Maundy Thursday. Footlong Cookies and a Lovefeast.

I found myself in Grange this morning—bit of an unplanned detour while collecting the car from the garage. I’m not sure I’ve ever actually been before.

The Methodist Church had its doors wide open, which felt like an invitation. I stepped inside… and straight into the middle of their weekly yoga class. I backed out as quietly as I could, largely unnoticed, and with absolutely no interest in observing, let alone attempting the lotus position.

In the porch, I spent some time reading their redevelopment plans—ambitious, detailed, and clearly the result of a lot of effort. The fundraising targets alone were enough to make me pause. The building has real potential. So does the cost.

I have been particularly moved over the last few days of stripped altars, or the absence of The Cross; a striking reminder of what it all means. The one at Grange, a permanent feature I think, is as naked and raw as it could be: One Cross. Three Nails.

I’d parked near the Anglican church and wandered in there too. It must have one of the most peaceful, picturesque settings and incredible outlook. I sat for a while and had a browse of their books. After about twenty minutes, I had a conversation with a very gentle man who turned out to be the church treasurer. He was delighted about the appointment of a new permanent vicar. It turned out he’d once lived in Seaford, so we ended up swapping stories about jumping off the point, steep pebble beaches, and walking the Seven Sisters. One of those five-minute chats that feels like more than it should be. No pressure, no expectations—just a small, moment of connection.

Later in the day, I bought lunch for the team. Everyone’s worked right through the Easter ‘holidays’ and then some. There were raised eyebrows and actual grins when a slightly ridiculous Subway turned up… complete with a footlong cookie. Over the top, but worth it.

More moderate portion sizes at the evening’s Methodist Lovefeast. I’d never been to one before and wasn’t quite sure what to expect. At first, it seemed like a curious idea. But it very quickly became something meaningful—bread, water, singing, testimonies, and a gentle reflection of the Last Supper. Honest words were shared. God was unmistakably at work.

The Mission Community was (again!!) well represented—people from different churches, different backgrounds, different traditions. And yet, somehow, it all felt cohesive. Together. One body.

It was a fitting Maundy Thursday: Fellowship with strangers who didn’t stay strangers, meals shared, and the quiet weight of knowing what comes next.