Inside Martyn's Thoughts

When Prayer Becomes an Agenda: Why New Guidance Matters for Disabled People

2026-10-20T01:30:00.000+01:00

Last week I read a Church Times article about new Church of England guidance on prayer ministry and pastoral prayer. At first glance, it looks like a safeguarding resource. In reality, I think it could become one of the most important disability inclusion documents the Church has produced in recent years, outside the Fearfully and Wonderfully Made report.

The guidance warns against confusing God's voice with our own opinions, agendas, assumptions, and desires. It speaks about the dangers of prayer becoming controlling, harmful, or abusive, even when those involved have good intentions. It also encourages humility, discernment, and a willingness to hold our impressions provisionally rather than treating them as unquestionable divine truth.

The examples discussed in reporting focus heavily on conversion therapy, sexuality, safeguarding, and spiritual abuse. Those issues matter deeply. Yet the principle applies far beyond sexuality.

For disabled and neurodivergent people, this could be groundbreaking.

Many disabled Christians, like myself, have experienced prayer that wasn't really prayer. It was an agenda. Someone had already decided why disability existed, what God wanted, and had already decided what healing looked like. Prayer simply became the mechanism used to deliver that belief.

I've experienced healing prayer where the expectation was that disability would disappear. I've experienced theology that connected disability with spiritual deficiency. I've heard sermons linking disability to demons, dark spirits, and sin. I've watched disabled people blamed when healing did not happen because they supposedly lacked faith.

I once went to Ashford for a blogging event in the shopping centre. Unlike many of the other bloggers, I didn't want to miss church that morning. Within minutes of walking through the door, my friends and I became a prayer spectacle and were pushed towards things that simply weren't physically possible. When nothing happened, the blame quietly shifted towards us. Then, years later, came the experiences I've written about before with "Simon”.

The script is often predictable.

You are prayed for. Nothing changes. The explanation becomes your responsibility. You didn't believe enough, pray hard enough, or have enough faith. The disabled person always carries the burden. The theology never gets questioned.

What stands out in the new guidance is its recognition that human judgement can be mistaken for the voice of God.

That sentence should stop us in our tracks.

How much disability theology has been shaped by exactly that confusion?

How many assumptions about disabled people have been presented not as opinions, but as God's will?

How many people have been told they have demons because someone believed it?

How many people have endured exorcisms because somebody confused their interpretation with divine revelation?

How many disabled children and adults have been taught that God sees them as broken because a church leader believed it to be true?

The guidance does not specifically address disability in these ways, it’s focus mentions sexuality and conversion therapy, yet the implications are enormous.

If prayer ministry must remain humble, provisional, and aware of human fallibility, then many harmful assumptions about disability immediately become questionable.

Prayer is a gift.

The guidance rightly describes prayer as something that can bring comfort, healing, connection, and a deeper awareness of God.

It also reflects concerns raised in Fearfully and Wonderfully Made. One of the report’s recurring themes is how disabled and neurodivergent clergy are often interpreted through assumptions rather than understood through lived experience. When churches mistake their assumptions for God’s voice, harm follows.

That is the prayer ministry I believe in.

Prayer that listens, accompanies, supports, and honours the dignity of the person standing in front of you.

Not prayer that begins with the assumption that somebody's body or mind is a mistake. Not prayer that treats disabled people as projects, assumes every wheelchair user wants to walk or neurodivergence needs correcting. Not prayer that starts with a diagnosis and ends with somebody else's agenda.

Prayer should create space for God's voice, not amplify our prejudices.

If churches take this guidance seriously, disabled people might finally be asked what prayer they actually want. Healing could become broader than bodily correction. Prayer could focus on strength, justice, belonging, accessibility, community, courage, and hope rather than assuming a disabled body is the problem.

Most importantly, a culture where disabled and neurodivergent people are recognised as image bearers, gifts to the Church, and valued members of God's kingdom. This won't change overnight. The harm will continue until the culture catches up.

I am, however, hopeful. The most powerful part of this guidance is not what it says about prayer.

It's what it says about power.

It acknowledges that well-intentioned Christians can be wrong, that prayer can become controlling, and that spiritual practices can cause harm.

That honesty matters.

Prayer should always leave room for God's intervention. It should never become a vehicle for somebody else's assumptions about disability. That's the difference between prayer and projection.

One seeks God's will. The other seeks confirmation of our own.

For disabled people who have spent years being prayed at rather than listened to, that's not a small distinction. It's the difference between being welcomed as God's image bearer and being treated as somebody's project.

When Everything Connects: Running on Empty

2026-10-19T01:30:00.000+01:00

On Saturday, I wrote about loneliness and last week about friendship and the barriers I’ve built around myself.

Writing has always been therapeutic, but I hadn’t reached the end of that reflection. It’s been stirring around me constantly. A thought that’s become an itch that moves whenever I scratch it.

Over the last few weeks I’ve found myself carrying around a growing list of frustrations. On the surface they all looked unrelated. A difficult interaction. Leadership challenges. Questions about friendship. Feeling lonely. A sense of exhaustion I couldn’t quite explain beyond my normal issues with sleepless nights.

My instinct was to treat them as separate problems. They’ve been all consuming as such too, but the more I’ve reflected and prayed about them, the more I’ve realised they’re all connected.

Recently, a situation involving someone I support and advocate for left me feeling unsettled. I won’t go into details because the specifics aren’t important and the post I shared last week explores some aspects around it. What surprised me, however, was how deeply it affected me.

I’ve spent years working within disability inclusion and disabled communities. I understand support needs, barriers, misunderstandings, and the complexity of navigating relationships when disability is involved. I have written many disability justice posts.

What caught me off guard wasn’t what happened.

It was my reaction to it.

The situation left me feeling vulnerable in a way I haven’t experienced for a long time. It completely knocked my equilibrium. Even now, weeks later, I can still feel the effects. I am incredibly uncomfortable around that person, including the various roles we share.

That led me into another uncomfortable realisation.

During this time, several people who would normally share responsibility within church life were unavailable for perfectly understandable reasons. Family commitments, holidays, and life.

What struck me was not their absence but what their absence revealed.

I started to notice how much responsibility is often carried by a very small number of people.

Churches speak a lot about being a body with many parts. Sometimes the reality can feel more like a handful of people desperately trying to keep everything moving while everyone else assumes somebody else is dealing with it.

For the first time, I found myself appreciating just how much people have quietly carried over the years without recognition, but one distinction was still clear. Even though some carried these responsibilities, they usually did together. Whereas, I was alone.

I also found myself asking difficult questions about leadership.

Not my calling. Leadership.

There’s a difference.

The reality is that leadership can be frustrating. Sometimes you invest time, effort, energy and care into a situation only to discover people will do whatever they were planning to do anyway. Boundaries get ignored. Advice goes unheard. Responsibilities become blurred. What should be a co-operative working relationship becomes a battle ground of personal agendas disguised within personal ministry priorities.

I’ve realised that one of the hardest parts of leadership isn’t making decisions. It’s accepting that your influence has limits.

That has been a difficult lesson for me.

At the same time, another realisation has been forming.

Over the years my world has become smaller.

Not intentionally, as Saturday’s post highlighted.

Disability and becoming a permanent powerchair user changed far more than how I move around. Activities became harder. Travelling became more complicated. Friendships gradually changed shape.

Then blogging changed. Covid happened. Life kept moving.

Without really noticing, church became my main community, social outlet, and in many ways the primary place where I connected with people.

Recently I’ve realised that’s become a problem. Not because church is the problem, but because when the place you're serving becomes the only place you're connecting, every difficulty feels heavier.

I still love ministry, serving, and fulfilling my calling. I still care deeply about the people around me.

Yet lately I’ve realised I’ve been giving out far more than I’ve been receiving. I suspect many people in ministry, formal or informal, will understand that feeling.

You keep turning up, serving, and supporting others.

Then one day something relatively small happens and you discover you’re not reacting to that one thing at all.

You’re reacting to everything.

The difficult interaction. The loneliness. The loss of friendship. The leadership frustrations. The exhaustion. Carrying more than you realised.

What I’ve slowly discovered is that none of these things exist in isolation.

They’re all pointing towards the same reality.

I’m tired. Not tired of ministry, church, or my calling.

Just tired.

I can now fully understand why leadership has clear and defined days off work each week, have a “holiday church” they attend sporadically, and go to conferences. They need a space to be fed away from the “work.”

For weeks I thought I was dealing with multiple separate problems. Now I think I’m dealing with one issue showing up in lots of different ways.

I need replenishing, friendship, and things in my life that don’t revolve around responsibility, ministry, deadlines, meetings, or supporting everybody else. I also need to stop pretending I’m running on a full tank when the warning light came on a long time ago. It's time to pull over and fill the tank.

My Sunday Sermon: Render Unto Caesar and Render Unto God

2026-10-18T01:30:00.000+01:00

I'm preaching this week, so thought I would share it here. It's always good as a resource and a place for me to revisit later.

Matthew 22:15-22

Today's Gospel begins with a question, but it isn't an honest question.

The Pharisees aren't looking for wisdom. They're looking for a way to get rid of Jesus. They come to him with a question that seems impossible to answer:

"Is it lawful to pay taxes to Caesar or not?"

Now that might not sound very exciting to us. Most of us don't spend much of our week thinking about Roman taxation, but this was a loaded question.

If Jesus says, "Yes, pay the tax," ordinary Jewish people will think he's siding with the Roman occupiers.

If he says, "No, don't pay it," then he could be reported to the Roman authorities as a troublemaker or a rebel.

It's a trap.

Whatever answer Jesus gives, somebody will be unhappy. At least, that's what the Pharisees think.

The trouble is that Jesus sees the trap coming. In fact, before long, the trap has completely turned around. Jesus asks them for the coin used to pay the tax.

Then Jesus asks:

"Whose image is this? And whose inscription?"

"Caesar's," they reply.

That's the moment everything changes.

The Pharisees came to question Jesus. Suddenly they are the ones being questioned. They came hoping to expose him. Instead, Jesus exposes them. The very people trying to trap Jesus are carrying around the very coin that demonstrates their participation in Caesar's system.

The trap springs shut.

Only now it isn't Jesus who's caught in it.

All of this happens because of a coin.

A coin with a particular image and mark.

I understand that because Hannah and I are collectors of geeky things.

Some of you know that Hannah collects Care Bears. Not every one, type, or colour. They need to be the right Care Bears with the correct tags.

The details matter. The mark matters. They're genuine.

I'm exactly the same with He-Man figures.

In fact, for my birthday on Monday I was fortunate enough to receive a couple more for my collection, but Hannah had trouble getting them. They're not all the same, and collectors know better.

I don't want just any version. I want the original Mattel figures from the 1980s.

Like the Care Bears, you know they're genuine by the Mattel stamp.

The mark tells you where it came from, what it is, and who made it.

If you love something and are passionate about it, the details matter.

That's exactly where Jesus takes this conversation.

He points to the coin and asks:

"Whose image and mark is on it?"

When they answer, "Caesar's," Jesus says:

"Give Caesar the things that are Caesar's, and to God the things that are God's."

More Than a Coin

Jesus isn't talking about coins anymore. The coin is simply the doorway into a bigger question. Caesar's image is on the coin, so it belongs to Caesar.

But what bears God's image?

You do.

I do.

Every person does.

The image of God is stamped onto humanity. We belong to God.

That's what Jesus wants his listeners to see.

The Pharisees are interested in politics. Jesus is interested in identity. The Pharisees are arguing about taxes. Jesus is talking about belonging. The Pharisees want to know what Caesar deserves. Jesus wants them to remember what God deserves.

If the mark on something tells us where it comes from and who it belongs to, then God's image tells us the same thing.

Unfortunately, life has a habit of putting other labels on us.

Some are wonderful.

Parent. Grandparent. Husband. Wife. Friend. Volunteer. Church member. Train enthusiast. Collector.

We get professional ones too.

Teacher, carer, accountant, builder, musician, artist, and leader.

Some labels are harder.

Bereaved. Disabled. Anxious. Lonely. Unemployed. Rejected. Struggling.

Sometimes those experiences become so heavy that we start to believe they define us. Sometimes we begin to think that our labels define us. But Jesus points us back to something deeper.

Before any other label, before success or failure, before good news or bad news, we bear the image of God and belong to him.

Remember Whose Mark You Carry

This coming week, some of us will have a wonderful week. Others will face challenges. Life will happen. That's what life does.

Yet if even a collector can recognise the value of something because of the mark it carries, how much more does God, the greatest collector, value those who bear his image?

As we go into the week ahead, let us remember whose mark we carry. We bear the image of God, and we belong to him.

What labels do you carry? Which ones help you, and which ones threaten to overshadow the deeper truth that you are made in the image of God?

Six Years Is Too Long To Feel Lonely

2026-10-17T01:30:00.000+01:00

Last week, I wrote about how friendships change.

Originally, I was reflecting on something I’d noticed with my parents and experienced myself, but the next few days changed that.

My birthday was on Monday. When Hannah asked what I’d like to do, I said I’d like to have a meal with a few favourite people, but who am I actually close enough to invite?

Not because there aren't people I like. I met with one couple on Wednesday. The problem was something else entirely.

Eventually, I settled on a couple we’ve grown close to over the last year and genuinely enjoy spending time with, but it was ridiculous. I’d been chatting with one all week, had multiple opportunities to ask, but couldn’t do it. Intense anxiety kicked in.

Hannah stepped in and invited them.

The evening was brilliant, enjoyable, and a reminder of why I value them in the first place.

So why had I spent days tied in knots over a simple invitation?

I spoke to Hannah. She asked a hard-hitting question.

“What’s up with you? Why are you being so insecure? This isn’t like you.”

She was right. This isn't like me. Yet I couldn't explain what was happening. I spent all night talking to God to untangle thoughts I hadn't really examined for years.

Part of that reflection took me back to a misunderstood friendship fifteen years ago that has left a lasting mark on how I viewed friendship, boundaries, and relationships. I realised I still carry some of that experience around with me, despite nothing in my life today resembling that situation.

I've learnt and grown. My understanding of relationships, mental health, and myself has changed dramatically. Hannah is nothing like my first wife, and our relationship is built on trust, honesty, and communication. Yet that situation lingered long after the danger was gone.

Reflecting further highlighted how much my social life changed when I became a permanent powerchair user. I used to meet people for coffee or dinner, play snooker, go fishing, camping, swimming, watch live bands, attend church events, and generally spend time with people face to face. Then accessibility, travel, and distance started becoming barriers. Within a short period, those friendships and activities quietly disappeared. At the time, it didn't feel like a huge loss. I still had close blogging friendships. Then Covid arrived.

People stopped blogging. Life changed, communities faded, friendships drifted, and I retreated behind my guard. Then it hit me. Six years since I had a proper friend. Six years since I went for a coffee, exchanged pointless messages, or sat opposite someone who wanted to spend time with me.

On Sunday morning, everything finally caught up with me. I was in church and I looked around and realised how many friendships had changed, drifted, or simply ended. The songs spoke about belonging, family, friendship, and community. I felt disconnected from all of it.

The months of jokes about Hannah stealing my friends, comments about wanting friends, trying to find ways to do more, wondering why people connected with her more easily than me, or her confusion about why she was friends with someone when I had more in common. I just hadn’t named it.

I’m lonely and isolated.

A few days later, a church friend reached out. They’d noticed my upset on Sunday and wanted to check in. We talked through everything. They agreed with some conclusions, but challenged others.

Yes, I’d put barriers up and sabotaged opportunities and friendships, but it wasn’t necessarily sabotage. It was self-protection.

I was trying to protect my marriage, avoid being hurt again and repeating mistakes that haunt me fifteen years later. I took that too far, but it didn’t come from a bad place.

They also reminded me to be me. Just because social dynamics suggest focusing on male friendships, I shouldn’t, as it’s not straightforward for me. I have too much trauma there. Male friendships aren’t impossible, but female friendships are more natural. Friendships shouldn’t be forced or manufactured to fit social convention, someone else’s expectations, or the barriers I put up.

The problem wasn't that those concerns existed, but that I allowed them to become walls.

This isn't entirely my fault. Disability, Covid, life, and fading friendships changed things. At the same time, I have played a part in it.

I stopped reaching out. I expected rejection before it happened. I convinced myself it was protection when I was simply isolating myself.

I miss friendship, laughter, pointless conversations, the ease of feeling connected. I wish rejection didn't carry so much weight and I could believe people genuinely enjoy having me around. I know I can't recreate the past, force friendship, or make people choose me.

What I can do is stop letting old fears make decisions for me. If friendship appears, I need to let it, and risk being truly known because six years is too long to feel lonely.

Picking Up A Pencil Again

2026-10-15T01:30:00.000+01:00

One of my birthday presents this year was a new light box.

That might not sound particularly exciting, but I've wanted one for a while. My old light box broke and I'd been borrowing Midge's. Unfortunately, hers only works when plugged in and, even then, it's temperamental. It stopped me from doing more when I last drew. Then, somewhere along the way, I stopped drawing altogether.

Looking back, I hadn't realised quite how long it had been.

The last drawing I completed was in September 2024. It was a picture of Jesus embracing a woman, potentially Mary Magdalene. A few weeks before that, I drew another image of Jesus, smiling with bright, radiant light surrounding Him.

I'll share both drawings below.

They were significant pieces for me because I hadn't really drawn people since university, more than twenty years earlier. Drawing faces and expressions is very different to drawing animals. Capturing a personality and the spark of life in an animal I can do, but doing that for humans is difficult. My own drawing ability isn’t at the level that makes it look realistic. I was, however, pleasantly surprised by how they turned out. Coloured pencils can be unforgiving, especially when working with skin tones, light, and detail.

Before those drawings, I'd spent several years drawing animals.

There was a tiger, a chimpanzee cuddling its baby, and a smiling bear that I created in 2021. Those will appear below as well.

I loved creating them. I really felt that I was drawing to my best ability again.

Headphones on. Worship music or an audiobook playing. Hours disappearing without me noticing.

It was therapeutic. It allows me to express everything I bottle up inside and release emotions that I often worry about releasing normally.

Ironically, even those drawings came after a sizeable gap. Prior to 2021, I hadn't done any artwork since 2019, some of which I shared on the blog at the time. Before that, most of my paintings and pencil work were created between 2014 and 2015.

Apparently, I have a habit of stopping for years at a time.

I don't really know why.

Part of it is probably how long each piece takes. Most of my coloured pencil drawings require somewhere between fifteen and twenty-five hours before I'm satisfied with them. That's a lot of time to dedicate to one creative project.

Life also gets busy.

Over the years there has been theology study, ministry, blogging, church responsibilities, the ordination process, family life, and everything else that fills the calendar. Sometimes drawing simply slips down the list. Other times, I suspect I just don't feel inspired enough to start.

The strange thing is that I always miss it when I stop. I miss how it helps me regulate. I miss being so consumed in it that it’s the one thing that can shut the whole world away.

Over the last decade, I've found that coloured pencils are definitely my preferred medium. My brain seems to understand colour, layering, and texture better than paint. I can visualise what I'm trying to achieve and slowly build towards it.

Paint never quite clicked in the same way. Neither did traditional graphite drawings. Coloured pencils feel natural, as if I should have always used them.

The process is slow, but that's part of what I enjoy. There is something calming about watching a blank page gradually become something recognisable.

The artwork itself isn't really the point. It's the process.

Back in 2024, Hannah became convinced my artwork was good enough to sell. I disagreed. She persisted. Eventually, I gave in and took a stall at our church Christmas fair. We printed artwork onto mugs, postcards, and prints of different sizes.

Did I sell out?

Not even close.

Did I make enough to cover the table hire and give myself a little spending money?

Surprisingly, yes.

The biggest lesson was that people preferred the smaller items. The original artwork is all A3, but the postcards, mugs, and smaller prints were far more popular. I still don't really think about art in those terms. I don't draw for other people. I draw for me.

That doesn't mean others can't enjoy it. It simply means the enjoyment comes from creating the piece, not from what happens afterwards.

Another Christmas fair is approaching and, at the moment, I don't have anything new to display.

That's something of a problem. It also feels like a good excuse.

A new light box is sitting beside me. There is a pile of drawing paper waiting to be used. The coloured pencils are still exactly where I left them.

Everything I need is already here.

Maybe that's why receiving the light box felt so significant. It wasn't just a birthday present. It was a reminder of something I've neglected and genuinely miss. Now I just need to pick up a pencil, open the A3 pad, and start drawing again.

Does Angels, Demons, and the Devil Change My View of Sin?

2026-10-14T01:30:00.000+01:00

Following my recent post on disability theology, sin, and separation from God, a few people reached out with a challenge.

If sin isn’t some external force infecting humanity, what do we do with angels, demons, the Devil, hell, and the spiritual battle Christians talk about? Doesn’t this undermine the idea that sin is primarily about separation from God rather than a cosmic force battling against us?

For me, no, it doesn’t.

The issue is that many modern Christians ideas about sin, angels, demons, hell, and the Devil don’t actually come from the parts of Scripture people think they do.

Take angels. The popular image of angels as beautiful people with wings, glowing halos, and gentle smiles is surprisingly recent. The angels described in Scripture are far stranger and more intimidating. Ezekiel’s visions involve wheels, eyes, and creatures (Ezekiel 1:4–21 and Chapter 10) that look nothing like angels within Christian artwork.

Many of the ideas Christians associate with a cosmic spiritual war come from the Book of Enoch.

Most Christians haven’t read it, but it has enormously influenced Christian culture.

The book was written during the Second Temple period, roughly between 300 BCE and the first century CE. It isn’t part of the biblical canon used by most Christians. Instead, it’s what theologians call a pseudepigraphal work, a text that helps understand the beliefs and debates of the period between the Old and New Testaments.

That makes it important. It doesn’t make it Scripture.

One section, the Book of the Watchers, expands the Genesis 6 story. Angels rebel against God, descend to earth, marry human women, father giants, and introduce corruption into the world. This forms much of the imagery now associated with fallen angels, demonic powers, spiritual warfare, and cosmic evil.

The difficulty is that Enoch treats sin as something brought into the world by rebellious angels. Mainstream Christianity and biblical theology generally sees sin differently. The problem isn't spiritual invaders, it’s humanity itself.

Mainstream Christian thought, especially following thinkers like Augustine, understands evil as a lack of good rather than a thing or presence in itself. Sin is a turning away from God’s wisdom, love, and intention. It damages relationships with God, others, ourselves, and creation. This views sin differently to a spiritual virus or war as it shifts responsibility towards humanity instead of supernatural beings.

The same issue occurs when discussing the Devil. In the Old Testament, “Satan” isn’t a personal name, it’s a title meaning adversary or accuser. This wasn't originally seen as a spiritual entity but as any human working against God's intent. Even in the New Testament, Jesus calls Peter “Satan” when Peter attempts to divert Him from His mission. Peter wasn’t possessed. He was acting as an obstacle and adversary.

That’s very different from the red-skinned ruler of hell found in popular culture.

Hell follows a similar pattern. Ancient Judaism largely understood death through the idea of Sheol, the grave. When your body returns to the earth. The ashes to ashes, dust to dust concept. During the Second Temple period, texts like Enoch developed elaborate pictures of cosmic prisons, fiery punishment, and rebellious angels.

When Jesus speaks about judgement, He often uses the language of Gehenna, a real valley outside Jerusalem associated with waste, destruction, and historical shame. His imagery is grounded in physical reality rather than the elaborate cosmic architecture found in Enoch. Later tradition largely conflated the two.

For me, this matters because of something called Creatio ex nihilo, the belief that God created everything from nothing. If God is entirely good and created everything that exists, evil cannot be a substance, force, or thing independent of God. Evil becomes the corruption or absence of good, much like darkness is the absence of light. The devil and fallen angels cannot be independent forces because that would imply God created them and evil and is not inherently good.

It’s the same volcano example I used in my previous post. Volcanoes are good. They fulfils their purpose. The danger appears when humanity ignores wisdom and places itself in harm’s way through them.

Sin works similarly. It’s not a cosmic infection or corrupting force entering humanity from outside. It’s separation from God’s wisdom and intention. That doesn’t mean spiritual realities don’t exist. It simply means I don’t think the primary problem facing humanity is a supernatural force or figures attacking us.

The primary problem is much closer to home. Sin is where humanity consistently chooses its own way over God’s, creating a chasm of divine separation. The devil is someone who corrupts others against God’s intentions. Hell is a colder and more terrifying space than fiery torment and becomes a nothingness void, a future without heavenly connection with God and your loved ones. A place where you become nothing but dust and soil for the earth. As for angels and demons, I see them less as supernatural monsters fighting an invisible war and more as spiritual realities within human actions that either draws people towards or away from God.

That’s the true story running through Scripture from beginning to end.

Once you understand these topics in this way, it challenges the idea about a evil cosmic war, focuses the battle within humanity itself, and explains sin, suffering, and our need for grace.

My 44th Birthday

2026-10-13T01:30:00.000+01:00

Yesterday was my birthday and, while it technically started in the morning, the celebrations really began on Saturday.

We had some friends from church over for dinner.

Actually, no.

I need to stop saying "friends from church". We had friends over for dinner. That feels more accurate. We ordered an Indian, chatted, laughed and, thanks to my opinionated teenagers, Will and James, somehow ended up discussing social issues. The evening was lovely. We've been spending more time with this couple recently and genuinely enjoy their company. Hannah and I have often said how good they are at getting us talking.

We even prepared a few questions to ask them. Admittedly, "a few" might be overstating it. I think we came up with two or three at most.

The funny thing is that they don't really need conversation starters. They're the sort of people who make you feel comfortable enough to just keep talking and spill everything. The more we chat, the more we want to know about them. It was a lovely evening and I'm really glad we chose to spend part of my birthday weekend with them.

My birthday started far earlier than I would've liked.

We had James' ADHD medication appointment first thing. After waiting so long following his diagnosis, there was no way we were cancelling it just because it happened to fall on my birthday. Sometimes adult responsibilities don't stop for birthdays.

The appointment took a couple of hours and, thankfully, we came away with a prescription and a treatment plan. I'm sure I'll write more about that another time.

Hannah didn't escape responsibilities either. She had to attend a meeting as part of her Churchwarden role. She hated that. If she'd had the choice, she'd have avoided it completely, but some things simply can't wait. While she was there, I also had a “work” call about church. The world just keeps on tuning.

Once all that was done, the day became exactly what I needed. Rest.

With how little sleep I've been getting recently, especially when I’ve been thinking so much about life, a quiet day felt like the best present possible. I spent some time reading, played a game for a while, and replied to the birthday messages arriving through Facebook, WhatsApp, texts, and church groups.

When Hannah got home, we opened cards. I've always opened cards first, have dinner, then do the presents.

Dinner was a fakeaway.

We're a big fakeaway household and, after an Indian takeaway on Saturday, it seemed the best option. I made a Nando's-style sauce using roasted peppers, onions, garlic, and tomatoes, blitzed it smooth, and covered a chicken with it before slow cooking. We served it with mash. It was delicious.

[Image 2. Pulled chicken with a orange sauce nex to mashed potatoes]

Then came the presents.

[Image 3. A selection of presents presented upon a bed. The full list is found below in the post]

I received a lot of chocolate. Our friends from Saturday bought me a Mint Terry's Chocolate Orange, while James and Arty added Dairy Milk, Twix, and a Galaxy Ripple to the collection.

Hannah's aunt bought me some Marvel socks. Hannah bought me fluffy socks, long-sleeved shirts I've wanted for ages, and some He-Man pins.

Although that does raise an important question.

If you collect He-Man figures and pins, do they belong in a pin collection or a He-Man collection? I'm still not sure.

[Image 4. 2 circle He-Man Pins. On the left is purple with Cringers green and yellow stripped face on with the words, Emotional Support Kitty. On the right is an orange pin, with Germans blue face with writing saying Henchmen problems]

Hannah also looked at some of the new He-Man figures currently filling the shops, but we've still got gaps in the previous range and the Funko collection. Starting another collection felt slightly dangerous.

Midge kept the theme going with a Skeletor keyring, which I'm very happy about.

*A small update as two presents from Hannah came late*

Here I have Moss man and Grizzlor to add to my collection. I'm so happy about these.

I'm particularly excited about my new light box. My old one broke, Midge's hasn't worked properly in ages, and I haven't done any artwork since last year. Hopefully this gives me the nudge to draw again.

My aunt also bought me a church history book focusing on Britain. Church History was one of my favourite subjects at college. When am I not excited about a theology book?

We then did the cake and, as always, it was a battenberg. Given while we sing our normal birthday song.

[Image 5. I am seen sitting upright. Smiling towards a battenberg cake with 8 multicoloured lit candles as the kids sing our birthday song]

I finished the evening watching Insidious: Out of the Further.

I really enjoyed it. It wasn't as focused on jump scares as some of the earlier films, but I liked the world-building, the new characters, and the way it expanded the wider story. It felt as though it was setting up future possibilities rather than simply repeating what had come before.

So that's me at 44.

Truthfully, birthdays still feel strange.

I still feel younger than my body insists I am.

Today was lovely. I’m sure my 44th year will be just as good. My ordination process is still moving forward and I'm still committed to my calling. There's plenty to focus on over the year ahead: ministry, study, family, friendships, health, and whatever surprises God decides to throw my way. If the next twelve months bring growth in even a few of those areas, I'll be more than happy. For me, today was pretty much perfect and I’m thankful for that.

Why Birthdays Have Never Been Simple For Me

2026-10-12T01:30:00.000+01:00

As I write this on Sunday afternoon, I've been reflecting on my birthday tomorrow (the day I’ve posted this).

I'll be 44 years old.

I shouldn't feel old but I do when I'm fumbling through conversations with my teens, I'm the oldest person at the table, I notice how white I've become, how my smile ages my face, how thin my hair is getting, or when I stop and work out how old I actually am.

Other times, it doesn’t. I’m just me.

Being adopted, birthdays have never been straightforward for me.

For most people, a birthday is a celebration. For some adopted people, it's more complicated. It's the anniversary of your birth, but also a reminder of separation, loss, and questions that never go away. Even though I was happily adopted, birthdays always felt like that .

I wasn't abandoned immediately. My biological remained around for four months before leaving in search for her latest male interest. I then moved through three different homes before being adopted shortly before my fourth birthday.

Looking back, the foundations of safety and security were disrupted several times during some very significant years of development.

As someone who traced their biological family and found more mess than answers, there’s still an emotional tension carried within birthdays.

Anyone who's read this blog knows how much I adored my mum. She gave me everything she possibly could. I'll always be a mummy's boy. Yet birthdays sometimes bring a strange sense of guilt, as though acknowledging the losses connected to adoption somehow takes something away from what she gave me.

It doesn't, of course. Just because my mind considers biological things doesn’t mean I wanted that life instead of the one I had. Emotions aren’t always logical.

I only have flashes, faces, and feelings of those years. I often wonder whether that's part of why birthdays have always felt difficult. Something about the date stir things up, even when I don't consciously expect it to.

Perhaps the simplest way to describe it is this: birthdays have always carried baggage.

My mum understood that better than most. She never pushed me into huge parties. Instead, she'd invite a few close friends, keep things manageable, and make sure I felt comfortable.

She got it right. The videos of at least one shows how overwhelmed I was.

Over the years, other things happened. Difficult situations at home, school, among friends, and in life. Birthdays seemed to become the place where difficult things happened.

If you know Hannah, you’ll know she goes all in with birthdays.

When Midge turned sixteen, there was music, excitement, and enough enthusiasm to let the entire world know it was her birthday.

Hannah has spent years trying to help me experience birthdays differently. There have been incredible cakes, thoughtful surprises, and genuine effort. She has really tried and I’ve had some good birthdays, but good experiences don't automatically erase old ones.

This year we decided to do something different.

At first, Hannah suggested inviting friends for a meal. The more we thought about it, the more we realised not all my friends know each other, and not everyone enjoys being dropped into a room full of strangers.

So we went smaller.

Last night (Saturday), our two friends came over for dinner. We ate, laughed, and enjoyed being together. It was a lovely evening and meant a lot to me. It didn’t need to be big. Being with them was enough.

I've got another meal planned with a couple from church this week.

That’s it. Simple and manageable.

The older I get, the more I think that's probably what I need.

Big parties have always overwhelmed me. I worry whether everyone is comfortable, getting on, or feeling left out. Just because they’re your friends doesn’t mean they’ll all get on.

My thirtieth birthday proved that.

Mum died three months earlier, yet everyone encouraged me to have a large celebration. I did it anyway. It was a terrible time in my life, but everyone was like “Mum wouldn’t want you upset. Unfortunately, everything I worried about happened.

What I remember most is feeling lonely in a room full of people. There were lots of friends, but few close ones. A problem I've always had.

Birthdays changed when Mum and Dad died.

I know I'm not alone in that.

When the people who raised, loved, and anchored your childhood are no longer here, birthdays become a reminder of their absence as much as your age. A part of you wants them there, and no amount of logic changes that, but you carry on because you have to.

All this has been spinning around my head this week.

I'm sure it will be lovely. I'll enjoy it and be grateful for another year. I won’t be sitting in a wallowing mess. That isn’t me. This post is just me taking a moment to voice something underneath. It’s not a cry for help. It just voices the strange mixture of gratitude, grief, love, loss, and reflective thoughts that birthdays still bring with them.

The Best Worst Christian

2026-10-11T01:31:45.463+01:00

I’m not the best Christian. At least not in the way people expect. In fact, many of my old friends used to describe me as “The Best Worst Christian.” It’s a title I’ve carried with pride, especially through the ordination process.

That probably sounds strange. For me, it isn’t. It shows I’m not a stereotypical Christian. I'm happy about that.

If you ask most people what a Christian looks like, they’ll often describe someone respectable, patient, perfectly spoken, and somehow free from the messiness of life. Someone who doesn’t swear, doubt, get angry, moan, dress differently, or challenge expectations.

The stereotype leaves very little room for being an actual person.

Back in January, Midge, Will, and James attended a Youth Alpha and Youth Alpha Easter event run by churches across Sittingbourne. My children sit somewhere between goth, emo, and punk. They’re not what typical Christian teenagers look like. The other young people turned up in nice shirts and smart jumpers. My three looked like a group of pagan worshippers had accidentally wandered into a Christian summer camp.

It was funny, but it highlights something important. Christians and churches often talk about “come as you are,” but some really mean, “Come as you are, then become like us.”

There’s a difference.

My church isn’t perfect, but we’re good at letting people be themselves, despite being called the “reject church” for years. For me, that’s a compliment. We’re a place of inclusion and belonging. We recently had a wonderful lady and her family join us after another church suggested they might “fit us better” because of her “strange” habits. What one church saw as a problem, we saw as a person looking to belong.

I don’t dress differently on Sundays. I regularly wear a hat, whether that’s a baseball cap or a woolly hat, and it stays on in church, even when I’m leading or preaching. God knows my heart whatever I’m wearing. If hats prevented God from knowing us, I’m fairly sure atheists would wear them for protection.

The same applies to other parts of life. I’m me no matter what. For example, I swear. I tried not to for years. All I achieved was making myself feel guilty every time I failed.

Eventually something shifted.

God already knows everything about me. The good, the bad, and the bits I’d rather keep hidden.

That doesn’t mean I go around insulting people, speaking however I like, and swearing all the time. Jesus was clear about loving others. I try hard not to use language that tears people down, belittles them, or causes harm. There’s a huge difference between careless words and weaponising them.

I think this is where many Christians pile unnecessary pressure onto themselves.

We worry about clothes, language, hobbies, appearance, relationships, behaviour, personality traits, and a hundred other things. We spend so much time trying to be a good Christian that we forget to be an honest one.

Part of the issue comes from how we view sin.

Many people treat sin as a force waiting to infect us every time we make a mistake. I’ve never found that particularly helpful.

Some traditions and theological viewpoints understand sin solely as separation from God. Sin damages relationships with God, others, ourselves, and creation. The issue isn’t that we’ve broken rules, but that we’ve stepped away from God’s wisdom, love, and intention.

Instead of asking, “Am I behaving like a Christian?” we should ask, “Am I moving towards God or away from Him?”

Jesus spoke a lot about love, mercy, forgiveness, generosity, hypocrisy, pride, and how we treat people. He said remarkably little about hats, fashion styles, dress codes, or whether someone looked religious enough.

We’re also called to share our faith, but I believe the “good Christian” stereotype gets in the way. If people think they must change everything about themselves before they belong, most won’t even walk through the door.

People connect with real people.

One friend started attending our church after feeling judged elsewhere. Their child’s ASD, Tourette’s, and behavioural needs didn’t fit “church” and spent years feeling unwelcome. At one point I jokingly said, “If they accept me, they’ll accept anyone.” They laughed and came anyway.

Today they’re part of the church family. Not because somebody changed who they were, but because somebody welcomed them.

That’s why I think we need to stop trying so hard. Stop worrying that we're constantly doing something wrong.

We all fall short. Not because we’re uniquely bad, but because God is uniquely good. Even the best Christian isn’t good enough. That’s the reason grace matters. There’s a saying that the church isn’t a museum for saints, it’s a hospital for sinners. I’ve always liked that idea. The well don’t need a doctor. The sick do. The church doesn’t need perfect Christians because they don’t exist. It needs real people carrying flaws, struggles, and failures.

The goal isn’t becoming the person we think Christians should be but the person God created us to be, then allowing Him to shape us from there. It’s why I’m still proud to be the best worst Christian. I’m imperfect, but still His.

Taking Accountability: Disability Shouldn't Be An Excuse

2026-10-10T01:30:00.000+01:00

Recently, a friendship and professional relationship changed for me. It started me reflecting on disability, inclusion, and something I hadn't really considered before.

This person, like me, has suffered under institutional harm and judgement within church environments. They've experienced ableism, restrictive doctrine, and people deciding what they can and cannot do because of disability. Scripture has been used against them. Opportunities have been limited. Their gifts have been dismissed. People, like “Simon,” have mistreated them.

I've seen the eye rolls, sighs, negative facial expressions, and subtle shifts in tone. I've seen people speak to them differently and opportunities withheld. It hurts. I recognised the story. I've lived it.

For years, I championed them.

I fought for opportunities, encouraged leadership, promoted their gifts, opened doors where I could, and wanted them to thrive because I know what it feels like when everyone assumes you can't.

The difficult part is that the problem isn't always the system. Sometimes it’s this person.

That's uncomfortable to write.

Over thirty years of living with disability, spending time in disabled communities, advocating, studying theology, and talking with disabled people, I've realised there’s a huge difference between understanding a barrier and making it your identity.

Some disabled people have support needs that significantly limit autonomy. They require care, advocacy, and a strong support network. That doesn't lessen their value. My sister is one example. She lives in assisted accommodation and requires extensive support. Yet she’s full of joy, humour, and love. Her worth isn't measured by productivity or independence.

Others carry years of social, cultural, and institutional ableism. They've been told they're incapable for so long that they believe it. The world acts on them and they stop expecting anything different. If enough people tell you who you are, eventually you start believing them. You end up becoming a victim, where disability becomes your main identity.

Then there are those who turn disability into a competition. Every difficulty becomes a comparison. Every medication, symptom, diagnosis, or struggle has to be worse than everyone else’s. Conversations become disability top trumps where the goal is proving who suffers most. I find it hard. Disability becomes the centre of their identity rather than one part of a much bigger person.

Then there are people who acknowledge their limitations without allowing those limitations to define them. Disability affects their life, but it doesn't become their entire identity. They adapt, find workarounds, challenge barriers, ask for support when needed, and keep moving forward despite the reality of their situation. They thrive in each setting because they are forced by the world and themselves to do so. Despite their limits, they push on, taking more on than they should, and achieve well.

I place myself in that group.

I need care and support. I have no choice but to rely on Hannah or others. There are many things I simply cannot do. Yet, I still try, adapt, and find ways to participate, use the world around me, and maintain autonomy. Disability affects my life, but it isn't my identity.

The distinction matters.

Disability can explain a situation.

It shouldn't automatically excuse one.

Recently, this friend was given an opportunity they had wanted for years. It was a chance to lead, thrive, and demonstrate their abilities. I was genuinely excited for them. The result was good, but the journey there was difficult and, unfortunately, they let themselves down in how they acted. They will never admit that though.

Instructions were ignored. Agreed plans changed. Feedback was rejected. Mistakes were made. They acted unprofessionally. Argued. Whenever concerns were raised, responsibility landed somewhere else. A partner. Colleagues. Circumstances. Disability. Neurodivergence. Anyone and anything but them.

I hate this.

Compassion and grace matter because disability creates barriers, but that shouldn’t remove accountability.

If my ASD causes a misunderstanding, then that explains what happened. It doesn't stop me apologising. If my FSHD physically stops something, I still need to communicate that clearly. If trauma influences my reaction, I remain responsible for how I act. In all cases, I’m still an adult, accountable, able to regulate, and learn.

What made this harder was that the pattern eventually turned towards me.

Suddenly I was responsible for problems I hadn't caused. I hadn't communicated properly, understood, or supported enough. I didn't believe in them enough. Disagreements became arguments.

I realised I wasn't advocating for inclusion anymore. I was enabling behaviour. Behaviour that I didn’t agree with.

That's a difficult distinction to recognise.

Many disabled people, including me, have spent our entire lives proving ourselves. We work harder because we know people question our capabilities. We adapt, push, learn, change, and grow because we have no alternative.

When I make mistakes, I try to own them. Not because I'm perfect but because accountability matters.

Maybe that's what changed for me. I can still see the barriers, fight for their opportunities, and believe in their potential. As a leader, I want to empower those around me. I just can't carry misapplied responsibility. They need to own that themselves. Sometimes the greatest act of belief is letting people learn from their own mistakes.

Friendship Changes

2026-10-09T01:30:00.000+01:00

I didn’t sleep at all Wednesday night. After trying my sleeping rituals, breathing techniques, and prayer, I ended up reading blog posts to help drift off. I didn’t. Pain kept me awake, my mind was active, and my body wanted positions it can no longer rest in.

Despite leaving me exhausted yesterday, it did bring positives. After reading a post I wrote two months ago, I had a proper chat with God about mine and my parents’ friendships.

When I was little, my mum and dad had friends from work, hobbies, and general activities. They were always around our house. For birthdays, Mum didn’t just invite my friends. She invited her friends and their children, even when they were much older than me. I remember parties, BBQs, picnics, and events with these people.

Then something changed. Dad and Mum stopped the activities that connected them. We still got Christmas cards and bumped into them at shops, but the gatherings ended. I didn’t notice it then, but looking back I can see it clearly. It happened before I started Secondary School. I don’t know why and, without them here, these will be stories I won’t get answers for.

They could have drifted apart. It could have been age differences. My parents adopted us in their forties. Their friends had children in their early twenties who were then old enough to be my parents. It could have been interpersonal. Mum was strong willed, opinionated, and determined. Dad was inappropriate, sexist, and racist. I heard comments and rumours growing up that matched this. Something shifted and their friends stopped coming round.

It makes me question whether friendships slow down, change, and fade as you get older. Maybe there wasn’t any drama. Maybe it’s just something that happens.

I’ve always struggled with friendships and being disabled doesn't help them. Despite learning tricks, like laughing with everyone else when I don’t get it, ASD makes social situations difficult. I over communicate and send essay‑like responses with too much detail. I struggle with eye contact, physical closeness, reading expressions, and eating in front of others. I only do that with people I trust. My brain also moves differently, sometimes I interrupt, say the wrong thing at the wrong time or misjudge a moment.

FSHD complicates things too. My chair limits where I can go. Some friends find watching my degeneration hard. Travel takes longer. Socialising takes more energy. People ask how I am, but they want the polite, positive version, not the reality behind my disability.

Despite these reasons, I don’t actually know why friendships fade. They just do. People who were present just disappear.

A lot of my friendships ended around covid, especially my closest ones. I don’t know why, but I haven’t had a close relationship since and miss having a best friend, confidant, and someone outside of Hannah to rely on.

Part of that's my fault. I’ve put a guard up. I was mischaracterised, blamed, and shamed for having an “emotional affair” with my sibling‑like best friend fifteen years ago which shattered my already fragile marriage and made me wary of female friendships.

This made friendships harder. Childhood trauma shaped how I relate to and engage with men. Subsequently, I gravitated almost entirely towards girls at school, apart from one male friend who connected with me through shared intelligence, geeky interests, and the feeling of being out of place. He was my best man when I married the boys mum, but life shifted. He moved away, built a family, and our paths drifted. I’m lucky if I see him once a year now.

I received psychotherapy after my breakdown and divorce. This helped me understand more about how those early experiences shaped the way I form relationships. While I still sought female friendships, it also helped me build boundaries. I removed kisses from texts. I became more emotionally guarded with friends and open about who I talk to and how with my partner. I didn’t honour these things before. I learnt from that and acted better.

Over the last decade, that guard has grown. I had and then lost three close female friends. They vanished. I know my routine and ASD communication were difficult for them, but I don’t know what directly caused it. Communication slowed. Something shifted. Our friendship faded. It hurt deeply and left me protecting myself from being hurt again.

I know it’s not just me. Others struggle too. We’re not in our twenties going to pubs, clubs, or nights out. We’re not in our thirties seeking escape while our kids are little. We’re in our forties. A time where friendships fade, settle, or reshape. Just like they did for my parents.

I know that putting my guard up makes it difficult for anyone to get close, but I do get lonely. I also don’t make it easy because I enjoy having space to myself. I still struggle making friends with men, even if I've gained a few more male friendships over the years and am open to having more. Female friendships are still easier, but my guard is still up, never wanting to be in that situation again, as I love Hannah too much. It all makes friendships rather difficult though.

Friendships change, people come and go, yet I’m still hopeful that some will grow into something steady, honest, and safe. My guard has been up for too long. It's time to try and be open again.

How Do We Carry Disability Theology Forward? Balancing Faith, Healing, and Harm

2026-10-08T01:30:00.000+01:00

Following the disability conference, I’ve had a few people ask how to move forward. They loved the Bible studies, the closing talk, and the honesty about ableism, Scripture, and lived experience. They left encouraged, but unsure how to move forward while honouring disability theology and the spiritual belief in healing, wholeness, and sin. They want to support disabled people without falling into the traps we named. It’s a valid question.

My studies sit comfortably within disability theology, yet they conflict with typical Christian practice that have existed for several millennia, are recorded in Scripture, and were undertaken by Jesus and the disciples. Many churches still push healing as correction. It’s a familiar narrative and, when it happens, a powerful message of God’s love and Scriptural authority. Some churches still frame disability as spiritual warfare. I’ve even experienced exorcism attempts, cleansing prayers, and ableist theology.

It’s easy for those without faith to dismiss these things. For Christians, they exist in Scripture and were undertaken with confidence as acts of faith. People want to know how to balance this belief and disability theology without causing harm and repeating the mistakes disabled people face in inaccessible spaces, unequal processes, and inherited assumptions.

The question becomes simple. How do we balance disability theology and Christian spirituality together without hurting people.

My answer sits in the same place as my posts on equality and equity, accessibility and usability, independence and autonomy, presence and participation, and the Image of God. The balance is found in how we see disabled people before we decide what to do.

Take sin. Many Christians treat sin as a spiritual force. Various areas of theology and doctrine see sin differently. Creatio ex nihilo teaches that God creates freely. Nothing existed before God. No flawed material. Everything created was good. Volcanoes are a good example. They create fertile soil, regulate the planet, and release essential gases. They also destroy and hurt. Some see destruction as divine punishment. I disagree. Sin is the separated state from God. In this case, it is human separation from God’s wisdom. We build close to volcanoes, interfere with their purpose, and ignore their danger. If we honoured their creation and purpose, we would not sin. Sin is separation, not a force that impacts us.

This matters because when we see sin as a force that affects disabled people, we find reasons to believe the healing narratives that go with it, like removing sin, demons, or dark spirits. If sin is considered as the separation from God’s intent, healing becomes the restoration of God’s intent. With all ideas of sin‑based disability removed, healing becomes less about fighting spiritual magic or bodily correction and more about realignment. Healing becomes a movement back toward the life God intended.

Some things can be healed. An injury, environmentally impacted illness, or harm caused by human action. These are disruptions to God’s creative intent. They can be restored. Healing exists.

Healing is not the correction of disabled bodies. It can benefit disabled people, but through the restoration of relationships, community, dignity, and belonging. Healing is the removal of barriers, not disabled people.

Disabled and neurodivergent embodiment is different. These bodies and minds were formed intentionally. They bear God’s image fully. They are not deviations or mistakes but part of creation’s diversity. Healing doesn’t apply in the same way. God’s will matters, and sometimes healing doesn’t happen even when it fits the criteria above. That’s not failure. It’s simply the truth that God works differently in different lives.

This should change how we offer prayer. People often assume disabled people want healing from disability. Some do. Some don’t. The balance is found in asking what the person wants prayer for. Ask clearly. Listen carefully. Offer prayer that aligns with disability theology. Pray for strength, comfort, courage, peace, community, accessibility, usability, equity, justice, or the removal of ableism. Pray for healing that restores life, not bodies. If healing doesn’t happen, explain why through disability theology. Stay positive, grounded, and honouring.

We must change how we talk about spiritual harm. Disabled people are not evidence of demons, curses, or divine judgement. They are indispensable members of the church who bring joy, wisdom, leadership, resilience, humour, and perspective that shows God’s creativity. They widen welcome and teach the church how to love.

The conference gave people a foundation. They saw the distortions, harm, and truth. They want to move forward without slipping back into old habits. The answer is found in how we see, treat, and respond to disabled people. If we see them as gifts, image bearers, and indispensable members of the church body, everything else follows. Prayer, healing, theology, and church life changes. The balance becomes natural.

Disability theology and Christian spirituality can be held together but it takes a shift in understanding, faith and theology. Able bodied people need to read, learn, and listen more to disability theology and experience. The more you read, the more you learn. The more you learn, the more inclusive you can be. Communities that honour disabled people through equity, usability, autonomy, participation, and accessible worship become places where healing happens in the way Scripture intends. Barriers fall, belonging grows, and God’s kingdom draws closer.

Ordination: Placement

2026-10-07T01:30:00.000+01:00

The idea of doing a Placement has floated around for almost a year now. It first appeared in my Carousel Conversations feedback. I fumbled a question about how I’ve tested my calling. Instead of explaining fifteen years of discernment, challenge, and growth, I spoke about being put on the spot and thriving in an area of my existing church life. Subsequently, they suggested a placement to give me breadth, experience, and space to see how things fit. I didn’t mind. Experience is valuable.

Then came the meeting with the bishop. They wanted me on placement, away from my church and my late friend and colleague Sue. It felt like a punishment. If it had been framed around my process and growth, I would’ve been fine, but it wasn’t. The bishop also seemed convinced that most churches in the diocese were fully accessible, easy to reach by public transport, and led by disability theology informed priests. Anyone who’s read Fearfully and Wonderfully Made or Church times reports knows that’s rarely the case.

My ADDO later rephrased the need for placement as something that would help me flourish. In the meeting with my DDO and ADDO, I raised the obvious point: my church is in the furthest north region of the diocese and takes ninety minutes to travel to. Travelling further south adds time, strain and physical consequences. Thankfully, he agreed and suggested a placement within the diocese I live in. He also agreed to the accessibility, theology, and travel requirements, and committed to finding one that fits.

Five months later, he sent three options.

I visited one with Hannah. It was fine, but was a combination of styles, which seemed to clash. Another looked closer on paper but would’ve taken just as long to reach. The third caught my attention immediately. A thirty‑minute walk from home. Modern outlook but traditional inside, yet something felt right.

It had a strong social media presence, ticked our eco boxes, having become an Eco Church with a silver award, was part of the Inclusive Church network, something I’ve wanted my own church to join for years, hosts the Food Bank, a weekday children’s group, social events, and has a growing children’s and youth connection, and does all of this while still being a “High Church” with weekly communion, three Sunday services, hymns blasted out on the organ, and a traditional, Anglo-Catholic style.

It was everything I’ve avoided and everything I’ve wanted.

I’ve experienced multiple denominations over my life. Most validated the harm disabled people face. I learned to equate traditional services with traditional viewpoints and spiritual danger. That’s true for some churches, but the Church of England is an ecosystem of local parishes, each with individuality and nuance. Yet my mind still goes, “If they sing hymns with an organ, they won’t be forward‑thinking.” This church challenged that assumption. Everything anyone would want from a modern mission, eco, and inclusive church was there, with a traditional heart.

It also made me realise that I’ve been at my current church for fifteen years, worshipping within its parish for eighteen, and that I’ve settled into one experience for too long. This placement should change that.

Hannah and I prayed about which to choose, but we both kept circling back to this church. So I told my DDO, he set it up, and introduced the priest I’ll be working with: Rev Sue. Going from one Rev Sue to another felt like a quiet reassurance.

Last Friday, I visited the church and met her. She’s brilliant. She understands neurodiversity, being so herself and raising neurodivergent children, so will be fine with me, gets disability theology and practice, and already made changes and wants my help to make more. She’s inclusive, thoughtful, and passionate about the community. We talked about her journey, the church, activities, and what she hopes to do next. I couldn’t have asked for a better placement.

The moment I walked in, it felt right. The moment Hannah walked in, she said “Wow.” Then a friend said yesterday that she can see me there. It all seems to fit.

We have one small problem. Rev Sue wasn’t sure what I’m allowed to do. Am I there solely as an observer? Or, can I be thrown into the deep end and do what I do at my church, but there? From what she said, I think she wants the latter. I hope so. I want that too.

I’ve decided to split my time 50/50 between my church and placement. I could do six solid weeks, but I’m doing too many things at my church and while others can cover, it becomes difficult when only a handful do everything. This way, I can continue my calling there while exploring and growing on placement.

Once we hear back about what I can and cannot do, I’ll let Rev Sue know and we can start. For now, I’m excited for my Placement. Here are some photos we took.

[Image 2. The image shows a traditional church sanctuary. Green cushioned chairs are arranged in rows facing a raised altar covered with a green frontal and decorated with flower arrangements. Behind the altar are three tall stained‑glass windows showing biblical scenes. Above them, the curved apse features a painted mural of Jesus Christ flanked by two angels, with the words “Holy Holy Holy Lord God of Hosts” across the top. Hanging lantern‑style lights descend from green ceiling beams, and the surrounding walls display plaques and religious artwork. The overall atmosphere is calm, reverent, and historic.]

[Image 3. The image shows a section of a church wall dominated by five stained‑glass windows: three tall arched panels in the centre and two smaller circular windows above. The glass depicts scenes including the crucifixion of Jesus, figures in prayer, and decorative geometric patterns in vivid colours. Beneath the windows stands a simple wooden altar with a wooden cross, two candle holders, and floral arrangements. The surrounding wall and ceiling include painted and carved Christian symbols, adding to the sense of craftsmanship and tradition]

[Image 4. The image shows a decorative ceiling mural. Two winged angels in flowing robes and golden sashes face inward toward a central circular medallion containing a stylised face surrounded by pink and gold tones. The background is deep blue with scattered golden stars, creating a celestial theme. The border is richly patterned with geometric and floral designs in gold and green. The artwork is detailed and symbolic, typical of traditional church or chapel decoration.]

[Image 5. This image shows a spacious chapel with rows of teal upholstered chairs arranged facing a wooden stage area. A staircase leads up to a balcony with a wooden railing and a large wooden structure containing a door and a black rectangular panel. The ceiling is high with green beams and hanging lantern‑style lights. On the left is a large pipe organ with green and wooden detailing. On the right, tall arched windows with stained‑glass panels allow natural light into the room. Notice boards and wooden cabinets line the back wall. The room feels historic and designed for worship, gatherings, or performances. I am sat to the bottom left of the image]

Parenting James: Five Months Later and Facing a New Battle

2026-10-06T01:30:00.000+01:00

I last wrote about James in May. As expected, it’s taken three weeks into the school term and I’m writing about him again. That’s not surprising considering the last five posts have mostly centred around his school life.

I ended my last update waiting for the Trust to respond. They never did. I made my viewpoint clear, but the representative didn’t get back to me. Then, just as the term started, they emailed asking how things were. I replied and voiced what I had said before with a small update about James. Again, nothing. I was talking to Hannah about it today. I’ll contact the Trust. It’s ridiculous at this point.

Now on to James.

He ended the school year in a good place. He loves his tutor and they’ve been completing work well. Some days they even finished early. I’m happy he worked hard enough for that to happen, but I didn’t like the earlier finishes. In four years, James has attended three secondary schools, has twice been pulled out due to EBSA and other issues, and has been home educated. Regular readers know I’m a positive home school promoter, but it wasn’t a great experience for him.

I was a primary school teacher. I worked across multiple schools, year groups, needs, and positions. It was ideal when James and Will were little. I was never a secondary teacher. I could teach some subjects, but it wasn’t my thing and wouldn’t have been the best education for them. We tried splitting home schooling between households, but it didn’t work. That’s why he went back into a new school.

By the third school, I’d learned the system. Pulling him out always left the responsibility of education on us. Letting the school reach a point where they had to enact Section 19 was better. They had no choice but to refer James to the council, and the council found relevant education. It’s benefited him, but the calculation around all that time in, out, and receiving substandard education meant James was probably, at best estimate, around a year behind his peers. Even if he’s a clever lad.

So finishing early stung a bit. I kept thinking, “Can he not do more? Fill in the gaps?” The structure doesn’t allow for that. I had to accept it and be grateful he was happy, learning, and having a positive schooling experience.

That changed this term. Kind of.

James still loves his tutor. She’s lovely. The problem is sleep. He’s had one day of tutoring since term started. He isn’t sleeping and often doesn’t fall asleep until 6am. When we wake him at 10am, it’s met with, “No. Cancel today. I’m exhausted” or the more expletive version.

The doctors had prescribed medication. It didn’t work. We tried alternating it to challenge any immunity his body might have built. That didn’t help either.

I get it. I’ve written twice before that I don’t sleep. Sometimes it takes two or three days until I finally sleep. I was given the same medication. It’s worked at times, especially if I alternate it, but recently even that hasn’t been enough. So I fully understand.

There’s a difference though.

I had a horrible week of sleep pain, my body wanting to move in ways it no longer can, emotional whiplash from reality‑shifting dreams, or staying wide awake begging my brain to sleep last week. I reached Friday, went to bed as normal, was yawning and tired, but stayed awake all night. By 6am I had to be up for the Disability Conference. I forced myself to go. I did what was needed because I had to.

That night, I was exhausted. My body wanted to surrender, but Saturday night was still broken. I wanted to stay in bed and recover the sleep I needed, but I was leading the service at church. So I got up and fulfilled my commitments. Last night my body gave in and I slept almost all the way through. I’m still exhausted today, but I’ve carried on.

James needs to do the same. He’s 15. It’s not easy, but the more it happens, the more he misses.

We went back to the doctors on Friday. They can’t do much. He’s still a minor. They upped his medication slightly but think he needs ADHD meds that we’ve waited nine months for. They’ll write to the centre, but we’re caught in the eighteen‑month system.

There’s a positive though. I called today. While waiting in the phone queue as the 101st caller, his medication appointment came through for next Monday. Many thankful prayers were said.

So what happens now?

James and I spoke a couple of times today. I explained what I’ve had to do for my commitments and how he’s got to do the same. We’re also running the risk that the tutor will have to cancel. Not working means not getting paid, and she’ll need a new student. She even asked today whether James wanted to continue. We said yes. He has a good bond with her. He just needs to fight this problem. I’m hoping he can manage until next Monday. Then we’ll see what happens with that appointment.

In the meantime, it’s a battle.

Maddy Time: Avengers Endgame Encore

2026-10-05T01:30:00.000+01:00

Spoiler Warning: This post contains plot details from Avengers: Endgame Encore.

Midge and I went to see Avengers: Endgame Encore last week. It promised four minutes of new footage that would link Endgame to Avengers: Doomsday. We were curious. Maddy Time is our thing. We do other activities, but cinema trips are where we mostly connect. This felt like something we had to see, even if it was only for those extra minutes.

I’ve felt unsettled about the multiverse saga, like many fans have. Some films have been brilliant. Some haven’t. Shang‑Chi was one of the best stand‑alone films in this era. It deserved a sequel. I expected the same universe building we had before. It’s a shame Marvel didn’t follow that strategy.

Spider‑Man: Far From Home was great. No Way Home was even better. We loved the multiverse connections and the idea that the other Spider‑Men returned home to healed villains. It would be cool to see. We love Tom Hollands version. It’s why our last Maddy Time was spent watching Spider‑Man: Brand New Day.

Black Panther: Wakanda Forever handled Chadwick Boseman’s death with care. It continued the story well and set Namor up for future arcs, hopefully with Sue Storm, like the comics. Doctor Strange: Multiverse of Madness had strong universe links and cameos. We enjoyed it, although Wanda deserved a better conclusion. Deadpool and Wolverine did the multiverse well and continued his story arc nicely. The Marvels introduced Rambo’s crossover into the X‑Men universe, but it seems separate from the Fox universe we know. It needs explaining. I hope they don’t pretend it never happened.

We weren’t sure what to expect with Endgame Encore. We didn’t know if the extra footage would be inside the film or added at the end. Spoilers: it’s all in the credits. The film itself is unchanged. I know Endgame word for word. Nothing shifted. They didn’t fix any continuity errors. Ant‑Man is still giant, pushing a space whale through a wizard portal, when he’s also in the van with Wasp hot wiring it. Captain America’s shield is still whole when it should be shattered in a wide shot. You’d think a rerelease would correct details fans have pointed out for years. It didn’t. It annoyed both of us.

The new footage begins right after the ending, with Steve and Peggy. They’re dancing, peaceful and happy, when a knock interrupts them. Steve hides. Peggy answers and asks if she can help. A voice replies, “No, but I can help you. Both of you.” Loki walks in wearing his TVA uniform. Steve steps out looking confused. It cuts there.

The next scene shows Bruce Banner in a cement cell miles underground. It links to Spider‑Man: Brand New Day, where we last saw him being carried into an ambulance. He says it’s been more than ten years since the Hulk last came out fully. He moves to a workstation and explains he’s been working on a gamma‑suppressing serum. A green light fills the room. Bruce asks who the person is. A voice replies, “Mr Banner. I’ve come to collect you.” A burnt green rune spreads across the floor. Hulk’s voice rumbles. They escape.

The third scene takes place in the TVA. Mobius walks into the office as alarms sound. An incursion is happening between the X‑Men and Deadpool universe 1005 and another universe. Missiles fire between earths as both collapse. Another incursion follows. Then another. It reaches three. A voice shouts that it’s not three. It’s three hundred. Then three thousand. The announcement declares that the multiverse is collapsing. Midge and I wondered if the number linked to Tony Stark’s “I love you 3000.” It might, but could just show how fast everything is falling apart.

The final scene mirrors the ending of Endgame and the first Iron Man. You hear metal being hammered. The camera reveals Doctor Doom’s mask being made.

Reviews online are mixed. Some say the rerelease is unnecessary. I get why. It didn’t add anything new. Those clips could’ve been released separately. Some say it’s a welcome bridge between sagas. I’m not sure it bridges anything. The ideas in the clips are cool, but the film didn’t need to be the platform. Some say the new scenes add excitement for Doomsday, and Midge and I agree with that. It’s nostalgic and fun, but imperfect.

Sitting next to Midge made it better. I quietly said every line, but thankfully didn’t ruin it for her.

One last thing. We went to Nando’s before the movie. We didn’t get any photos. It was nice, except for one detail. Midge ordered the wrong spice level for my food and accidentally chose the hottest one. My brain and tongue nearly melted. My lips were throbbing. She laughed then. She still laughs now. I’ll pretend I’m over it.

It was another lovely Maddy Time together. That’s what matters.

[Image 2. Midge sits on the left as she leans into to me on the right wearking a blue shirt, a dark and a white cowboys hat. The photo is dark as we sit in the screen room waiting for the end credits to play]

God Must Hate Me: Disability Conference Talk

2026-10-03T01:30:00.000+01:00

There is a belief many disabled and neurodivergent people carry quietly, formed by years of being treated as problems by churches, Scripture, and faith.

For some people, that song is uncomfortable. For others, it’s familiar. It names an existence shaped by years of being told your body is wrong, your mind is wrong, your needs are inconvenient, or your presence is something God will fix later.

It forms when Scripture is weaponised. When wholeness is tied to body hierarchy or healing is offered to correct disabled bodies. When disability is blamed on demons or dark spirits. When sin, disobedience, or weak faith are used to explain our bodies. These ideas are still pushed today. Medical truth, disabled lives as celebrations of God’s kingdom, and our identity as divine image‑bearers are abandoned. Is it really a surprise that many think God made a mistake and hates them?

I felt it. I’ve lived all of this.

From thirteen to twenty‑five, before I came to faith, I searched Scripture, theology, and churches. I was desperate to understand where disability fit into God’s world. What I found wasn’t comfort or an all‑loving God. It was judgement, pressure, and the belief that I was broken, unworthy, and wrong— and the hardest part was realising that the very people who call themselves broken and unworthy because of sin still rejected me for being the ‘wrong kind’ of broken.’ Suddenly, John 3:16 sounded less like “God so loved the world” and more like “God so loved the world — except disabled and neurodivergent people.”

Although I persisted, reconciled, and found truth in Disability Theology and grace, these experiences came from churches across our diocese and have continued to affect me to this day.

When you hear that for years, you eventually start to believe God made a mistake or you’re an exception to God’s goodness. The one body God forgot.

Recently, the Archbishop of Canterbury said that neurodivergence is a gift. Many of us felt joy. Disability advocates, disabled people, and especially those who’ve been spiritually harmed by negative representation, celebrated.

I celebrated. It felt like a breakthrough. Disability was finally being recognised and named as a gift.

But the hard truth is this: declaring a human life as a gift should never have been groundbreaking. The fact that it sounded revolutionary shows that disabled and neurodivergent people have not been treated, spoken about, or imagined as gifts.

And that brings us to a deeper question.

If I had asked at the start whether disabled people are part of God’s kingdom, children of God, or loved by God, most of you here would have said yes. If I had asked whether you believe disabled people fit those negative beliefs, I hope most would have said no.

But if I asked you why disabled bodies exist, what would you have said?

Would you have felt confident explaining disabled embodiment without slipping into healing language, fixing language, or “one day in heaven you’ll be different” language?

So, what if someone came to you and said the words of that song out loud:

“God must hate me. God must have made a mistake because I’m disabled.”

What would you say?

Would you reassure them while quietly imagining a future where their body is different?

Would you offer healing prayer?

Or will you say:

“God did not make a mistake with you. Your disabled life is a gift. You bear God’s image. Our church, liturgy, spaces, theology, and worship are here, waiting, just for you, just as God is.”

And then be confident in how you meet, greet, and accommodate them?

That’s the question that must be carried out of this room.

The song doesn’t say that there’s no God and that disability is proof. The people believing this clearly believe in God. They just have the wrong theology. It just needs changing.

Disabled people bring joy to the church — joy that comes from creativity, humour, community, and the ability to find light in places others overlook.

Disabled people bring wisdom — wisdom shaped by patience, resilience, interdependence, and the ability to navigate a world not built for us.

Disabled people bring leadership — leadership that is embodied, imaginative, and grounded in lived experience. Leadership that widens the church’s welcome, deepens its compassion, and teaches it how to love.

When the church finally sees disabled lives as gifts, it becomes more like the kingdom God intended.

As a church, we need to change how we answer questions about and from disabled and neurodivergent people. We need to break the idea that they are problems to be solved, bodies that are broken and need fixing, or lives seen negatively by God. The only thing broken and wrong about us is the same thing broken in all humanity— a state of separation from God because of sin.

We need to replace those assumptions with joy, wisdom, leadership, welcome, and belonging, not as accommodation or token bodies of inclusion, but as recognition of God’s image already present.

Because God did not make a mistake.

If you would like to read the Bible Study that was run as a workshop for this conference, please click here.

A Week of Disability Theology, Church Battles, and Calling

2026-10-02T01:30:00.000+01:00

This week has been a lot. Good, important, exhausting, and revealing.

Last Friday, the Enable Team met to finalise tomorrow’s disability conference. In the middle of that meeting, my friend, who also joined the team, mentioned our Disability Awareness Sunday service. She signs through our services, mostly for herself, although she’s never been up front or signed the whole service. I asked her to do it this time. It felt right for our first disability‑themed Sunday. It also felt overdue.

The week leading up to it wasn’t easy. The person leading the service pushed back on almost everything. I offered five disability‑themed Psalms. She ignored all of them and chose her own, but, as able-bodied people seem to do, she chose one about suffering. It partially fit, so I agreed, but only through respecting that the person leading the service has that right to structure it in a way they feel fit. I then suggested we sing one song without lyrics in solidarity with blind people, especially those who walk into church for the first time and don’t know the songs or style. She didn’t want to do it because she felt uncomfortable. That was the point. She couldn’t see it, ironically. She tried using items, gimmicks, or demonstrations, but that also misses the point. We need to show the lived experience.

I suggested another moment of solidarity where we sit through a song for wheelchair users. I hate it, as I'm often blocked. Bodies standing around me as I sit awkwadly between them. Again, pushback. Eventually she said she’d leave all the disability stuff to me. It shouldn’t be that hard for an able‑bodied person to listen to someone who lives this every day. I’m a disabled man, an advocate, a disability blogger, a disability theologian, and part of the leadership team. It should have been simple, but like most things, the able-bodied person doesn't get it, so it has to become about them, their experience, or what they want rather than being present, willing, and ready for something new or challenging.

My friend and I talked about this at the meeting. Everyone understood the frustration. She then mentioned my “brilliant idea.” She always promotes me better than I do myself. I’d built my sermon around God Must Hate Me, the song I wrote about recently. The Disability Advisor loved it so much she asked me to bring it into the conference. I wasn’t sure. It was written for my church, shaped around our harvest series. She asked me to use it as the closing talk. That’s a massive honour. So I went home, rewrote it, and made it fit the conference. I’ll post it tomorrow.

She also roped Will into doing the prayers. I don’t mind. He’s seventeen, autistic, and brilliant. He always does the sermon in our Youth Led services. Everyone loves him. Her children don’t do public speaking, so she named him instead. It was a last‑minute addition, like most things she throws my way.

Sunday itself was difficult. The service mattered to me. Fifteen years in that church and this was our first Disability Awareness Sunday. Our tech guy was on holiday with his wife was who also preaches and leads services, and it was youth group week, which I coordinate. A recurring tech issue pushed me into a stressful place. I asked for space. I was ignored. I said I needed air. Unfortunately, this friend followed me outside with her husband, moaning, pushing their thoughts, and missing that I needed that break. She’s intense, possibly due to her ADHD and ASD. It overwhelmed me. The service went well. Everyone enjoyed it. Except me. She pushed my boundaries and tainted the day.

Church work does that. Sometimes it takes the church out of it.

In the middle of all this, I visited my Ordination Placement church this week. It’s thirty minutes from home, not the ninety that I normally do. It’s beautiful. Rev Sue is lovely. It’s accessible, has a proper disabled toilet, inclusive theology, community outreach, and traditional practices. The latter being something that I am interested in but not used to as a Church style. It’s everything I hoped for. I’m excited to start.

All of this in seven days. Today will be spent preparing for tomorrow. The nerves have kicked in. That’s how I work. In the moment, adrenaline carries me. Beforehand, I’m anxious. Afterwards, I overthink every detail, much to Hannah’s annoyance.

Tomorrow is a big day. I’m presenting a Bible study workshop on Disability Theology under the Image of God theme. Then I’m giving the closing talk. All to worship leaders, lay ministers, readers, church wardens, priests, archdeacons, and maybe even bishops.

The person who has lived through church harm because of disability. The one who promotes the Fearfully and Wonderfully Made report. The one who holds people accountable when ableism breaks through.

Up there. Doing it. Properly.

Let’s hope it goes well.

Pushed Into Complicity

2026-09-26T01:26:01.212+01:00

I’ve written about ableism for years, naming the quiet harm disabled people carry, the assumptions people make, the jokes people think are funny, and the way systems misunderstand us long before they understand our needs. I’ve written about privilege, accessibility, independence, autonomy, participation, equality and equity. Topics that need discussing. Today I’m writing about something harder. Complicity.

Disabled people learn early that speaking up comes with consequences. We’re told to be patient, grateful, calm, accommodating, to wait our turn, soften our tone, and trust that things will improve. Sometimes they do. Sometimes they don’t. Sometimes the cost of naming harm and pushing what’s right becomes higher than the harm itself, affecting your life or the lives of those you love.

I’ve found myself in a situation this week that pushed this into sharp focus. I won’t name details. I don’t need to. Anyone who has lived inside a system that wasn’t built for disabled bodies or disabled minds will recognise the pattern. Something happened that shouldn’t have happened. It hurt. It unsettled me. It left me carrying emotions I didn’t want and shouldn’t have had. I waited, prayed, reflected, and hoped for repair, clarity, reconciliation, and to make sure the same thing wouldn’t happen again to me, let alone to anyone else.

Instead, it’s been reinforced that some systems don’t know how to hold disabled people when harm occurs. Sometimes they don’t know how to recognise, acknowledge, or name it. They don’t know how to fix it or safeguard us. Authority, power, and position is all that matters. When that happens, justice isn’t appropriately given, even when the attempt was made with good intentions. These systems ask us to carry the weight quietly because naming it would make the system uncomfortable. We don’t matter. The system does.

We’re ultimately told, “We won’t discuss it. Shut up. Don’t even consider mentioning it. Nod. Smile. Play along. You don’t matter here. The system is our priority. If you go against this, we will punish you.”

That’s forced complicity.

In those moments, complicity isn’t agreement, acceptance, moral silence, or support. It’s the survival instinct people develop when the cost of truth becomes too high. It’s the moment we realise that pushing for justice from the outside rarely works, and the only way to change a system is to be inside it.

It’s painful.

I’ve spent years writing about disability, theology, inclusion, and the harm caused towards disabled people. I’ve preached about it, taught workshops, held special services, fought for accessibility, named ableism openly, honestly, and without fear, and supported and advocated individuals and organisations. Yet now I find myself in a position where naming a specific harm publicly would cause more harm than it heals.

That tension is hard to carry. I feel like a hypocrite, as if I am betraying everything I believe in and undermining everything I’ve written or spoken about.

Disabled people often navigate this line. We know what injustice and ableism looks and feels like. We know when something isn’t right. We also know that sometimes the only way to create change is to stay in the room long enough to make it happen. That means choosing our battles carefully, shining a light gently instead of fighting loudly, and trusting that silence now doesn’t mean silence forever. History shows this pattern. Many disabled activists started quietly because they had no choice.

Disability rights is complex. There are multiple ways in which a disabled person can have their rights violated in different socio‑political, cultural, and legal contexts. Employment is one of the clearest examples. Employers are often unwilling to provide accessible accommodations. They find other reasons to justify not hiring us, renewing contracts, or supplying the equity an employee deserves over the forced, unacceptable, complicit actions. Ableism, complicit or implicit, sits underneath it all. Even today.

Speaking out should be the option, but that’s not easy. I was once told my voice was too quiet, against other justice movements. They have crowds, marches, and pressure that forces change quickly and prevents harm. I’m just a small dog yapping, presented as hostile and aggressive rather than a representation of harm.

I don’t want to be complicit. I hate this. It feels physically wrong. I know that being part of something makes me look complicit, but I’m not. My body and mind are screaming, shouting, and fighting. I’ll continue to do so. I won’t hide it. I’m not ashamed. This blog gets thousands of views a day, yet I still don’t have the platform needed to challenge what should be challenged. Until that day comes, I have to hold the fight inside me rather than act on it publicly. When the time is right, I won’t be complicit. I’ll be unapologetically me, hold those in the wrong accountable, and let the truth be named without hesitation.

Amazing Disability Books Everyone Should Read

2026-09-23T10:07:32.661+01:00

As a disability theologian, preacher, Enable Team Officer, and general disability advocate I have been reading about disability, especially disability theology, for a long time. With Disability Sunday this week and the Disability Inclusion Conference next week (3rd of October) where I will be running a bible study workshop on the topic of Being Made in the Image of God, I have been putting together a resource pack, including a bibliography of the best books to read.

Below is a top 10 ranked list of the most theologically impactful disability‑theology books, followed by small blurbs explaining their contribution, why they matter for disabled people, why able-bodied people must read them, and my personal view on each.

1. Nancy Eiesland — The Disabled God

My View
Eiesland released this book in 1994, making it the earliest published work in this list and thirteen years before the next (Sharon Betcher’s book below, published in 2007). Due to this, The Disabled God was genuinely ground‑breaking. While others had written about disability and theology before her, it’s worth reading this book with the awareness that most of the titles below were published in the last fifteen years, during a period when disability theology exploded into academia and church life. Despite its age, Eiesland’s impact remains massive. Her work is still quoted widely, especially by many of the authors featured here.

2. Amy Kenny — My Body Is Not a Prayer Request

My View
This is one of those books I read and instantly thought, “Wow. This is my life. I could have been the one writing this.” Some people struggle with Kenny’s biting sarcasm and her sharp-edged distinction between “curing” and “healing,” but for anyone who’s lived her reality, like me, she's honest, clear, and manages to weave hilarious humour through the most difficult or heartbreaking moments, all while challenging the book's key message: disabled people are not problems to be solved or fixed.

3. Julia Watts Belser — Loving Our Own Bones

My View
Belser is an ordained rabbi who brings a distinctly Jewish lens to disability theology, blending ancient Torah and Talmudic wisdom with modern disability‑justice thinking. This gives her writing a unique perspective compared to the Christian responses found in the other books below. She also brings a sense of healing. For many disabled people, faith, church, and Scripture have been used and weaponised to create both institutional and personal harmpersonal harm. Belser’s disability‑justice framework softens the sharp edges of that trauma and offers fresh, compassionate ways of seeing ourselves and our traditions. It’s one of the most healing texts in the field, and it’s perfect if you’ve lived anything similar.

4. Sarah Melcher — The Bible and Disability: A Commentary

My View
This book marks a major shift in both academic and pastoral resources. Unlike the narrative‑driven, deeply personal works by Kenny or Belser, Melcher offers the first comprehensive biblical commentary written entirely through a disability‑theology lens. As a perpetual theological student, I find it an incredible resource, but it’s also perfect for anyone who has faced weaponised Scripture and wants to see how those texts can be freed from oppressive shackles and re‑read in the light of disability. For readers, like me, with physical differences, the commentary is especially powerful. Melcher highlights literal “disability ancestors” within the biblical narrative rather than relying on easy metaphorical readings. It’s validating and transformative for anyone who has ever wondered whether Scripture truly sees them.

5. Thomas Reynolds — Vulnerable Communion

My View
Reynolds writes not just as an academic, but as a parent of a son with Tourette’s syndrome, Asperger’s, and neurodivergent complexities. His core thesis flips conventional theological thinking on its head: instead of treating self‑sufficiency as the human ideal, he argues that vulnerability and dependence are central to being made in the image of God.

While the book contains many powerful disability‑theology moments, it was Reynolds’ perspective as a father that hit home for me. As a dad to four children with SEN needs, his reflections on interdependence, care, and the emotional weight of parenting neurodivergent children felt deeply familiar, reaching theologians, disabled readers, and parents of disabled children.

6. Lamar Hardwick — Disability and the Church

My View
Diagnosed with Autism Spectrum Disorder (Asperger’s syndrome) at age 36, Hardwick writes with the honesty of someone who has spent years masking in the pulpit and navigating ministry through a neurodivergent lens. He uses his experience to build practical frameworks for church leadership, pastoral care, and congregational life. As someone who also received a late adult ASD diagnosis (I was 43), this book hit home in ways few others have. In fact, this book, alongside Bowman’s below, helped push me towards getting assessed myself.

For neurodivergent clergy and church staff who face severe sensory burnout, social exhaustion, or isolation due to traditional expectations of ministry, Hardwick offers a foundation to build upon. Considering the Fearfully and Wonderfully Made report highlighted these exact issues earlier this year, this book feels even more groundbreaking having been published five years ago. It remains essential reading for anyone navigating ministry with a neurodivergent mind.

7. Timothy Goode — Breaking, not Broken: Ableism and the Church after Constantine

My View
I have to admit that I’m a fan of Revd Canon Tim Goode, especially after meeting him to discuss disability issues. He is pastoral, grounded, and deeply aware of both the Church and disability, and of what urgently needs changing. His book provides a historical and institutional critique of ableism within the Christian tradition, making it brilliant for theological students and clergy alike, that explores how Western Christianity absorbed a Greco‑Roman ideal of the “flawless body” into its architecture, theology, and liturgy. Once you see it, you can’t unsee it.

Like Eiesland, he points back to the wounded, resurrected body of Christ as the true measure of human anthropology, but does so from a more recent Anglican perspective, grounded in lived experience and ecclesial practice. It’s one of the most important disability‑theology books of the last decade.

8. Fiona MacKenney‑Jeffs — Reconceptualising Disability for the Contemporary Church

My View
MacKenney‑Jeffs offers one of the clearest contemporary Anglican voices on disability theology. Her work cuts through outdated pastoral assumptions and reframes disability as something the Church must understand theologically, not just accommodate practically — something I 100% believe should be the case. As someone also navigating ministry with a progressive condition, I found her clarity refreshing. She names the gaps, challenges the old models, and gives churches a way forward without drowning readers in academic heaviness. It’s a sharp, modern text that speaks directly into today’s Church

9. David Bowman — On the Spectrum

My View
Bowman writes with the honesty of someone who has lived the realities of autism long before receiving a diagnosis, like me, and his reflections on faith, identity, and neurodiversity feel deeply familiar. I think many would feel the same. As someone who was also diagnosed in adulthood, I found his insights grounding and strangely comforting. He names the pressures, the masking, and the exhaustion without turning the book into a struggle narrative. It’s gentle, practical, and full of recognition for anyone navigating church life with a neurodivergent mind. Being the other Autism book on this list, it works better as a reinforcement to what Hardwick above have written, but should be recognised and celebrated for writing about a topic that still is very much hidden in the shadows.

10. Amos — Disability and the Way of Jesus

My View
Amos’ book hit me in a way I didn’t expect. His focus on how Jesus actually moves around disabled people — not fixing, not correcting, but seeing, honouring, and restoring dignity — felt like someone finally naming the Jesus I’ve always known. As a disabled person navigating ministry, I found myself feeling liberated page by page. His writing doesn’t treat disability as a theological puzzle; it treats it as part of the story God is already telling (a point I have always spoken about but never had a alternate voice to support until reading this book). This book reminds people that Jesus doesn’t stand over disabled people, he stands with us.

Further Reading (Still Highly Valuable)

These books deepen the conversation and broaden theological perspectives.

Betcher — Spirit and the Politics of Disablement

A political‑theological critique of how bodies are controlled and categorised.

Jacober — Redefining Perfect

A pastoral exploration of disability and theology that challenges perfectionism.

Jacobs & Richardson — At the Gates

A justice‑focused text examining how churches exclude disabled people — and how to change.

Hardwick — How Ableism Fuels Racism

A powerful intersectional text showing how ableism underpins racial hierarchy. Essential for justice work, but sits best as a companion to the core disability‑theology texts.

These are the books that have shaped modern disability theology, influenced church practice, dismantled harmful healing narratives, and encouraged many people like me. Choose one, and start reading.

Disability Sunday: The Disturbing Truth

2026-09-19T12:16:17.798+01:00

Disability Sunday is next week. For the first time, I’m pleased to say, my church will theme a service around it, and I’ll be preaching.

I want it to go well, be reflective and celebratory, and help the whole congregation connect with its threads. I messaged the person leading the service and shared my thoughts. I sent the five worship songs that the band and I helped choose. She has different style expectations of what a church service should be and often adds a Psalm when she’s leading (we normally just have a New Testament passage) and other more traditional features, so I gave her a few disability‑themed Psalm options. She ignored those suggestions and chose another. It partially fits, so I’ve said it’s fine to use. I’ve also asked my friend to sign the entire service. She signs through the morning, although she’s never been up front. I felt this service would be the perfect introduction. I also chose a song from my disability playlist and sent her the video of God Must Hate Me by Catie Turner, which I’m bringing into my sermon.

This song captures how hundreds, if not thousands, of disabled people worldwide feel. It captures the exact emotions I felt before coming to faith, and I know some friends still feel this today. My colleague described it as “disturbing.” That line has sat with me ever since.

She didn’t explain why, so my ASD brain has been overanalysing it, and it has created a barrier between us for now.

I understand why some people might find the song disturbing. It’s honest. It acknowledges that Christian culture has pushed the ideas listed in the song. This isn’t a song blaming God. This is a song naming the culture around disability in church settings. It tells the truth. It tells the disturbing truth that many disabled people wrestle with.

It acknowledges that disabled people have been shaped to believe that there’s something wrong with their body and they need fixing. How the Bible is used doesn’t help. Through the Old Testament, disabled bodies were treated like defective sacrifices instead of human beings made in God’s image. The focus shifted from the person to the defect. That distinction has been ignored, and disabled people have been told, explicitly and implicitly, that their bodies were less holy, unwelcome, and caused by the fall, personal sin, or divine curse. The New Testament challenges this in John 9, although it doesn’t break the three‑millennia cultural and social foundation where disability is treated as wrong, even if disability theology challenges this idea.

This song isn’t edgy content for the sake of it. It’s a pastoral response to a lifetime of being told that your body isn’t right, that you’re fundamentally wrong, and that your difference is a problem God should fix.

It names the quiet, abusive, and ableist thoughts and experiences many disabled people have lived through in churches, especially churches where healing is preached as the only faithful outcome.

Lines like “If Jesus died for all our sins, he left one behind, the body I’m in” and “Same hands that made the moon and the stars got carpal tunnel and forgot some parts” are not dramatic lyrics. They are theology in pain. They are what happens when you grow up hearing that God makes no mistakes while everyone around you treats you like one.

This song isn’t disturbing. Disabled people would hear those lyrics and recognise themselves. I hope our non‑disabled congregation will recognise some truth within it as well. Many people want a nip and tuck, a nose job, lip fillers, liposuction, or other augmentations. People seek a better body. It’s no different. The opening line about seeing someone and thinking they got all the divine attention speaks to any person, disabled or not. This song names the ache of watching others get celebrated as fearfully and wonderfully made while your own body is treated as problematic.

This is why I love this song. It tells the truth about how it feels to live in a world, and sometimes a church, that thinks you’re unfinished.

I’ve fought for equality and equity in my church. It hasn’t been easy, but it has worked. We’re ninety percent physically accessible, have a congregation where half of our children and adults live with disabilities, and flourish in our inclusivity. Suggesting a disability‑themed Sunday service, whether for Disability Sunday or not, would have been dismissed a few years ago. Now it's embraced.

Not everyone is lucky enough to be in disability inclusive churches. Many remain mistreated, become victims of institutional harm, prayer projects, and interpersonal ableism, instead of being treated as icons of God’s image.

If people feel uncomfortable, that’s okay. It disturbs the idea that God’s goodness is proven only by cure. It disturbs the habit of praying over disabled people without listening to them. It disturbs the comfort of healing narratives that leave the unhealed carrying the blame. That discomfort isn’t a flaw in the song. It’s a spotlight on how disability has been treated for a long time and highlights the disturbing truth of the world we live in.

Sleeping with FSHD: When Your Body Wants to Move but Can’t

2026-09-16T01:30:00.000+01:00

The more my FSHD progresses the more sleep becomes complicated for me. I’ve written before about pain, anxiety, and the long nights where my body refuses rest. Something new has crept in. I say it’s new, it’s been happening more and more over the last two years and is now a problem. It’s subtle, but it’s constant, and it’s becoming one of the hardest parts of sleeping with FSHD.

My body still remembers how it used to sleep. Most people toss and turn at night. I used to do the same. I curled into the foetal position, rolled from side to side, tucked my knees up, and shifted without thinking. Those movements were automatic, built on natural instinct, and found comfort for over forty years. They were part of the rhythm of sleep. You move, settle, adjust, and drift. You don’t think about it. You just do it.

I can’t do any of that now.

I sleep on my back. That’s mostly it. I either lie with my legs straight or with my legs bent. Neither feels natural. Neither feels like sleep. They’re simply the only options my body allows. The positions work because they hurt the least, not because they offer comfort. This movement needs changing three or four times a night as my knee and ankle joints end up in excruciating pain having not been moved.

There is a third option. I can be rolled on to my left side. Hannah rolls me over, adjusts my legs to put me in the foetal position, and then adds plush and cushions behind my back so I don’t collapse on to my back. I can only stay like that for an hour. It comes with several issues. My back muscle strength and core weakness curves my spine, causing significant pain that means I need to return to my former position. Doing so, however, also means that I’m not in the best position. I’m lower down the bed, slightly crooked, and then trying to sleep with the pain that movement has caused. I only tend to do this now when I can’t sleep and my body is screaming at me to turn.

I often wake up with an echo of what I used to do. My brain sends the signal to roll or curl, to shift one leg, turn the other ever so slightly, but the movement never happens. It’s a strange feeling. My body wants to turn, bend, face a different direction, and move in a way it can’t. The instinct is there, often deep in my muscles, but the strength isn’t. It’s like the ghost of a movement. The urge is real. The action is impossible.

My legs twitch as if they’re trying to tuck themselves up. My shoulders tense as if they’re preparing to roll. My hips try to rotate. Nothing follows. When I’m laying in bed, I can raise my torso or my legs up due to the profile bed controls, but to physically move is impossible. I’m a body in a bed.

I miss the foetal position. I miss the comfort of curling up. I miss the freedom of movement that most people don’t even notice they have. I miss simple things, like the feeling of turning and wrapping your duvet around you. I would tuck the duvet between my legs. One leg under the duvet and one leg out. These tiny habits made sleep better.

This isn’t unusual for FSHD. When the core, spine, and neck weaken, side‑lying becomes painful. The body can’t stabilise itself. Muscles that should relax tighten instead. The spine rotates. The neck drops. The hips pull out of alignment. Even when someone helps, the body rejects the position. It’s not stubbornness. It’s weakness. The body simply can’t hold itself where the mind wants it to be.

It leaves me stuck between two truths. My body wants to move. My body cannot move. That tension is exhausting. It’s frustrating, physically draining, and something I can’t fix. I’ve tried cushions, bolsters, wedges, and different angles. They help for a moment, but the moment never lasts. Pain follows no matter what. The body doesn’t reset. It endures.

I know others with muscular dystrophy face the same thing. It’s rarely talked about in the Facebook groups, but it’s real. Sleep becomes a negotiation between instinct and limitation. The brain remembers. The muscles do too. They just can’t act upon it. The result is a night full of urges I can’t respond to. It’s not sleep paralysis. It’s not anxiety. It’s the simple truth of muscle weakness and the loss of natural movement.

I wish I could do more. I wish I could roll, bend, or shift like I used to. I only have two options now, and neither feels like rest. They’re simply the positions that hurt the least. They’re the positions that keep me still enough to get through the night. They’re the positions my body tolerates, even if my mind doesn’t.

Revamping Old Blog Posts

2026-09-13T01:30:00.000+01:00

I started blogging in 2010. I was a fresh, new, born again Christian who had spent years searching for faith while being repeatedly battered by Christians. The healing narrative was always pushed. I was trying to justify why I had a horrible health diagnosis. If I ventured into churches I was stopped, prayed for, and turned into a healing story for God’s magnificent miracles. When I wasn’t healed, I was blamed. I hadn’t believed enough. I wasn’t giving myself over to God and Jesus. Typical institutional harm that many disabled people endure. I tried several Alpha Courses. I was theologically minded even then, so I asked complex questions. No one likes being challenged, especially those who valued Scripture over theology. I was kicked out and blamed for my attitude. When I finally connected with God I wanted to document the journey. A friend suggested I start a blog.

My world collapsed in 2011. I was made redundant, my marriage ended, my mum died, and my mental health declined. I found myself seeking answers and relief through alcohol. I slowly built myself up and sobered up, but my access to the boys was limited. My solicitor suggested documenting everything, and, as blogs keep digital records, I wrote it all down. In 2014, Inside Martyn’s Thoughts became a parenting, homeschooling, disability, health, and lifestyle blog.

Between 2014 and 2020 I maintained it well. I wrote 3 to 4 times a week, was a top blogger, and nominated for various awards. Then 2019 hit. It was rough for us as a family. Then Covid followed in 2020. I ended up writing less and less until I was only writing 3 to 4 posts a year.

Something changed in December 2025. James was struggling in school and he was spiralling downwards. I was frustrated and needed to express myself. I came back to this dusty old thing and started typing.

I thought the best idea was to start with an update before writing about James. The more I typed the more I realised I had a lot more to say. It all clicked back into place. 9 months later and I’m back to writing 3 to 4 posts a week. Back to being a persistent blogger.

Everything has changed though. My domain and page authority died in those inactive years. My Google analytics were terrible. Despite having over 900 published posts, under 100 were indexed. The inactivity caused significant damage. I was still getting thousands of daily views on old posts, but there were broken links, missing images, and poor writing. My friend Nat always said she loved my writing, but I was lazy. Hannah agreed. I didn’t proof read, edit, or care about presentation. My posts were littered with errors. Having spent 3 years at college in my absence, I proved my academic knowledge and writing ability and ended my lazy writing style. The damage, however, was done. If I was going to return to blogging I needed to fix everything.

I spent time researching and realised I needed to do a lot more to fix sixteen years of blogging.

I needed to:

Fix broken links.

Google hates broken links as they stop crawlers and damage rankings. Fixing them helps Google move through my blog properly.

Add forward links.

I was great at linking backwards, but forward links strengthen crawl paths and help Google understand what’s new and relevant.

Improve SEO.

Searchable questions, phrases, and keywords help Google understand the topic. Better SEO means better indexing.

Update meta titles and descriptions.

These tell Google exactly what each post is about and improve click through rates and ranking.

Add thumbnails, alt text, and descriptions.

Images without alt text are invisible to Google. Alt text improves accessibility and indexing.

Rewrite old posts for clarity and flow.

Google rewards high quality writing. Clean grammar, good structure, and readable paragraphs improve ranking.

Add reflections to older posts.

Fresh updates show Google the content is still relevant and treat old posts like new posts.

Improve accessibility.

Readable fonts, clear spacing, and mobile friendly layouts keep readers on the page longer. Longer engagement improves ranking.

Create hub pages.

Google loves organised content. Hubs help it understand themes and clusters that help readers find top posts easily.

Submit updated posts to Google Search Console.

This triggers reindexing and speeds up ranking improvements.

It’s slow progress. Writing new posts again is time consuming, especially the editing process. Finding time to fix old posts is difficult. I have 1,034 published posts, making the task daunting. It’s working though. My indexing has been moving between 126 and 139. New posts and revamped posts are being crawled. I haven’t checked my DA and PA yet but my efforts won’t impact it yet. I spent years being inconsistent. That caused a lot of damage, but, as the saying goes, it takes 10 times longer to fix something than it does to break it.

For now, I’ll keep revamping and doing what I can.

If you would like to read my revamped posts, please click here and start with the first one. I have moved my early Christian posts to drafts, so my blog starts with James' Birth.

A Shifting Relationship

2026-09-12T01:30:00.000+01:00

As someone halfway through the ordination process, preparing to serve as a priest within the Church of England, the news surrounding the Prime Minister, the King, and the future of the establishment feels heavier than usual. It’s not just politics. It’s the ground beneath the institution I’m joining.

The Telegraph recently published about Andy Burnham's plans to remove the historic, legal restrictions preventing Catholic and Jewish prime ministers from advising the Crown on Church appointments.

Some reports, like Humanists UK, welcomed it, arguing that this change highlights a deeper problem: the entire Church and State relationship is antiquated. Their list was long. It included bishops in the Lords, compulsory worship in schools, the monarch’s Protestant requirement, and the Prime Minister’s role in appointments. Their conclusion was clear. The Government should finish the job and move toward disestablishment.

The monarchy is also changing its language. King Charles has started using the phrase “Protector of the space for faith within the multi faith nation” in his official accounts. It’s not the “Defender of the Faith” coronation oath. It’s a reframing of the monarch’s religious role. I wrote about this back in March where William’s quiet affirmation of faith encouraged me. Charles’ reframing unsettled me. Hearing it again now, in a moment when the Prime Minister is adjusting the Church’s constitutional position, makes me feel uncomfortable.

Politics has changed too. For the first time in decades, we seem to be in a four party race. Labour, Conservatives, Reform, and the Greens. The Green Party’s long standing policy of disestablishing the Church of England suddenly matters because they’re no longer fringe. Their wider constitutional vision has included removing bishops from the House of Lords, ending automatic religious privilege in public life, and creating a fully secular state where no denomination holds formal constitutional authority. They don’t want to abolish Christianity or the Church but they do want to end establishment. Critics argue that this risks eroding centuries of tradition and weakening the symbolic role of Christianity in national identity. Supporters say it’s necessary for a modern, multi faith democracy. The conversation is happening and is no longer theoretical.

All of this lands differently for me. I’m following my calling, but I’m also entering an institution that’s being pulled, stretched, and questioned from every direction, even when they're making positive moves forward elsewhere. It’s worrying. The structures around it are shifting.

My college assignment on Church adaptions over the years makes sense at the moment. The assignment evaluates how the Church of England has tried to attract and retain worshippers by adapting its teachings and practices to modern society, using the 1928 Prayer Book reforms and the Fresh Expressions movement as two major examples, and assesses how successful those adaptations have been.

When the 1928 Prayer Book controversy happened Parliament repeatedly interfered with Church liturgy, identity, and discipline. The Church Assembly, bishops, and the Lords approved the book. The Commons rejected it twice. MPs feared Catholic influence. Bishops despaired and the Archbishop of Canterbury was described as inconsolable. Parliament’s Protestant convictions overrode ecclesial authority.

The result was fragmentation. Evangelicals, Anglo Catholics, and liberals reacted differently. Political pressure exposed already present tensions. Something interesting happened though. Even though Parliament rejected the book, the Church quietly adopted much of it anyway. Bishops authorised practices. Parishes absorbed new liturgies. Reform happened through lived worship rather than legislation. My assignment concluded that political interference often destabilises the Church, but the Church adapts through practice rather than parliamentary permission.

This feels relevant now.

We’re watching political characters question or reshape the Church’s constitutional role, the King and Head of the Church adjust the language of his religious identity, and secular and religious voices debate establishment from every angle. It’s messy. Anti monarchists dislike Charles’ involvement. Church of England loyalists dislike his reframing. Secularists dislike the Prime Minister’s involvement. Traditionalists dislike removing historic restrictions. Christians are split. Humanists and Greens want disestablishment. Reform wants something different again.

Clergy continue their work in the middle of all this. The Archbishop continues her role. The Church continues its mission. Worship continues. Faith continues. Just as they did following the 1928 controversy. People of faith carrying out their mission.

I don’t believe the Prime Minister being Catholic should advise on Church appointments. However much people say they’ll hold a position of integrity and fairness personal religious preference will always influence decisions. The Archbishop, as have hundred before her, already fulfils the role of supporting the monarch. That seems appropriate. It always has.

I know the culture towards Church and faith has changed over the last century. We’re living in a multi faith and multicultural country. I’m happy to embrace everyone who’s here, but Christianity has shaped this country for a millennium. The Church of England has shaped it for nearly five hundred years.

We’ve been here before. Political pressure, constitutional change, and public debate. The Church adapted then and it’ll adapt now but it’s still a worrying moment, especially for those of us serving and worshipping in it.

I’m watching closely and praying. I’m hoping the Church and State relationship holds long enough for the Church to keep doing what it’s always done and quietly outlast every political storm.

Meeting PDB

2026-09-11T01:30:00.000+01:00

I’ve played War and Order since 2019. Throughout the last seven years some of us bounced between several realms. It started with me, “Minotaur” (now Bigwig), a guy called “Longhorn” from Texas, and a guy called “Moocifer” from Australia. We created an alliance called COW (Children of War) and took on COW‑related names. Over time we picked up others too. Some players drifted away, but a few of us stayed. We’re now in STG (Stronger Together).

Longhorn has been with me the longest and always had my back. Where I go, he goes. Where he goes, I go. He’s not only a great deputy, he’s become one of my best friends. Outside of Hannah and the kids, he’s probably the only person I talk to every single day. It’s mostly game related, but not all the time. When my dad died, he was an absolute rock. He took over leadership, gave me a break, and supported me in ways that meant more than he’ll ever realise. I’ve tried to do the same for him.

I don’t ask personal questions. If someone wants to share, great. If not, I don’t push. When we first started playing we asked each other’s names. He knew mine was Martyn and told me to call him PDB, something I still do despite finding out what the P stood for. He’s always been private, and I’ve always respected that, but I’ve picked up other things about him over the years.

He’s an amazing guy. Incredibly loyal. Always covering my back. When emotional overwhelm hits, he’s there. It’s a game, not work, but sometimes the boundaries blur and things stress me out. Never with him though. He understands and accepts me anyway. For someone who struggles with social situations and friendships due to my ASD and how that affects it, the way he is with me is something I hold dear.

[Image 2. A screenshot on Viber between PDB and I. Its in dark mode and says "None of this game 💩 means anything. You can yell and vent at me about it but my ❤️ for you is unflappable." Showing bim love of me.]

Then, after all this time, he decided to come to England and come to see me.

He reached a point in life where he decided it was time. After months of planning, they arrived on Sunday. I was nervous. Meeting someone you’ve known almost as long as your spouse is surreal, especially when you’ve only seen one photo of them a few months earlier.

He didn’t let me down. He was exactly the guy I’ve been speaking to all these years. His partner was just as lovely. We chatted, laughed, and settled into a natural rhythm.

One thing we had to do was play the game together. Thankfully Sunday was our Elite Events day. You’d think we’d chat through it, but we didn’t. We just played. It was perfect. Something I’ll never forget.

We then had dinner together. They’d researched what to eat and where to visit. Fully embracing England. T wanted Shepherd’s Pie. PDB wanted Bangers and Mash. They originally wanted a proper Sunday Roast, but accessibility issues and the reality that no restaurant does a roast properly meant we cooked for them instead. Nothing beats a classic home cooked meal. They chose their desserts too. Eton Mess and Treacle Pudding. Hannah got Sticky Toffee Pudding instead. They swapped food, tried each other’s desserts, and loved it.

[Image 3. I am wearing a red t-shirt and sat in my chair. PDB is kneeling next to me next to me on the right. Getting to height level with me]

[Image 4. From the back, left to right, T, PDB, and Hannab. I am sitting in my chair in front of them]

The day flew by so they suggested coming back in the morning. I woke at 7.30am and saw photos in our WhatsApp group. They’d gone for an early walk, visited the castle grounds, explored Rochester, then Ubered to ours for 9am. They brought breakfast goodies too.

I almost forgot the gifts. They went wild. All four kids had a goody bag with Buck‑ee shirts, snacks, postcards, and Pez. Hannah got the same, plus a pink hoodie, a huge cup with the Texan flower, and a Texan tea towel the kids refuse to use. I got snacks, raspberry and blackberry sweets, a longhorn Texan flag ornament, a long‑sleeved top with NBTX (one of our game team names with a personal touch), a white shirt with another longhorn symbol, a Cowboys cap (his favourite team), and a heavy wooden rabbit because I’m Bigwig. It was incredible. Overwhelming. Kindness that left us speechless.

[Image 5. A longhorn Christmas tree ornament in the Texan Flag colours]

[Image 6. A Bugs Bunny Pez. Connecting to my Game name, Bigwig]

[Image 7. Buck-ees White Fudge]

[Image 8. A carved rabbit. Linking again to my game name]

[Image 9. Hannah’s very large white cup with flowers on the side]

[Image 10. I am wearing a blue Buck-ees top and the white Cowboys Cap. His favourite team]

We gave them chocolates and treats after my aunt mentioned how different the chocolate tastes over there, plus some local fudge and local ciders. It felt small compared to their outpouring of love but they seemed happy.

We chatted a bit about my health. He wanted to know the prognosis. It wasn’t a problem. He could ask me anything about my life and I’d happily answer it, even the heavy topics.

Then they left for London to do the tourist thing.

It was a great visit. Better than I imagined. Easy. Full of laughter, shared stories, and the comfort of meeting someone who already knows you.

I don’t make friends easily. I struggle with social situations. Yet this friendship has lasted seven years across continents, time zones, life changes, grief, and joy. Meeting him in person didn’t break the illusion. He is exactly who he’s always been, and I love him for that.

I’m grateful for him, his partner, the visit, and that something built in a game became something real. I’ll hold onto it for a long time. All we have to do is find ways to do more together.

The Beauty of Being Alone

2026-09-04T01:30:00.000+01:00

Everyone enjoys their alone time. I do get some. Hannah, as my carer, still goes off and does things with her friends and pursues her own calling at church as church warden and eco champion, although the latter not as much as she’d like. In those moments I get space. The kids may still be around so it’s not completely alone, but I can write, watch a show, play chess, or lose myself in a game, like WAO. That’s one kind of solitude, but not the type I want to talk about. There are two moments in my week where I feel genuinely free.

The first is my travel to church. It takes around an hour and a half to get there. 15 minutes from home to the station. The station expects you to arrive 10 to 20 minutes early when you book assistance online. This is for safety. If a train is cancelled or a lift is out of order and they need to book a taxi as cover. I usually arrive 10 minutes early. The staff know me well now. We chat, two actually talk about me as a friend, but there are moments where it’s just me. The train journey is around 20 minutes. From the station to church it’s a 36 minute walk, or in my case, roll. It’s a lot, but that hour and a half is mine.

It’s not perfect. The paths are bumpy. The curbs are deep. The physical strain is real. Yet mentally, it’s wonderful. I have my headphones on and listen to music or an audiobook. Perfect for emotional regulation and me as someone with ASD.. Sometimes I pretend I’m listening to something just to create a bubble of quiet. It may not have the comfort of home, but it has the comfort of solitude. It’s the one part of the week where the world feels paused and I can simply exist without expectation.

The second moment comes when meetings end late. I recently had three in one week and one of those were three meetings in one evening. I had to leave at 22:20pm or I’d have missed the last train home. The 36 minute walk back to the station and then the walk from my home station to my house is incredible. It’s late. It’s dark. I should probably worry about dangers, but I don’t. For the darkest places I have an industrial torch that would light the town up, so I’m not worried. The streets are quiet. Cars are few. People are tucked inside their homes. On that recent journey I saw three people in total. It was just me and the world.

There’s something grounding about that. I was rolling through Rochester close to midnight and the town felt like a ghost city. It was just me. I looked up at the stars and felt awe. The sky was so clear and the universe was on display. I noticed the houses, lights still glowing behind curtains. Cats darting across the road, enjoying their own version of night freedom. Everything felt still and peaceful. It’s rare to experience a town without noise, rush, or interruption. Normally, I’m either driving around people and getting frustrated at those who refuse to move, stare at me as if I’m the problem, make awkward jokes, or are oblivious to my existence. In these moments it’s just me and God. It’s so peaceful.

I know there are dangers in being out late, but in those moments are amazing. It’s not dramatic. It’s simply presence. If I was in danger and it was my time, I’d be with God. That’s not a wish for harm. It’s a recognition of trust. A recognition that solitude can be holy.

These moments are lovely. They’re my version of what others find in late night drives or quiet walks. My headphones sit over my ears, functioning like ear defenders, creating a sense of enclosure and safety. It’s a small space that belongs entirely to me while the town, world, and universe continue around me. It’s freedom, quiet, and solitude within life.

These moments remind me that even in a busy home, church, and calling, there are moments where I can breathe. I need to cherish these moments as gifts.

I said to Hannah that I don’t want to lose these when we change cars for a WAV. I know I’ve stopped driving and having a car like this will make life so much easier. It would take 30 minutes to get to church by car, be less physical than I have to endure on this normal journey, and give me a freedom to go anywhere I want and not just limited to those places I can reach via public transport. This time is too precious though. The journey, whether day or night, allows me to meet fantastic people and build relationships, but those quiet moments make it worth it.