Cynefin: Dwelling in the Fold of God

There are words in every language that seem to carry more than their phonetic weight. They gesture toward realities that are too layered for direct translation—concepts born of soil, weather, memory, and culture.

One such word is the Welsh term cynefin (pronounced kuh-NEV-in). Often translated as “habitat” or “place of belonging,” cynefin resists reduction. It is not merely about physical location but about the relational and affective ties that make a place home. It evokes a sense of rootedness, of familiarity shaped over time, of the subtle, often inarticulate ways one is shaped by land, people, and story.

To inhabit cynefin is to dwell in a space where one belongs and is known—a space not only of geography but of identity. It is a term heavy with emotional and spiritual resonance. And so, in this blog post, I want to reflect theologically on cynefin—not simply as a cultural artifact, but as a lens through which to consider divine hospitality, human identity, and the Church’s vocation in a fragmented world.

What does it mean to have a spiritual cynefin? How does God invite us into holy belonging? And how might a Church shaped by the logic of cynefin become a home for those who wander restlessly, yearning for rootedness?

I. Defining Cynefin: Beyond Place

At its heart, cynefin speaks of the relationship between a person and their place, not just physically, but communally, historically, and spiritually. It encompasses:

• The land one comes from

• The relationships and traditions that have shaped a person

• The deep, almost pre-cognitive sense of home

• The way in which identity is formed through long dwelling and deep knowing

It is distinct from “ownership” of land. Rather, it gestures to the way a place owns you—how it gets under your skin, how it remembers you even when you leave. To be cynefin is to be claimed by a place, even in absence. It is the sheep knowing its fold, the bird returning to its nesting ground, the soil holding the scent of rain and the trace of footsteps.

In theological terms, we might say that cynefin resonates with the biblical language of dwelling: mishkan (the Hebrew word for dwelling/tabernacle), paroikia (Greek for sojourning), and the Johannine language of God making his home among us. It is the deep human longing to be at home—in ourselves, with one another, and with God.

II. The God Who Dwells

Christian theology is profoundly incarnational. It begins not with an abstract deity, but with a God who takes on flesh and pitches his tent among us (John 1:14). The language of “dwelling” appears across Scripture:

• In Eden, God walks with humanity in the cool of the day (Gen 3:8).

• In Exodus, God commands a tabernacle be built “so that I may dwell among them” (Ex 25:8).

• In the Gospels, Christ becomes Immanuel, “God with us.”

• In Revelation, the final vision is of a renewed creation where God’s dwelling is among mortals (Rev 21:3).

This is not mere proximity. It is cynefin—God making his home with us, not as a passing guest but as a covenantal presence. The doctrine of the Incarnation, then, is God’s affirmation of place, embodiment, and localised belonging. Jesus does not float above history; he is born in a town, grows up in a region, speaks in accents, eats local food, and walks specific paths.

Moreover, Jesus’ ministry is shaped by a kind of mobile cynefin—he has “no place to lay his head” (Luke 9:58), yet he creates spaces of belonging wherever he goes. The tax collector, the leper, the foreign woman at the well—all find in him a home, a spiritual dwelling not dependent on land or kinship or status.

God’s cynefin is not bounded by geography, yet it is always particular. It is rooted not in place per se, but in presence—God’s covenantal choice to dwell among a people.

III. Exile and the Ache for Home

If the experience of cynefin is marked by rootedness, then its absence—displacement, alienation, exile—becomes all the more theologically poignant. The biblical narrative is replete with such stories:

• Adam and Eve are exiled from Eden, their first cynefin.

• Israel is taken into exile in Babylon, singing songs of Zion by foreign rivers (Psalm 137).

• Christ is driven out into the wilderness, and ultimately out of the city to die (Heb 13:12-13).

• The early Church is scattered, often persecuted, always seeking a homeland they have not yet seen (Heb 11:13-16).

Exile is not just spatial; it is existential. It is the dislocation of identity, the loss of story, the fragmentation of self. It is the unravelling of the threads that hold us together.

Many today live in such exile. Some are displaced by war, economic instability, or migration. Others experience exile internally—estranged from their bodies, their histories, or their communities. Neurodiverse individuals, disabled bodies, queer Christians, and many others often live without cynefin in the Church, navigating spaces not made with them in mind.

The ache for cynefin, then, is deeply theological. It is the cry of the heart for home—not merely for comfort, but for recognition and rootedness. It is the longing for a place where one’s presence does not need to be justified, and one’s difference is not a barrier to belonging.

IV. Jesus as Our Cynefin

In Christ, God both answers and intensifies this longing. Jesus is not merely the one who gives us a place; he becomes the place. In John 15, he tells his disciples: “Abide in me, and I in you.” He is the vine; we are the branches. He is the dwelling place prepared for us (John 14:2–3). His body is the new Temple.

To be in Christ is to find our truest cynefin. This is not an escape from the world, but a reconsecration of it. Christ, by taking on flesh, sanctifies all places. The God who once dwelt in a tent or a stone temple now makes his home in human hearts and communal bodies.

This radically redefines the logic of belonging. We are no longer bound by ethnicity, geography, or conformity to cultural norms. Our home is not secured by sameness but by the grace that grafts us into the life of Christ.

This has profound implications for the Church. If Jesus is our cynefin, then so too must the Church be—a body in which all members, however divergent or displaced, find a place of belonging. Not as a concession, but as a consequence of grace.

V. Cynefin and Theological Anthropology

To speak of Cynefin theologically is also to speak of identity. Who are we, and how are we formed? In Western theological traditions, identity is often understood in individualistic terms—"I think, therefore I am." But Cynefin invites a more relational anthropology: I belong, therefore I become.

This resonates with theological traditions that emphasise the communal and storied nature of human identity. From Augustine’s confessional theology to feminist and liberationist theologies, the self is not an isolated essence but a narrative creature, shaped in relation to others and to place.

For those who are neurodivergent or perhaps marginalised, Cynefin offers a counter-narrative to deficit models. Instead of viewing differences as deviance from a presumed norm, it affirms that each person is shaped by a unique constellation of relational and environmental influences. One’s identity is not simply a static category but a dynamic dwelling—formed, reformed, and re-membered in community.

To embrace one’s cynefin is not to resist change, but to locate oneself in a story large enough to hold contradiction, pain, and hope. It is to see identity not as possession, but as participation.

VII. Liturgy and the Rhythms of Belonging

If cynefin is about place and pattern, then liturgy is its spiritual echo. The repetitive rhythms of worship—call and response, confession and absolution, Word and Table—shape us into a people who know where they are and to whom they belong.

For many who feel displaced in the world, liturgy becomes a kind of spiritual home. Its predictability can be a balm for the anxious. Its embodied practices can anchor those who feel otherwise fragmented. The liturgical calendar, with its seasons of waiting and feasting, mirrors the human journey through time and suffering and joy.

But here too, the Church must ask: whose rhythms are these? Whose bodies are they designed for? For the Church to be a cynefin, its liturgy must not only be beautiful—it must be spacious. It must make room for silence as well as song, movement as well as stillness, neurodivergent patterns of engagement as well as neurotypical ones.

VIII. Eschatological Cynefin: The Hope of a New Creation

Finally, cynefin points us toward eschatological hope. The vision of Revelation is not a disembodied heaven, but a renewed earth—an eternal home where God dwells with his people, where the Lamb is the light, and where the nations bring their diverse glory (Rev 21:1–26).

This is not merely a return to Eden, but a fulfillment of it. The scattered fragments of our longing are gathered and made whole. The ache for home, for rootedness, for cynefin, is met by the God who has made his home with us.

In that future, every exile finds their rest. Every story, however fragmented, is woven into the greater Story. Every place of pain becomes a place of healing. And the Church, in all its imperfect attempts to be a dwelling place for God’s people, is caught up in the joy of finally coming home.

Conclusion: Dwelling as Discipleship

To live theologically is not merely to think rightly about God, but to dwell rightly in the world. Cynefin invites us to consider where we are, who we are with, and how we are being shaped. It asks us to pay attention—to land, to story, to presence.

In a culture marked by uprootedness, fragmentation, and constant motion, the call to dwell is a radical act. It is to resist the idol of efficiency in favour of fidelity. It is to become deeply present to the people and places God gives us. And it is to remember that, ultimately, our truest cynefin is not a building, a nation, or a comfort zone—but the Triune God, in whom we live and move and have our being.

May we be a people who dwell well—with God, with one another, and with the earth. May we make space for others to find their cynefin among us. And may the Church become, in the truest sense, a home for all who seek the God who dwells with his people.