New Wine and Old Wineskins:

What Flecknoe and Grandborough Taught Me About Church

There’s a story I love.

A young girl is learning to cook a ham with her mum. Her mum carefully slices both ends off before placing it in the roasting tin. Curious, the daughter asks, “Why do we cut off the ends?”

Mum replies, “I don’t know. That’s how Grandma always did it.”

They phone Grandma. Same answer. Eventually, they call Great-Grandma, who bursts out laughing: “Oh, I only did that because my roasting tin was too small!”

Three generations had faithfully followed a ritual—never questioning it. What started as a practical adaptation had become an unquestioned tradition. The meal was still nourishing. But maybe the cut ends weren’t essential.

And that raises a vital question for the Church today: Are we faithfully following Christ because we know we’re following his commands… or are we just faithfully repeating what those before us did, without really knowing why?

Are we holding onto the heart of the gospel—or the shape of the roasting tin?

This summer, as part of our “Benefice Family DNA” series, we’re looking at how our church histories can shine light on our future. And in week two, we turn to two villages—Grandborough and Flecknoe—each of which has something powerful to teach us about the Church, tradition, and change.

Grandborough: Holding the Long View

Grandborough is a place of deep-rooted faith. Its church has stood through civil wars, plagues, and theological storms. The names of its vicars echo down the centuries—Beale, Tilley, Bromfield—faithful shepherds in a turbulent world.

There’s something beautiful here. Solid. Reassuring.

Jesus once said in Luke 5:

“No one after drinking old wine wants the new, for they say, ‘The old is better.’”

We know that feeling. The comfort of a familiar pew. The rhythm of liturgy. The old hymns we’ve sung since childhood.

Old wine can be good wine.

And in the life of the Church, tradition can be a vessel for grace. We honour it.

Flecknoe: When the Road Gets Muddy

Then there’s Flecknoe. A village that couldn’t easily get to church—not because they didn’t care, but because the road to the parish church was long, muddy, and impassable.

So what did they do?

They built a church that fit the people.

Not grand, but real. Adapted. Humble. Home. They salvaged glass. Donated furniture. Prioritised a church building over a vicarage. Stitched kneelers by hand. Bought a second-hand organ.

It wasn’t about being modern for the sake of it—it was about removing barriers. It was about making the gospel reachable.

That’s what Jesus is getting at with wineskins and garments.The message doesn’t change—but how we carry it might.New wine needs new wineskins.

Sometimes we hold onto what worked in the past—but forget why it worked. Sometimes we resist change—not because it’s wrong, but because it’s different.

In one of my curacy parishes, I was shown how to take home communion to a local care home. First step? Get the communion set from the vestry.

There were six sets. Five were broken, incomplete, or… “unpleasant.” But we kept them all, carefully stacked on top of a cupboard. The one usable kit? Right at the bottom.

Every week, someone had to lift five unusable sets down to reach it—and then put them all back again. I gently suggested keeping the usable one somewhere more accessible.

The response?

“But that’s where it’s kept!”

It wasn’t reverence for tradition. It was just habit. Tradition without understanding can become superstition.

But there’s a flip side, too.

Because sometimes we try something new… and it doesn’t work. Not because the idea was bad, but because it forgot who it was for.

I remember working in the Post Office when the pension giro slips were replaced with chip-and-PIN cards. It sounded modern, efficient, and secure. But the people it was meant for—often older, without bank accounts—didn’t understand how to use them. It excluded the very people it was meant to help.

And then there’s the story of Dr. Beeching in the 1960s.To streamline the railways, he closed many “unprofitable” rural lines— it was efficient. But in reality, it devastated communities. They cut the lines… but didn’t account for the people.

So what’s the point?

Not everything old is useless. Not everything new is better. What matters is why we’re doing it.

Who is it serving? Is it leading people closer to Jesus—or just making things shinier or easier for someone else?

Innovation without reflection becomes confusion. Tradition without understanding becomes superstition.

New wine needs new wineskins—but we don’t throw out the wine or the skins without thought. We need discernment.

So where does that leave us?

It leaves us—like our parishes—holding the old and embracing the new.

We need both.

We need Grandborough’s ancient stones and Flecknoe’s salvaged glass. We need reverence and risk. We need continuity and creativity.

Because Jesus is the same yesterday, today, and forever.And he also says, “Behold, I am making all things new.”

Let’s not be the church that clings to the crust and forgets the feast.Let’s not cut off the ends of the ham unless the tin still demands it.Let’s not pour new wine into old skins—and be surprised when it bursts.

The meal is the same. The gospel is still good. Jesus still calls. The Spirit still moves. The kingdom is still coming.

So let’s hold onto the good whilst letting go of the unhelpful. Embrace the gospel in full.

Let’s be a church that thinks, reflects, adapts—and above all, lives the gospel.

Because the table is set. The feast is prepared. And the tin is bigger now.