This morning we worshipped with a river running through our church. As we thought about the Kingdom of God we thought about the way we are facing – what are we expecting to happen next.

The service was partly inspired by these words from John V Taylor’s amazing book – The Go Between God which I am reading over Lent.

“Judgement and promise go hand  in hand to the end of the story. And which of the two predominates depends entirely on the way we look at time. To take the familiar image of the living stream of history and ourselves somewhere in mid-river, do we picture ourselves facing downstream so that our ‘now’ is flowing from behind us with all the drift and debris of the past, or do we picture ourselves facing upstream so that our ‘now’ is always coming to meet us. Is our source behind us or ahead? If the present is always coming towards us out of the future then we must travail over the contradiction between what is and what might be. But if the present is given by the past we are condemned to the contradiction between what is and what might have been. The first is the pain of birth and the second the agony of death.”

A couple of hours before this service began my daily reading from Richard Rohr popped into my inbox. It included this quote from Romans 8 taken from  Eugene Peterson’s translation of the Bible called The Message:

“I don’t think there is any comparison between the present hard times and the coming good times. This created world itself can hardly wait for what is coming next…

Last night an old friend asked me why I don’t leave the church. The question came after the primates meeting and the suspension of the Episcopal Church in the USA. In response I waffled about my calling to the diaconate but reflecting in the car as I drove home I realised that I haven’t left the church not because it needs me but because I need it.

I need the connections it gives me with people across the world, throughout the ages, of different generations and backgrounds to keep my perspective broad and generous. I need the structure of the Eucharist and the words of the liturgy to reassure that death and failure never have the final word. I need prayer to sustain hope and I need words which shape my imagination and I need to have a place in which I expect to encounter God.

It is unusual to admit that we need things – especially for those of us that find ourselves in the richest 10% of the global population. We are trained to be independent and we pretend that we don’t need other people. We find it incredibly difficult to ask for help and we never want to be seen not coping.

But some of the people I most admire are those who can ask for help without cajoling, manipulating or demanding. The grace of their asking unlocks more grace.

Lots of people of faith want to help others. It is a great asset that people are willing to help at night shelters, food banks and soup runs. This kind of help is vital and keeps people alive.  This kind of help puts drowning people in a dinghy but it does not necessarily pull them out of the water.

I think the ways we truly help one another demand that we acknowlege our interdependence and the mutuality of the relationships. They mean that we are changed and we are prepared to be shaped and formed by the people we meet, opening our lives to one another so we become friends. L’Arche is a great example of this kind of help. Birch is another. Places of Welcome perhaps another.

Encounters like these make us more fully human and thus more like Jesus, who was  fully human as well as being fully divine. Christianity cannot be a solitary self-improvement programme. It  can’t be bought or acquired. It can only grow in community and relationship.

The more money you have the less you think you need a community.You don’t need a mate to jump start your car because you belong to the AA. You don’t need to use the local library – your books arrive in your home from Amazon. You don’t need to go to the park – you have swings and slides in your garden.  The longer your drive, the bigger your gates the more estranged you become from your neighbour.

But Jesus famously said it was as hard for the rich to enter the Kingdom of Heaven as for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle. This is not because there will be an angel checking our bank balances at the pearly gates. This is because the Kingdom of Heaven is found when people admit their need of one another, where people recognise that their wellbeing is tied up with the wellbeing of all their neighbours, when love for friend and neighbour goes hand in hand with the love of God.

Church is not a place where we go for a weekly dose of religion to get us through the week. Church is not something we endure to get to heaven. Church is not a badge of honour or a club we belong to. Church is a place to practice this kind of Ubuntu. Church is the place where we get used to being friends with people who are not just like us. Church is the place where we begin to carry pain together and Church is the place where we can be forgiven when we get it wrong. Church is a place where we can learn how to ask for help and how to receive help. Church is a place which prepares us for the Kingdom of Heaven and that is why I cannot leave it  however imperfect it is.

I have just returned from observing a funeral where we remembered, mourned and celebrated the life of remarkably steadfast, loyal and committed person. But while waiting for the hearse to arrive at the cemetery just outside Birmingham we were chatting to one of the staff members there who was telling us about the plans for its development.

He pointed out to us the area for Muslim graves, the areas for Coptic Christians, Greek Orthodox, people who want ‘traditional’ gravestones and those who want some kind of woodland burial. I somehow felt I was in some kind of cemetery supermarket and I was saddened by the fact that even in death we felt the need to separate out our tribe, ethnicity or our ethnos.

At a recent morning of theological discussion I was struck by a phrase of Ivan Illich quoted by one of the participants – it went something like this. For many people their ethos (standards of behaviour) apply mainly to their ethnos (ethnic group, tribe etc) but Jesus turned that around by declaring the whole human family to be our ethnos. As followers of Jesus Christ we cannot be untouched by the suffering of any part or member of the human race.

I know this is not a new idea nor it is exclusively Christian. I have just arrived home to find a friend has posted this today on her Facebook page – it is apparently the poem that is displayed the entrance of the Hall of Nations of the United Nations building in New York City.

“Human beings are members of a whole,
In creation of one essence and soul.
If one member is afflicted with pain,
Other members uneasy will remain.
If you have no sympathy for human pain,
The name of human you cannot retain.

This understanding of the link between ethos and ethnos has also helped me articulate what we are trying to do through the work of Near Neighbours. What we are hoping for is that through our practical action together, our dialogue meetings and our neighbourhood conversations people will begin to discover they are part of a new ethnos that is not based on religious identity, ethnicity or culture but is based on neighbourhood or geography. The place we live becomes a focus for where we feel we belong and where we might contribute.

People will of course have many different focuses and identities and we are not expecting people to abandon the friends they have at their place of worship or ignore the needs of family members who may be living nearby or in other continents but we do hope that by building local relationships and friendships that cross perceived barriers we can flourish together and form welcoming communities of peace and wellbeing.

I have long wondered why Jesus appeared to dismiss his mother and his brothers in a story told in several Gospels. They seemed to have travelled some distance to see him but Jesus is not bothered even to go and have a word with them.

Here is the story from Matthew 12:46-50

⁴⁶ While he was still speaking to the crowds, his mother and his brothers were standing outside, wanting to speak to him. ⁴⁷ Someone told him, ‘Look, your mother and your brothers are standing outside, wanting to speak to you.’^{[a] 48} But to the one who had told him this, Jesus^[b] replied, ‘Who is my mother, and who are my brothers?’ ⁴⁹ And pointing to his disciples, he said, ‘Here are my mother and my brothers! ⁵⁰ For whoever does the will of my Father in heaven is my brother and sister and mother

It’s clear Jesus knew who his ethnos was and it included all those who did the will of God. But nevertheless I can’t help hoping that he did break the meeting up fairly quickly and pop outside to say hello to his mother and brothers, who I am sure he loved deeply.

Many of the most wonderful  and inspiring people I know here, who are doing the will of God by building community and enabling people to connect with each other also find time to care deeply for their families. Its almost as if the love of family, household or close friends spills out into a love of community and neighbourhood and then spill out further to embrace the needs of the whole human race.  When I see glimpses of this kind of thriving and flourishing  it seems immeasurably rich and valuable and I am grateful to know such people as sisters and brothers. I hope one day I will be buried alongside some of them even if we do not share a faith or culture!

Sometimes Christmas and New Year’s Eve seem to be regarded as polar opposites. Christmas happens in the day, New Year’s is all about the evening. For many, Christmas is about family, New Year is about friends. Christmas is reasonably sober – especially if we have services to take – New Year less so.

But I think there is, or can be, something very holy about New Year. New Year is a time to be with people that will shape us for the year ahead. It is a time to celebrate and affirm relationships while reflecting on what has been and what is to come.

Over this year I have become convinced that being with is a core theme of the Gospel. The incarnation was God coming to be with us. We are then called and sent out to be with others.

Preaching at Midnight Mass was alaways going to be quite a challenge. This year with the news leaving me feeling overwhelmed and yet desperate to engage it was even more so. But being with seemed to bring it all together. So as you prepare to be with others tonight, or to be with God in reflection I have shared my sermon with you. It is based on the prologue of John’s Gospel ( Chapter 1 vs 1 – 14 and Isaiah 52 v 7-10)

Sometimes a Word is not enough

Sometimes a word is not enough. Don’t get me wrong – of course words are important. I have spent my life working with words and love crafting meaning, shaping sense and burrowing down to find the essence of an idea or concept. Today’s readings take words to another level. John’s opening to the Gospel makes it clear that this word, God’s word, is the source of all life. This word is God. This word is a light that enlightens everyone. This word has the power to transform human beings, like me and you, into the children of God. John’s emphasis on the Word as creator reminds us of the creation stories we read in Genesis when God spoke the creation into being – God spoke and light and dark separated, order was formed out of chaos.

The reading from Isaiah reminds us too that this was a culture where messengers carried the words of the powerful. When travel was difficult and uncomfortable the word was taken to the people and carried tremendous force. Battles were decreed, laws proclaimed, a census could be called like the one that uprooted the family into which Jesus was born, family news would have been spread this way too.
Without our words we are hugely limited. I feel for those who arrive in a country alone where the language is new to them and hard to learn. Imagine a day with no texts, phone-calls or e-mails, a day when newspapers and TV made no sense and conversations were a meaningless jumble of words.

But still sometimes words are not enough. I can remember as clearly as if it were yesterday a time about 20 years ago when I was in hospital for a week. Struck down in the midst of my health and youth by tuberculosis I was being barrier nursed and kept in an isolation room. My family made a massive effort to see me but still I spent many hours alone, day and night melded into one long time of emptiness and waiting. Longing for the touch of someone who cared, someone not wearing latex gloves – longing for the presence of those I loved.

I am sure many of us have had days, nights or weeks like that. Waiting for news of hospital tests, mourning the death of a loved one, struggling with a difficult relationship. Cards, letters and phone calls are nice but what is really needed is someone who will be with you.

And so the word became flesh and dwelt among us, full of grace and truth.

Jean Vanier in a beautiful meditation on John’s Gospel says: this is the beginning, the end, the centre and the heart of the Gospel, the heart the centre the beginning and the end of history.

For many of us this moment in time is the crux of all history, when BC became AD. God, creator of all things, takes flesh, becomes a vulnerable baby and as the Greek says, built his tent among us. God came to be with us, to dwell with us, to live among us.

The reading from Isaiah is clear about what happens when God shows up and is found among us. The first thing the Lord brings is comfort. Comfort to a broken city. The comfort of the possibility of peace. Comfort in the certainty that amidst the chaos God reigns, God is stronger than evil. Comfort of salvation – being made safe with God.

It’s the same when Jesus is born. The first thing the angels announce is peace on earth. Peace and Goodwill to all.

We know this peace and good will is not the end of wars, conflict and violence. It is not the beginning of a life untouched by sadness, illness and pain. It is rather the peace that comes from knowing and being known by God who is the source of all life and yet humbled himself to be born into a human family, a family which knew about homelessness, poverty and exile.

Being known and knowing, being seen and seeing, Understanding and being understood, listening and being heard. Those were the things I wanted when I lay for hours in the little green hospital room. This was the comfort I longed for. More than wanting to be strong and well I wanted to be loved, connected and held. We have all heard children crying for their parents – children crying for the one that truly knows them to be with them. They are calling for comfort – comfort that comes from the presence of a loved one.

From the beginning of creation God has called us to be his agents, his stewards, his servants, his people, his friends.

From the first times God called us to care for the earth and all that is in it. Just as God came to be with us so we are called to be with others.

Christmas can be a time of joy, tenderness, generosity and affection. It can also be a time of aching loneliness, regret, isolation and hopelessness. There are queues of people who want to volunteer over Christmas – some of them because they do not want Christmas alone.

Through a friend on Facebook I am following the work of a guy called Brendan from Leicester who has been out in Lesbos – the tiny Greek island on which hundreds of refugees land every day after a terrifying crossing. There are many volunteers from many different faiths and nations who have left their homes and families to be with some of the most vulnerable people in our world. Brendan talks about standing on the rocks below a lighthouse, pointing people to safety and helping them up the path to the check-in point. He describes sitting with people who are bereaved, sharing food and offering wordless comfort to people who have endured great suffering. Amongst the sadness he talks of the great joy, the joy of arriving in safety, the tears of gratitude, the young man with a little English who hugged him as he helped him out of the sea and said; “Thank you England, you are beautiful.”

Through the amazing gift of Jesus, God reminds us this Christmas that the greatest gift we can give to each other, the greatest gift we can give to the stranger is to be with one another.

To be companions – those that break bread together as we will do symbolically later in this service. To be accompaniers – those who travel with others to difficult places, to be people of hospitality – offering a welcome to those who feel themselves outsiders. And as accompaniers, companions and welcomers, as people prepared to stop and simply be with others, we find ourselves following in the footsteps of Jesus, the word made flesh who dwelt among us full of grace and truth.

Amen.

This year, at the beginning of December, St Peter’s welcomed women and men from the Christian and Muslim traditions to explore together the significance of Mary/Maryam in our faiths. Since that evening I feel as if Mary has had much more significance as I have travelled through Advent expectantly to these last few days before Christmas.

I have to admit that as a young woman growing up in church I did not really relate to Mary. She seemed to be revered more for what she had not done rather than what she had done and therefore became rather a passive figure. In her perputal virginity and perfection she seemed removed and remote – a slightly scary statue looking down from rather high shelf in a stiff and formal parlour.

But as I have got older I have come to admire Mary more and more. I am inspired by the bravery she showed and the risks she took in saying yes to God. I think of her when I am challenged to try new, unexpected things.

Sometimes when confronted with the pain or suffering of someone I love I think of Mary at the foot of the cross. Mary, who would rather face the agony of seeing her son die than leave him alone, stays with Jesus when others have abandoned him.

This Advent we cannot help but be aware of the suffering of so many people across the world who are uprooted by war, traumatised by conflict or caught up in the crossfire of violence. Mary’s song, the Magnificat,gives me the words I need to express longings for a peaceful world in which the lowly are lifted up and the hungry are filled with good things.

But perhaps the most surprising shift in my understanding of Mary happened when this poem that was read at the Mary/Maryam event in St Peter’s. Suddenly I understood the universal significance of Mary as the one who carried Jesus within. The poem is by the Sufi poet Rumi and is called The Body Is Like Mary:

“The body is like Mary and each of us has a Jesus inside.
Who is not in labour, holy labour? Every creature is.
See the value of true art when the earth or a soul is in the mood to create beauty,
for the witness might then for a moment know beyond
any doubt, God is really there within,
so innocently drawing life from us with Her umbilical universe,
though also needing to be born, yes God also needs to be born, birth from a hand’s loving touch, birth from a song breathing life into this world.
The body is like Mary, and each of us, each of us, has a Christ within.”

I think that one of the reasons the picture of Aylan Kurdi on the beach had such an impact  is because he reminded many people of their own children and grandchildren. Babies are not so easy to label by ideology or religion or even ethnicity and perhaps that is why the image of God revealed in baby Jesus also has such a universal appeal.

But until I heard the Rumi poem I had not thought of Mary in the same way – as a figure who represents in some way the whole of humanity which bears at a deep level the image of God.

Our evening also showed very practical resonances. One Muslim woman who attended a Catholic school said she loved the fact there were images of Mary in school because ‘Mary dressed like her.’ This was for me a wonderful reminder that early Christians would have dressed in a way we now describe as distinctively Islamic.

It seems to be time to get Mary down from the high shelf and dust her down to explore more deeply all that she has to offer in a world where millions of women still feel humiliated, where many hungry people are waiting for good things, where the proud rule in the imagination of their hearts and deep divisions between religons scar human relations.

When I was first starting to explore being a deacon and was trying to explain what it meant to me, I talked a lot about doorways. While a priest is at the table, or altar, I saw myself at the doorway making the entrance as wide open as possible. I thought (and still think) my vocation was about making it as easy as possible for people outside the church to engage with what church is about and as easy as possible for people inside the church to engage with what is happening, and what is of God, outside the church. I sometimes compared myself to the enthusiastic restaurant staff who stand on the pavements in seaside resorts enticing you to come in and eat at their establishment.

There has been a bit of that and in the last few months our church has embraced the idea of being a Place of Welcome We have also held a couple of events which have enabled Muslim friends and neighbours to meet Christians in the church, first for an Iftaar, the meal at the end of the Ramadan fast, and secondly for an event in which we shared our perspectives of Mary/Maryam.

But what has surprised me in the last five months is how important the table has become. I struggled with the liturgical role of the deacon, both in training and in my new church. Folding things neatly, pouring carefully, getting things in the right order and remembering to come in with the odd line now and again are not my strong points. Its still not a role I perform with an elegance or ease. But somehow that role in the liturgy and the privilege of giving people communion has made the many other tables at which I sit and eat, talk and learn and listen and change, holy and sacred places.

Through my life and ministry I have had the honour of being present at tables where I am both insider and outsider, host and guest, stranger and convenor. Its a place and a space that I find enriching. Sometimes I am doing nothing more than watching others make connections, sometimes I am receiving hospitality from people who have very little to give, sometimes I am actively bringing together people who would have never before had a chance to talk.

This might all sound a bit abstract and unlikely so I will try and give examples.

 The table in the photograph is in the Bader  restuarant in Sparkbrook where I invited women who had run Near Neighbours projects to come and gather to meet one another. The women came from many different backgrounds, different faiths and different parts of the city. But gathered round that table there was an incredible degree of trust and openness, an excitement about building deeper friendships and a joy of connecting with others who shared a passion for community driven by faith.

A little while later I was at a Birch project for asylum seeker families dropping off some donated toys. Just as I was leaving one of the women invited me to stay for lunch. A little toddler befriended me and I overheard a beautiful conversation between a volunteer and a guest. Another sacred space and a holy table.

There are others – I had the privilege of being part of the Birmingham Food drive for homeless and hungry people in the town centre – the job I was allocated by the Muslim volunteers was distributing the bread – sometimes the resonances are unmissable. A table of teenagers, some going to their first gig, who needed an adult to accompany them, an event in a restaurant to bring together communities in Kings Heath where I live, a table at the church day centre on the 11th November where war veterans reminisced about their experiences. I could go on.

At these tables I encounter truth, I am shaped and changed, formed and moulded by the people I meet. The theologian Miroslav Volf talks about the impact of communion and allegiance to God to make a Catholic personality. He says;

“When God comes, God brings a whole new world. The Spirit of God breaks through the self enclosed worlds we inhabit: the spirit re-creates us and sets us on the road to what I like to call a “catholic personality,” a personal microcosm of the eschatological new creation. A catholic personality is a personality enriched by otherness, a personality which is what it is only because multiple others have been reflected in it in a particular way. The distance from my own culture that results from being born in the Spirit creates a fissure in me through which others can come in. The Spirit unlatches the doors of my heart saying: “You are not only you; others belong to you too.”
P51. Exclusion and Embrace, Miroslav Volf 1996.

So that is doors and tables but what about the word? I still tremble when as a deacon I read the Gospel in the Eucharist. It seems to be such an serious role as you are entrusted as a conduit for God’s holy word. Equally preaching feels to me like the most serious and weighty task I could possibly do. I am nervous for days and weeks before a sermon – whatever and wherever I am preaching. And without the experiences of doorways and tables I know I would have little to say so I rely on the voices of others, the glimpses into other worlds to form something of truth I can share with my fellow travellers, within the catholic community of church, who in their turn are shaping me on my journey.

I don’t know if doorways, tables and words will continue to be the three dimensions of my diaconal ministry or if its just for a season. I don’t know either if I would have different dimensions if I were a priest or a lay minister. But for now they sum up for me what it means to be a deacon – being shaped by others to serve God, being shaped by God to serve others.

Apologies for a self-indulgent blog. A few people have asked for an update on my ministry and I hope this will be a useful summary of my journey of the last five months.

I have spent much of this week at a conference for women in leadership in  Northamptonshire.

While I was there I have to admit I was my useless restless self, constantly checking my phone and fretting about all the other things I  could have been doing. But now I am home I  have found that the learning, the coaching and they praying is changing me in subtle ways. Bad habits have been challenged and new perspectives opened up.

However one of the ways in which I felt distanced from the conference was by the use of imagery of women that were largely passive and emphasised the physical appearance. Among those images were ‘stars in the dark sky’ and ‘jewels in the hand of God.’ Asking myself why I reacted so violently to the jewels imagery I realised that it was not only because jewels are passive, admired for their looks and largely useless but they are also things that are protected and guarded from the rough and tumble of daily life. And so I realised I longed to be more of  a Doc Marten and less of a jewel because a Doc Marten can go to all sorts of places, it’s strong and not easily broken and looks great when it is scruffed up. Docs come in all shapes and sizes and are worn by all sorts of people – yup I would definitely rather be a Doc Marten. (Between us my daughter and I have this rather impressive set of Docs.)

This time a couple of years ago I was on a placement in a wonderful church in North Birmingham where the priest and many of the people had roots in the Carribbean. There I was challenged, especially at Advent, by the Church’s overuse of metaphors which equate darkness with evil and light with goodness. “This dualism does us women no favours;” mused my friend, the priest there.

During this time I discovered this Advent Litany which I offer to you now. I love the way it honours both light and dark and reminds us of God’s presence in both.

A Litany of Darkness and Light
I: We wait in the darkness, expectantly, longingly, anxiously,
thoughtfully.
II: The darkness is our friend. In the darkness of the womb, we
have all been nurtured and protected. In the darkness of the womb,
the Christ-child was made ready for the journey into light.
All: You are with us, O God, in darkness and in light.
I: It is only in the darkness that we can see the splendor of the
universe—blankets of stars, the solitary glowings of distant
planets.
II: It was the darkness that allowed the Magi to find the star that
guided them to where the Christ-child lay.
All: You are with us, O God, in darkness and in light.
I: In the darkness of the night, desert peoples find relief from the
cruel, relentless heat of the sun.
II: In the blessed desert darkness, Mary and Joseph were able to
flee with the infant Jesus to safety in Egypt.
All: You are with us, O God, in darkness and in light.
I: In the darkness of sleep, we are soothed and restored, healed and
renewed.
II: In the darkness of sleep, dreams rise up. God spoke to Jacob and
Joseph through dreams. God is speaking still.
All: You are with us, O God, in darkness and in light.
I: In the solitude of darkness, we sometimes remember those who
need God’s presence in a special way— the sick, the unemployed,
the bereaved, the persecuted, the homeless, those who are
demoralised and discouraged, those whose fear has turned to
cynicism, those whose vulnerability has become bitterness.
II: Sometimes in the darkness, we remember those who are near to
our hearts—colleagues, partners, parents, children, neighbors,
friends. We thank God for their presence and ask God to bless and
protect them in all that they do—at home, at school, as they travel,
as they work, as they play.
All: You are with us, O God, in darkness and in light.
I: Sometimes, in the solitude of darkness, our fears and concerns,
our hopes and our visions rise to the surface. We come face to face
with ourselves and with the road that lies ahead of us. And in that
same darkness, we find companionship for the journey.
II: In that same darkness, we sometimes allow ourselves to wonder
and worry whether the human race is going to survive.
All: We know you are with us, O God, yet we still await your
coming. In the darkness that contains both our hopelessness and
our expectancy, we watch for a sign of God’s hope.
Department of Parish Development and Mission, New Zealand

Perhaps being shaped by prayers like this will enable me (us) to become more and more of a Doc Marten as it reminds me that where ever I go God’s presence is already there and the goodness and love of God is just waiting to be discovered.

As part of my work with Near Neighbours I have been asked to use this hashtag as I tweet through interfaith week. It’s got me thinking what I can say beyond the usual interfaith means I eat wonderful food in a variety of fascinating places, interfaith means I have brilliant friends from different faiths and ethnicities and interfaith means that my own faith has been sharpened, deepened and refined by seeing through the lens of other faiths in dialogue and discussion. (Although all these things have hugely enriched my life they make peacebuilding feel like something passive or a consumer choice.)

This blog post was writing itself in my head before the shocking events in Paris unfolded last night. What I realise interfaith means to me is all about being prepared to love enemies, love those who are angry with you, love those who have done terrible things, love those who society says you should not love. I do not say this because I think people from different faiths are my enemies in any way – I say this because I think this unusual love which defeats fear is a core message of the major faiths. It is something we share. (And of course there are non-religious people who practice this kind of love)

I know some amazing stories from the Christian, Sikh and Muslim narratives that illustrate this and I am sure there are others found in the world’s major religions. The Good Samaritan is a foundational story for me, there is a beautiful story about Mohammed from the Muslim tradition called The Humble One and a Sikh friend shared with me an inspirational story of a warrior who couldn’t help giving a drink to the ‘enemies’ injured in battle. When he was asked why he did it he replied that he couldn’t distinguish between friend or foe as when he looked in their eyes he saw the light of the creator in all of them.

Its often said that the shared Golden Rule is ‘love your neighbour’ and I think that is how I often do interfaith. I spend time with people like me and I speak to people who will probably be receptive. Perhaps, if our shared Gold Rule were ‘love your enemy’ we might be more inspired to go out and find the people who disagree with us, the people who oppose our joint working and do not want to build peaceful cities and neighbourhoods.

I think one of the most useful conversations I have had recently was with some young people who were not keen on the idea of refugees living in their city. After an hour of nothing more sophisticated than storytelling and conversation they were keen to take practical action, to campaign and to fundraise on behalf of refugees.

These young people simply needed to hear a different story. We need to move on from talking to ourselves, from preaching to the converted. We need to get beyond being the same people, doing the same things in the same places. These activities in Birmingham have laid important foundations and enabled some wonderful relationships but it is time now to move beyond our comfort zone. We need interfaith to be incredibly active – a verb rather than an adjective.

It will be risky, there will be setbacks and we will make mistakes but if we do it together I believe it could make all the difference in the world and we might no longer even need to ask the question what does interfaith mean because we can see it practiced all around us.