I. ENCOUNTER They tell him on the away day that eighty per cent are non-religious. Tick boxes. Yes or no. Faith reduced to data. As if the soul only aches when belief is declared. As if grief checks credentials before it speaks. He is a priest—though here he walks the corridors as chaplain, pastoral care. Same calling, softer tongue. The badge says St Julian’s Hospital— a cross in the logo, a chapel in the basement, psalms etched in stone, evidence of an age when mission and

He leaves the mission hall at Byker at 6pm. Tough one tonight. Found out Jamie had died. Only six months ago he was baptised, got clean, got saved, relapsed— tragic. Geordie wind slicing sideways— sharp as truth. He tells himself he’ll be home soon: Metro, short walk, ready meal, half a bottle of red, Netflix, bed. A simple plan. Aye, well. Newcastle has other ideas. He is knackered— happens every year— still weeks to go. He used to love Advent— moody hope, no hopium, no Disn

Across the UK, 14 million people struggle to make ends meet. In Hull, almost half of all children grow up in poverty. East of Eden: Advent in Hull He stands at the front of the church, East of Eden, paint peeling in tired curls, damp spreading like a wound no one can afford to fix. The brass eagle under dust looks out over the flock. The churchwarden nods— baptised here, married here, and one day carried out through that same door. Humber wind barges in, raw with iron, salt,

Before there was sound, there was Word. Before there was time, there was Love— vast, uncontainable, breathing galaxies into being. And Love became flesh, so that flesh might become love. The Eternal bent low, clothed in the smallness of a child, laid where creatures feed. The One who shaped the stars rests now in a trough of straw. The Source of all sustenance becomes the food of the world. The Unbounded becomes breakable, so the frail may taste divine life. In Bethlehem— the