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99

Courageous, Purposeful,  
and Ref lexive
Writing as a Missional and Emergent Task

Lynne Taylor, Elaine Heath, Nigel Rooms, 
and Steve Taylor
All members of the Ecclesial Futures Editorial Board

Abstract

Writing is an essential means of communicating ideas. How-
ever, it is also hard work. Most writers learn “on the job” through 
trial and error and self-reflection. This article advocates seeing 
writing as a missional and emergent task, a craft undertaken to-
wards a greater good. Two different approaches to writing journal 
articles and books are described, each calling for courage and 
reflexivity. The article then provides practical insights on how to 
press through a sense of being stuck, before offering a step-by-step 
guide to responding to peer reviewer comments. We hope that 
this practical article will encourage the craft of writing, provid-
ing emerging and established writers with practical suggestions as 
they seek to place themselves and their ideas in the public arena.



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Introduction

Writing is essential. To communicate our ideas, we write sermons, 
post on social media, craft journal articles, and write book chap-
ters and books. However, most learning about writing is informal. 
Writers build on previous knowledge. We learn on the job and 
through communities of practice, including the ecclesial com-
munities that we research, the institutions and organisations we 
work within, and the editors and reviewers who engage with our 
work. Writers reflect on practice. We learn through trial, error, and 
self-reflection. We learn from each other. In part, this is necessary 
because there is there is little formal reflection on writing within 
fields of missiology and ecclesiology. Conceiving and writing this 
article has itself been a learning journey on the missional craft of 
writing: a journey that we now invite the reader to join us on.

In her 2017 book Air and Light and Time and Space, Helen 
Sword points to the diversity of approaches to writing. Based on 
interviews with one hundred “exemplary academic writers and 
editors” and a questionnaire of 1223 scholars who attended her 
writing workshops, Sword discovered not a particular, universal 
approach to writing, but four categories that can be addressed by 
different people in different ways (Sword 2017, 1–2). She called 
these BASE habits: Behavioral, Artisanal, Social, and Emotional. 
Behavioral habits relate to how “writers carve out time and space 
for their writing”; key artisanal habits include “creativity, craft, 
artistry, patience, practice, [appropriate] perfectionism . . . [and] a 
passion for life-long learning”; writers are social, relying on oth-
ers to provide feedback and support; successful writers cultivate 
healthy emotions and “modes of thinking that emphasize pleasure, 
challenge, and growth” (Sword 2017, 4). These habits undergird 
diverse approaches to writing, approaches that are unique to each 
writer.

Sword’s BASE habits were evident in presentations offered 
at the inaugural Ecclesial Futures Missional Research Workshops, 
held online in June 2021. As part of the workshops, we each gave 
a ten-minute presentation on the craft of missional writing. This 



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article extends their reach to a wider audience, weaving in insights 
from wider literature and being attentive to the missional motiva-
tion and aspirations of our writing. Based on our experience as 
writers, reviewers, supervisors, and examiners, the article explores 
the writing process in terms of impetus; the task of writing; getting 
unstuck; and responding to peer review.

“Writ[e] with others,” Sword encourages (2017, 123). So we 
did, sharing our learnings verbally, then working collaboratively 
on the manuscript, crafting a co-authored piece.1 We bring four 
distinct first-person voices to this writing task (Holman 2016, 95), 
sharing our experiences of the craft of writing and hoping to en-
courage writing in the field of mission studies and ecclesiology.

Why Write?

Writing is craft, and, for us, writing is missional. We don’t write 
primarily for fun, although writing can certainly be fun (Sword 
2017, 165). We write because we dare to hope that the ideas we 
share might make a positive difference to the work of the Church 
and of Christians, as we all seek to discern and engage in the mis-
sio Dei. This is what makes our work missional: it is reflexive on 
practice related to mission, and it seeks to encourage and enhance 
the participation of ourselves and others in the mission of God.

As researchers exploring the future of the Church, we find 
ourselves in environments of experimentation. There is curiosity 
about what God might be doing as we research the transforma-
tion of local Christian communities or individual lives. There is 
thoughtful reflection as we consider the systems in which such 
communities are formed and thrive. There is creative craft as we 
express ideas, and experimentation as we clarify how best to com-
municate insights.

Like Stephanie Paulsell, we write “with the good of others at 
[our] heart” (2002, 29). Sword found the same: “A striking number 

1. Sword contrasts co-authored work, where “two or more authors con-
tribute to the writing and editing of a single piece,” with co-attributed and 
co-written works (Sword 2017, 124).



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[of her interviewees] dwelled mainly on their pleasure and pride 
in knowing that their work has made a difference to other people” 
(2017, 109). They know their research is important and have suc-
cessfully communicated it. Audience is key here: as practical theo-
logians, we write not only for an academic audience comprised of 
other scholars, but also for people in the Church and in ministry 
leadership, seeking to communicate to them the significance of 
our insights. Within ecclesiology and missiology, this is perhaps 
easier to achieve than in some theological disciplines: the Church-
facing implications are readily apparent. Because we write for 
multiple audiences, our communication is multi-layered. As well 
as articles and books directed to academic and ecclesial audiences, 
we craft blog posts, tweets, Facebook posts, and short articles in 
order to make our ideas more accessible. However, while writing 
is essential in the nurturing of change, there is a lack of reflection 
on writing within fields of mission studies and ecclesiology. As a 
result, the communicative craft of writing suffers. Emerging and 
established writers lack access to insights learned through trial and 
error and expressed through diverse personalities. Hence, consis-
tent with the approach of Sword (2017), who researched writers, 
and Holman (2016), who dares us to “writ[e] without footnotes,” 
we offer these insights.

Writing and Editing the Words

According to Sword, successful writers adopt a wide range of writ-
ing habits, rhythms, and rituals. Such diversity was evident among 
us. In terms of editing, Nigel begins each writing day at the be-
ginning of his writing, further honing the existing words before 
tending to the new. Lynne fears that her perfectionism would see 
her polishing early words to a high gloss before she turned to writ-
ing any more. Elaine edits just the previous session’s words before 
turning to the new. In this, we are “staying with it,” editing and im-
proving our work: discarding, reworking, and revisiting (Paulsell 
2002, 29). In relation to scheduling, Steve writes for the first hour 



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of every day. Elaine blocks larger patches of time. Lynne wants to 
get better at this!

Don’t lose sight of this diversity. In this section, Nigel and 
Elaine introduce their writing processes. You’re invited to learn 
from and adapt these learnings for yourself or to try other ap-
proaches that these ideas spark.

Pushing Past the Fear

Elaine on Showing Up and Writing

When I was asked to write about how I write, the first thing I felt 
was exposed. It didn’t matter that I have written several books and 
plenty of articles. The old, familiar squeeze of anxiety popped up. 
Because writing about anything that others will read—even writ-
ing about writing—is a vulnerable act. We truly have to show up 
as ourselves in our writing, use our own voice, put ourselves out 
there. And in academic culture, which is about as “judgy” as it gets, 
all of that takes immense courage.

What I found as the years rolled by from graduate school, to 
professor, to dean, to founding Neighbourhood Seminary, is that 
most of my writing challenges boiled down to fear. Early on as a 
new professor, I feared that with the many demands of creating 
and teaching new courses, serving on committees, and caring for 
my family, I would not have enough time to publish, which in my 
university context would lead me to perish. I would lose my job, 
have to find another one, which would be difficult in light of my 
lack of publications, and then if I could find another job, I would 
have to move my household across country yet again. I saw myself 
in the future at the food pantry, taking home a sack of pinto beans 
and rice, wondering why I spent so many years earning a PhD 
when this was the outcome. It was not an idle fear. This actually 
happens to people.

But wait, there’s more. I feared that if I wrote in my own voice 
expressing my own thoughts I would be mocked by my colleagues 
on the rank and tenure committee, who held opposing theological 



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views and who maybe didn’t respect my guild or my gender. Those 
whose task it was to judge the quality of my work, determining 
whether I got tenure. That is, if I ever found time to get my writing 
done and then found a decent publisher who would risk publishing 
a “newbie” theologian. So many “ifs.” All these mental scenarios 
led back to beans and rice.

As you can see, I have a vivid imagination.
That imagination is a curse when I let fear have its way with 

me, especially about what and how I am writing, because then 
nothing gets done other than a big fat headache. On the other 
hand, imagination is my best friend when it comes to the actual 
art of writing. So the real question here is how to overcome the fear 
and lean into imagination and courage. How do we attend to the 
negative emotions and overcome the anxieties over the “ifs”? And 
how do we manage to make time to write, and to focus our writing 
on what really matters to us?

I cannot speak for everyone, as we writers each have our own 
methods. What I share here are a few tips that I hope may help 
you overcome your own anxiety, internal resistance, or whatever is 
keeping you from fully showing up and writing with passion and 
skill. This will also help your eye to stop twitching from writer’s 
block combined with a looming deadline.

First, let’s talk about a behavioral habit: our use of time. Some 
writers with charmed literary lives get up every morning, take 
their coffee and disappear to write in solitude in their eclectically 
decorated office, coming up to breathe hours later with pages of 
publishable material ready to send off to the editor. Those writers 
are not us. We arise, make coffee, run out to feed the chickens, 
take the trash to the curb on our way back, clean up the dog sick 
that happened at the door while we went to the chickens, make 
breakfast for the kids who are probably going to miss the bus and 
have to be driven to school, check in on our elderly mother who 
lives with us and must go to the doctor today although we forgot, 
accidentally put our laptop in a pool of grease on the kitchen coun-
ter, have to clean up said grease, and finish the article that was due 
yesterday.



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Here is what I do. I schedule blocks of time in my calendar, 
in advance, giving myself at least four hours and sometimes more. 
Those days are all blocked off before any other thing can gobble 
up that precious open space in the calendar. I try to block half a 
day once or twice a week for a book-length writing project that is 
going to require several months to complete. On those days, I lock 
myself in my office or wherever I need to be to write that day, and I 
write. I generally get more work done that way than if I try to write 
one hour per day. Having a weekly block of time helps me to get 
into the mental flow of what I want to write, and then the writing 
comes more easily and with fewer revisions needed. I need silence 
and lack of interruptions. If I can get that space, I can get “into 
the zone,” and write with passion and freedom, and often find the 
writing flows easily. For book-length projects I also try to schedule 
a writing retreat toward the beginning of the project, a few days if 
possible, where I go away and hole up at a retreat center and work 
without interruption.

Then, each time I sit down to continue the writing project, 
I develop what Sword (2017) calls my “artisanal craft,” reading 
aloud and making small edits to the work I did in my previous 
writing session. This quickly exposes grammatical errors, run-on 
sentences, and all manner of little errors. I pause to correct as I go. 
Not only does this polish the writing but it puts me back into the 
flow of thought that propels the project, preparing me to dive in 
again in this session.

If I am writing about a new topic that is somewhat beyond 
my academic field or that involves expertise from a field about 
which I am a beginner (Byzantine history, for example), I draw 
on social networks and send those pages to a reader (a Byzantine 
historian who works at my institution) who has some expertise 
in the field in question and ask for their feedback. This way I can 
edit as needed, and I can anticipate and prepare for some of the 
questions others may have when I present the chapter or article at 
a conference.

But let’s get back to the topic of fear, and how it connects to 
structures for writing and the content of our writing. When I wrote 



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my first post-dissertation book—The Mystic Way of Evangelism 
(2008)—I asked a group of four friends who were representative 
of the audience for which I was writing to read every chapter and 
have coffee with me once a week. They were kind enough to agree. 
This did two things. First, I had to produce a chapter a week, even 
if it wasn’t in final form, and get it to them the day before coffee. 
Second, I got reader feedback from the types of readers I wrote the 
book for; feedback which, though kind, was honest. They kept my 
feet to the fire on content, form, and voice, and in getting my work 
done on time. Finally, after I finished the first draft of the book, I 
took a half-day to go back and read the whole manuscript aloud. 
This time, I deleted everything I wrote when I felt afraid because 
I was listening to the imagined critics who would make sure I did 
end up with beans and rice. I left in place everything that I felt and 
believed deeply, and wished the whole world could understand, 
everything that I wrote when I wasn’t afraid, but was absorbed 
with the topic. That process, encompassing each of Sword’s behav-
ioral, artisanal, social and, emotional habits (here time, feedback, 
readers, and choosing to honor my voice and passion) was the 
beginning of claiming my own voice, and my responsibility and 
calling as a theologian. And that, friends, is foundational for all 
the writing we do.

Bringing Our Selves

Nigel on Writing as Emergent

Helen Sword confirms my intuition that there is no one way of 
writing: indeed, there are as many ways as there are writers. And 
yes, of course one’s psychological profile will emerge as we draw 
on the internal resources required to put finger to keyboard.2 I 
came to writing in the second half of my life: my first longer-form 
article was published when I was around forty-five years old. For 
me, I consider that it took that long to have enough to say that was 

2. As we do these days—though I wonder what difference transcribing a 
voice recording might make.



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worth putting into the public domain. That relationship between 
publishing and having one’s words placed in the public domain 
is important. And it is double-edged. On the one hand, the writ-
ing has to “stand-up” as worthy of being published. On the other 
hand, this induces deep fear (as Elaine has articulated) that it will 
be somehow “trashed” once one’s head is placed above the parapet. 
Testing out your work with others as Elaine does and as we offer as 
journal editors for a draft article generally deals with this anxiety. 
Thus, looking back, what I have written is based on reflection on 
personal experience, and on research that I have conducted. From 
these come things I have learned and wish to share—things which 
are somewhat original, not having been said before in quite that 
way. There has, therefore, been an element of “downloading” and I 
wonder sometimes how long this might go on for.

I want to underline what’s been said already about social 
habits: collaboration really helps! Not just pragmatically in that it 
reduces the amount of time it takes to produce the work. More im-
portantly there is an interactive and sometimes helpful combative 
process which hones and improves the writing of all involved, a 
process that is different from simply having an editor look at the 
work when it is nearly done. What I normally do is share out the 
work and then we comment on each other’s writing before every-
one “commits” to the finished product: one that is acceptable to 
all the writers, even though it might not be what each would have 
written themselves. Of course, there might also be an upper limit 
to the number of authors writing: if it looks more like a committee, 
beware!

How to get going? I like the behavioral idea of the “fuzzy 
goal”—taken from management literature. A fuzzy goal has enough 
definition so that you know the direction of travel (we are going 
over here and not over there), but is not overly ambitious, nor so 
focused that it limits any creativity and meandering along the way. 
This is why I take quite a lot of care over a book proposal—not 
because the publisher requires it (though they do), but because 
it is a discipline to describe the kind of book one wants to write, 
including the shape and the details of each chapter. The same can 



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be done on a lesser scale via an abstract and/or introduction for a 
journal article (which really should be answering one fairly simple 
research question). Rarely does a book work out exactly like the 
proposal, but that is the point. This is what life is like, and how God 
works, if the Spirit is like the wind blowing where she wills (John 
3:8). Perhaps we could say, to riff on Aristotle, that life, even God, 
abhors a straight line. The proposal is enough to get “the sails” of 
our writing set and to avoid staring, becalmed, at the blank page. 
Writing becomes simply filling out the prior proposal.

Proposals or rudimentary frameworks also offer an (arti-
sanal) space for creativity. This is where I have enjoyed writing the 
most. I know there is something I want to say in this chapter or 
article; I know what the subject area is, but I don’t know exactly 
what I will say or how it will turn out. This raises a helpful fear 
that I won’t be up to it. Faith is therefore required to set out on this 
emergent journey. There is something truly beautiful about arriv-
ing with a collection of words that emerged from within (where 
God dwells, according to our baptism) and which represent a new-
ness, originality: something we knew needed to be said and now 
has been, there on the page in black and white.

Because what we write emerges from within our whole selves 
(Okay, and the extant literature!), I have found being in touch with 
my unconscious to be really important. Recently the shape of a 
journal article I wished to write emerged on my regular ten-mile 
bike ride. For me, riding clears my mind and lets what is below 
the surface emerge. There are many ways of doing this, but pay-
ing attention to the unconscious, especially at the boundaries of 
wakefulness and sleep, and being aware of when the unconscious 
is speaking to one is vital for good writing.

This brings us to a key question: how much of oneself to 
put on the page? Believing there is no theology without biogra-
phy (McClendon 2002) and because reflexivity is highly valued 
in practical theology (Graham 2017), I have erred on the side of 
putting more of myself in my writing. Of course, too much of our-
selves can get in the way and obscure the point of writing. But so 



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too can an overly objective stance and “thin” descriptions that are 
too distanced from the subject.

Finally, in my experience a golden rule of writing is that “less 
is more,” especially if we want our work to be read. The audience 
for theological books is generally people with a lot of pulls on their 
time. It helps them if there isn’t any superfluous material (pad-
ding) in the work they are reading and they can get to the point 
fairly quickly. So, I’ve found myself attempting to be succinct in 
my writing, avoiding the tendency in some academic circles to 
increase the number of words in order to give the writing more 
import (Holman 2016, 92). I bring this attitude to my work as 
a journal editor too. It is why we stick to a journal article being 
around six thousand words as, if it is well-written, it should be 
able to hold the attention of the reader in a single sitting. And, in 
my experience, I haven’t seen a script longer than that that hasn’t 
benefitted from a good edit downwards in the number of words. 
We often become attached to our writing, but I find we don’t miss 
an unnecessary paragraph once it has gone.

When It Gets Tough

Lynne on Getting Unstuck

Writing isn’t always easy. There are times when words and ideas 
flow and we ride those waves enthusiastically. However, there are 
also times when writing is just hard work, when the creativity and 
inspiration dry up. When that occurs, how might we respond? 
How can we get back on track?

First, it is helpful to remember that writing is indeed hard 
work. Sometimes we get stuck because it is complicated. We are 
dealing with big ideas and seeking to communicate them in ways 
that make sense. The process of writing itself works to clarify those 
ideas, so tentativeness and change are often necessary: we might 
not know what we’re going to write until we begin to write it. That, 
and a myriad of other factors, can make writing difficult.



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At the same time, writing can also be pleasurable. In fact, 
“pleasure” and “enjoy” were the emotions most frequently men-
tioned by the exemplary writers and editors that Sword inter-
viewed (2017, 156). This pleasure resulted from pursuing passions, 
experiencing a sense of satisfaction in their work, enjoying a sense 
of flow, and more (Sword 2017, 156–59). Interestingly, the plea-
sure and the pain frequently coexist. In fact, Sword wondered if 
“at least for some writers, frustration is a prerequisite for elation. 
Perhaps the pleasure of the breakthrough, the intensity of the flow, 
would lose some of its emotional force if writing were easy all the 
time” (Sword 2017, 163).

In the context of sporting excellence, an emphasis on “flow 
states” and “peak performance” is being extended to what is known 
as “clutch states.” Here, the balance between “letting it happen” and 
“making it happen” is key. The latter involves a “more intense and 
effortful state of heightened concentration and awareness,” occur-
ring at “important moments,” when the “outcome is on the line” 
(Swann et al. 2017, 377, 395). At these times, already-honed skills 
are utilized, and focus is “complete and deliberate” (Swann et al. 
2017, 395).

Sword’s work, and the added wisdom from sports psychol-
ogy, remind us that while writing can be pleasurable, it isn’t always 
going to be easy. But experiencing difficulty does not mean that we 
should abandon writing altogether. Rather, it can be an invitation 
to lean into previously-developed skills, determination, and pur-
pose. Writing is a privilege and an opportunity to explore things 
that we are interested in and passionate about. This privilege and 
opportunity does, sometimes at least, look and feel like enjoyment. 
For me, remembering my broader purpose of writing (engagement 
in the missio Dei) also helps keep me focused and hopeful.

When writing is difficult, there are some behavioral tools and 
tricks that we can employ to help move us towards productivity 
again. I find it helpful to do three things: to recognize, diagnose, 
and act.3 I’ll introduce each next, and then provide an example 
from my own recent writing.

3. There is resonance here with the See-Judge-Act tasks of Contextual Bible 



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Recognize: Notice That You Are Stuck

The first task is to recognize that you’re a bit stuck. Perhaps writing 
is seeming a bit harder than usual, or you’re not feeling motivated. 
It might be that words or ideas are not coming easily, or that you 
keep being distracted. Sometimes we realize that something is 
wrong, but just keep trying harder, when actually we need to pause.

Diagnose: What Is Happening? What Kind of Stuck Are You?

Once you have acknowledged your stuckness, it is time to di-
agnose possible reasons for it. I consider at least five categories: 
physical aspects, the subject matter itself, a need for a change in 
perspective, a need to read or research more, and some sort of 
performance anxiety.

First, and easiest, are there physical things that might be 
causing you to be finding it difficult? Do you feel hungry, or thirsty, 
or tired, or uncomfortable? When did you last eat or drink or rest 
or move?

Secondly, is the subject impacting on your wellbeing? Is your 
writing touching on issues that are difficult for you? Perhaps the 
topic itself is challenging for some reason, or it might be remind-
ing you of something unresolved in yourself.

Thirdly, do you need to look at your data or writing differ-
ently? Perhaps you need a fresh perspective.

Fourthly, do you need to know more? To read more widely 
or deeply? Are there additional questions you need to explore in 
empirical research? Or perhaps you might benefit from a clarify-
ing conversation with a wise or knowledgeable colleague.

Finally, are you reluctant to share your writing with others? 
Are you close to finishing, and afraid to let it loose? Is it so familiar 
to you that you think everyone must know it already? Does it seem 
unimportant, obvious, or boring?

Study: recognising what is, judging (or here, diagnosing), and acting in re-
sponse (Graham et al. 2005, 182–83).



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Of course, it is possible that none of these capture your own 
stuckness. In that case, consider what other questions might help 
clarify the sort of stuckness that you are experiencing.

Act: Try Something!

Even the diagnosing can help. Sometimes, knowing what the issue 
is can be enough to get you unstuck. But if it’s not immediately 
resolved, it is time to discern an appropriate response. To do some-
thing different.

If the problem is physical, listen to your body. Eat, drink, rest, 
or go for a walk.

If the problem relates to your wellbeing, it might be helpful to 
check in with a friend. It is good to reach out socially and to ensure 
that you have structures in place to keep you safe and emotionally 
healthy.

If you have been looking very closely at something, you might 
like to step back and look at a bigger picture. If you’re been looking 
at the big picture, chose a small part and explore that in detail.

Do you think you need to know more? Do you really need to 
know more? Remember, you can’t read everything. If you do need 
to read more, go for it. But don’t be overwhelmed and don’t be 
afraid to share your own insights.

Finally, be brave. Remember, you have something to con-
tribute and no one else is as familiar with it as you are. Working 
as we do in the missional space, I sometimes wonder if there is a 
spiritual element to my stuckness, something that I need to press 
prayerfully through as part of my participation in the missio Dei 
(Holman 2016, 97). Sometimes I need to lean into audacity over 
humility, and write despite my own inadequacies and the inad-
equacy of human language (Paulsell 2002, 22).

If none of those tips work, press on, with something, regard-
less. Engage in some productive procrastination: clean footnotes, 
order the library book or article that you need, or work on edits 
for a different piece of work. Give it time. Often, things that seem 
difficult become clearer when we return to them.



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An Example

In my research on how churches acted in response to COVID-19, 
I had been analysing interviews and church services in relation to 
a particular question and had one focus group to go. As I prepared 
to analyse and write from that final focus group, I recognized that 
I was experiencing at least two different types of “stuckness.”

It seemed really hard and big. I wasn’t sure where things went 
or how best to analyse the new data. When I tried to apply the 
previous codes, they didn’t fit neatly. It was too big and muddly 
and I was feeling unmotivated.

I made a cup of tea, attending to the physical. And I real-
ized I needed to be brave. I had become so familiar with what I 
was working on that I could no longer see why it was important. 
In fact, it had begun to seem unimportant, obvious, and boring. I 
know from experience that it’s best to not listen to the voice that 
tells me my work is one of those things. Because generally, it’s sim-
ply not true. In these moments, I need to press on, and so I did.

I also needed to look at things from a different angle. There-
fore, I opened a fresh document and stopped trying to “fit” data 
into my existing categories. I started again, with the codes that 
came from the data. The work and words began to flow again, 
and while it was not exactly fun, it stopped being horrible, and I 
stopped being stuck.

Later, I merged the two sets of codes together, attentive to 
the similarities and differences. My analysis was richer because I 
recognized that I was feeling stuck, sought to diagnose why that 
was the case, and did something about it.

So, if (when) you feel stuck, first recognize, then diagnose, 
and finally act.



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After Peer Review

Steve on the Craft of Working with Feedback

Writing is craft. Craft suggests a care about how and what we write. 
This craft encompasses not only reading literature, reflecting on 
ethics, collecting data, and assembling words. It also applies to 
feedback: to what happens after we “submit our writing to anoth-
er . . . and ask them to show us our mistakes” (Paulsell 2002, 25). 
When I submitted my first journal article, I thought the writing 
was over. In the years since, I have realized that the period between 
submission and publication is essential to the craft. The feedback 
from the review process is a gift to the emergence of my research. 
I need to skilfully discern feedback and undertake the emotional 
work required of all who participate in processes of change.

Between submission to a journal and publication, our work 
will be read closely by the issue editor, two blind peer reviewers 
and a copyeditor. If “emergent” is an adjective, the process of com-
ing into being, then these four pairs of eyes play a central role in 
the process of an article’s coming into being. Sword writes that 
“our ability to write effectively about our work requires not only 
training, commitment, and skill but also a willingness to change, 
grow, and learn from others” (2012, 13). This suggests the mysteri-
ous Reviewer 2 can actually be a collaborator, contributing to the 
craft of writing.

Consider how students are taught to read journal articles. 
Check the title. Skim the abstract. Read the conclusion. Peruse 
the introduction. Go to the section most relevant. Contrast this 
with the review process. Four pairs of eyes, carefully reading front 
to back, probing for coherence and consistency. How might the 
missional practices of emergence, craft, and discernment apply 
to the task of writing about ecclesial life? How might the review 
process contribute to intellectual creativity and allow your writing 
to shine?

The first pair of eyes, those of the editor, will check for scope. 
The scope of every journal is outlined in their Aims (for instance, 
https://wipfandstock.com/journals/ecclesial-futures/). Pressing 



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themes are outlined in recent editorials. These are signposts. The 
craft of writing involves pointing to those signposts. Key phrases 
from the scope can be woven into your introduction and conclu-
sion. As you submit your article, your cover letter can outline 
how your article is within scope. Your creative pointing to these 
established signposts reassures the editor, who will pass it onto two 
blind peer reviewers.

Two more pairs of eyes are now involved, invited because of 
their experience and insight. This can take time. Reviewing is a 
craft, likely undertaken by a person with a range of commitments. 
They are probably reading your precious article in the margins of 
their lives, balancing work and family. The editor will collate re-
viewer feedback. Editing is a craft, and this includes offering guid-
ance to you as author.

How you receive reviewer feedback plays a critical role in 
the emergence of your article. Growth can occur in two domains. 
One domain is your character. The other domain is your writing. 
These domains are distinct, yet interrelated. Reviewer feedback 
can generate emotions, including feelings of anger, or regret, of 
being misunderstood. These are important. They need to be heard 
and respected—but never by the editor. Here is the process I follow 
after I receive peer review, seeking to grow as I collaborate with 
editors and reviewers.

Acknowledge Receipt

Before you read the reviews, send the editor a quick email saying 
you received the feedback and are looking forward to reading it 
and processing it. This gives you time.

Choose When to Open the Email

The response in the email will range across five categories. These 
include reject; major changes and resubmit to reviewers; major 
changes and submit to the editor; minor changes and submit to 



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116

the editor; accept as is. While the decision itself is beyond my con-
trol, I can control where I am when I hear the result. I choose an 
appropriate time to open and read the email, ensuring I have some 
time clear afterwards.

Feel the Emotions

Central to the craft of writing is attending to feelings. We are hu-
mans and the reviewer comments will result in emotions, perhaps 
ranging from joy to rage. These feelings need to be respected. Re-
spect these feelings by naming them in a journal or walking with 
them in your body. Respect the editor by not locating your feelings 
in your reply to them.

Turn the Feedback into Data

It is tempting to personalize the feedback, trying to guess who said 
what. Such thinking is fruitless. Instead, make a table. I begin with 
one column for Reviewer 1 and another column for Reviewer 2. 
I insert their comments (representing major or minor amend-
ments) into rows, grouping similar comments.

Analyse the Data

Something happens as phrases and sentences are detached from 
the editor’s email and re-ordered in a table. My table now contains 
gold. The reviewers have given my work the closest read it is ever 
likely to get. I underline the affirmations, seeing my work through 
new eyes. Can I build on these strengths? I look for patterns, real-
izing that in different ways, both reviewers might be pointing to 
things that could be improved. I ponder tensions. Rather than rail 
against the inconsistencies, I wonder what can be learned from 
how my communication is being received. I write my thoughts in 
a third column. I draft some actions, which are placed in a fourth 
column.



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Size the Task

Looking at the fourth column, I make a list of the indicated tasks. 
I group these into categories. These includes changes (as I agree 
with the reviewer that work is needed), alternatives (as I hear what 
the reviewer is saying but decide to approach it differently), and re-
buttals (I hear what the reviewer is saying but have logical reasons 
for why I disagree). These decisions require discernment. As I size 
the task, I am pondering my identity as a writer. Is it my pride that 
refuses to accept a section could be tightened? Sometimes, I check 
my discernment with the editor, emailing, outlining what I heard 
from the data and what I plan to do in response. I invite feedback.

Complete the “To Do” List

With a sized workload, I consider how I might allocate the re-
quired editing time. In a spare ten minutes I can chase a reference, 
but I need ninety minutes to draft a tighter introduction.

Communicate the Changes

Once I complete the tasks, I write a letter to the editor outlining 
the changes I have made and the reasons why. Sword writes that 
“academic writing is a process of making intelligible choices, not 
of following rigid rules” (2012, 30). I need to provide evidence for 
my intelligible choices. Making the table helps this process, as I cut 
and paste my work from the third and fourth columns into the let-
ter to the editor. This process is clarifying my voice and attending 
to writing as craft, the discernment by which my writing emerges.

If the editor agrees with your discernment, then a fourth pair 
of eyes is introduced, that of the copyeditor. They read for gram-
mar, syntax, and punctuation. If you hear from them, it will be in 
relation to fine detail, the final polish.



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118

Conclusion

This article has explored the writing practices of four practical 
theologians. It has outlined the motivations that lie behind our 
writing, named the importance of courageously finding and us-
ing your own voice, and highlighted the importance of reflexivity. 
Practical suggestions on what to do when you feel stuck were fol-
lowed by a process for responding to peer review.

Across the four writers, there are shared themes. Readers are 
encouraged to push past fear and uncertainty and to see writing as 
an expression of wisdom and insight. Collaboration occurs across 
the entire writing process: collaboration involving fellow writers, 
wise others, early readers, editors, and peer reviewers. Writing is 
a deeply human yet Spirit-attentive process. It is emergent and 
missional.

Sword’s BASE habits were evident in the article. Diverse 
behavioral habits relating to time, place, and rhythms and rituals 
were noted. We explored the importance of social habits such as 
writing for the sake of others, learning from others, writing collab-
oratively, and seeking feedback. Emotional matters were addressed 
in relation to courage, stuckness, and attending to feedback. Fi-
nally, the purpose of the article is artisanal—we seek to develop 
our own writing, and the writing of others. There are as many ap-
proaches to writing as there are writers. We hope that this article 
will help you find and grow in your own unique approach.

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