East of Eden: Advent in Newcastle

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 Disneyfied religion;

a straining forward

that names the dark,

an aching world

muck-deep

in waiting—

still daring

to tremble

toward liberation.

Not a hurt

he will not heal.

Not a tear

he will not wipe away.

The darkest day

is not the final day.

After winter,

spring.

This priest needs

eyes to see,

ears to listen—

a Christmas miracle.

For tiredness

dulls the soul

till the enchanted

is numbed.

Brick arches.

Foil blankets

rustling like tired wings.

A gull brooding

over Tyne-fog—

lost,

or prophetic.

Kev and his dog, Shadow.

“Alreet, Vicar?”

Not really, like—

but he sits,

breath mingling

in the cold.

Stories spill.

Names

of the lost.

A few others

gather round.

The priest prays.

Heaven

draws close.

As he leaves,

Kev asks for a fiver,

knowing he won’t get it.

He doesn’t.

Calls him a dick,

mutters,

“Hope ye have

a crap Christmas.”

He misses

two trains.

Peace

takes time.

Shieldfield Road.

Two lads square up.

Voices cracking

like twigs.

A shove.

A curse.

The night

tensing.

“Pack it in.

Can I pray for you?”

Collar tapped.

“Sorry, like.”

They fade

into shadow.

Nearly eight.

Tired

are the peacemakers.

Manors.

A roar erupts.

Black-and-white scarves.

Booze-bright faces.

A home win.

A Toon fan lurches over,

eyes lit

with glory.

“We aye, Vic!

Did ya pray

te the big fella?

Cos we got the win—

GET IN!”

He thunders off

into the dark,

joy echoing

like distant bells.

The priest smiles—

rejoices

with those

who rejoice.

Then quiet—

the kind that shows you

your own heart.

A care-home uniform.

A bench.

He baptised

her bairn

years ago.

Tears

falling fast.

“Lost one of me lads today.

He liked Elvis.”

He waits with her

till the late train

drags itself in—

as weary

as they are.

Train home.

Window fogged.

Collar askew.

Fingers tracing

worn wood

of his cross.

Baptisms.

Funerals.

Whispered confessions

like glass

in the soul.

He loves

this battered flock—

still does—

but some nights

the wounds

speak louder.

He struggles.

No sign

of quiet revival.

The weight of

Parish Share,

lack of growth,

and swimming

in a sea

of endless admin.

The Church—

his Church—

bleeding credibility,

stitched together

by stubborn faithful

singing ancient hope

into cold halls.

He stays.

Not for power.

Not for certainty.

But because

the ache is holy—

and someone

must stand

in the gap.

Quayside.

The Tyne

pulsing

like a dark artery.

Rain rising

in gutters,

swilling cigarette ends

and broken berries.

The Bridge glowing—

half-moon patient.

Hen parties shriek.

Street preachers rant.

A man sleeps

beneath a vent,

warm air lifting

his blanket

like a gentle hand.

The city’s throb.

Industries gone.

Rents mad.

Old ways

thinned

like winter trees.

Even so—

Advent draws close—

breath

on the back

of the neck.

A busker sings.

An addict grafts.

This priest

prays:

Lord,

bless this city.

Midnight.

Heaton hushed.

Foxes

bold as prophets.

Home cold.

Shoes off.

Bag down—

heavy

with other people’s winters.

Advent wreath.

First candle—stubbed.

Second—untouched.

Patient

as a saint.

He lights it.

Flame rising—

thin,

fierce,

a Geordie hope:

windswept,

battered,

refusing

to gan oot.

“Prepare the way, Lord.

Even here.

Even now.”

Candle-glow.

Late,

but right.

And he knows:

every interruption

was a way

made straight.

Every pause

a path.

Every delay

a doorway.

Every ache

a womb.

A priest.

A city.

Pizza on the couch.

A small uprising

of light

in a place

that knows

darkness well.

Maranatha.

Come, Lord Jesus—

keep

this fragile peace

burning.

- Rev'd Jon Swales, Advent 2025