I hear it— a cry rising like incense from flats without furniture, from doorways where the prophets weep, from rooms where children dream...

He Wrote the Date (for the lad who once lived in the car park opposite Leeds Uni — a true story framed poetically) He slept beneath...

The One Where the World Burns On the 22nd of September, 1994, six friends walked into a New York coffee shop and into global cultural...

It was spring. The blossom tree stood, quiet, its branches soft with new life. Bluebells dotted the ground, fragile, waiting for...

He Set Himself on Fire (A true story framed poetically) He had ink all over him— names, dates, wounds. But it was the teardrop by his...

He reads it in a doorway, knees hugged to chest, back cold to the brick. Gospel half-torn, creased and smudged, given by Lighthouse,...

A Liturgical Reading by Rev’d Jon Swales MBE This liturgical resource is a prayerful journey through the ancient story — a story that...

Unfettered capitalism has cupiditas— not holy longings, not the ache that births justice or bends the soul in prayer— but the kind that...

They say your past doesn’t define you. Maybe. But it never fully lets go either. The stink of fish, rope-burned hands— that’s where I...

No One Can Snatch Me (John 10:22–30) I never had a dad. Not one who stayed. The care home clock ticked— a cold taskmaster— counting down...

We are born with a deep longing to belong— to be accepted, embraced, and to find our place within community. This longing is not a flaw...

“Your dead shall live, their corpses shall rise. O dwellers in the dust, awake and sing for joy! For your dew is a radiant dew, and the...

Just sketching things here, broad strokes. I know it’s not the full story. No nuance. But maybe it’s food for thought. The other night,...

It doesn’t make sense anymore. It used to. But not now. It’s not just a tension, not just a holy mystery you hold with trembling hands —...

Wounds in the House of Love Not all violence comes with swords. Some arrives with silence. With a kiss. With a deal struck in the dark....

Stay with me, he says— but we are weary. Weary of sorrow, weary of waiting, weary of a world that keeps unraveling. Still— he invites....

They say it is morning. They say the sun has risen. They say the dew is fresh upon the olive leaves, and the birds sing as they always...

I lit a candle. Not for peace— not yet— but for the man who called himself the Bread of Life, now broken, butchered, starved by the world that never knew him. He who claimed, “I am the Resurrection and the Life,” now swallowed by the darkness of death. The one who said, “I am the Way, the Truth, and the Life,” is lost in silence, shut behind stone, as I, too, am hidden in the alleyways of this world. I know hunger, the gnawing ache of it, the cold grasp of isolation. I know w

The Rejected Stone (Matthew 21:42; Matthew 24:2) They passed him by— this rough-hewn truth, still dusted with wilderness. Not the kind...

She moved like silence in a room full of eyes, broke the jar like a prophet breaks the sky. No words, just oil — and the scent of burial....