Holyvity has been a long time in the making. In some ways it began years ago, behind the till of a Christian bookshop while I was at university.
I was slowly coming to terms with being a queer Christian. In lectures and late-night conversations I was discovering richer, more inclusive theologies – ways of talking about God that made room for my whole self and for the experiences of those who are so often pushed to the edges of church life. But when I went to work, I’d stand surrounded by shelves full of things that told a very different story.
Almost everything that looked beautiful, had a decent budget, or was being heavily promoted came from a very particular theological angle – a conservative one. The design was good, the music was catchy, the covers were appealing… but the underlying message often left people like me, and many others, out in the cold. At the same time, the more inclusive books I was hearing about at uni were often dense, academic and hard to access, especially for people who were new to faith or trying to find their feet again after being hurt by church.
I realised that my own early discipleship had been shaped almost entirely by that conservative stream. The “intro” books, the courses, the things that claimed to show me who Jesus is – they all came from one perspective, because that was what was most visible and easily available. That experience stayed with me. I began to wonder: what might it have been like if the first resources I met had been inclusive, justice-seeking and beautiful? How might my story – and many others – have felt different?
A gap on the shelves – and in the Church
Working in that bookshop, I also saw how fragile the whole ecosystem was. Most Christian bookshops weren’t making much money. Publishing houses were cautious. As denominations in the UK have shrunk, they’ve understandably taken fewer risks, especially in print. The result is a growing void: less space for good theology emerging from particular traditions, fewer pathways for new voices to be heard, and very little infrastructure for those who want to write from the edges.
I kept meeting people – in worship, in study groups, in casual chats over coffee – who were doing brilliant thinking and living out courageous, everyday theology. But their work rarely made it beyond their local context. I began to ask: how do we get the good theology, ideas and experience of people in the present time into forms that can be shared? How do we help communities build a shared language that reflects inclusive, justice-shaped faith? How do we move theology forward together, rather than leaving people to struggle alone?
Holyvity is my attempt to respond to those questions. I want it to be a platform where people can share their experiences, research and ideas – and where those ideas show up not just in dense books on a specialist reading list, but in accessible, beautiful resources that can sit on a church noticeboard, a bedside table, a staff-room wall or a kitchen fridge.
Fear, scribbles and finally “biting the bullet”
The idea of “doing something about it” has been with me for years. I’ve dreamed for a long time about a publishing house and shop that would centre inclusive, justice-seeking theology and make it tangible – in words, images, music and everyday objects.
But I’ve also been very aware of the risks. If most existing Christian bookshops struggle to break even, what on earth was I doing thinking about launching something new? Fear of failure is real. I worried about investing time and money and energy in something that might not “work” in the ways our culture often measures success.
So for a while, Holyvity lived mostly in the margins: in scribbled notes, half-formed logo ideas, lists of phrases, and late-night thoughts about what I would love to see on a card rack or a T-shirt rail. In the background, I kept learning – developing skills in worship design, writing, theology, digital tools and design – slowly equipping myself for something I wasn’t yet ready to name.
Over recent years, more and more people have said to me some version of: “We long for worship to be more inclusive, more creative, more inspiring… but we don’t know where to start.” Those conversations were both encouraging and heartbreaking. They confirmed that the hunger I’d felt as a younger Christian wasn’t unique to me. So many of us are longing for resources that speak honestly about justice, that affirm queer and trans people, centre those who’ve been overlooked, and take disabled people seriously as leaders and theologians – and that also look and feel beautiful.
Eventually I realised I’d reached a choice point. I could keep waiting for someone else to make the perfect resources I wanted to see… or I could bite the bullet and begin.
Priming the Lectionary as the first big step
I’ve always enjoyed – and, in a deep way, felt called to – creating materials for worship. Hymns, liturgies, prayers, visual ideas, questions for groups, ways of engaging with scripture that invite people to bring their real lives and their whole selves. Listening to the frustrations and hopes of preachers, worship leaders and congregations, I began to gather my thoughts about what might help.
That eventually became Priming the Lectionary – the first major Holyvity book and, in many ways, the project that pushed me to move from “someday” to “now”.
In writing Priming the Lectionary, I wanted to bring together:
- the longing for worship that is genuinely inclusive and justice-focussed
- what I’ve learned through ministry, study and my research into playful, joyful Bible encounters
- and the practical realities of planning worship week after week in local churches
The book tries to weave together language, images and ideas that help communities shape worship attentive to those on the margins; a resource that doesn’t just tell people about justice, but gently helps them inhabit it. As Priming the Lectionary took shape, Holyvity began to feel less like a dream and more like a real, concrete thing: a publishing home where this kind of work could live.
From one book to a wider vision
Holyvity isn’t just about books. It’s about all the small, everyday touchpoints where faith shows up in our lives: the card someone sends when words are hard to find, the notebook someone uses to journal prayers or sermon ideas, the print on a wall that quietly says “you belong”, the T-shirt that makes someone at Pride or in the supermarket smile because they see themselves in it.
The heart of it is simple:
- Inclusive – centring those too often pushed aside: queer and trans people, disabled people, people of colour, those exhausted by narrow theologies.
- Justice-shaped – taking seriously the God who sides with the oppressed and calls us to transform unjust systems, not just soothe individual souls.
- Beautiful – because beauty matters. Not in a polished, fake way, but in a way that honours people’s dignity and sparks joy, curiosity and hope.
After years of scribbles and hesitation, Holyvity has become a little shop and publishing space where those values are allowed to breathe. It’s imperfect and still growing. I’m still learning about ethical production, accessibility, sustainable choices and the best ways to amplify other people’s voices as well as my own. But I’ve finally decided that fear of failure isn’t a good enough reason not to try.
An invitation
Holyvity exists because there is a gap – in bookshops, on church resource tables, and in the stories many of us were given when we first met Jesus. My hope is that bit by bit, resource by resource, Holyvity can help fill that gap with things that are honest, liberating and lovely.
If any of this resonates with you – if you’ve ever stood in front of a wall of Christian resources and thought “none of this quite reflects the God I know” – then Holyvity is for you.
You’re warmly invited to explore, to use what’s helpful in your own context, and to share ideas for what you’d love to see next. From scribbles to shop, this has always been about community.