Organising for Hope

An Introduction to Community Organising and the Church

A talk for Churches Together in Bedfordshire and Hertfordshire, September 2026

Friends, I want to talk to you this evening about something that has reshaped my own ministry, and the life of the congregation I serve - Community Organising.

One of the most extraordinary things about Citizens UK is the way it brings people together across difference, across faith, race, class, and culture, to act together for the common good. In a city like London, that's no small thing. We live in a time when difference is often weaponised, when people are told that those who are not like them are somehow a threat. But organising shows another way, a way of building trust across difference, through shared action and deep listening.

And for those of us in the churches, this isn't something new or alien. It's part of our calling. Within our congregations we already practise this - learning to live with people we don't always agree with, to listen deeply, and to build community across the lines that so easily divide. We do it across denominations, and, increasingly, across faith traditions, too. The campaign for the Living Wage, which celebrated its 25th anniversary this year, is a lived example of how organising can build trust across difference, because it draws people into a common cause from across the wide spectrum of British society - with recent immigrants campaigning alongside white working-class workers, as they share common cause in seeking fair employment. In Citizens UK, and in the life of the Church, we're discovering that trust grows not from ignoring our differences, but from engaging with them, face to face, story by story, relationship by relationship. That's the work of hope: the slow, deliberate building of trust that makes real change possible - in our congregations, our communities, our cities, and across the UK.

What actually is Community Organising?

The method comes originally from Saul Alinsky, organising in the neighbourhoods of Chicago in the 1930s and 40s. It arrived in Britain in the mid-1990s, brought by Neil Jameson, and took root first in east London as TELCO - The East London Communities Organisation - before growing into what we now know as Citizens UK. It is what's called broad-based organising - broad-based, because it isn't built around individuals signing up to a cause, but around institutions: churches, mosques, synagogues and gurdwaras, schools and colleges, trade union branches and residents' associations, all joining together in a local alliance. That matters, because institutions outlast campaigns, and outlast any one enthusiastic individual. When Bloomsbury signs up to Citizens, it isn't me signing up; it's the whole congregation.

At the heart of it all is a simple, old insight: there are only two forms of power in this world. There is the power of organised money, and there is the power of organised people. Most of our neighbours have very little of the first. But together, across our institutions, we have a great deal of the second - if only we learn to organise it.

That's why one of the first rules you learn in this world is what's called the Iron Rule: never do for others what they can do for themselves. It sounds harsh, until you sit with it. It means an organiser, or a minister, does not solve people's problems for them, however tempting, however much quicker that would be. Instead, we do the slower, harder work of helping people discover that they already have what they need to act for themselves. It is a rule about dignity as much as it is about power.

Listening and one-to-ones

A lot of it starts with listening - not the kind of listening where we're planning our response, but the kind that really seeks to understand. In organising, that's often done through one-to-one conversations, sometimes simply called 1-to-1s. These aren't chats. They are deliberately structured, usually twenty minutes, one person listening for the story behind the opinion - what has this person lived through, what do they care about, and why, and what would they be willing to act on? Do enough of these, across enough of a congregation or a neighbourhood, and you have what's called a listening campaign - the raw material from which real, shared priorities emerge, rather than priorities handed down from a committee or a minister.

Now, I'll be honest - in church life, we sometimes find the idea of 1-to-1s a bit awkward. It can sound manipulative, or utilitarian, as if we're trying to get something out of the other person. But actually, it's far more human than that. I sometimes reframe it like this: I want to share a bit of my story, and I want to create space for you to share yours. It's a mutual encounter. It's the beginning of trust. And it's something Jesus himself modelled - think of his conversations at wells, or by roadsides, or around tables. When we practise this kind of intentional listening, it changes the culture. We begin to see one another not as roles or functions - not "the treasurer", "the deacon", or "the newcomer" - but as people with stories, passions, and struggles. That's where relational power begins to grow.

From listening to action

But organising doesn't stop at listening. It always moves towards action - shared action. When we listen well, we start to discern what matters to people. And when we act on those concerns together, we strengthen the fabric of community. In organising language, that discernment is sharpened by a question called agitation - not agitation in the sense of stirring up trouble, but the gentle, persistent question that turns a complaint into a commitment: not just "isn't it terrible", but "what are you, personally, prepared to do about it?" It is, I've come to think, a very good pastoral question, as much as an organising one.

In church, that action might mean responding to an issue of injustice in our neighbourhood. Or it might be something internal - addressing the needs of those who feel unheard within our own congregation. At Bloomsbury, for instance, as we've deepened our listening, we've found ourselves drawn into new partnerships - with other churches, with mosques and synagogues, with schools and universities. And we've also found ourselves developing relationships with those who share the use of our building: with a hip-hop dance company, three community choirs, a night shelter, an organisation that campaigns on racial justice, and a prison mission. Through our intentional relationship building, we've brought people together who previously shared a building, but who now are discovering shared values, and a shared desire and capacity to act in the world, as we learn together how to turn shared values into shared action.

The inner work of organising: from comfort to courage

There's another layer to all this - the inner work of organising. Because when we begin to listen deeply, and act together for change, we soon discover that the real challenge isn't just out there in the world; it's also in here, within ourselves. Organising invites us to move from comfort to courage. It asks us to take risks - to speak up, to lead, to confront power, and sometimes to be vulnerable with one another. And that can feel unsettling.

In church life, we often like things to be harmonious. We value kindness, gentleness, getting along. Those are good things. But sometimes, our desire for harmony can stop us from having the honest conversations we need. Organising teaches us that tension isn't the enemy of community - it's often the birthplace of transformation. There's a phrase I love from community organising: "No change without tension." That's true of spiritual growth, too. The gospel doesn't call us to comfort; it calls us to courage. It calls us to step into the spaces where love and justice meet, and that's rarely easy.

I've found that this work has changed me as much as it's changed our congregation. It's taught me to listen more deeply, to speak more truthfully, and to trust that the Spirit is at work in the discomfort. So perhaps part of building a relational culture in our churches is learning to see tension not as a threat to our unity, but as a sign that something real is happening - that the Spirit is stretching us, reshaping us, calling us to grow. And when we find the courage to stay in that space - to listen through the tension, to act through the fear - we often find that the relationships which emerge on the other side are stronger, deeper, and more hopeful than before.

Reflection and leadership development

Organising also teaches us to reflect on our action. After every action, however small, there is what's called an evaluation: What happened? What did we learn? How did power shift? What's next? It's remarkably similar to the process of theological reflection - seeing where God might be at work, and discerning how to respond.

And out of that reflection comes leadership development. People grow in confidence and in skill. They learn to speak, to negotiate, to plan, to act. It's discipleship in a very practical form. Organising even has its own ladder for this, from leaders finding their voice for the first time, to leaders who carry real responsibility for the life of the whole alliance. None of it is about status; it's about capacity. I've watched members of our congregation discover their voice through Citizens training - people who never saw themselves as leaders stepping forward to lead meetings, speak to power, or coordinate campaigns.

The theology of relationship: where the Spirit dwells

Underneath all of this - the listening, the acting, the reflecting - lies a profoundly theological conviction: that the Spirit of God is at work in relationship. When we speak of building relational power, what we're really talking about is discerning where the Spirit is moving between us. In the book of Acts, the Holy Spirit doesn't only descend on individuals; the Spirit draws people together - Jews and Gentiles, slaves and free, men and women - into new and surprising communities of belonging. That's what organising does at its best. It takes the fractures of our social life and says: the Spirit can move here too.

In the church, we can be tempted to think of mission as something we do for others - an act of outreach. But organising invites us to see mission as something we do with others - an act of relationship. It's the difference between charity and justice, between service and solidarity. And in that process, we discover something of God. Because if God is love, and love only exists in relationship, then the practice of deep, honest, mutual relationship is itself a form of prayer. It's a way of entering the life of God. So when we engage in one-to-ones, or build alliances across difference, or act together for the common good, we are not simply being good citizens - we are being the Church. We are embodying the Spirit's work of reconciliation. It's what I sometimes call a sacrament of encounter - those moments when we meet another person deeply enough that we glimpse something holy in them, and they in us. That's what sustains the work. It's what keeps hope alive when campaigns drag on and victories seem slow. In those encounters, we see the New Jerusalem taking shape - not as a vision of heaven far away, but as a community of justice and peace being built, relationship by relationship, in our midst.

In our church this has led to us developing a new monthly meeting called 'Breathing Space', where we gather to deepen our relationship with God and with one another, creating a context for honesty, prayer, silence, and scriptural reflection. We have found people growing in confidence about how to articulate the depths of their spiritual experiences, and others discovering a new language of faith that gives voice to their doubts and their hopes and their deep longings before God.

Translating citizens-speak into church-speak

Of course, sometimes the language of organising can sound a bit alien in church. We talk about power, self-interest, campaigns, strategy, actions, agitation. Those words can make us nervous. But when we translate them, they become deeply familiar - in fact, they turn out to have been ours all along.

Take power. In organising, power simply means the capacity to act. It comes from the Latin posse, to be able. It is morally neutral - you can use it well or badly - but you cannot love your neighbour effectively without it. In church-speak, power becomes the capacity to act together in love: not so very far from what we mean by the Spirit's gifting of the Body of Christ, each part supplying what the others need.

Take self-interest, a phrase that makes church people flinch, as if it were the opposite of Christian love. But the word comes from the Latin inter-esse - literally, "to be among", "to be between". Your self-interest, properly understood, is simply what binds you to others: your children's school, your street, your health, your work, your worship. It is not selfishness at all. It is closer to what scripture means when it commands us to love our neighbour as ourselves - because it assumes, quite rightly, that we cannot love our neighbour well while pretending we have no stake in the neighbourhood. In church-speak, self-interest becomes vocation: the particular place, among particular people, where God has planted you, and asks you to care.

Take the Iron Rule, never do for others what they can do for themselves. In church-speak, that is simply the priesthood of all believers, and the equipping of the saints for the work of ministry, rather than the minister doing the ministry on everyone else's behalf.

Take agitation, that pointed question, "what are you going to do about it?" In church-speak, that is prophetic challenge, offered pastorally: the kind of question a good spiritual director, or a good friend in Christ, has always asked.

Take listening campaign. In church-speak, that is simply pastoral visiting, done with a purpose and across a whole community, rather than one house at a time, at random.

Take action, or its bigger cousin, the accountability assembly, where an alliance gathers, sometimes in the hundreds, to put a specific, agreed ask to a decision-maker, in public. In church-speak, that becomes public worship turned outward: not so different from a service of witness, or an act of prophetic solidarity, in the tradition of Amos at the gate or Nehemiah before the king.

And take broad-based alliance itself, institutions of every faith and none, holding hands for the common good. In church-speak, that is as close to genuine, practical ecumenism, and to interfaith friendship, as most of us will ever get this side of glory - because it isn't friendship built on agreeing about God, but solidarity built on caring, together, about our neighbours.

Strategy becomes discernment. Campaigns become shared missions. Research becomes listening with our eyes open. And suddenly, we see that organising isn't an add-on to the gospel - it's one way of living it out, with a discipline and a method the Church can gratefully borrow, because, in truth, so much of it we taught the world first.

The challenge and the invitation

The challenge, I think, is to let organising reshape the culture of our churches - not just as something we do, but as something we are. To move from being programme-driven to relationship-driven. To trust that transformation begins not with grand vision statements, but with small, honest conversations. To believe that when we really listen to one another, the Spirit can move among us to build something new.

So perhaps the invitation to all of us this evening - whether we're seasoned organisers or entirely new to it - is simply to try it and see how it feels. Have one intentional conversation this week. Share a bit of your story, and create a space where someone else can share theirs. You might be surprised at what grows from that. Because when we build a culture of relationship, we begin to glimpse the Kingdom - not as an abstract ideal, but as a living, breathing community of hope.