Staying Put: John Battle’s Quiet Revolution
This is a story of faithfulness to place. In an age that prizes mobility and individual success, one man’s long commitment to his West Leeds neighbourhood speaks of a different kind of vocation—one rooted in relationship, perseverance, and hope. Ben Curran spoke to John Battle about how he has built the Common Good not through grand gestures, but through quiet, consistent presence.
“Let your love be genuine… outdo one another in showing honour… contribute to the needs of the saints; extend hospitality to strangers.”
— Romans 12:9–13
John Battle has lived in the same west Leeds neighbourhood for over forty years. Long after stepping down as MP for Leeds West, he remains rooted there—not out of convenience or comfort, but out of conviction.
In a culture where moving on and moving up are often taken as signs of success, Battle’s commitment to staying put is radical. “I still live in the same house,” he says. “Some people dream of retiring to the Pennines. But I’m addicted to this city—the energy, the diversity, the mix.”
That mix—the messy proximity of wealth and poverty, hope and despair—is where John believes the Common Good is to be found.
A Theology of Presence
For John, place matters. It’s not just where we live, but how we live together. “The neighbourhood isn’t just where I served,” he says. “It’s where I belong. It’s where I’m known—and where I know others.”
After leaving Parliament, John began work with a community that had long been overlooked—a set of high-rise blocks isolated by a quirk in constituency boundaries. “They weren’t being served by anyone,” he says. “They had the highest suicide rate among men in the country. That’s what called me back in.”
What followed was the start of a walking group—a simple act of invitation that grew into something far deeper. A place of hospitality, dignity, and transformation.
“We just went and knocked on doors,” he recalls. “We said, come out for a free cup of tea and a walk. One man didn’t even know where the canal was—and it was only fifteen minutes away.”
Fifteen years later, that walking group still meets every Friday. New people come and go. Friendships form. Meals are shared. And lives are slowly, quietly, changed.
Companionship Over Distance
The walking group is more than exercise—it’s an intentional space of belonging. Referred by local GPs and health teams, the men who come often struggle with isolation, depression, or recovery from addiction. Some cannot read or write. Some have known prison. Others carry quiet wounds from grief or breakdown.
What unites them is not diagnosis, but dignity.
Over the years, the group has become a mobile community—walking city streets, towpaths, and green spaces. “We walk, we stop for coffee, we sit in fours so people have to mix,” John explains. “Some talk. Some sit in silence. But they’re not alone anymore.”
They’ve experienced moments of quiet wonder—pausing to watch a bird with an unusual white crest, or observing chicks skimming over a green-covered pond. “They stopped and just watched,” John says. “Thirteen minutes of silence. It was sacred.”
The group is now sustained by a weekly shared meal. It’s not a therapy session, and not a service users’ group—it’s a table fellowship of mutual support, laughter, and healing.
Morgan’s Story: Love in the Margins
Among those who came regularly was Morgan—a gentle, gifted young man in his twenties. Bright and artistic, he was writing a PhD on social geography. He loved working with his hands, played the banjo, and painted murals at the community center with words like love, patience, and generosity—his gifts to the place and its people.
He also lived alone. After a Section 21 eviction, he refused offers to stay with others. Over the Christmas period, he was found dead. He had mixed medication with alcohol. It was unclear whether it was suicide or an accident.
The council proposed a simple paupers funeral. The community said no.
John gathered people in the café. “Get a cup of tea,” he said, “and in two sentences, tell us what Morgan meant to you.”
A former prisoner said: “He was the first person in my life who listened to me.”
A woman estranged from her family said: “He gave me a birthday card—no one had in thirty years.”
They traced Morgan’s brother in York. They hired a coach. They filled the crematorium with stories, grief, and love.
A man from the walking group—who cannot read or write—sat beside Morgan’s mother during the service and offered quiet comfort. Afterward, she said he was the most helpful person she’d spoken to in her grief.
No one had expected that. But John wasn’t surprised. “That man is treated as the least,” he said, “but he gave the most.”
Morgan’s life, and death, became a signpost. A sacred reminder that even in loss, community can embody resurrection hope.
Reclaiming the Baths
Another striking chapter in John’s story of active citizenship is Bramley Baths—an Edwardian swimming pool that once stood as a faded relic of civic pride. When Leeds City Council announced its planned closure in the wake of austerity cuts, local residents saw the loss of more than just a leisure facility. They saw the erosion of public dignity and common life.
John Battle was retired—momentarily. “The day after the general election, I flew to Italy to visit my daughter. There I was in the garden with a glass of wine, thinking I’d made it to paradise,” he laughs. “And then the phone rang. ‘John, the council’s shutting Bramley Baths. We’ve had a meeting and voted you the chair of the campaign. Next meeting’s Friday night.’ So I flew back.”
From there began one of West Leeds’ most significant community-led transformations.
Rather than adopt an adversarial stance, Battle and a group of volunteers sought a collaborative approach. “We didn’t declare war on the council,” he says. “We knew we had to build trust and prove that a community could run it. And run it well.”
They formed a kitchen-table committee and met weekly for a year. With no business experience but deep local knowledge, they wrote a comprehensive business plan, shaped by the real needs of the community. They built it around subsidiarity—asking people what they needed, not prescribing it from above.
The baths had previously operated part-time with minimal programming. The new vision opened it seven days a week. “We scheduled early swims for older people, after-school sessions for kids, training for teenagers in lifeguarding and first aid. We even had Down’s Syndrome groups, pirate ships for dads and children, and floating musical performances,” John recalls. “We filled the timetable with activities the community actually wanted.”
One stroke of genius came in how they invited hesitant residents back. “We knocked on doors of older people who said, ‘Oh, I don’t swim.’ And we said, ‘You don’t need to. The water’s warmer than your house. Just walk in it, then come out for a cup of tea.’ That was the model: if we’re going to keep it, we all have to use it.”
And they did. The baths became financially self-sustaining without external grants for the first five years. Instead of looking to a single major donor, they invited everyone to contribute—mirroring the social economy model John describes as “one pound from a million people rather than a million from one.”
Today, Bramley Baths employs more than 60 local people. It is not just a pool; it’s a centre of health, training, culture, memory, and social enterprise. The building now proudly wears a blue plaque—one of the few in Bramley—and solar panels on the roof ensure its energy needs are met sustainably.
Perhaps most importantly, it has become a platform for young people to grow. One former lifeguard, Jordan, came at 16 to do training. He worked weekends while studying history at university. When he finished his degree, John asked what his dissertation had been on. “Social history—gathering oral stories,” he said. John responded, “Then you’re our new community archivist.”
Jordan documented the Baths’ history, curated exhibitions, and presented them to the community. That experience launched a career: first at Leeds Industrial Museum, then consulting on church heritage and social engagement projects. “He’s advising the cathedral now on how to tell the story of its people,” John says proudly.
In this way, the Baths became a launchpad not just for local pride, but for human flourishing. It models a theology of place—a commitment to local assets, to shared work, and to the belief that institutions rooted in the Common Good can still thrive.
“This isn’t just about preserving a building,” John reflects. “It’s about saying to people: we can do things together. We don’t have to wait to be saved by someone else.”
The Common Good in Action
For John, the Common Good is not a vague ideal, but a lived, relational ethic. “It starts with two things: the dignity of the person, and the need to include everyone,” he says. “Subsidiarity means every person matters. Solidarity means count everyone in.”
This vision underpinned much of his early work with Church Action on Poverty, which he co-founded. “We didn’t want to just give out food or blankets,” he explains. “We wanted to ask: why are people poor in the first place?”
That move—from quiet charity to structural justice—is a defining feature of John’s approach. It’s not enough to be kind. We must also be courageous.
This is civic discipleship: the quiet, faithful work of standing in the gap and bridging divides – often far from the spotlight, often over the long haul.
Ben Curran is Head of Communications at Together for the Common Good and freelance communications specialist. He is based in Sheffield, where he served as a Councillor for 13 years and volunteers in his local community.
Sir John Battle, KC*SG was MP for Leeds West for over twenty years. Since retirement he has gone on to be an active part of a number community projects in West Leeds. He is a trustee of Caritas Social Action Network and a number of local Leeds charities.
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