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...

You gave a full stop. But it could have been a comma. A pause, a breath, a turn of the page. Another line waiting. Another dawn not yet...

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...

Rain makes the tarmac gleam like dark glass. Streetlamps haloed in mist. Puddles hold the sky in shards. A seagull shrieks above the...

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

The wild Messiah is not done walking. But now he limps in the Body. Here is the Church— the Body of Christ, broken. She is the Bride—...

Here is a man. Crown of thorns. Robe of mockery. A throne of timber — splinters carving truth into flesh. They called it execution. He...

Here is the holy breath — Ruach, wind unleashed, fire unfenced, birth without borders. She, the Wild Goose, cannot be caged by pulpits,...

They came to Parliament Square armed with placards, Sharpies, and the unreasonable desire that civilians not be blown apart, that those...

Grieve for the thirst we no longer feel, for the hunger numbed by constant feasting. Name the beauty  now hidden from our sight, the...

She came to score, back of the cemetery, where no one watches, where the dead don’t judge, no shoes on her feet, too sore, too blistered...

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...