By way of explanation if you have seen me out and about in the last few weeks.
Last year, I felt a nudge before Lent to wear a cassock — to dress like a monk. Yes, weird. Maybe an aspect of undiagnosed neurodivergence. Maybe the Holy Spirit. Maybe both. Or something else entirely.
I put it off for a year (also, perhaps, a neurodivergent trait), but then I spotted a second-hand Franciscan-style cassock alb up for sale — almost my size — and decided to stop ignoring the nudge. So this Lent, I am wearing it for significant periods of time as I go about the city, serving those battered and bruised by the storms of life at Lighthouse and beyond.
It’s not for everyone. And for those who know me, you’ll know I don’t often wear ‘vicar dress.’ So this feels humbling, even awkward. But it has already led to deep and unexpected conversations—people asking why, opening up about faith, justice, and suffering.
I’d like to think about it less as performance and more as presence, perhaps even a prophetic witness. More than anything, it’s about helping me to remember. To remember the poor, the displaced, the oppressed. To remember that in a world of war and climate breakdown, I cannot pretend all is well. To remember that following Jesus means choosing simplicity, humility, and a different way of living.
I see it as a sign of how I want my heart to be —to stand with those the world forgets, to lament the brokenness of creation, and to long for justice.
And before you ask—no, I don’t wear it when taking the kids to the shops or the cinema. Nor do I wear it when cycling into town.
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