether the clergy are changed into something particular by God’s Holy Spirit, distinctive from the other members of the Body of Christ. Where you stand on that idea will mark out how you respond to the particular calling on certain people that differentiates them from others.

So what does it mean to have ‘a calling’?

The Bible is full of God singling out a particular person for a specific task. Some of these tasks are on a temporary basis (e.g. Moses leading the people out of Egypt to the Promise Land, Ananias welcoming Saul/Paul in Damascus) others are permanent (e.g. Abraham being the father of many generations, Peter to ‘feed [my] sheep’). God calls his people, as a collective, to particular tasks (to be holy, faithful, loving, etc.) but there are specific tasks to specific people.

It is clear from the Bible that God calls all people to himself to know and love him and to become his disciple. Once someone has responded to that call they are a disciple, allowing God to transform them, by his Holy spirit, into the likeness of his Son, Jesus Christ. After that God will call them to additional tasks or lifestyles to grow into alongside and in conjunction with the life’s work of discipleship.

What task, then, is given to those called to be ordained?

This is a contentious issue and it depends on who you ask. Some would say it is into a leadership role within the church, others would emphasise a pastoral, serving role, others will create a particular cocktail of various functions and characteristics which define ‘ordained ministry’ but there is no concrete definition because God calls many people to it from different backgrounds, upbringings, experience, personality types, etc. Ordained ministry will look unique to each person who tries to live it out.

The added complication comes when you distinguish, in the Anglican Church, between ordained deacons, ordained priests and ordained bishops. The Anglican Church ordains people into three forms of ministry and they have different functions, roles and some would argue, characters. We confuse it even further by ordaining one person as a deacon, a priest and (in some cases) a bishop, all of which are unique a separate callings but are held together. I am, for instance, both a deacon and a priest simultaneously.

God, it seems, calls us both into tasks (temporary and sometime repeatable) and into way of life (permanent and evolving). Trying to discern one of these is difficult enough but then distinguishing between the two becomes even more difficult. It is for this reason I struggle with the simplistic view of ordained ministry as synonymous with ‘leadership’. ‘Leadership’ is a task, a role. At some point you will cease to be able to function as the leader or you may find that in a particular context you are called to follow and not to lead. If you are ordained as a ‘leader’ then it means you must always lead or, otherwise, your status as ‘ordained’ must be able to be revoked when you don’t ‘lead’.

Take a hypothetical scenerio: you are ordained and you lead a church congregation. You go to a conference and are put in a group where you are being led by someone else. In this instance you are not ‘leading’ therefore are you ‘ordained’ if the definition of your status is ‘leadership’?

Ordained ministry for me is about a specific ‘way of life’. What that looks like needs to be clarified in general across the Church of England. We have fallen into a complicated situation of defining ordained ministry as so many different things that it is not any one thing; it’s subjective. The problem with it being subjective it can no longer be institutionalised and therefore anyone can say they are ordained. We have so many different forms of ordained ministry that I’m not surprised when people are dismayed when they are not selected to be ordained.

Throughout the Rule, St. Benedict distinguishes certain roles within the life of the community but establishes those roles within the way of life of the call to be a monk. The call is to be a monk and within that God may have a particular job, relatively temporary, to perform (e.g. dean, cellarer, infirmarian, etc.). The call of the abbot, however, seems to be different. In modern day Benedictine monasteries the abbot is clearly one of the monks with particular responsibilities and tasks to perform (outlined in the Rule). Here, in this chapter, it paints a picture of the abbot living a separate life to the community, welcoming guests in his own dining room.

Earlier in the Rule, St. Benedict indicated that the table was a symbolic place for communal life, it is around the table, as well as in the oratory, that the community grew. In separating the abbot from them at the dining table puts a division between the abbot and the other monks. I am glad to say that this chapter never really worked out and, in modern day monasteries it is not held to.

Reflection

It is easy to fall into the trap of setting the ordained ministers away from the people. They are to be set apart for their particular roles, which the non-ordained may not, for unspoken reasons, participate in. It is all too easy to settle for the ‘this is tradition’ argument for why only the ordained may preside at Holy Communion or why only the ordained may baptize.

Having walked the discernment process through with several people now, and having gone through it myself, I have discovered the process is far from uniform. Some are ordained for one reason which, seen in another person, is the reason they are not ordained. The deep questions of calling have become muddy to the point at which it is harder to discern the difference between ordained and non ordained ministry.

For what it’s worth, from this ordained minister, I feel a re-examination of the parish church to fit a model of monastic life may lead to a greater understanding of ordained ministry from the ministry of the people of God. The abbot is the symbol of ordained ministry and the callings and tasks of other officers in the church are valued with equal honour.

Father, I abandon myself into your hands.
Do with me whatever you will.
Whatever you may do I thank you.
I am ready for all, I accept all.
Let only your will be done in me and all your creatures.
I wish no more than this, O Lord.
Into your hands I commend my soul.
I offer it to you with all the love of my heart.
For I love you Lord and so need to give myself,
surrender myself into your hands without
reserve and with boundless confidence
for you are my Father.
Amen
Charles de Foucauld (1858–1916)

Come, Lord Jesus.

Chapter 55: clothing and shoes

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Suitable clothing shall be given the monks…

Are you seriously going to wear that?

Well it was bound to happen, wasn’t it? Sooner or later the conversation would come up about…

Vestments.

I have run a session on Holy Communion for two of our church’s home groups. The first part of these sessions look at why clergy wear what they wear. I am always keen to point out that its probably the practices came before the theory but that doesn’t negate the importance of the theory; if it worked for the Trinity it works for anything!

I hope, dear reader, you won’t mind me skimming through the major aspects of Anglican vestments as I understand them. I also ask that you, hold off judgement on the legitimacy and missional pros and cons of such outfits until I am finished. Do you promise?

dogcollar

I will start with my ‘everyday wear’: the dog collar.

The dog collar is so called, in my mind anyway, because it is a symbol of being led and, simultaneously, leading a walk with my master: God. At the end of John’s gospel Jesus says to Peter,

“Very truly, I tell you, when you were younger, you used to fasten your own belt and to go wherever you wished. But when you grow old, you will stretch out your hands, and someone else will fasten a belt around you and take you where you do not wish to go.” (John 21:18)

When I made my vows and entered ‘Holy Orders’ I handed over my freedom to live as I wanted to live, to say what I wanted to say, to go where I wanted to go… well that was the idea. The problem arose when I failed to live up to that promise. In that way I allow God to lead me (and when I put my dog collar on I am reminding myself that God is in charge and will lead me to where I do not wish to go necessarily) but I also have a tendency, like a dog, to run on ahead and drag God to the lampposts and other dogs that take my fancy. There is, in the image of dog and owner, a beautiful give and take. The owner is in ultimate control but they allow the dog to explore but when they need to go somewhere particular the collar becomes tight and the owner drags the animal in a certain direction.

There are time in my life now where I know where God wants me to go and what he wants me to do but I resist. It is at these times the collar becomes tight and I want to throw it off. I always listen deeper at those times! To use a simple example: when I’m driving. Say another driver cuts me off or forces me to break the Highway Code and I want to swear at them and let them know my anger but I’m wearing my dog collar; I tend to resist the temptation from expressing my anger and instead smile and pray blessing on them. Or say I am walking down the street in my dog collar and I see a homeless person begging for money… That usual dilemma of how to respond, knowing that money is not necessarily what they need but a meaningful encounter with another human being who will listen to them and their situation and care for them, is multiplied for me. There are times when I’m rushing to get to a meeting and pass several homeless people on my way; without the dog collar there is less guilt (because I’m a broken and fallen person!) than when I pass them in a dog collar. The dog collar at those times becomes so tight that I know of other clergy who don’t wear dog collars in the centre of cities. I find myself stopping for each one and being late for meetings… In this way the dog collar helps me.

There are two camps in the Church: those who do wear them and those who don’t. Dog collars divide the clergy. Some feel they are a barrier to genuine relationship with strangers whilst others feel they invite relationship with strangers where otherwise there would not have been. The problem is that it’s a bit of both; sometimes the dog collar puts people off talking or opening up to you, the wearer, while other time it starts conversation. I don’t think there is a stand out winner for which it is more: it just depends.

For me, personally, I find it more helpful than I do a hindrance. I have had my fair share of abuse thrown at me because of the dog collar (or at least I think it was the dog collar). I have even had a can of coke thrown at me by a stranger but the conversations that the dog collar has encouraged far out way the negatives. I was on a bus in Leeds wearing my dog collar and a complete stranger started sharing about his wife who was suffering through chemotherapy and he didn’t know how to support her. I listened and tried to encouraged him. He asked if I would walk him to the ward as it was close to my destination anyway which I happily did. I prayed with him before he went to see his wife before parting company. I know that wouldn’t have happened if I wasn’t wearing a dog collar.

Some clergy feel the dog collar asserts authority onto conversation which may seem oppressive. I can see how that might be the case but that’s where the character of the wearer must be challenged. If that is the motivation behind wearing it then you should probably pray through that and challenge yourself. The dog collar does set you apart from other people, other Christians as well but that’s the point. Philip Lawrence astutely tells us,

Today many monks want a clerical wardrobe, a monastic wardrobe and a lay wardrobe so that “they will not stand out” when they are with various people. This seems clearly against the thinking of Saint Benedict. We monks should always look like monks. We have only one identity and that identity is being a monk. (Philip Lawrence, “Chapter 55: The Clothing and Footwear of the Brothers”, Benedictine Abbey of Christ in the Desert, March 1 2015, http://christdesert.org/Detailed/926.html)

There is a theory that clergy should be just like other Christians and I agree, in the most part, with that sentiment. There is, however, a distinction between clergy and laity but I don’t think it is where most people think it is.

Yes, we are ‘a priesthood of all believers’. Yes, we are ‘a company of saints’. Yes, I believe the hierarchy in the established Church hinders change and can be restrictive and it is here that we must rethink the distinction. Being ordained is not about raising a person ‘up the ladder’ but separating them for a particular task. Being ordained, for me, was about being set apart as a public example of discipleship. Yes, all should be public examples of discipleship, but we aren’t and we need people to be disciplined to do it so we can all be encouraged.

It’s the same with marriage. Yes, we should all love others intimately and with complete selfless, faithful and unbridled desire for the flourishing of them and their transformation into the likeness of Christ, but we don’t. In order to protect that ideal, some are called to commit themselves to the discipline of chastity to another and work out how to be faithful through the chains of marriage and part of marriage is about this type of ‘slavery’ but it is through this we discover true freedom.

For the Christian to be perfectly free means to be perfectly obedient. True freedom is perfect service. (Stanley Hauerwas, A Community of Character: toward a constructive christian social ethic (Notre Dame: University of Notre Dame Press, 1981) p.131)

The dog collar is a reminder for me that I no longer have the freedom to shirk my discipleship. The dog collar is more for me than for others, to remind me that I am to learn what it means to be holy, set apart from the world.

I know that my view of ordination is monastic in character for this very reason and I’m still on a journey with this understanding.

Most of the other vestments, for me, stem from this basic understanding of ordination.

So a quick run down of what is what and why it is used. Bear in mind that people have different understandings of the symbolism behind vestments and this where the conflict in what they say to observers occurs. I will also only speak on vestments that I am asked to wear as a ‘low church anglican’.

Cassock Alb: Is a white garment that goes over clothes. This symbolises a clothing of the wearer in heavenly glory. This is about identifying the role of the leader of worship and not the person wearing it. The leader of worship is an expression of the character of the whole company of worshippers; they are to be the spokesperson of the collective voice of the congregation. By draping them in white it is a draping of all the people in that resurrection glory.

Cincture (girdle or fascia): Is either a strip of material that goes round the body above the waist (girdle) or a rope with tassels that is worn around the waist (fascia). This is meant to symbolise, like the dog collar, the being lead by God from John 21:18. I wear the fascia because it reminds me of my Roman Catholic heritage and has a monastic quality about it which I find helpful to remind me of my particular calling to ordained priesthood.

Stoles: Are the scarfs that get draped over the shoulders, for deacons in the ‘Miss World style’ and for the priests in the ‘Football Supporter style’. This sybolises the yoke of Christ being laid upon the shoulders of the ordained person. It originated in the Roman society as a symbol of ofice and responsibility and there’s still that element in the symbol today. We, who wear it bear the responsibility of leading the people in worship and voicing the communities prayers and concerns to God. You will find that these come in four or five different colours: white for times when we celebrate resurrection or the coming of God’s Kingdom into the present (Christmas/Epiphany/Easter/Trinity, baptisms, funerals (sometimes) and weddings), purple for times of preparation and penitence (Advent/Lent) (sometimes blue is used in Advent as the penitence is seen as different and it is more of a Marian focus but I use purple to see Lent and Advent in similar contexts) (there is also Lent Array which is unbleached linen), red for times where we remember the Holy Spirit or martyrs (Pentecost/Feast Days) and green for ‘ordinary time’ where we settle into the rhythm of the world and it is our natural position to counterpoint the points of celebration or preparation.

cassock Cassock: Is a black garment similar to that of the Cassock Alb. At the reformation the Cassock Alb was seen as a symbolism of the abuses of clericalism where the clergy and those ordained were seen as being elevated beyond the reach of the laity. The reformers were keen to bring the work of the Church to the people and so they removed the symbolism. This reformation was focussed on the words used in the Church, hence the translation of the Bible into the common tongue. The reformation replaced the priest with the scholar, those who could read and interpret the Scriptures and the Cassock hints at the origins of being like the university gowns or the preaching monks (of which Calvin and Luther were).

surplice

Surplice: Is the thin white ‘dress’ which goes over the Cassock for the same reaon the Cassock Alb is white.

preaching scarf

Preaching Scarf: Is a black scarf that is worn with Cassock and Surplice and is a reformation alternative to the Stole which symbolises the office and learning of the wearer.

When do I wear what?

I tend to wear Cassock Alb, Cincture and Stole for any sacramental activity (Holy Communion and Baptism). I am on a journey here too as to my honest understanding of ‘sacrament’ so this is not fixed at the moment in my mind. I ask myself,

Is my role to be placed in a ‘between’ time/space, an altar moment where heaven will kiss earth? Where we, the people of God will have a foretaste of God’s Kingdom on earth?

If the answer is “yes” then I wear Cassock Alb et al.

If the answer is “no” but I still need to be identified as ‘ordained’ then I will wear a Cassock, Surplice and either Preaching Scarf or Stole (usually Preaching Scarf). This tends to be in civic services and funerals.

Weddings are up for grabs at the moment!

Reflection

There is often much discussion and personal opinions around the conversation of a ‘uniform’ for ordained ministers and I think it betrays are lack of agreed understanding as to our language around ordination and vocation. We are all uncertain as to how leadership, ministry and vocation works because there are so many theories and schools of thought around the subject. All the different denominations pick and choose their own view of ordained/ lay ministry and it creates a big tension. I agree that it is a secondary issue but, like most secondary issues, this is highly emotive and people get confused as to why we feel so strongly about it. For what its worth I feel it’s about the personal response to distinction in vocation, history of who represents different ministries and how we have viewed it as an outsider. If you have been painfully hurt by the actions of an ordained person then that will tarnish your view of other clergy (understandably).

There is a complex cocktail of personal character and uniformed role going on with ordained ministry and therefore vestments articulate this tension within congregations. It is hard to hide from the confusion and different opinions when it is there for all to see. We can either get rid of the vestments and forget that different views are held or we can grab the nettle in our hands and patiently talk about what and why we think what we think.

There is an important conversation to be had about what it means to be ordained and what the alternative calls are on the life of a disciple. Maybe a more monastic view of ordination is worth revisiting and encouraging a distinction between church leadership and that of service through the priesthood and diaconate.

Lord, you call us all to be disciples, to lay down our lives and will to go where you want us to go. For some of us that will be a specific call to live out our discipleship in radical forms of obedience and to be an encouragement to others to pursue that holy life, set apart from the world but still loving and serving it. For others the discipleship will look very different and the role will be very specific in a particular area or to a particular people. Whilst we live in this complicated and fallen world may we hold out the hope that in the end we will all be transformed into the likeness of your Son and will worship together in Spirit and Truth at your heavenly throne.

Come, Lord Jesus.

Parish Monasticism: a review

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Suscipe me, Domine, secundum eloquium tuum, et vivam;  et non confundas me ab expectatione mea.

Receive me, O Lord, according to your word, and I shall live:  and let me not be ashamed of my hope.

I am keen to pause before reflecting on the next chapter to note that I have fallen behind in writing my reflections one chapter each week; life just gets in the way sometimes! I will get on to specifics in a moment. Before I do I want to say I remain prayerfully engaged with The Rule of St. Benedict and continue to read and reflect on each chapter in order. What I mean is I am not jumping ahead and planning future weeks. I’m writing as I read. This means that sometimes I misunderstand portions of the text. I have been keen that these reflections are a documentation of learning. I hope that they are helpful to you (please do encourage me with what God has been saying to you as you have read the Rule and shared parts of my own journey).

The part of life that has got in the way over recent months is the ongoing process of discernment as to God’s call on my life. I have returned to a deep sense of vocation to some form of ‘monastic’ life and what that might look like for my wife and I. Clearly being married means that I cannot enter into traditional vows in an established monastic house. I have chosen to take the exclusive vows of marriage (for which I’m grateful) and this means that I can’t also take the vows of monastic orders. I am also committed to the Church of England and feel a call to minister as a priest in it*. This is why I chose, at the beginning of this year, to set aside time to reflect on my unique set of callings that make up my vocation as a disciple of Jesus Christ. This exercise has been a great blessing.

It is clear to me, after much prayer, study and dialogue that Sarah (my wife) and my future lies in the New Monastic movement of the Church. We see that this does not conflict with our sense of calling to the Church of England and to married/family life. In fact it is the call to ‘family’ life that strengthens our sense of calling to the monastic way of life.

Due to Sarah’s health we are unable to have children and it has proven difficult (if not impossible) at this time to go through the official channels of adoption. How do we understand our marriage without the ability to bear children? I am sensing that our call to raising children through extended family ensures an integrity to our marriage as a ‘social office’. We are deeply blessed by the children we have had the honour of walking with for seasons in our roles as uncle/aunt and as ‘godparents’. We love to be an active part in the raising of children, even though we have not been blessed with ones that share our own genetics.

Through my reflections I have become increasingly aware that, although the parish church should be more monastic, it currently is not and nor is it understood as such in any practical way. During the establishment of the Church of England, however, there was a desire for this to be so.

…the reforming vision for parish churches at the time of the dissolution of the monasteries saw the local church as the new accessible local monastery, as the locus for monastic prayers and worship. (Ian Mobsby and Mark Berry, A New Monastic Handbook: from vision to practice (Norwich: Canterbury Press, 2014) p.14)

In my current position as Assistant Curate I am in no position to move forward in exploring the potential for a parish church to be a form of monastery. I also struggle to see how possible it would be to explore this vision within the context of a ‘normal’ parish. This call to a form of monastic life, I feel, fits, more realistically, in a para-parish ministry, separate from but connected to the parish system. I think there are large opportunities within the Deanery in which I serve to explore the possibility of such a New Monastic community being established which would deeply strengthen the ministry of the Church in the city. This would require a creative re-imagining of what is possible and beneficial within the current structures of the Church of England but I feel there is strong precedent by pioneers who have taken this journey before us. I think particularly of my brother and sister in Christ, Rev. Ian Mobsby and Rev. Sam Foster.

I have taken a great deal of time in prayer and sort the counsel of elders and friends and feel that the Lord is calling Sarah and I, in the near future, to move on our calling. This will need the blessing of those in authority over me and I will be seeking their wisdom on this matter. I am very aware of timing and there is a danger that I am motivated, in part, by youthful impatience. I have considered this at great length and remain convinced that the time is now for York to begin a process of exploration into this and I’d be interested in being involved.

Please pray for me and Sarah and those who have gathered around us with a similar sense of calling at this time. Please listen to God for His will for us and I encourage you to share words of wisdom with us.

*I am aware also of my vows to the Office of Deacon and this is encompassed into my priestly functions whilst remaining distinct.