Two weeks into the first-year timetable at William Booth College, I am noticing that some of the most important formation may be happening outside the formal teaching sessions.

A timetable looks like an administrative tool.

It tells us where to be. What starts when. Who’s teaching. When we stop for coffee. When we gather for worship. When lunch begins.

But two weeks into the first-year timetable at William Booth College, I am beginning to wonder whether the timetable is doing more than organising the day.

I think it is teaching.

Not just through the sessions printed on it, but through the rhythms, the habits, the relationships and the interruptions that surround them.

And that matters for formation.

The formal curriculum is only part of the story

When we think about training people for Salvation Army officership and for ministry, it is natural to focus on content.

What do cadets need to know?

What skills do they need?

What experiences will help prepare them for ministry?

Those questions matter. But formation is never limited to what happens in a classroom.

A cadet may spend a session exploring doctrine. Then, on their attachment placement, someone asks them a deep question about faith.

They may discuss Salvationist history in class, but they are also learning about Salvation Army leadership in the present.

They may study prayer in spiritual formation class, but they are also learning from the place prayer is given within the rhythm of college life.

The formal curriculum teaches.

But so does everything around it.

Rhythm forms us

Every timetable creates a rhythm.

We gather. We learn. We pray. We eat. We work. We pause. We begin again.

Repeated often enough, that rhythm starts to shape us.

This is one reason I love the language of knowing, being and doing that we use to shape cadet training.

We can separate those things for the sake of planning. It helps us ask good questions.

What does someone need to know?

Who are they becoming?

What do they need to learn to do?

But life does not keep those things separate.

What I learn changes the way I see.

The way I see shapes the way I act.

The way I act reveals something about who I am becoming.

And experience sends me back to think, pray and learn again.

Formation happens in that movement.

The timetable may divide learning into sessions.

Formation joins it all back together.

There is always a hidden curriculum

There is another kind of learning happening too.

The lessons nobody writes into the session plan.

What happens when someone asks a difficult question?

How do we respond when someone makes a mistake?

What do we do when the tech doesn’t work as it should?

How do we speak about people who are not in the room?

What gets dropped when the day becomes busy?

What do we do when someone needs time?

Can people admit that they are struggling?

How do leaders behave when things don’t go to plan?

None of those questions may appear in the curriculum.

But answers are being given every day.

That is both encouraging and challenging.

It means those of us involved in formation are always teaching something.

Our tone teaches.

Our priorities teach.

Our reactions teach.

Our use of time teaches.

The culture around learning is itself a form of learning.

Ministry rarely fits neatly into a timetable

Perhaps this is good preparation for ministry.

Ministry doesn’t normally present itself in tidy blocks.

A sermon may need writing while someone needs pastoral care.

A leadership issue may emerge in the middle of something else.

A theological question may suddenly become urgent because someone is sitting across the desk asking why God allowed something painful to happen.

Mission, worship, administration, pastoral care, leadership and discipleship constantly overlap.

So perhaps good formation is not about preparing people for every possible situation.

That would be impossible.

Perhaps it is about helping people learn how to notice.

What’s happening here?

What’s happening in me?

Where might God be at work?

What am I learning?

What might faithfulness look like now?

Those questions matter.

Experience on its own doesn’t always form us.

We can simply repeat habits.

Reflection helps experience become learning.

Formation is often slower than we would like

Two weeks is not long.

There is a temptation in education and training to want to see quick progress.

We like outcomes.

We like evidence.

We like being able to point to something and say, “That worked.”

Some learning can be seen quite quickly.

Formation is different.

Character takes time.

Confidence grows slowly.

Self-awareness develops through experience.

Old assumptions are exposed.

New habits take root.

Sometimes the most important change is almost invisible at first.

That means formation needs patience.

Not vague hope.

Not a lack of challenge.

But patience.

We need to trust that Scripture, prayer, community, teaching, experience and reflection can work together over time.

We all have a timetable

The more I think about this, the less it feels like a question only for theological education.

We all live by some kind of timetable.

Even if we never write it down.

We have routines.

We have habits.

We have repeated conversations.

We have things we make time for and things we keep putting off.

We have patterns in how we work, rest, pray, listen and respond.

Those patterns are forming us too.

So perhaps the deeper question is not only:

What am I doing with my time?

Perhaps it’s:

What is my use of time doing to me?

What kind of person are my daily rhythms helping me become?

What do the repeated patterns of my life reveal about what I value?

Where might something need to change?

Two weeks into the timetable, I am increasingly convinced that formation does not begin when a teaching session starts.

It’s already happening.

In the corridor.

Over coffee.

During worship.

In the interruption.

In the mistake.

In the way we respond when the plan changes.

In the ordinary rhythm of another day.

The timetable is teaching.

The challenge for those of us involved in formation is to notice what it is teaching - and to ask whether the lessons we live are consistent with the lessons we hope to teach.

For those involved in ministry, leadership or formation: what do you think the hidden timetable of your setting is teaching?

I’ve been at William Booth College for three weeks.

And now I’m on holiday.

Like me, you might feel the timing feels slightly odd.

Three weeks is long enough to begin to understand a new appointment, but nowhere near long enough to understand it properly. Long enough to learn where some of the meetings fit. Long enough to discover some of the acronyms everyone else seems to know already. Long enough to start seeing how different parts of the College connect with each other.

But not long enough for any of it to feel normal.

For most of those three weeks, I have been trying to take things in.

People. Roles. Responsibilities. Programmes. Meetings. Documents. Expectations. History. Relationships. Things already underway. Things that need attention. Things I probably haven’t even noticed yet. All that I don’t know I need to know yet!

Then I went on holiday.

Not because I had worked it all out. Quite the opposite. I needed the time to recuperate from moving house, unpacking, and starting to get my head around the new role.

And somewhere in the change of pace, I have begun to wonder whether stopping might be part of working it out.

Taking things in isn’t the same as learning

When you start a new role, there is a great deal of information.

Some of it is obvious. You need to know what you are responsible for. You need to understand the structures. You need to know who does what, what is happening when, and which things need your attention first.

So you listen. You read. You ask questions. You make notes.

I have done a lot of all four in the first few weeks.

But I am beginning to realise that taking in information and learning are not quite the same thing.

Information can arrive very quickly.

Understanding seems to take longer.

I can read a document in half an hour. It may take several weeks before I begin to see why it matters.

Someone can explain a process to me clearly. It may be some time before I understand what that process feels like for the people involved in it.

I can look at an organisational chart and see where everyone sits. That tells me very little about the history, trust, experience and relationships that actually make the organisation work.

None of that can be hurried very much.

The strange value of stepping away

The first few days of this holiday made me notice something.

My mind was still working on William Booth College.

Not in the slightly unhealthy sense of checking emails as I walked along the beach. I am trying not to do that.

It is more that things I heard during those first three weeks are beginning to settle into place.

Conversations come back to me.

Something somebody said in a meeting suddenly makes more sense.

I find myself making connections between two things that seemed unrelated at the time.

Questions are beginning to form that I didn’t know enough to ask three weeks ago.

None of this is particularly dramatic.

But I suspect some of the most important learning happens like this.

We experience something first.

We understand it later.

The trouble is that leadership and a busy appointment can leave very little room for the later.

The pressure to keep moving

Most ministry roles are very good at producing the next thing.

There is always another meeting, another email, another pastoral situation, another piece of planning, another Sunday, another deadline.

College life, I am discovering, can do much the same.

You move from one conversation to the next. You deal with what is in front of you. You make the best decision you can with what you know at the time.

And then you move on.

That is sometimes necessary.

But I wonder what happens when we never come back to what just happened.

When do we ask what we learned from the difficult meeting?

When do we think about why that conversation bothered us?

When do we notice that the thing we were certain about six months ago now looks rather different?

When do we ask whether an experience has actually changed us?

Perhaps this is part of formation too.

Not simply having experiences, but making enough room for those experiences to do something to us.

Experience doesn’t automatically make us wiser

I have fourteen years of officership behind me now. And about the same experience as a solicitor before that.

That sounds like a fair amount of experience.

But experience on its own is a slightly unreliable teacher.

You can do the same thing for fourteen years and simply become very practised at doing it the same way.

You can come away from a difficult situation convinced that everybody else was the problem.

You can repeat a successful approach long after the circumstances that made it successful have disappeared.

You can become experienced without becoming much wiser.

Reflection seems to be one of the things that turns experience into learning.

What happened?

What did I notice?

What did I miss?

Why did I respond like that?

What was going on for the other person?

What might I do differently next time?

And perhaps the harder question: what is this showing me about myself?

Those questions need some room.

Formation needs gaps

I have sometimes tended to think of formation as something active.

Reading. Training. Prayer. Conversation. Practice. Feedback. Ministry.

All of those matter.

But perhaps there also need to be gaps between them.

Space for things to settle.

Space to notice what has changed.

Space to discover that something we thought we understood has become a question again.

That feels particularly important to me now because my new role is concerned with the formation of other people.

It would be easy, I suspect, to become so busy thinking about how other people learn and grow that I stop paying attention to my own learning and growth.

Three weeks into the job, I certainly don’t have many answers about officer formation.

I have far more questions than I did when I arrived.

I’m beginning to think that might be progress.

What will I notice when I go back?

In a little while I will return to William Booth College.

Cadets will have arrived in my absence, and will busy unpacking their own homes and getting ready for their training to start. The meetings will begin again. The emails will arrive. There will be decisions to make and things that need doing.

I will probably forget some of these holiday thoughts remarkably quickly.

But I hope I don’t forget this one.

Stopping has not interrupted the learning.

It has been part of it.

And that makes me wonder how much space we give people to make sense of what they are learning.

Cadets.

Officers.

Leaders.

Ourselves.

If formation is more than passing on information, then perhaps we need to take seriously the quiet space between the experiences.

Because sometimes you don’t know what the last three weeks have taught you until the fourth week, when you finally stop.

I didn’t expect form-filling to teach me anything about faith. But writing a handover for the people coming after me at Maidenhead Corps did exactly that.

You’d think a handover is just logistics. Where the keys live. Who does the fire safety tests. Which contractor does the boiler service. And yes, all of that is in there. But somewhere between the social media passwords and the funeral parking situation, I found myself writing things I’d never once said out loud, even to myself.

Things like: the woman who’s suffering from dementia and has had to retire from ministry. Or: don’t change the order of the prayer meeting, even though it looks inefficient on paper, because the order is doing something for people that efficiency can’t measure.

None of that was in my job description when I arrived. None of it would show up on a report to headquarters. But it turns out this was most of the ministry.

What I thought mattered when I arrived

When I first came to Maidenhead Corps, I had a fairly clear list in my head of what needed doing. Grow the numbers. Make sure the finances were stable. Ensure proper rotas were in place. Encourage the youth in the corps. Sensible things. Necessary things, even.

And we did work on all of that. But looking back at the handover now, hardly any of it made the final document. Not because it didn’t matter, but because it wasn’t the part that needed passing on. A new officer can read a spreadsheet and understand the finances in an afternoon. What they can’t get from a spreadsheet is who’s grieving quietly, who’s one hard week away from disappearing, who needs to be asked twice because the first no is never the real answer.

I wonder if that’s true of most ministry. The visible priorities are the ones we plan around. The invisible ones are the ones that actually shape a congregation. And you only really see the invisible ones when you have to explain them to someone else.

Writing it down changes what you notice

There’s something about knowing you have to hand a thing over that makes you pay attention to it differently. I found myself walking round the building making mental notes I’d never made before, even though I’d walked those same corridors for years. The chair that always gets moved but never put back. The neighbour who watches the car park and reports anything odd. The particular way the multimedia rota falls apart if you don’t remind people twice.

Paul tells Timothy to pass on what he’d received, and to trust it to people who could then teach others1. I’d always read that as being about doctrine, about the gospel itself. I still think it is, mostly. But writing this handover made me wonder whether it’s also about all the smaller, unglamorous things that carry the gospel along with them. The knowing-people things. The nobody-taught-me-this-but-somehow-I-learned-it things.

What I still don’t know

Here’s what the handover document couldn’t do, no matter how carefully I wrote it. It couldn’t pass on the years. It couldn’t hand over trust that took years to build, or the quiet knowledge of who’s difficult because they’re in pain rather than because they’re difficult. Some things simply can’t be written down. They have to be lived into, slowly, by whoever comes next, in their own way, at their own pace.

That’s a strange thing to sit with as I leave. I want to hand over everything useful. But some of the most useful things were never mine to hand over in the first place. They belonged to the relationships themselves, and those relationships are already changing shape, whether I write them down or not.

I don’t have a tidy conclusion for this one. Maybe the honest question is this: if I only really discovered what mattered at Maidenhead Corps by writing it down for someone else, what does that say about what I’m missing right now, in the present, in whatever comes next? What would I notice about William Booth College if I had to explain it to a stranger in a few months’ time?

Thinking Out Loud

I’ve been an officer for fourteen years.

In that time I’ve led Sunday meetings and answered midnight crisis calls. I’ve preached the gospel and packed food parcels. I’ve sat with people in their worst moments and celebrated with them in their best. I’ve unlocked the doors of a corps hall at eight in the morning and locked them again long after everyone else went home.

I have loved every bit of it.

In July 2026, that changes. I’m leaving Maidenhead Salvation Army - a community I love deeply - to take up a new appointment at William Booth College as Unit Head for Foundational Learning. In plain English, I’m joining an experienced and gifted team that has been training Salvation Army officers for many years. It is a privilege to be part of that work, and I am under no illusions about how much I have to learn.

I want to be honest about that from the start. This blog is not a commentary on officer training. It is not a guide to formation. There are people far better qualified than me to write those things. What this is - what I hope it will be - is a record of one officer thinking out loud as he moves from one world to another.

A Question I Can’t Shake

What does it actually take to make a “worthy” Salvation Army officer? (in the words of our officer covenant).

Not a competent one. Not one who ticks the right boxes or passes the right modules. A genuinely worthy one - the kind who walks into a struggling corps and brings hope with them. The kind who knows how to sit with someone in pain. The kind whose people grow in faith not because they were told to, but because something about their officer made them want to.

I’ve met officers like that. I’m trying to become one. And I’ve come to believe that what shapes them isn’t primarily what they learn in a classroom. It’s who they become - in the quiet, in the hard places, in the moments nobody sees.

That’s formation. And formation, in my experience, happens on the frontline as much as anywhere else.

It happens when your carefully prepared sermon falls flat and you have to trust God anyway. It happens when someone you’ve poured yourself into walks away. It happens when the corps is thriving and you have to resist the temptation to take the credit. It happens in the ordinary, unremarkable, unglamorous rhythm of showing up day after day in the name of Jesus.

I don’t know yet what I’ll make of all this from inside a college. That’s partly why I’m writing.

Who This Might Be For

I’m not writing with a large audience in mind. But if any of the following sounds like you, you might find something here worth reading.

• Salvation Army officers trying to stay reflective in the middle of a busy appointment

• Cadets in training wondering what it’s all preparing them for

• Those exploring a call to officership and trying to work out what they’d be saying yes to

• Anyone in Christian ministry who cares about the inner life as much as the outer work

You don’t have to be a Salvationist to find something useful here. But if you are, I hope this feels like a familiar conversation.

Where I’m Starting From

I am not an expert in theological education. I’m a corps officer (parish minister) stepping into a new world, and I expect the learning curve to be considerable. The team at William Booth College has wisdom and experience I am only beginning to appreciate.

What I do have is fourteen years of frontline ministry, a genuine passion for whole-life discipleship, and a deep conviction that formation matters - not just for cadets, but for everyone who is trying to follow Jesus in the middle of an ordinary life.

That conviction is what I’m bringing to William Booth College. Whether it turns out to be useful - whether the frontline really does have something to say to the training room - is what I’m hoping to find out.

And that, I suppose, is where this blog begins.

Rob Westwood-Payne is a Salvation Army officer and Unit Head for Foundational Learning at William Booth College. He also produces daily devotionals and weekly sermons at Battle Drill Daily Devotional on YouTube. frontlineformation.co.uk