iChaplain

It took me five attempts to pass my driving test. Five. By the time I got there, the examiner and I felt less like strangers and more like colleagues who had been through something together. Each time I set off, I felt intensely nervous—almost the opposite of what you’d want in someone about to take responsibility for a vehicle. By the fifth attempt, I had reached a place of quiet resignation. I didn’t exactly expect to pass, and with that came a familiar sense of disappointment, and even of being a disappointment—mostly in my own mind. At one point I remember thinking, not entirely joking, that perhaps my true calling lay in pushing model cars gently around a table, where no one could get hurt. I share this not because driving tests matter much in the long run, but because many of us recognise the feeling behind it. That subtle slide from I failed to I am a failure. The way one moment tries to grab hold of the whole story, without asking permission. When Failure Feels Pers...

This post started out as something I thought would be about staying strong, holding on, and pushing through when life is hard. But somewhere along the way, it became something else. Less about endurance, and more about what it means to lean in when strength runs out. Less about standing firm, and more about being held. What follows is not a reflection on having the answers, but on staying present. On pain, grief, rest, and worship and on coming close to God. Painting by Tonya Mitchell Revealed to the Humble Before Jesus speaks the familiar and much‑loved invitation of Matthew 11:28, there is a quiet, revealing moment. In verses 25 to 27, Jesus speaks about how the Father chooses to make himself known, not to the self‑assured or those who appear strong, but to the humble. To those who come like infants. Infants come with need. They do not carry themselves; they are carried. They lean in not because they understand what is happening, but because they depend on someone els...

I am writing a post about resilience, and once I get my brain into gear (which is proving to be a process), I should have it ready soon. As I’ve been reflecting on resilience, it has reinforced just how important context is — particularly when we quote Bible verses. Scripture Was Never Meant to Stand Alone Scripture was never intended to be treated as a collection of stand‑alone phrases — helpful though that might be when we’re tired, under‑caffeinated, or looking for something that fits neatly on a mug. Every verse sits within a wider story, a specific culture, and a moment shaped by struggle, hope, fear, or faithfulness. When a verse is lifted out of that context, we risk misrepresenting not only the text, but also the heart of God behind it. Why This Matters Pastorally Pastorally, this really matters. A Bible verse offered on its own can sometimes do more harm than good. What was meant to bring comfort can feel like pressure. What was intended as encouragement ca...

The Quiet Weight of Presence Being present sounds simple, almost effortless. But in Christian ministry it is one of the most demanding and transformative gifts we ever offer. Presence is the quiet commitment to show up fully — not half‑listening, not planning our response, not rushing to the next thing, but giving someone the dignity of our undivided attention. One of the clearest pictures of this is Jesus with the woman at the well in John 4. It’s a moment I return to often because it shows Jesus doing something profoundly human and profoundly divine at the same time: he is fully present with her. He doesn’t let cultural expectations, social norms, or religious assumptions shape the moment. He stays with her — attentive, unhurried, and open. He sees her as a person, not a problem. He gives her space to speak, to question, to be honest. That kind of presence is not accidental. It’s intentional. And it’s costly. What Gets in the Way The truth is, it’s easy for things to get in t...

It’s the moment that changes everything — because Jesus’s resurrection is a big deal. Not an afterthought, but a moment that reaches into ordinary, everyday life. And in the middle of it all sits the good news — the kind that refuses to be ignored: The stone was rolled back. The tomb was left empty. Jesus is alive. Love is stronger than death.  A better way is opening up before us. Today we find ourselves surrounded by chocolate eggs — symbols of new life, or perhaps quiet reminders of the stone rolled away from the tomb. The eggs may feel a little lighter than we remember, but the meaning still holds. Bunny rabbits remain something of a mystery, yet they add to the atmosphere all the same. And yes, I’ll certainly be enjoying the chocolate — purely for shrinkflation research purposes. You understand. There are days when life feels less like renewal and more like a treadmill — endless effort, private struggles, and futures that feel uncertain or overwhelming. We keep going, tired an...

Good Friday invites us to look at the cross — a symbol of loss and finality — and somehow see life in it. That tension alone has a way of slowing us down. Even when life looks “good” on the surface, many still notice a quiet emptiness when the noise fades and distractions run out. Moments like standing by the sea can feel meaningful, even healing — until the soundtrack ends and everyday life rushes back in. And Good Friday gently points to something deeper: that the fullness we long for isn’t found in staying busy, escaping, or even good walks by the coast, but in the life Jesus offers — a life that meets emptiness honestly rather than avoiding it. So perhaps the question Good Friday leaves with us is this: What if the fullness we’re searching for isn’t found in what we escape to, but in the One who stepped into the emptiness for us? To be continued… #easter #part3

There is something deeply moving about this meal. Jesus knows it is their last time together (for now), yet tenderness fills the table. Bread is broken, wine is shared, and each person is truly seen — a quiet slowing‑down that feels almost radical in our hurried world. Then comes the foot‑washing. Awkward then, awkward now — not exactly glamorous — yet Jesus does it anyway. It’s tenderness with sleeves rolled up: love that’s humble, practical, and willing to meet the parts of us we usually keep hidden inside our shoes and socks. In the bread and wine, we see promise and pain sitting side by side — a reminder that real care doesn’t vanish in difficult moments; it often becomes clearest there. We don’t need to see the world in any particular way to recognise that kind of courage. As the meal ends, we can sense something of the weight this moment holds — even if we can’t fully grasp it. Yet the story lingers on how present he remains with those around him. It invites us to pau...