On 10 May we held the BIG Day 2025, where our congregations got the chance to gather, share and reflect together on their past, present and future within the Diocese of Edinburgh.
Pictures: Peter Backhouse
In response to the theme of ‘Blessings on The Way’, Bishop John presented some reflections on his daily journey to the office, how it had changed in the 13 years of his tenure as bishop, and what lessons and encouragement we can take from this.
Through All the Changing Scenes: Reflections on my Walk to the Office
On Monday I shall celebrate 13 years as your bishop. Over this period, I have generally taken two routes from my home to the Diocesan Office.
The first, on my bike, takes me along Polwarth, through Harrison Park and Ardmillan Terrace, along Dalry Road to Haymarket, and so to Grosvenor Crescent.
The second is by bus and on foot. Bus to Gilmore Place, then down Leamington Road, across the canal on the lift bridge, through the old brewery area, up Melvin Walk, over the Western Approach Road, then cut down from Morrison Crescent to Haymarket and the office.
The first route hasn’t changed much over the years. Indeed, I used to live on Ardmillan Terrace in the 1970s and, give or take one or two refurbishments and the bewildering disappearance of St Martin’s, Tynecastle, and its reappearance as St Martin’s, Dalry a hundred yards down the road, not that much has changed in 50 years and, to outward appearances at any rate, very little since 2012 (perhaps with the exception of a Lidl supermarket).
My second route, on the other hand, well, it starts in familiar fashion until you cross the canal but then, wow, the landscape has changed around me almost by the day.
- Old brewery buildings flattened – buildings on both sides of Dundee Street replaced by a succession of student residences.
- Just beyond them, to the west is the new Boroughmuir High School, completed in 2018 and already being adapted and enlarged.
- Across the Western Approach Road, whilst Morrison Crescent and Circus remain, they are now overshadowed by a massive new set of buildings across the road from a refurbished Haymarket Station. They’re built on what was for decades derelict land, for a long time used as a rather bumpy parking lot; you may remember the disruption caused to trains and cars as foundation pillars were sunk into the ground to provide stability for the buildings that now stand there, almost completed.
As the framework for these buildings was constructed, and then day by day filled in with glass, I noticed how they gradually obscured my view of this cathedral, the tallest building in Edinburgh, its three spires a landmark across the city, but now completely blotted out on my walk from Gilmore Place.
As I’ve made this journey, in all weathers and through all the fluctuations and movements in my life and the life of the diocese, I’ve come to realise that my walk tells a story. For this slow (and sometimes not so slow) evolution of the scenery around me, the reshaping and repurposing of the landscape, the noise and the busyness of the construction sites, is a lived experience that is also a powerful metaphor for the changing world we inhabit.
Old, long-established structures demolished to make way for new. Old ways of life, old industries replaced by new – the breweries making way for a Higher Education production line. Things that seemed timeless and dependable, fixtures, landmarks around which we orientated ourselves, gone, now seemingly as transient and temporary as we ourselves. Nostalgia may lead us to regret these changes, yet realism tells us that loss and change are inevitable, and that human beings construct their environment to reflect their economic and social priorities.
I’ve lived long enough to know that even some of these smart, confident new buildings may themselves be gone in a generation. Some future Bishop of Edinburgh may have to live again with cranes and demolition balls as they walk to work. The dutiful endeavour of one generation, giving place to the enthusiasms and needs of the next. Where will God be in all this, I’ve wondered as I wandered? Will our awareness of the divine, once so up front and central to the Scottish sense of self, itself be displaced, obscured, overshadowed like my view of the cathedral – shut off from view because something is in the way?
But let’s not jump too quickly to the negative – to regret and complaint. Bemoaning and lamenting the loss of religion’s place in our world. For though I may not be able to see the cathedral on my walk, because a big glass box has been put in front of it, it’s still here, just as God is still here. If I look hard enough, I am still rewarded by momentary glimpses of its spires, just as we are rewarded by tiny glimpses of the glory of God, often when we least expect it. And I find myself surprised too, to discover its reflection projected onto those huge glass blocks, just as God surprises us even when we’re looking in the wrong direction, like distorted reflections in a mirror, perhaps, but most certainly there.
My walk to the office, in other words, tells a story that can be read in different ways. It’s a story, I realise, that parallels the changing scenes of my own life – of demolition and rebuilding, of permanence and transience – and how, despite the loss of faith amongst the wider population, yet I have known the constancy of God, God always here, God offering us glimpses of glory, God reflected around us, even when we imagine we may be looking in the ‘wrong’ place.
If it parallels my life, it most surely also parallels my ministry as your bishop. For, as I’ve walked in your company, in one sense the route has been familiar, for there is a routine and a rhythm to a walk in the footsteps of Jesus. Yet old things, dependable things that seemed eternal, have given way to new. Some have been demolished, some repurposed – and there has been much rebuilding – literal rebuilding in many cases, and this will continue well past my time, as it should. Such building of God’s church demands vision, energy, creativity (thankfully there’s much of that in evidence in the diocese). And sometimes it means that, like the scribes, we dip into the treasures of our faith, producing what is new and what is old, and even finding resources, long disused and derelict, now ready to be brought again into use. A bit like Haymarket’s scruffy old car park.
Who knows how long the things we build will endure? For a while, community gardens flourished on the sites of the old brewery buildings, and occasionally marquees and temporary buildings were erected for a few months. In the same way, not everything we do is intended to last, not all experiments achieve permanence. In due course they will be replaced by something else, just as one bishop is replaced by another. And though we may not always be comfortable with all this newness, frustrated by the new-fangled glass boxes that seem to get in the way, yet reflected in them, if we open our eyes to see, are intimations of the divine: the abundant grace of God reflected in the faces of our neighbours.
Today we have been sharing the story of our blessings. Do these speak to us of continuity or change, of challenge or consolation, or perhaps of all four? Are they blessings because they tell us of what has abided and shall abide, or do they represent something new, different – something that will last only for a season (like a foodbank for example, that is oh so necessary now, yet is very much not part of our vision of heaven). Or do our blessings speak of the eternal, of something that lasts, like music, or laughter or love? Both the temporary and the permanent may bless us, and indeed, it’s important to recognise the distinction between the two. For there is a danger in making the temporary permanent – it would be like expecting blossom to hang on the fruit tree all year round, for then there would be no fruit.
Both the temporary and the permanent may bless us, and indeed, it’s important to recognise the distinction between the two. For there is a danger in making the temporary permanent – it would be like expecting blossom to hang on the fruit tree all year round, for then there would be no fruit.
Or are they blessings precisely because they challenge us? Challenge, perhaps, to respond to a new context, to find new ways of living and sharing the old, old story in a world both remarkably similar to that of Jesus and the first apostles, and yet utterly different. This world challenges us, it calls us to account, it demands that we grapple with the realities of the life we share with people of all faiths and none.
Like some of you here, I could draw a timeline of my life, underlining the major challenges that demanded our attention from one year to the next, one decade to the next. A lot of them, probably too many of them, have had to do with sex – remarriage of divorcees in church, sexual orientation, marriage of same-sex couples, gender identity. But there are others too, in no particular order: nuclear armaments, addictions, climate crisis, assisted dying, trade justice, technological advances, gene therapy, artificial intelligence, what it means to be a truly inclusive church and society. How are we to stand against the rise of far-right ideologies? How to affirm that truth matters? How to care for our young people and others so affected by social media; how to deal with threats to our mental health?
How are we to stand against the rise of far-right ideologies? How to affirm that truth matters? How to care for our young people and others so affected by social media; how to deal with threats to our mental health?
These things challenge us, they challenge our faith, not because they are stimulate our brain cells, or because they are signs of a sinful world we should shun, but because they are issues that profoundly matter to the people for whom Christ died, for whom Christ became human. In what way, then, might the blessings we have brought today speak of that incarnation – God, present in the world as it is, calling us to live in the world as it is? In what way do they speak of resurrection, of God calling us to look for the living Lord amongst the living?
Or perhaps, the blessing we share today is one that consoles us, draws us back to the light. Because we have seen hope in others, transformation of brokenness in others. Have we discovered a reward for the long hard slog of ministry, the determination to keep on keeping on, years of digging the soil, of tending the plant, to see at last, green shoots of new growth? As I said just now, it’s possible to tell the story of my walk to work negatively or positively. During the 46 years of my active ministry, and especially in these past 13 years as your bishop, I’ve often found myself frustrated by our tendency to spin a narrative of inevitable decline of the church, rather than one open to Godly possibilities and confidence in the God who is always here and makes all things new. A tendency to focus on scarcity rather than abundance. At its most basic level, this talking down indicates a lack of faith in God, a lack of trust in God’s grace.
Now as I approach retirement, well aware of my own limitations and frailties, and of the church’s limitations and frailties, I find myself confirming more people than ever, many of them young adults. I discover a number of our congregations are growing. This trend isn’t peculiar to our diocese – others have identified it as a ‘quiet revival’.
I find myself confirming more people than ever, many of them young adults. I discover a number of our congregations are growing. This trend isn’t peculiar to our diocese – others have identified it as a ‘quiet revival’.
I claim no credit for this; I simply note it. And admit that it strikes me as wonderfully ironic, strangely hilarious, surreal, astonishing. For whatever reason analysts may find for it – and there are many – none of them should be allowed to explain away God’s hand in all this, God who answers prayers in the world as it is and through people as they are. God clearly has something in mind; are we ready to join in?
I would suggest that a the very least, we’re being invited to consider the possibility of shifting our focus away from the negative. I don’t mean that we should all become Pollyannas, contorting everything so that it conforms to an unrealistically sunny view of life and human nature. But neither should we succumb to our inner Private Frazer (from Dad’s Army) and interpret every occurrence as proof that ‘We’re all doomed’, that if things are bad tonight, they’ll be worse in the morning. Might it be that long habit has installed Private Frazer in our psyches, our way of interpreting reality, and that we could perhaps benefit from a dash of Pollyanna?
Whatever God is up to – quiet revival or not – let’s take it for what it is, give thanks to God and allow ourselves to be consoled, to see it as evidence that God does not leave us comfortless, to admit that God, sometimes despite our own best efforts, is ‘able to do abundantly far more than all we can ask or imagine.’ That sometimes, even though we’ve fished all night and caught nothing, when we cast our net one more time on the other side of the boat, there is a plentiful catch to be had. Remembering always that God consoles and challenges all at once, invites us both to hold fast to that which is permanent, and to let go of and be willing to change that which is not.
I offer you these 4 ‘Cs’ to reflect on over your lunch as you continue to share your blessings with one another. Or, if you feel that topic is exhausted, how about a different kind of reflection. Look around you, on your metaphorical walk through life, and ask where you might find God’s image reflected in unexpected places and people, even when we may imagine that we are looking in the wrong direction.
All that remains for me to say is thank you. Thank you for offering me countless blessings over the years, for being the continuity and the change, the challenge and the consolation, that has made the business of bishopping in this diocese so stimulating, inspiring and life-giving.
It isn’t over yet, of course, but the time is fast approaching when I shall add my own fifth ‘C’ to the list… Cheerio!
