In the waiting of January

January has a way of forcing a pause. A kind of communal holding of breath, like the one Jon wrote about last week. In the waiting of last month I still found myself, at times, full with life’s interruptions.

This winter has been heavy with flu-type bugs. In our household of five, it feels as though someone has been out of action almost every week since November. Usual rhythms interrupted by the request for a warm, comforting drink, the Lem-sip (I’m sure there are other brands out there too) that is about the only thing that touches it, and the need for love and closeness while bodies slowly mend. That, and the endless staying indoors to rest and look after one another, sending everyone just a little bit crazy.

Into this very ordinary, slightly frayed reality, I found myself this week taking part in the election of the Archbishop. I had the immense privilege of reading part of what is known as ‘the charge’. To summarize, my portion called on the Archbishop to provide ‘Christ-centred leadership’ to speak up for the marginalised, to challenge unjust structures, and to be in relationship with other cultures and backgrounds. What a call.

These words could easily be heard at a theological college, a leadership induction, or at the beginning of someone’s faith journey. Yet this is not a call the Church has invented for its leaders, it is rooted in the life and ministry of Jesus himself. In Luke’s Gospel, Jesus stands in the synagogue and reads from Isaiah, what has often been called the Nazareth Manifesto:

The Spirit of the Lord is on me,    

because he has anointed me    

to proclaim good news to the poor.

He has sent me to proclaim freedom for the prisoners    

and recovery of sight for the blind,

to set the oppressed free,

to proclaim the year of the Lord’s favour.  

Luke 4:18-19

This is not abstract theology. It is grounded, unsettling, and relentlessly attentive to those pushed to the edges. And it is a manifesto that was fulfilled in through Jesus’ ministry and continued through the Spirit in the life of the Church.

That manifesto has shaped what I have long wanted my ministry to be about. And yet, over and over again, God has placed me in rich rural Oxfordshire. At times, I have wondered about the mismatch. But even here, there are those who are unheard, overlooked, or quietly struggling. I have been given opportunities to share the love of Jesus, speak up, and at times to preach with a breaking heart for what is happening in this country and across the world.

And still, something has been troubling me.

There is often an assumption that Christian leaders should always be doing these things. Always active. Always available. Always visible. Yes, when we can, we do, and we don’t do it alone, we do it together. But over time I have become increasingly aware of how easily the business of ‘vicaring’ can crowd out the space needed for love, attentiveness, and care. That realisation is one reason why I’m leaving my current church post and moving house in March, and it is an attempt to take it seriously enough to change how I live. This season of transition is about slowing down, about rest and healing and about listening again for the quiet whisper of God inviting us to come away. One such whisper that I believe many are hearing at the moment.

Much social action is framed around activity, and rightly so. Things do not change without prayer, action, and God’s intervention. James was right: faith without works is dead. And yet, somewhat ironically, it has been in slowing down and handing things over that my capacity to actively love others and to notice voices from the edges has increased. That attentiveness has never fully disappeared. It is a deep river running through my life and many of our lives, it’s the work of the Holy Spirit. But our world feels fragile, and our country deeply divided and we need more of the Luke manifesto lived out in ordinary places. We need to raise the profile of those whose stories are too easily ignored and of those who are already engaged in this incredible kingdom work.

One of the most humbling parts of this week was meeting people quietly serving God in remarkable ways, walking alongside forgotten communities, and making space for stories that are rarely heard. One story was about an entire nationality who had contributed profoundly to the UK, yet had been largely erased from British history. Another centred on addressing racism and injustice. These stories matter. They shape our imagination, and they remind us that the Spirit is still at work, bringing light into the darkness.

Arguably, the rural context itself is a marginalised context. We are often refused funding because we are too small and we are the last to receive good transport and communications. Many are isolated, many are lonely, and as the climate changes, our farmers, fields, forests, and rivers are hit hard. We have a voice to share together, and with the gift of the Spirit, we can be a beacon of light in the darkness.

If you are part of this network and would like to share something of what you are seeing God do among the forgotten then I would genuinely love to hear it. We need narratives of hope, justice, and love. Stories of the Spirit at work. Stories of lives being transformed in Jesus.

As we emerge out of the long month of January, perhaps the invitation is simple: to pause, to listen again to Jesus’ manifesto, and to notice where God might already be speaking from the edges.

Jo Allen

Joint CEO, Rural Ministries