spirituality

“Bicycle Race” – a BBC Pause for Thought

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Here’s the text for the 22 September 2025 “Pause for Thought” I offered on the Breakfast Show with Scott Mills on BBC Radio 2. Listen here.

Earlier this month in London, there was a near-total Tube strike for an entire week. One of the results of that was that everybody who owns a bike in greater London decided – understandably – to cycle to work, even if they hadn’t ridden their bike in years and had to dig it out from behind the stacks of boxes in the very-back-corner of the garage.

Picture it: It’s 7:15 in the morning, and the generously-sized bike lanes into central London are already rammed with commuters.

We are a heaving movement of humans, metal, and lycra that feels wild to be part of – and also slightly precarious. People who’ve never commuted on their bikes, people who look like they’ve never been on a bike: there they all are, God bless them, huffing-and-puffing and trying to get to work with nearly-flat tyres, rattling-rusty-chains. People pedaling in stiletto heels, three-piece-suits. It’s a Great Migration, radically diverse.

But there’s one thing that all these folks have in common. They’ve all discovered or remembered their bike-bells. They haven’t ridden a bike in ten-or-twenty years, but oh their thumbs are still strong. And they know how to use those bells. They ring at every pedestrian who steps within a meter of the cycle path, jangle at falling leaves or slight curves in the road, clang at any infraction they perceive in their fellow cyclists. Don’t you love a new convert?

To me, it feels like a few herds of buffalo have joined the antelopes, alongside a parade of elephants, giraffes, and the occasional flamingo — and we’ve all been crushed together onto the goat path. For several miles. It’s cumbersome, hilarious, and even joyous: and as I surrender to this unwieldy commuting congregation, I realise I’m being converted, too.

One Christian author says: the spiritual journey is “always personal but never private”. It’s more “us” than me. I feel that so keenly in this pack – we’re held together as we amble along the narrow path, and then there’s the turn onto London Bridge and for a blessèd 300 meters, we race and expand into width and length, height and depth: love surpassing understanding, before we come back together in freedom with all the people on the other side of the river.

And all of it is the journey. Not so much towards God, because, whether buffalo or flamingo, I believe we’re already in God: in whom we live and move and have our being.

Take me to the river – a BBC Pause for Thought

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Here’s the text for the 23 June 2025 “Pause for Thought” I offered on the Breakfast Show with Scott Mills on BBC Radio 2. Listen here.

When I visit a place that’s new to me, I like to explore it by walking ­– or running ­– along its water: the lochs of the Scottish Highlands, the reservoirs of the Elan Valley, Birmingham’s canals, the dykes of the Fens.

There’s something about the flow of water that tells the story of the land – what’s come before, what’s on the horizon. And it helps me get my bearings.

Maybe that’s why rivers show up in so many songs – Springsteen’s “The River”; Joni Mitchell’s, too; Tina Turner “rolling on the river”; Al Green asking to be taken to it. Water moves us – literally and spiritually.

I remember walking along the Thames in London once, near Blackfriars Bridge. A friend pointed out some bubbles rising in the currents near a metal grate. “That,” he said, “is the end of the River Fleet.”

The Fleet? I’d never heard of it. But it turns out that the Thames isn’t the only river in town. London is laced with hidden rivers – the Tyburn, the Walbrook, the Effra – all flowing underground, culverted into tunnels and pipes as the city has grown. You can’t see them, but they’re still there, moving quietly beneath the surface.

My spiritual searching as a Christian has helped me discover the hidden rivers in my own life. Buried beneath the noise of my anxiety, the concrete of my to-do list, the performance of my social-media feeds, there is a deeper stream. Something truer that I’ve forgotten, or concealed, or been told to hide. But still there, still flowing.

The nature writer Robert Macfarlane says a river is alive – “a gathering that seeks the sea”.

And the Gospel of Jesus says: “Out of human hearts will flow rivers of living water.” Real, spiritual rivers that, I believe, run through every single human being. Elemental currents that are in us – sometimes obvious, sometimes hidden – but never contained by us. We don’t own them so much as we partake of them. They flow through us. Their source and their destination is Something-More-Than-Us, Whom I call “God”.

So when I feel stuck or dry, lifeless or anxious, I meditate. I pray. I take a walk or a run. Or better yet, a swim. And I try to trace the river’s path through me, to feel its flow of freedom beneath my surface. And to trust, even when I can’t feel it or see it, that God is still moving. Alive, flowing, sacred in me and in everything.

Part of the Same Radiance – a BBC Pause for Thought

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Here’s the text for the 16 June 2025 “Pause for Thought” I offered on the Breakfast Show with Scott Mills on BBC Radio 2. Listen here.

This spring I watched the London Marathon, which courses through my neighborhood and brings a thrill to the air. First the wheelchair racers like a shock of lightning, then the elite runners like gazelles, then 55,000 other folks, covering 26.2 miles at different paces, with different gaits, and it’s a beautiful sight.

My friend Ali ran this year, and I’d promised him a water bottle as he came down my street. I was following his progress on an app, but suddenly my phone died and would not be resurrected. And so instead of focusing on my screen as I had for the first hour, I looked up. I scanned the shimmering crowds for Ali’s face, and I got lost in a trance at all those beautiful human beings.

Some joyous, some grimacing, some stopping to rest, some just to pet my dog. Some running in memory of a loved-one, some running just because, some as a rite of passage to mark a life-event.

I ran my first marathon in Chicago in 2010 to celebrate one year sober. The course took us past a bar where I’d routinely gotten bladdered – and as we ran by, I felt so different from the years before. No longer hungover, isolated, or numbed-out – but instead grateful, connected, and so-much-more free.

Thomas Merton, a Christian monk, found himself one day unexpectedly in the swell of city-centre crowds. He wrote: “I was suddenly overwhelmed with the realisation I loved all these people: they were mine and I was theirs … such a relief and joy, I almost laughed out loud. It is a glorious destiny to be a member of the human race. If only everybody could realize this! But it can’t be explained. There’s no way of telling people they’re all walking around shining like the sun”.

I love that. I felt that enchantment, too, watching the race. Someone held up a sign that read: “Hey, random stranger – you’ve got this!”

We are random strangers, yes. And – as a Christian, I believe – somehow, deep-down, we’re all connected; we’re true kin; we’re part of the same radiance.

I forget that sometimes: I get stuck on myself. But then I look up, and all those gorgeous human beings. And suddenly there’s Ali, appearing out of nowhere, a huge smile on his face, a drink of water, a high-five, and off he goes. Off we all go, into the human race: every single one of us shining like the sun.

A Time for Every Purpose – a BBC Pause for Thought

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Here’s the text for the 9 June 2025 “Pause for Thought” I offered on the Breakfast Show with Scott Mills on BBC Radio 2. Listen here.

I was at a baseball game one summer evening in 2006 when I got the call that my sister had given birth. My then-boyfriend and I were watching the Chicago Cubs play at Wrigley Field, alongside his parents, who were visiting from England.

I answered my mobile, and my dad yelled down the phone-line: Trey, you’ve got a niece and her name is Kenley!

I then yelled to my boyfriend, his parents, and all the folks around us we didn’t even know: I’ve got a niece! Her name is Kenley!

My boyfriend’s mom cried out: You’re an uncle!

And everybody cheered. The Cubs lost that night, but there was joy in the stands for a new life.

That baby niece is now 18-years-old. Kenley graduated high-school in May, she’s off to uni this autumn, and this week, she’s visiting me and my then-boyfriend-and-now-husband in London, before we travel to Rome for her graduation present. Kenley’s life is at the beginning, full of promise.

My then-boyfriend’s-mom who declared me an uncle at the Cubs game: she became my mother-in-law, Joy. And sadly, on Easter Sunday this year she received the unexpected diagnosis of advanced cancer. And last Bank Holiday, she died.

Kenley’s life is on the brink of opening into adulthood; Joy’s mortal life has ended, and opened, I believe, into the mystery of eternity.

There’s a line from the Bible, which was made into a famous song by the Byrds:

To everything there is a season, and a time for every purpose under heaven:

a time to be born, a time to die,

a time to weep, a time to laugh,

a time to mourn, a time to dance.

What’s weird about this season for our family is that so many of those times and purposes are jumbled together in this moment: we’re packing holiday suitcases at same time as we’re ordering flowers for a funeral. We’re launching Kenley’s young adult life into the world now, at the same time as we’re offering Joy’s life to the world to come.

It’s really hard, and really bewildering. But also there’s so much beauty in this rise and fall of living and dying. Because I trust, as a Christian, that God somehow holds it all together – our young selves and old selves, our births and deaths, and everything in between.

I believe God knows us and loves us forever – and none of my seasons, or Joy’s or Kenley’s,  or yours, Scott – none of our seasons will ever be forgotten by God,

A Web of Connection & Light – a BBC Pause for Thought

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Here’s the text for the 24 March 2025 “Pause for Thought” I offered on the Breakfast Show with Scott Mills on BBC Radio 2. Listen here.

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My husband and I moved to South London last summer. As we unpacked boxes, a spider crawled in through the window to welcome us. Everyone’s pretty-friendly in South London, but this spider was so friendly, she spun her web in the corner of our bathroom and stuck around.

Every day, she was there. We gazed at each other. I did some research and identified her species: Amaurobius Fenestralis in Latin. In English: a lace-weaver-spider.

I told a friend, who said: “if it were my house, that spider would be dead.” But even my husband, who’s not exactly pro-spider, acknowledged she’d already moved into our hearts.

Autumn came and she wove an egg sac, which she guarded until Christmas, when her babies were born. Ten little infants hatched and played on our ceiling for a few weeks, practising their lace-weaving-skills. And then one-by-one they disappeared, leaving our spider alone again.

A few weeks later, while I was shaving one day, I noticed she’d moved down the wall, to my eye-level.

We took each other in; we saw each other. And I sensed that her mortal life was ebbing. And sure enough, the next morning we found her dead, poor thing, lying on the window-sill.

I laid her fragile body onto a cotton pad, so she could lie-in-state, so we could pay our respects. And also because I heard a trustworthy preacher once swear that a dead spider on her window-sill had suddenly come back to life.

So as I mourned, I also commanded our spider: in the name of God, rise up. But there was no resurrection, not one I could see anyway.

Finally, we carried her into the garden and buried her underneath the hydrangeas. We gave thanks for the way she praised God in her particular-spidery-nature. I said a Christian graveside prayer: We commend you, sister spider, to Almighty God. We commit your body to the ground, earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust.

In the Bible, Jesus teaches about a lot of big things – forgiveness, justice, eternity. But as the old Gospel song goes: his eye is on the sparrow, too. Even the little things like our spider are precious in God’s sight. In fact, Jesus says: Whoever can be trusted with small things can also be trusted with big things.

So thank you, sister spider. And thank you, Jesus – for teaching me how woven-together we are in this life ­– and how in the next life, I believe, absolutely all of Nature will rise up again into a heavenly web of light and goodness like no eye has ever seen.

What’s your spirituality cocktail? – a BBC Pause for Thought

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Here’s the text for the 25 November 2024 “Pause for Thought” I offered on the Breakfast Show with Zoe Ball on BBC Radio 2. Listen here.

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I’m a great bartender. Which may be surprising to hear from a recovering alcoholic like me. It’s definitely not a suggestion for anybody else, especially anyone in the early days of dealing with an addiction.

But one of the gifts of long-term sobriety for me is not only that I don’t drink anymore, it’s that I don’t even want to drink anymore. The desire has been removed, the compulsion has been relieved – for about 15 years now, which is a true miracle, given the relationship I used to have with alcohol and drugs. Thank you, God.

In sobriety, I once bartended at a friend’s Christmas party, and I was wearing my clergy dog-collar that night, which set the scene for all kinds of jokes. But also for a few honest confessions – and a load of amazing conversations.

People ordered drinks and while I poured them, if it felt right, I’d say: “So you’re drinking a Manhattan tonight, or a Martini or an Old Speckled Hen, but tell me about your favourite spirituality cocktail.”

“What do you mean?” they’d say.

“Well, for example, my spirituality cocktail is one part trail-running, one part Alcoholics-Anonymous, two parts Jesus, with a heavy splash of drum-and-bass music. What about you? How do you connect spiritually, however you understand or don’t understand God?”

And throughout the evening, people of different faiths and none gathered around the bar and astonished me with their answers – full of joy, hope, humour. So much fun.

On my spirituality podcast, I recently asked an agnostic guest what her spirituality cocktail was. She paused and said: “Gin and tonic”. Gin for the mystery and belonging and wonder in life. Tonic for the doubts and searching and bleakness. “But it’s all spiritual,” she said.

God, I love that. It’s all spiritual.

The festive season is here, y’all. Radio2 switches on the Christmas music this morning and I say: bring it on.

But alongside the parties and pantos, mince-pies and carol-sings, let’s consider our spirituality cocktails this season. Whether we’re lifting a glass or trying to put down the bottle, I believe God is nearer to every-single-one-of-us than we can imagine, closer even than our own breathing. God, the Sharer of our longing, and Source of our wonder. So pull up a chair to the bar, to the table, and let’s lean in together.

Spiritual six-pack? – a BBC Pause for Thought

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Here’s the text for the 18 November 2024 “Pause for Thought” I offered on the Breakfast Show with Zoe Ball on BBC Radio 2. Listen here.

I went to a physiotherapist recently. The week after my 49th-birthday. Somehow, on a 5K-run, I’d hurt my back. Hello, middle-age!

The physio said: You wanna keep running? You gotta build core strength. And the best way to do that, apparently, is lifting these ridiculous things called weights.

So, for the first time in my life, I have joined a gym. Y’all, it hasn’t been pretty. I didn’t know how to use the machines. My limbs buckled like noodles under the tiniest weights. And I had no idea about gym culture.

The very first exercise I tried was on a bench that, unknown to me, was marked as someone else’s bench, even though he was across the gym. He yelled out, Oy! I said: Sorry, first time.

A friend said I should have responded: Step-off, queen, I don’t know your routine. But I didn’t have that much confidence.

After a month of feeling clueless at the gym, I asked my physio for help. She introduced me to a personal trainer, Ricky, who asked what I wanted to achieve. I said: I’m not looking for bulging-biceps or a six-pack, I just wanna build stability, prevent injury, and keep running.

I am a control-freak. In recovery, yes – but I still like figuring things out by myself. My default stance is: leave me alone, I’ll sort it. At the gym, though, I couldn’t sort it. I had no idea what to do. So Ricky, in his kind-and-gentle way, is teaching me the basics. The right posture, how to hold the bar, how to safely add weight. I try his suggestions, I don’t get it perfect, but step-by-step I get a-little-better. My back feels good, I’m running again, and I have more body-confidence.

The good things in life require training. The Bible says: Physical training has some value, but spiritual training is useful for everything. It has promise for life now and – as Jesus says ­– for life to the fullest.

Whether we’re learning weights, or meditation and prayer – which part of my spiritual training ­– it’s awkward at first. Most of us need help. Welcome to being human.

I co-host the podcast Spill the Spirituality. Each episode I talk with diverse folks about what helps their spiritual training – from Bake-Off-winner Peter Sawkins to stand-up-comedian Helen Lederer to Radio2-presenter Owain Wyn Evans.

Whoever we are, we need each other. No six-packs promised, physical or spiritual. But step-by-step, life to the fullest.

The Real Me: a BBC “Pause for Thought”

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Here’s the text for the 26 Feb 2021 “Pause for Thought” I offered on the Early Breakfast Show with Jane Middlemiss on BBC Radio 2. You can listen to the audio clip here on the BBC website.

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The Real Me is sort of a weird person, and so I know this is a bit unusual: I see a spiritual director every month. She’s a mixture of therapist, mystic, personal trainer, and general straight-shooter.

For example, she tells me how much God loves me, but in the next breath, how full of rubbish I can be at the same time. The real me is apparently wonderful and also quite a mess.  

But welcome to being human! This is us – we’re a mix of things that don’t seem to go together but actually do. We’re courageous and yet we colossally screw up. We’re luminous but a mere pixel in the universe. Beautiful and broken ­­– not either/or but both/and. And life is about navigating these double-truths. 

I remember experiencing this in my mid-twenties on a gay cruise in the Caribbean. A cruise is not my general idea of a good time, but my then-boyfriend, a jazz singer, was playing a concert on board and I went along for free. Free is my idea of a good time.  

It was a week of sun, cocktail parties, and dancing until dawn on the Lido deck.

One afternoon at the pool, I got chatting to a woman who turned out to be the chaplain on board. When she discovered I was a minister, too, she asked me to help with the worship service that day, which was Ash Wednesday.  

Ash Wednesday’s the first day in the season of Lent, which began last week ­– a time when Christians remember what it means to be real.

And to get started, we mark our foreheads with dirt crosses and, though we’re still alive, we hear the words: remember that you are dust and to dust you shall return. It’s one of those weird double-truths: You’re going to die, but you’ll be okay. 

Later that evening hundreds of folks gathered in the ship’s rooftop bar and we put ashes on each other’s faces. I remember old men in wheelchairs, two women partnered for 60 years, and loads of fresh-faced university students with their whole lives before them. All of us crowded in to mark the glorious weirdness of being human, the truth we’re all facing in these pandemic days: we’re going to die, and here’s to life. 

The worship service in the bar flowed onto the dance floor that night. Our bodies pulsing in the light of the moon, you could still see the ashes on people’s faces, shining in the dark. 

My Biggest Temptation: a BBC “Pause for Thought”

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Here’s the text for the 19 Feb 2021 “Pause for Thought” I offered on the Early Breakfast Show with Jane Middlemiss on BBC Radio 2. You can listen to the audio clip here on the BBC website.

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The first time I went to a meeting of Alcoholics Anonymous, I was doing research for a sermon on addiction. From my own experience of active alcoholics in my family, I expected to hear a load of whingeing and blaming other people for their problems. 

But this meeting felt different. Laughter filled the room. I was welcomed, given a coffee. Someone helped me find a seat.  

The meeting started with celebrating sober anniversaries. One guy said, it’s been hard but today it’s a year without a drink. And the crowd clapped and whistled.

Other folks said: it’s been 90 days, or it’s a decade, or today I’ve got a week sober.

I could feel a lump forming in my throat. 

Then people told deeper stories – of what had gone down in their lives, stuff they’d done, what they’d lost, the secrets that were killing them.

But also stories of how things had changed when they found the courage to be honest, when they shared the secrets, when they admitted they had a problem. 

Their stories were diverse, but there was a common theme: everyone who was getting better had realized they couldn’t get better by themselves. They couldn’t make it alone. Instead of blaming other people for their problems, they’d discovered that other people could actually help. Someone said: Welcome to being human. 

That lump in my throat had turned into tears.

A woman offered me a tissue. I said, thanks, I don’t know why I’m crying, I’m not an alcoholic, I’m just here for research purposes. She looked at me, she looked into me, really. She said, okay baby, okay. She knew. 

I knew, though It took me two more years to admit my drinking problem.

But the biggest obstacle to recovery for me was asking for help, learning that I need others.

My biggest temptation still is control freakery. I think I can sort it all out by myself. If I work hard enough, focus, organise, do enough yoga, I can fix anything. I’m a recovering alcoholic, but I’m also a recovering control freak.

But I’ve come to believe that everybody’s addicted to something. If we’re honest, we all struggle with some substance or behavior or attitude that’s just draining the life from us, and we cannot fix it on our own.

But that is actually good news: because it pushes us outside of ourselves. And help is only another human away.