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

“You brought me out into a spacious place.” – Psalm 18:19 He boards the early train at Minsterleigh. Black coat buttoned, collar set. A Canon on study leave – though others know what that means. The carriage smells of coffee and rain. Across the aisle: a student scrolling, a man tapping at a laptop. He takes the window seat, bag at his feet, carrying the kind of tiredness that lives behind the ribs. He serves at the Cathedral – a place of beauty, liturgy, and gentle control.

Jo and Nina had been coming to Lighthouse for years. A couple, kind to each other, kind to others, and if you watched closely, you’d see they looked out for the ones nobody else noticed. They were in their early fifties, short hair, hoodies, tired eyes and warm smiles. They sat near the back, hands wrapped around mugs, listening more than talking. They were drinkers, gentle with it when at church, but chaos was never far behind. Nina ignored the letters. “What hospital appoin

The Angel of the North rusted, enormous, stands watch over broken estates. Not protection. A witness. Rev Pam walks the cut towards the youth worker’s flat. Grey drizzle. Bin bags spilling. Shouting from upstairs windows. Trained at St Hild near Leeds, cut her teeth in a suburban curacy, but felt the call North, to where the Angel spreads its arms. She passes Kenny, voice like gravel, eyes red from Stella. “Church lot divvent knaa, pet,” he mutters, “kids roond here haven’t a

The church was full. Old hymns sung with cracked voices. A life remembered. The old priest laid to rest. Afterwards, six deacons, six...

The First Word — Heralds Two days before ordination, six wait in cassocks that itch against the skin. They gather in the retreat house...

He was trained in philosophy and systematics, raised on Reformed dogma: the Perfect Being, the God who always gets his way, a...

Redminster bears its wounds— mills rusting, shops boarded, estates sagging under years of neglect. At the bypass sits the Britannia...

Thomas, parish priest, opens the Bishop’s statement on his screen: “We are deeply concerned to hear of the planned ‘Unite the Kingdom’...

Morning Prayer ended. The last “Amen” drifted through the nave. Candles flickered low, the air cool with stone. Charlotte closed the...

The priest from Burnley remembers weekends away, instant coffee, cheap pastries, voices saying the Bible was flawless. Later, at college,...

He left the cottage quietly, wife having a mid morning snooze, the newspaper folded neat. Two weeks by the sea, far from vestry quarrels...

I. Prayer The nave is empty. Candles gone cold. Stone heavy with silence. He kneels, old knees aching. Hands grip the rail. His whisper...

Rain at the window. The fire spitting ash. Two priests, two pints. On retreat, The air thick with weariness. Steve leans forward, voice...

After Morning Prayer, Father Pete lingered. The New Testament reading had been plain enough— a call to live at peace with one another. He...

Fr. Andrew wipes the drizzle from his glasses, cassock frayed at the cuffs, a stole of second-hand brocade— green today, though few would...

I. Scripture and Rubble She read Joshua that morning. Promised land, cities razed, milk and honey, sweet on the page, but with the taste...

They call her Sister Act, Father Ted on an off-day. Once a workman yelled, “You dressin’ up, love?” She laughed, tapped her collar, in...