East of Eden: Advent in Hull

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,

diesel,

and a hint of chip-fat.

Christmas still weeks away,

though the adverts have already begun

their yearly promise

of salvation-on-credit.

He’s stopped listening.

This city has no time

for glitter theology.

Outside,

creation groans—

a world out of joint.

Tides creeping higher.

The Humber pushing inland

on stormy nights

as if reminding the city

what’s coming.

Winters warmer,

summer storms.

The gulls sound tired,

their cries hoarse

from scavenging

what’s left of plenty.

These flying rats remind the priest

of Booze Buster,

Betting Shops,

Crack Converters,

who swoop in

when poverty kicks in.

Picking off those trapped

at the bottom,

to profit from the numbing of pain.

On Hessle Road

they’re counting coins again:

heat or food.

Meters blinking red

like dying stars.

Parents worn to threads.

Kids pretending

they’re not hungry,

learning early the art

of soft,

protective lies.

Chicken and mushroom Pot Noodle,

and a couple of custard creams.

Enough to keep the twins going

until breakfast club.

Mum weeps.

She goes without.

Again.

Facts are facts—

though you can ignore them.

These kids

because of poverty postcodes

will have a lower life expectancy

than those from the leafy suburbs.

Poverty kills,

a slow death:

malnutrition,

food insecurity,

air quality,

addiction,

chronic illness.

Advent drags him

into holy tension—

the backward look

to a God

who took on flesh

and dust,

and the forward gaze

to a God

who will return

to mend what we have broken.

Between those horizons

he stands here,

in a cold church,

trying to keep hope

from going out.

A lad newly sober

leans in close:

I’ll skip the wine, Vic.

Hands shaking,

grin gap-toothed—

still a miracle

in this place.

A mum scrolls payday lenders,

screen cracked,

hope thinner

than her coat.

He sees Christ

with all of them—

Incarnate Love

wrapped in worn jackets

and threadbare courage.

He remembers childhood Christmases—

warm fires,

table full,

everything bright,

Turkey and tinsell.

Those days feel borrowed now.

These days he carries

other people’s winters

in his collar,

and their stories

settle into his bones.

He strikes the match.

The first candle waits

on brass rubbed flat

by generations

of hands.

The flame snaps up—

a small, stubborn declaration

that darkness doesn’t win

simply for being bigger.

Bethlehem wasn’t soft.

Splinters, straw,

the stink of animals,

Mary’s breath frosting in the cold.

The Word became flesh

in a world

already cracking.

Matter matters—

God proved it

by wearing dust,

by pitching His tent

in the middle

of our mess.

And now the world groans again:

rivers rising,

forests falling,

species vanishing

like held breaths.

The poorest suffer first—

Hull knows this, too.

Lord Jesus Christ,

you sanctified dust

and walked this sacred earth,

and we poisoned it.

You welcomed the weak,

and we left them

to the floodwaters.

The candle flickers,

thin but fierce.

“This is where we wait for You,”

he whispers,

voice rough

as the stone

around him.

Maranatha—

spoken first

as a plea.

Maranatha—

again,

as a protest.

Maranatha—

finally,

as a promise

he chooses to believe.

This church—

leaks,

mould,

arguments,

burnt kettles

and broken radiators—

is still family.

They’ll tell the old story

again,

even when the world

feels frayed.

Sing at the care home

where Peggy grips

a chorister’s hand

as if anchoring herself

to hope.

Christingles wobbling

like tiny spaceships,

carols belted out

like promise and presence

we still intend

to keep.

Pizza steaming in the hall,

grease spots

on hymn sheets,

charades,

games night,

joy sweeps in,

kids laughing loud enough

to push back

the dark.

Because if God took on flesh,

then all flesh matters—

this city,

this river,

this weary planet.

Hope isn’t an escape;

it’s a summons.

A call to care,

to mend,

to stand stubbornly

in the cold

with one flame

and a whole world

to love.

He looks at the candle,

burning with defiance—

the kind hope learns

in the dark—

and a blessing,

a small uprising of light

in a place

that knows darkness well.

A priest.

A city.

A thin flame

standing its ground

while creation aches,

east of Eden,

for rebirth.

Advent begins

in Hull.

Maranatha.

Come, Lord Jesus—

bring justice,

bring mercy,

make the world new.

Maranatha.

Come, Lord Jesus.

And until You do

keep this ember burning.

— Rev’d Jon Swales