Inside Martyn's Thoughts

Equality vs Equity

2026-04-15T01:30:00.003+01:00

[Image 1. A brass scale standing centre of the image, against a orange background. On the left scale it reads Equality; on the right it reads Equity. At the top it reads Equality vs Equity]

I have spent 30 years talking about disability, access, and inclusion but I realised that I have never written a post that answers, "What's the difference between equality and equity?"

When I was first diagnosed, my secondary school’s attempt at “inclusion” was to send me to the library every day with my classwork brought down to me. All my lessons were up a flight of stairs, yet no one suggested moving classrooms so I could learn with my peers. I was physically at school, so what’s the problem?

University was meant to be the land of liberation, where curiosity becomes power and you find yourself, and your voice. Yet I still had to challenge lessons, working environments, and social settings to be included. I was technically “included” everywhere, but often isolated, excluded, and watching life happen around me.

Life continued that way. It’s why I’ve written about ramps, buildings, attitudes, inaccessibility, complicit and implicit ableism, structural and interpersonal ableism, institutional harm, and the quiet ways disabled people are pushed to the edges. I have unfortunately lived experiences that have taught the difference between inclusive tokenism and being welcomed, valued, and fully included.

I don’t fully know why I've never named the equality and equity distinction. Maybe partly because disability rights have been furthered these last 15 years, so wasn’t, at first, necessary. I think another reason is that, for years, I was simply surviving systems rather than analysing them. When you’re navigating harm, you don’t always have the language to name it. All your energy and fight is focused on challenging the barriers you face.

The Revd Canon Dr Tim Goode and I discussed this last week. He said the Church is good at inclusion and understands equality, but not equity. That hit me. I knew exactly what he meant, but wondered if others do. Hence this post. A space to now discuss it further.

Equality and equity are often used interchangeably. Both are good, needed, and aim for fairness, but they are different and, when mishandled by well‑meaning people, have opposite consequences.

Equality gives everyone the same thing: the same rules, process, expectations, and treatment. It looks and feels fair. It’s also what many of us fought for decades — the same rights, access, opportunities, and recognition that we exist. Equality became the chant, banner, and rallying cry. That fight still matters, because disabled people are still implicitly and explicitly excluded.

This is where lived experience speaks. When I was first diagnosed, my school didn’t know how to include me. I studied at home for 12 weeks because they couldn’t work out what inclusion looked like. My mum fought for me to have a normal teenage life. Full of friendships, laughter, even the rough edges of bullying and tolerance. The intention was equality: allowing me to be in school, not isolated at home. Nevertheless, I was isolated on school grounds in the name of equality.

Equity is different. Equity gives people what they need to have the same chances. It adapts rules, adjusts processes, and recognises that fairness doesn’t always look equal. It is the quieter word that uncomfortably sounds and feels like the person is asking for something special. It can feel like favouritism, but it isn’t. It’s honest.

This is where confusion appears. Equality feels safe because it treats everyone the same. Equity feels risky because it treats people differently. Equality gets you into the room but leaves you disadvantaged. Equity removes the disadvantage so you can participate fully. Disabled people know that sameness is not fairness. Equal treatment can still create unequal outcomes.

Cue the well‑known meme.

[Image 2. There are 2 similar boxes together. In the lefthand box 3 individuals stand by a fence looking into a sporting arena. This box is titled Equality. It show a tall person, a medium height person, and a wheelchair user all with a wooden box each. Only the wheelchair user is blocked by the fence. The image on the right, titled Equity, is nearly identical. The distinction is listed below]

Equality gives everyone a box, but only two people see over the fence. The wheelchair user still can’t. Equity gives the tall person nothing, the average person two boxes, and the wheelchair user a platform, allowing everyone to see without harm.

That is the difference.

Disabled people live this daily. Equality says everyone follows the same process. Equity adapts the process. Equality assesses everyone the same way. Equity understands disability throughout the assessment. Equality treats everyone the same. Equity recognises that sameness can be discriminatory. Discernment is essential.

This is where tokenism appears. Institutions love equality because it is tidy, measurable, procedural. It avoids discomfort and responsibility. It allows them to say they treat everyone the same. It permits diversity without change. They can include disabled people without supporting or empowering them.

Equity challenges all of that. It asks institutions to change, recognise inherited harm, understand lived experience, and take responsibility. Equity sees the person, not the process.

My recent ordination experiences showed this clearly. I was treated equally, not equitably. The process, expectations, and language were the same for everyone. The outcome was shaped by equality, not equity, which is why it felt unfair and caused harm. That is why Tim named it so clearly, and why he said the meeting was unsafe.

Equality is good. Equity is essential.

Equality welcomes. Equity includes.

Equality invites. Equity enables.

Equality is the starting point. Equity is the destination.

I needed to write this and name it. Equality and equity are not enemies. They are partners, shaping justice, inclusion, and belonging.

Nevertheless, reality, equality, equity, and justice are not the same.

[Image 3. The scene from the above meme is the same, but extended into 4 situations. Box 1 is titled Reality. The tall person is disadvantaged into a hole at the cost of the medium person, making them as disadvantaged as the wheelchair user with words saying "Some get more that they need. Some get less. Some get what they need. Box 2 and then 3 is titled Equality and the Equity and is the same as Image 2. Box 4 is titled Justice, in which the fence is move to show that the problem is the structure, not the people]

Shine a Light; Not Fight

2026-04-13T01:00:00.004+01:00

[Image 1. A brass Paraffin/Oil lamp is centred in the image against a darkened teal background, with a flame burning at the centre. The title says Shine a light; Not fight, matching the post title]

Today, I meet with my DDO (A Diocesan Director of Ordinands) and ADDO (Assistant Diocesan Director of Ordinands).

In my previous ordination process post I ended with a question. What do I do next, fight or accept? I wasn't sure. I am now.

This week I met with the Revd Canon Dr Tim Goode. I needed someone who understands disability, vocation, and the Church. Someone who has lived the things I have and can personally empathise, not offer misaligned sympathy. I admire his work, his book, and everything he has done for disability theology and inclusion. I even referenced him several times at College. He started and shaped the Church’s Disability Advisory Group, served nationally on disability inclusion, advised dioceses, and pushed Church Inclusion, being one of the few voices changing disability-inclusion from the inside.

I reached out and he kindly offered to meet. He listened, nodded, smiled, shared frustration, sighed at familiar parts, and named things I knew and hadn’t yet put into words.

He explained my situation perfectly. I already understood many aspects, some I had not, but it all mattered. I was heard. He understood. He discussed inherited institutional harm, how it shapes complicit and implicit actions and reactions, and how disabled people feel like they’re the problem when it’s the structure. That's a post in itself.

He made it clear that Today's meeting is not safe. Not because they are bad people. They aren’t. They are kind and pastoral. The danger is the system, their roles, conformity, the power imbalance, and the unspoken ableism not recognised. It risks becoming a meeting with predetermined outcomes, framed as supportive "flourishing," while pushing institutional directives.

Soft‑power spaces and language are additionally troublesome. Meetings held in friendly rooms, like my Church, wrapped in pastoral language, like “flourishing,” can feel gentle while still masking pressure and steering a fixed outcome. All making today unsafe.

He told me I needed an ally. Someone not swayed by institutional language, who makes sure I’m heard and slows the pace. He suggested someone with disability knowledge, theology, and lived experience. There isn’t a trustworthy local disability advocate. That's usually me. Instead, I chose someone steady, not swayed by Anglicanism, not easily intimidated, and will keep things fair. I’ll handle the disability side. Together we’ll cover what is needed.

He also said something I didn’t expect or realise. He told me to request Archbishop Sarah. Not to escalate or complain, but because she’s my diocesan lead. Most dioceses have a diocesan bishop. Canterbury doesn’t. The Archbishop is the Ordinary here. That changes everything. When he heard this, he smiled knowingly. Although I have a bishop, she’s the Bishop in, not of, Canterbury. It means I am not going above anyone’s head, but seeking the person who actually holds authoritative pastoral responsibility for me. Her background means she understands disability, carers, chronic health, and institutional bias, and could potentially see my situation with clarity and compassion.

His last advice will be the hardest. Shine the light; Not fight. Fighting is my instinct. Disabled people often fight by themselves in an able-bodied world, but there's acceptable and unacceptable complicity. Acceptable is something done for our wellbeing, like doctors. Unacceptable is when decisions are made and actions undertaken about and to us without us. A difficult space to navigate, but I need to learn how. The Church, like most places, reacts to fight with defensiveness. Sympathy instead of empathy. Equality without equity. When pushed, they push back, retreating into process. It gets nowhere. His 30 years of experience has shown him that. On reflection, he’s right, I’ve experienced it. No one likes being shown up, told off, or put in their place.

I may have inadvertently done this last time. I highlighted barriers, the Bishop dismissed them, so I showed examples. She made assumptions, I challenged them, and she pushed back, so I showed Tim’s articles. He smiled at that. He also helped reframe her defensiveness. I may have triggered institutional bias that she has faced. She understands intersectional injustice around race and gender, but disability sits outside her lived experience. That mismatch can create a defensive reaction that isn’t personal, but still lands heavily. She may not have even realised she was triggered and needs a pastoral approach. The power of pastoral empathy.

Shining a light, therefore, is different. Slower, calmer, harder. It's naming truth without weaponising it. It invites people on a journey rather than dragging them along or triggering them. It lets God work in the mess instead of forcing the outcome. It trusts that the bush can burn without burning me. A contradiction I need to practice and live.

He also reframed “fighting the Church” because the Church isn’t one giant institution, but a living ecosystem. A patchwork of self‑running parts. There is no single system to push against. This made sense to why fighting exhausts me, alongside past actions. Shining a light works better.

So now I have an ally for the meeting, advice from someone I deeply respect, a clearer understanding of the system, a non-confrontational route to the Archbishop, and a way of approaching this without escalation and a fight to be heard.

I am currently paused, but learning to shine a light, not fight.

That’s the step I couldn’t see. Let’s hope today allows me to do so.

Neurodivergent Communication: A Never‑Ending Word Count

2026-04-10T01:30:00.003+01:00

[Image 1. A multicolour head silhouette is centred, and sectioned like jigsaw puzzle pieces. The image has the title of this post at the top. There are 4 words either side of the head. On the left: Misunderstood, Hard to Follow, Too Detailed, wnd Confusing. On the right: Too much, Overload, Rambling, and exhausting]

I saw the below meme recently of a stretched phone screen, a ridiculously long message, and a caption outlining the neurodivergent trait of sharing every detail to avoid miscommunication.

[Image 2. As described above. 2 hands holding a stretched phone writing a really long message. At the top some text says "My neurodivergent brain including every detail possible in basic correspondence because that's how I like to communicated with and prevents miscommunication]

I laughed at first because I’m known for doing this. It's exactly how my brain works. I talk, write, text, email, and explain everything. Yet it also hit a nerve.

I’ve always done this. I don’t give short summaries without feeling like I've left something out. Everything becomes an essay. As a child and an adult, I've constantly watched people misunderstand what I am saying. So I no longer trust that people will understand me without the full picture. I either overshare and get acknowledgements that make me feel bad for oversharing, or I share too little and end up explaining myself again. There is no middle ground. I don’t understand how non‑neurodivergent people do it. It is not intentional or attention-seeking. It’s how my mind processes information.

I get replies like “thank you for your detailed email” or “thank you for outlining everything so thoroughly.”

[Image 3. The opening text of an email saying "Dear Martyn, Thanks very much for your detailed and considered response to your meeting with Bishop..." the name of the bishop has been erased.]

[Image 4. A second image of an email. The text says "Good afternoon. Firstly, thank you for your patience, bearing with me, in waiting for my response. Thank you for taking the time to write such a detailed email."]

These phrases are just polite ways of saying I have written too much. Context or setting doesn't matter. I still write essays. James’ recent thirty-two-page school complaint is a perfect example. I reduced it as much as I could using a paraphrasing and shortening tool, and it still ended up being thirty-two pages. Imagine if I hadn't done that.

I try to manage it through a grammar app subscription that fixes spelling, grammar, fluency, summarises paragraphs, checks plagiarism, and reduces text, but I still get told it’s too much. It is frustrating. I am not trying to overwhelm people or be intense. Just concise.

This has always been a thing. As a child I had delayed speech. I couldn’t verbalise everything I wanted to. I struggled to explain what I thought or needed. I knew what I meant, but the words never came out correctly or in a way that matched people's expectations. In primary school I once wrote a two-page answer for one question and missed the other four because time ran out, making me use a writing guide. Nevertheless, my old English workbooks were full of stories that went on for pages, yet none were finished.

Secondary school gave me another example. I once failed a GCSE R.E mock because the question said “choose one of the five topics below.” I answered all five. I read the question too quickly and missed the detail. Then I gave so much information that they couldn’t mark it because some answers were stronger than others.

I always interrupted people because the thought arrived fully formed before I recognised the right moment to speak; something I still do. I always blurted out answers without putting my hand up. The thought appeared and I said it. Even today, Hannah tells me to lower my voice or regulate myself. I just not always realise the position I’m in. I struggle to read situations, to understand what people mean when they say one thing but imply another. Instead, I appear as rude or inappropriate. I hate that.

Friendships were affected too. I never understood why friendships drifted. When people did tell me, they said I was too intense or a burden. I shared so much that they did not know where to begin. It hurt. Imagine feeling like the people you care about are exhausted by your presence because you're having a bad day and communicated poorly. Dating was the same. People don’t want someone complicated or overwhelming. I am lucky I have Hannah, although this side of me made things harder when she lived in Cornwall and I lived in Kent.

The reverse is just as frustrating. When I try to be concise, I get responses like “I’m not sure what you mean,” “Let me check I’ve got this right,” or “I think you’re saying...” despite my text being direct. I never imply. Yet, their responses signal confusion, or push the responsibility back onto me. In my head it makes perfect sense. This happened recently with the bishop. It took three attempts before she understood I was talking about disability degeneration, not seeking immediate ordination. She perceived me as impatient and pushy. By the time she understood, she was frustrated, short, and snappy. I was upset and frustrated, questioning myself.

Communication is difficult. I either say too much or miscommunicate.

I'm hoping my ASD assessment helps. My communication style has always been framed as anxiety, dependency, overthinking, or emotional intensity. It has never been viewed as a lifelong pattern of neurodivergent processing and communication.

I am tired of feeling like I am too much and of apologising for the way my brain works. This post is my way of saying it out loud. This is how I communicate and process information. It is not perfect or convenient. It is simply me, wanting to be understood.

Thirty Years: A Health Journey

2026-04-07T01:00:00.003+01:00

[Image 1. An empty powerchair is centred against a cream coloured background. The title in the image matches the title of this post]

I silently celebrated thirty years since I was first diagnosed with a condition on Saturday.

It’s a strange milestone. It’s not a birthday or anniversary, but a reminder of a moment that changed my life. I was thirteen when a doctor told me I had Polymyositis, an autoimmune condition that didn’t fit my age, body, or story. Knowing what we know now, I can see why they said it, it partially explained why my muscles were weakening, I walked differently, and struggled. They told me I might not live past sixteen. At thirteen, I knew what that meant, but I didn’t understand it — not the way I do now.

Looking back, I realise I spent most of my teens and twenties living in that gap between knowing and understanding. I knew I had a condition, that I struggled, was different, and that my life wouldn’t be typical, but I didn’t see myself as disabled. I was just Martyn — the boy who walked funny, occasionally twitched and fell over, used a stick or crutches, pushed through school, achieved and thrived wherever I could, and tried to live as normally as possible. My mum insisted on that. She refused to let a diagnosis define me. She fought for me, and she taught me to fight for myself.

I did so much. I was a Sea Scout and later an Adventure Scout. I gained my Duke of Edinburgh Award. I went canoeing, sailing, camping. Later I went to pubs, clubs, and parties with friends. I got my GCSEs, A‑Levels, went to Uni, worked, and built a career. I got married and had my boys. A typical life, with one small exception.

Every predicted death date passed. I don’t think I ever truly acknowledged them. I pushed through without worrying. After a few years, new prognosis predictions meant very little. I simply knew they wouldn’t come true.

At twenty‑five, the diagnosis shifted to FSHD1. Suddenly the pieces made more sense. The progression was predictable. Yet even then, I didn’t fully grasp how deeply this condition would shape my life. Life still felt normal. I was still doing everything I wanted. My story was written in pencil, constantly erased and redrawn by new information, symptoms, and realities.

The biggest turning point wasn’t a diagnosis at all. It was the moment I stopped walking.

Moving into a wheelchair didn’t make me more disabled — it made the world more visible. I saw, with painful clarity, how deeply society is built for able‑bodied people. The kerbs, doors, attitudes, and assumptions. I had seen and experienced disability before, but not to the extent I did once I was in the chair. The exclusion that had always been there became unavoidable. That was the moment disability stopped being “health stuff” and became a lens through which I saw everything: relationships, work, faith, community, and the effort required to live in a world not designed for bodies like mine.

My vocation didn’t begin with disability.

It began with faith — a teenage search for meaning, grounding, and God in the midst of uncertainty. Disability became the place where faith and calling collided. When I entered the chair, people began gathering around me, asking questions not just about suffering, but about theology, justice, and belonging. They wanted to know how faith speaks into disability, and how disability speaks back.

Then came the moment that changed everything: a vicar whose theology harmed disabled people, framing disability as spiritual failure or dark spiritual influence. I knew it wasn’t true. Years of reading, learning, and wrestling had taught me better. I challenged it. I fought it. I was part of the reason that harmful leadership stepped back. That experience opened my eyes to how many disabled people face the same spiritual violence. Disability ministry wasn’t optional. It’s necessary. I have a voice that can help — and theological college helped give that voice accountability and grounding.

Since then, the work has grown — coffee mornings for disabled people and carers, advocacy, pushing for accessibility in Rochester (Google my name and you’ll see the news pieces), building community online and in church, studying disability theology, and dreaming of a doctorate that continues this work. A community has formed around this journey — not because I sought it, but because people needed it. I was simply willing to acknowledge them. And, of course, this blog. The years of sharing my life and health. Seeing the difference that telling a story can make.

Thirty years after that first wrong diagnosis, I find myself reflecting not with bitterness, but with a thankful heart and hope. My health journey is older than my children. Older than most of my friendships. It has shaped, stretched, broken, rebuilt, and called me into spaces I never expected.

If thirteen‑year‑old me could see the man I’ve become — the advocate, the theologian, the church leader, the friend — I think he’d be surprised. He never wanted to acknowledge his disability. If my mum could see me now, I hope she’d be proud.

Thirty years is a long time.

If this is who I am now, then — God willing — bring on the next thirty.

[Image 2. A picture of Hannah and Martyn together, with the background of a local high street. Hannah is wearing pink glass and a black with a spectrum of purple patterned rain coat. She smiles as she leans over Martyn's left shoulder, as she stands behind his chair. Martyn is in his powerchair. He wears a cream fluffy blanket over his legs, a pair of electric heated gloves, bright blue rain coat, a multicoloured scarf with a matching wooly hat. Martyn is also smiling]

Our Easter 2026

2026-04-06T01:00:00.008+01:00

[Image 1. A wooden cross is centered against a cream background, standing with a circular crown of thorns. To the left is a small yellow chick. On the right is a chocolate cream egg. The title matches the post]

I’ve always preferred Easter to Christmas. Christmas has grown into something bigger, busier, and more frantic than it ever was when I was a child. Yes, I do realise how old I sound saying that. Easter still feels rooted. It remains focused on why we celebrate, and that grounding means even more to me as I move through the ordination process.

Maundy Thursday

I led our church’s Passover and Last Supper evening, using Seder elements, shared actions, and reflection. We’ve held it on Zoom for the last few years, but we’re hoping to bring it back in person next year.

[Image 2. A bowl of 3 boiled eggs, 2 flatbread, several gluten free wraps, a tupperwear box with chopped apple, honey, and ginger and cinnamon within, a salt water bowl of basil, are upon a tray. There is a candle in the middle and 2 glasses, one for water and one the wine/grape drinks]

Good Friday

We started early with the Walk of Witness along the High Street. Hundreds of Christians from different churches gathered together and walked behind the cross, singing as we went. What struck me most was how many people stepped out of shops, paused their work, or stopped mid‑errand just to watch us pass. Some stood quietly, some smiled, and some simply observed, but all of them noticed. It added a sense of connection as a shared moment that I hadn’t expected.

[Image 3. A crowd of people gathering outside a church at the end of a high street. Some people are wearing High Viz to distinguish themselves as ecent organisers]

[Image 4. A picture of Hannah and Martyn together, with the background of a local high street. Hannah is wearing pink glass and a black with a spectrum of purple patterned rain coat. She smiles as she leans over Martyn's left shoulder, as she stands behind his chair. Martyn is in his powerchair. He wears a cream fluffy blanket over his legs, a pair of electric heated gloves, bright blue rain coat, a multicoloured scarf with a matching wooly hat. Martyn is also smiling]

[Image 5. A black and white picture of the croud walking and singing as part of the procession. A man is leading the way carrying a cross]

[Image 6. A similar photo but in colour and from a different angle as if you were walking within rather than observing outside like Image 5]

[Image 7. A black and white photo of the man carrying the cross above on his knees looking up at the cross contemplating it's presence]

I hadn’t taken part in over ten years. We realised that Hannah has never done it, and we are almost 9 years together, so must have been a while ago! Going with Hannah, walking with her, and experiencing it together made it feel even more meaningful.

After the walk, we met two friends for lunch. I ordered a mixed grill that was delicious and far too filling. Then we headed to church for the Last Hour service, which I was invited to create and lead this year. It was a privilege and deeply moving.

[Image 8. A colour photo taken from the 2nd pew inside Bobbing church, with a woman and a man sat in front of you. Martyn is at the Chancel preaching, while wearing a grey wooly jump and a multicoloured wooly hat]

[Image 9. A similar image, but in black and white. Same position, just angled to the right. It no longer featured the woman, and an accessible ramp is shown, highlighting how Martyn went up to the chancel]

Holy Saturday

A quiet day, which we needed. I spent most of it resting after a horrendous nights sleep coupled with pain. Later that evening, the boys went to a youth celebration that included worship, testimonies, and a rapper. It was an extension of their Youth Alpha course that they attended throughout January to March, so was nice they were able to reconnect with other youths locally again.

[Image 10. From left to right, William is sat wearing dark clothes, his thick black rimmed glasses, with tinted curly hair. James is in all black m, with pink and purple hair visible under his black hood. Martyn wears his outfit from early, as all 3 attend Sittingbourne Baptist Church]

[Image 11. William is enthusiastically dancing to worship music, with his long curly hair flying through the air]

[Image 12. This photo is taken from the 5th row inside the church, which features a collection of youth and some adults watching the preacher who is partially seen at the front]

The music was great. Will really enjoyed expressing himself, which I loved. However, we wasn't keen on the guest speaker and his testimony. Will had multiple issues with it, as did I. It just didn't fit where we were, and who we are. I'm sure others would have enjoyed it, but it definitely wasn't our thing. Will said "I was exhausted and already done after dancing, but listening to him for 40 minutes was too much."

Easter Sunday

We skipped the sunrise service. With the travel time from Rochester to Sittingbourne, it would have meant waking at 4am, and that simply wasn’t realistic, especially trying to attend a 5:30am start. We did make it to the main celebration. It’s one of the few times we manage to be in church as a family of six, and that alone makes Easter special for me.

[Image 13. A colourful photo of the outside institution of Jesus open tomb. The stone door has a sign saying "Jesus is risen. Hallelujah."]

After, we came home for Easter dinner. Normally, we would have lamb but decided to have pork instead, save the fight and cost for the lamb. We would also have a lot, like homemade stuffing, a range of veg, and copy our fully loaded Christmas dinner, but we stripped it back, although we did make my homemade gravy.

[Image 14. A coloured photo of our family of 6 at the dining table. From left to right. Arty wearing a cream jumper, Will wearing a black Nirvana t-shirt, James wearing a black jumper, Martyn wearing achecked grey wooly jumper, Hannah wearing a light grey jumper, and Midge wearing a black Deadpool jumper. A colourfuk flowery tablecloth covers the table]

Then the kids got their chocolate after, and went off to their rooms.

[Image 15. All 4 kids standing holding their easter eggs. From left to right, James holding his rolo egg, Arty a bounty egg, Midge a KitKat egg, and William a milkyway egg]

It was a busy, lovely Easter, but I am exhausted. Juggling church work, pushing different activities, and the commitment to organise and prepare everything really takes it's toll. I still love Easter, but by the evening I was ready to just relax.

I hope you all had a lovely Easter this year!

Holy Saturday Reflection 2026: Hidden

2026-04-04T01:30:00.003+01:00

[Image 1. A rusty brown image from inside the tomb whete Jesus was buried. Light is coming through the door, with cloth linen placed empty. The title on the image is the same as the post]

At three o’clock on Good Friday, Jesus dies.

The world stops for a moment.

Heaven holds its breath.

And then… nothing.

No miracles.

No teachings.

No crowds.

No light breaking through.

No longer misunderstood.

No longer crying out in forsakenness.

Just stillness. Jesus is dead.

But Holy Saturday begins.

It is the day between — the day after loss and before hope, the day when nothing seems to happen. The day most like our ordinary lives. Not dramatic. Not catastrophic. Just… quiet. The world continues to turn. Life continues around you.

Jesus is taken down from the cross. A friend who was too scared to follow offers a final kindness. He takes his time, layering seventy‑five pounds of myrrh and aloes. A royal amount. Pressing the spices into the linen, embedding them around the body. Jesus is wrapped. Bound. Sealed. He is placed in a tomb. A stone is rolled across the entrance. Guards are posted. The world settles into stillness.

It looks like closure.

It feels like finality.

It appears as though everything has stopped.

This is the mystery of Holy Saturday: what looks like nothing is actually everything. The hidden work of God begins.

We often imagine God’s activity as loud, visible, unmistakable. A chariot on a cloud, rolling in. However, so much of God’s work is quiet, unseen, unfolding beneath the surface. Seeds break open underground. Bones knit back together. Dawn forms behind the horizon long before the sky begins to lighten.

Holy Saturday teaches us that God’s work is often hidden, not absent.

The Gospels say almost nothing about this day.

No angels.

No rebellion.

No earthquakes.

No appearances.

No instructions.

Nothing.

Nevertheless, the early church insisted that this was the day Christ descended into the depths — into death itself — to break it open from the inside. While the world slept, Christ was at work in the one place no one could see.

The hiddenness of God is not inactivity.

It is God working where no one is looking.

This is different from the silence of God.

Silence feels like absence.

Hiddenness is presence we cannot yet perceive.

Holy Saturday is not about waiting for God to speak.

It’s trusting that God is already acting.

This day invites us to pay attention to the places in our own lives where God’s work is concealed — the places that look finished, closed, sealed with a stone. The relationships that seem beyond repair. The situations that feel immovable. The parts of ourselves we assume will never change.

Holy Saturday whispers: God is already doing something you cannot see.

It is also a Sabbath day — a day of rest that is literally woven into creation itself. We know the story of creation. God rests on the Sabbath — not because He steps back, but because His work is complete for that moment. His rest is never withdrawal. We know He walks in Eden with Adam and Eve, He calls Abraham, He moves through generations of people who needed Him, stories and accounts laid before us, and He comes to earth for this very moment. His story does not stop here. His rest is different. Rest becomes the declaration that God is God and we are not. Rest is the quiet confidence that even when we stop, God does not.

On Holy Saturday, Jesus rests in the tomb, and the world holds its breath. It is a divine pause — not emptiness or inactivity, but incubation, preparation, and hiddenness.

Holy Saturday invites us to trust that God is already moving in ways we cannot yet see. That the hidden work of God is still the work of God. That the quiet places of our lives are not forgotten places, but sacred ground where resurrection begins in the dark.

As we sit in this moment, we hold this shared anchor:

Even when God is hidden, God is here. Nothing seems to move, God is at work. The world looks unchanged, resurrection is already stirring.

The world went quiet, but it never stopped turning.

The earth spins at a thousand miles an hour, and we do not feel it.

We are passengers on a silent, thousand‑mile‑an‑hour carousel, standing perfectly still, held by chains of grace, while the world carries us into the dawn.

So it is with God.

Unseen.

Unfelt.

Yet gathering the broken pieces of our lives, holding what has been fractured, and beginning the slow, hidden work of making all things new.

As we sit in this moment — between cross and resurrection, between loss and renewal — we offer Him the fragments we carry, trusting that grace is already at work in the dark.

Amen.

Here is part one of this reflection.

Here is part two.

Good Friday Reflection #2 2026: Forsaken

2026-04-03T14:30:00.002+01:00

[Image 1. A rusted nail centered against a cream background. The title at the top matches the post title]

There is a moment here where everything seems to collapse into darkness. The sky grows dim, the noise fades, and Jesus cries out with words that have echoed through centuries: “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?”

It is one of the most unsettling sentences in Scripture. Yet it can be painfully familiar.

Most of us know what it is to feel lost, unsupported, or abandoned — as if God has stepped back, heaven has gone quiet, and our prayers hit the ceiling and fall back down unheard. Good Friday brings this experience to the centre.

In the first reflection, we sat with the ache of being misunderstood, but misunderstanding is only one part of the human story. There are times when the ache goes deeper, when God himself seems distant, His presence and voice far away. Jesus enters that place too.

However, many people misunderstand this cry.

The Son is not actually separated from the Father, he isn’t forsaken, despite feeling the God‑forsakenness of human suffering — so deeply that the rawness of human experience becomes too much.

The cry of dereliction is not a dramatic performance, but an honest prayer of a suffering man who feels the absence of the One he has trusted all his life.

In that moment, Jesus does something profoundly important.

He reaches for Scripture.

“My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” is not random. It is the opening line of Psalm 22. In his deepest darkness, Jesus doesn’t search for new words or craft a teachable moment. He returns to the inherited prayers that generations carried before him — the psalms that have held the cries of God’s people and where God has always been found.

While Psalm 22 begins in despair, it ends in trust and vindication. Jesus knew this when his mouth uttered those words. His voice speaks one line; his heart prays the whole psalm.

This is not a tidy theological flourish. It is the act of someone whose inner world is shaped by Scripture, reaching for the only language he has left. It’s not perfect; it is the instinctive cry of a heart formed in prayer.

The psalms are the prayer book of Israel where every human emotion is displayed: love, anger, hope, despair, trust, confusion, joy, dereliction. They give language to the places where language fails.

Jesus has the cross pressing against his back, every painful breath becoming harder, his body close to surrender. As the weight of the world rests on his shoulders, it is not the cross that holds him, but a psalm — a poetic song to pray when prayer feels impossible.

We know what it’s like to enter prayer without words — to sit in silence, feeling the distance like a weight on the tongue. We want to pray but cannot. In those moments, Jesus shows us what to do: go to where God has been found before. Scripture. The Psalms. The songs of faith. Using someone else’s words to carry you.

Here, we learn the difference between feeling forsaken and being forsaken. Jesus feels the full weight of abandonment, yet the Father has not abandoned him. The silence is real, but not the whole story.

Feeling forsaken is not the same as being forsaken.

Good Friday shows us that if Jesus has been there, then that place is not Godless. It’s filled with his presence and experience.

It embraces seasons when God feels distant — when prayer feels like speaking into the dark, faith feels thin, and silence stretches, making distance feel like disinterest.

Jesus’ lament is not hidden. He prays it, gives it to God, and lets the question stand. In doing so, he dignifies our questions too.

God can be present and silent, working and hidden, near and yet unfelt.

The cry of dereliction then is not the end of faith, but faith stripped‑back — faith clinging to an invisible God.

We may withdraw, panic, assume we’ve done something wrong, and stop praying because prayer feels pointless. Some of us may keep going, but with a quiet ache we can’t name.

Good Friday invites us to respond differently — not by pretending everything is fine, not by forcing ourselves to feel something we do not feel, but by doing what Jesus does: bringing the truth of our experience to God, even when God feels far away.

Like Jesus, we can pray into the silence, trusting that silence is not empty.

We can speak our questions, knowing they are not signs of failure.

We can name our forsakenness, knowing Christ has stood in that place before us.

This moment does not resolve quickly.

It is not meant to.

The cry still hangs in the air.

The question remains unanswered.

The darkness has not yet lifted.

Yet, even here — especially here — Christ stands with us.

As we move through this hour, we hold this truth gently:

God’s presence is not always felt.

Silence is not abandonment. Even when we cannot sense Him, Christ has already stepped into the depths we fear.

Here is part one of this reflection.

Here is part three.

Good Friday Reflection #1 2026: Misunderstood

2026-04-03T14:00:00.008+01:00

[Image 1. A circular crown of thorns against a rusty brown background. The title at the top matches the title of this post]

There are moments in life when the deepest pain doesn’t come from suffering, but from being misunderstood.

Being misread happens so easily.

Your motives are questioned, your character misjudged, your story flattened into something untrue.

It’s a very human ache.

An ache Jesus knows intimately.

In the reading we’ve just heard, Jesus stands before the council—people who have already decided who he is. They aren’t seeking truth; they’re seeking confirmation of their own assumptions. They twist his words, project their fears onto him, mock him, strike him, and say, “Prophesy to us, Messiah—who hit you?”

It is a scene thick with misunderstanding.
It is not accidental.
It is part of the story of salvation.

Jesus is being misread by everyone around him.

- The crowd, who once welcomed him, now sees him as a threat.
- The religious leaders, who should have recognised the heart of God, see only danger.
- The soldiers, who know nothing of him, treat him as a joke.
- Passers-by jeering, misquote his words
- One thief hanging next to him mocks, unable to see who Jesus truly is
- Even his closest friends don’t understand what is happening.

Jesus stands in the middle of all these voices—none of which tell the truth about him.

That is a particular kind of loneliness.

Many of us know what that feels like:

- When someone assumes the worst of you.
- When your intentions are questioned.
- When your story is simplified into something that suits someone else’s narrative.
- When you are spoken about rather than spoken to.
- When you are judged by people who have never taken the time to know you.

This moment, on the cross, tells us:
Jesus has been there, stood in that place, knowing the sting of being misinterpreted.

He doesn’t meet misunderstanding with defensiveness or rage, but with truth, love, and a quiet, steady faithfulness.

If Jesus knows what it is to be misunderstood, then he can meet us in our own experiences of it.

Where do you feel misread or unseen?
Where have your motives been questioned or been spoken about rather than listened to?
Where have you been judged by people who never took the time to know your heart?

Christ stands with you there.

Not as someone who watches from a distance, but as someone who has lived it.

He knows the loneliness, frustration, the ache of being misrepresented, and the pain of having your truth denied.

He meets us not with platitudes, but with presence.

There is another side to this.

It is one thing to feel the pain of being misunderstood. It is another to recognise the moments when we misunderstand others.

Misunderstanding is not just something that happens to us — it is something we participate in.

Sometimes we're tired, afraid, rushed.
Sometimes it's easier to assume than to listen.
Sometimes someone’s behaviour touches our own insecurities or we prefer a simple story to a complicated person.

We all have misread others. Judged too quickly. Questioned motives without knowing the whole picture.
Or reduced a person to a single moment, mistake, or impression.

If we’re honest, there are times when we have not offered others the compassion we long to receive.

Good Friday invites us to hold all of this gently:

- Our pain at being misunderstood.
- Our part in misunderstanding others.

But Jesus doesn’t withdraw his love from the people who misread him.

He doesn’t say, “You don’t understand me, so I’m done with you,"
or “You’ve twisted my words, so I’m walking away,"
or “You’ve judged me wrongly, so I’ll judge you in return.”

Instead, he keeps loving, giving, and offering himself.

Even as he is misunderstood, he remains the clearest revelation of God’s love.

That is good news for us, because we misunderstand him too.

We misunderstand God’s timing, silence, ways, and love for us.
We misunderstand one another.
We misunderstand ourselves.

Yet—God does not withdraw, give up, or say, “Come back when you’ve figured me out.”

Good Friday reveals a God who loves us even when we don’t understand him, and even when we don’t understand ourselves — and who meets us with a forgiving heart when we misunderstand others.

Today, we reach out and question: Where do you feel misunderstood, and how might Christ meet you there?

Maybe it’s in your family, work, friendships or internal world—where even you struggle to understand yourself.

And alongside that:

Where might Christ be inviting you to soften your assumptions, widen your compassion, or see someone more truthfully?

Wherever those places are, Christ is not absent from them. He is already there, standing beside you, saying:

“I know this place.
I have been here.
And I am with you.”

Good Friday begins with a God who steps into the places where we feel unseen, unheard, and misread — and the places where we misread others — and transforms them not by removing the pain, but by filling them with his presence.

As we move from this reflection into the song This Is Our God, we hold this truth:

Jesus understands the experience of being misunderstood. He meets us in it with compassion, not condemnation. And he teaches us to meet others with the same mercy.

He knows our hidden pain, stands with us in the shadows, and loves us even when we do not understand him, or others understand us.

Here is part two of this reflection.

Here is part three.

Resource: The Seder Meal and Last Supper Evening

2026-04-02T02:00:00.008+01:00

[Image 1. A golden table, featuring a jug of wine, a golden chalice, Unleavened bread, and a golden playe with an egg, herbs, and a lambs bone on it, in front of a lit candle. The title matches the post title]

For several years at my church I have led a Maundy Thursday gathering and service for Passover and the Last Supper. I designed this layout. While elements are taken from the post‑70 AD Seder meal, many theologians believe that a proto‑Seder (an earlier form of the Passover meal with symbolic actions, blessings, and shared foods) was already practiced in Jesus’ time. In other words, although the formal Seder liturgy developed later, the patterns, symbols, and actions that shaped it were already present in Jewish life, and Jesus would have participated in them. What we do here is not an attempt to recreate the Last Supper exactly, but to engage with the closest living tradition that reflects the kind of meal Jesus shared with His disciples. For Christians, this becomes a meaningful way to enter the story — honouring Jewish roots, traditions, and our shared inheritance while recognising how Jesus fulfilled and transformed these symbols in the Last Supper and in Communion. Its wonderful and reflective evening. Please find the preparation guide here.

1. Welcome

Welcome everyone.

We gather as a community of faith to reflect on Passover, Last Supper, and the actions that Jesus and his disciples did on Maundy Thursday. This meal serves as a bridge between the Jewish tradition and the fulfilment of God’s promise in Jesus Christ, through communion. As we partake in this sacred meal, let us open our hearts to the meanings behind each element and reflect on their significance—for the Jewish people, for Jesus and his disciples, and for us as Christians today.

You don’t need to get everything ‘right’—this is not a performance. This is a space to remember, to give thanks, and to meet with God.

Opening Jewish-style Prayer: "Blessed are You, Lord our God, King of the universe, who has kept us alive, sustained us, and brought us to this season. Amen."

2. Lighting the candle

Jewish families begin Passover by lighting candles, welcoming the festival and the presence of God into their homes. As we light our candles, we remember that Jesus is the light of the world, and that the darkness has not overcome Him.

3. Pouring the water and wine (symbolic roles)

The First Cup of Water

Traditionally, roles symbolise different aspects of God’s work: Women pour the water—symbol of purity, life, and cleansing; Men pour the wine—symbol of covenant, sacrifice, and strength. If you live alone, or prefer not to follow these roles, simply pour both yourself.

The water is for hand washing. The act of washing is connected to the idea of purity and readiness to partake in the Seder's symbolic foods. Tonight, we adapt this by drinking water, shifting to internal preparation—a physical act symbolising spiritual cleansing.

The First Cup of Wine

Men pour the first cup of wine or grape juice for themselves and others.

Traditionally known as the "Cup of Sanctification," this symbolises the first of the four promises God made to the Israelites in Egypt: "I will bring you out from under the yoke of the Egyptians" (Exodus 6:6a). This cup serves as a reminder of God’s deliverance and His power to set His people apart as holy. As we drink, we reflect on God's work in history, delivering His people from oppression and the bondage of sin. Sanctification is an ongoing process, calling us to align our hearts with God’s will and walk in grace.

4. Karpas (Parsley or Celery) with Salt Water

Everyone takes a piece of Karpas and dips it into salt water before eating.

Karpas represents renewal and hope. In Jewish tradition, it recalls the hyssop used by the Israelites to mark their doorposts with lamb’s blood during the first Passover (Exodus 12:22), setting them apart for God’s deliverance.

The salt water recalls the tears shed by the Israelites in their suffering and the sorrow that comes from humanity’s separation from God. When Christians dip the karpas, it becomes a moment to remember Jesus’ mission to enter that bitterness and transform it with hope. As you taste the salt, let it bring to mind the pain of oppression and the weight of sin — yet also the promise of deliverance. God turns tears into joy and bitterness into redemption. Let this simple act awaken gratitude for His saving work and renew your desire to walk in His grace.

5. Passover story and first readings

We’re going to hear the story of the first Passover—the night God brought His people out of slavery in Egypt.

– Exodus 12:1–14 — The Passover instructions

– Exodus 12:21–28 — The people prepare

– Exodus 12:29–42 — The night of deliverance

In this story, God sees His people, hears their cries, and acts in judgment and mercy. A lamb is sacrificed, blood marks the doors, and death passes over. Passover becomes a story of liberation, judgment, mercy, and belonging. God confronts Egypt with plagues until Pharaoh finally releases His people.

6. Dayenu — “It would have been enough”

We’re now going to join in a very old Jewish tradition called Dayenu—DAYENU—which means, ‘It would have been enough.'

Part 1

If God had only brought us out of Egypt…