This is a testimony of the Vicar at Holy Trinity Frome at our mens group this evening Thursday 13 Nov 2025
My journey to becoming a vicar has never been straightforward. In many ways, it has meandered its way through places, experiences, and churches that were sometimes joyful, sometimes painful, and often surprising. Looking back, I realise nothing about my story was predictable, but nearly everything was formative.
I grew up on the eastern edge of London, in Dagenham, almost as far out as you can go on the District Line. Behind our house stood only two more houses, and beyond them a strawberry farm. So although technically a Londoner, I had a strange mixture of suburban life and green edges. My parents had some involvement with church, but it was never particularly consistent until they joined the local Anglican parish. The church was a very 1950s design — not historic in the beautiful sense, more in the “knock it down and start again” sense — but it was full of heart, especially for community and evangelism.
I went through Sunday School, sometimes enthusiastically, sometimes reluctantly, as most children do. In my early teens I was part of Pathfinders, and later a group called CYF, all linked to the church’s youth work. At around fourteen I remember feeling that the teaching was starting to feel a bit childish. I was drifting. Around that time a curate called Charlie Cleverly — who later became vicar of St Aldate’s in Oxford — gathered a group of us teenagers and began unpacking the faith stories we’d grown up hearing. One evening he simply said, “You’ve heard all this for years. What are you going to do with it?”
That question lodged itself deep inside me. I took it away, thought about it, talked with him again, and eventually decided to commit my life to Christ. Nothing dramatic happened externally — I didn’t feel a rush of emotion — but something fundamental shifted. I found myself taking courageous steps I never would have taken before. I joined the Christian Union at school and even helped lead assemblies. One of them involved a sketch called “The Good Punk Rocker,” a modern retelling of the Good Samaritan. I was only fourteen and naturally I got plenty of teasing, but the conviction had taken root.
Our church had a history of curates who were strong evangelists, and the next one, David Brooke, did wonderful work in our school. He was the kind of vicar who would pop up in unexpected places to talk to students. Their influence helped me see faith as something active, outward-looking, even risky.
When it came time to go to university, I ended up almost on the opposite end of the District Line, in Uxbridge, studying at Brunel. I joke that I learned to drive across central London simply because my life moved from one end of the city to the other. Brunel’s architecture was famously brutal — a concrete block of lecture theatres — but for reasons I can’t fully explain, I had sensed I was meant to be there. I threw myself into the Christian Union, helped organise missions, and learned from visiting speakers who shaped my thinking.
Academically I probably spent too much time doing Christian Union work and not enough studying maths and electronics, yet the experiences were invaluable. I graduated with a decent degree and, because Brunel offered a “thin sandwich” course, I had significant industrial experience before I’d even left university. That led me to Ford, where I eventually became a manager overseeing diesel engine electronic systems across Europe and beyond. I learned a great deal from the engineers and leaders there, lessons I still use today.
After university, Jo and I returned home. She became a teacher in East London, and we joined a church plant connected to my old parish. I realised then how important church planting had been in the area — one plant met in a school hall, which happened to be my old junior school. These churches were full of enthusiasm, but also carried scars. When I was sixteen, our parish had gone through a major openness-to-the-Holy-Spirit moment — the Charismatic Renewal — which shaped me profoundly. I also witnessed, from the sidelines, a painful church split at the local Baptist church. Friends of mine were caught up in it. At the time I didn’t understand the depth of hurt caused by such events, but later I realised how much that shaped my heart for unity and reconciliation.
Working life began in earnest at Ford. I enjoyed the engineering challenges and progressed steadily. But at the same time, Jo and I felt God nudging us — leave the comfort of the Anglican suburban world we knew so well and move elsewhere. It made no sense, but we obeyed and moved to a town called Ongar. We never quite settled there. We worked with the youth group but received little support. In those days there was no safeguarding, no proper oversight, and when problems emerged it became messy.
During that time a vicar encouraged me to explore ordination. I went through a year-long process of reflection only to feel strongly at the end that it wasn’t right for me. I remember feeling a physical weight lift from my shoulders when I realised I didn’t fit the mould of what the Church of England seemed to expect. So we left Ongar as graciously as we could and moved to Petts Wood.
There we joined a church in the Ichthus network — a charismatic family of churches known for worship, evangelism, and a strong community focus. I felt immediately at home. I joined the leadership team and threw myself into the work. Eventually, I left Ford to do a year’s ministry training with Ichthus, the closest thing they had to ordination training. It was one of the most extraordinary years of my life — a mix of theology, leadership, evangelism, and learning from people like Roger Forster.
The plan was that I would take over responsibility for aspects of the network’s organisational structure, but at the meeting where this was to be confirmed, the entire movement experienced a catastrophic split. Congregations divided, leaders disagreed, friendships fractured. I found myself on the “wrong” floor of the headquarters building — the one filled with people who wanted to stay — while the floor above housed those who wanted to leave. On Sundays, our congregation would split physically down the middle: those who were staying sat on one side; those preparing to leave sat on the other. It was heartbreaking.
I knew conflict could wound churches, but I had never seen anything like that. And yet, God remained at work. Several local churches across denominational lines began a youth initiative together, and we partnered with Youth for Christ to create the Life Centre — a charity shop and youth hub that is still running today. I ended up doing much of the organisational background work, and saw God open one impossible door after another. That time gave me a passion for unity and cross-church collaboration.
Eventually I felt it was time to move on. I tried applying for jobs, but nothing stirred me. My mother found a job for me online — astonishing as I didn’t think she knew how to use the internet — and that led to a role with the Evangelical Alliance. I worked in fundraising and later oversaw donor engagement, which placed me right at the heart of conversations about unity in the national church.
Then one day I heard an old friend from my Ichthus training was heading to Ridley Hall in Cambridge to become an Anglican vicar. My immediate reaction surprised me: “Lucky thing — I’d love to do that.” Something stirred that I thought I’d finished with. Jo sensed it too. On a walk at Spring Harvest she asked out of the blue, “Do you think the ordination question might come back?” From that moment it felt as though God placed us on an express train.
I spoke to a curate in London for advice; he prayed with me and encouraged me. Then, in a completely separate conversation, our local vicar offered me everything I needed to explore ordination — despite the fact we weren’t even in his congregation. It felt like a red-pill/blue-pill moment from The Matrix: once we stepped into this, our lives would change direction entirely.
The Church of England’s discernment process is long and thorough. Within six months I was meeting with the DDO, and within a year I was at a selection conference. We had expected to train part-time in London, but the panel felt I needed full-time residential training — specifically at Ridley Hall, Cambridge. So we moved, leaving behind a church we loved dearly. Jonathan was a toddler and Hannah was born in Cambridge. The training stretched me, challenged me, and shaped me into someone more prepared for priestly ministry.
When it came time to seek a curacy, I expected something simple. Instead, my home diocese suggested a church that felt wholly wrong for us, so I said no — which you’re not supposed to do. The result was that they couldn’t find a post for me and released me to the open market. Eventually, almost at the last possible moment, a unique curacy opened in North Devon, covering two parishes on opposite ends of the Anglican spectrum: one evangelical-charismatic and one extremely high-church Anglo-Catholic. Historically they had experienced real, even violent, division. The bishop’s vision was to build bridges. It became one of the steepest learning curves of my life.
North Devon is stunning in summer, less so when the hail comes horizontally in February. We knew absolutely no one. Our nearest friends were hours away. It was a lonely start, but the congregations were kind, and we learned a great deal about ministry. After curacy it was time to seek a parish. We interviewed in Sussex and were initially excited, but as soon as Jo and I arrived, something in our spirits said “no.” Turning it down horrified the interviewing panel, but it was the right decision.
Another parish came up — a church connected to Jo’s parents, where we’d visited many years before. We sensed this was where God wanted us, and so we went. After several years, long before I expected to move on, I felt a strong sense that God was preparing us for a change. COVID hadn’t yet arrived, but something in me was shifting.
When the opportunity arose to come here, we prayed, interviewed, and felt deeply at peace. It wasn’t the end of a tube line — which was already a novelty for someone who had lived his life near London’s borders — but it felt right. Everything aligned in ways we couldn’t have orchestrated.
Throughout this strange, winding journey, one theme has become absolutely central to me: division destroys. I’ve seen church conflict up close — the pain, the suspicion, the secrecy, and the long-term damage. It can take decades for wounds to heal. In some cases the scars remain forever.
So when people ask me what I’ve learned about handling differences, I say this:
Clarity helps. Setting expectations prevents confusion. In every area of ministry, from volunteers to leadership, people need to know what their role is and what others expect of them. Misunderstandings multiply when assumptions remain unspoken.
Friendship groups are natural — but they can drift into cliques if they are closed rather than open. A healthy church keeps its circles wide.
When conflict does arise, honesty matters. The English instinct is to avoid confrontation, to hope problems will quietly disappear, or to bury frustration under passive aggression. But grace-filled truthfulness is essential. Saying, “I felt hurt when…” changes the tone. It brings emotional connection rather than accusation.
Trust is the currency of Christian community. It takes years to build and moments to lose. So we must handle disagreements, expectations, and roles with gentleness and transparency. And we must remain watchful, because division rarely bursts in overnight — it creeps.
If we cannot love and value one another, especially across differences, then we lose sight of the Gospel. Unity is not uniformity — but it is a fierce commitment to seek the good of the other.
My path to becoming a vicar has taken me through engineering labs, church plants, charismatic renewal, painful splits, miraculous friendships, and unexpected callings. It has shown me that God leads through detours. And it has convinced me that the deepest test of Christian maturity is how we walk with each other — especially when things are difficult.
And so here I am, grateful, shaped by every twist in the journey, and still learning how to lead a community where trust, hope, openness, and unity can flourish.
Rev Ian Snares
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