East of Eden: Blackpool

Once,

he worshipped an angry God—

the kind who answered

before you even asked.

A system, disguised as certainty.

Grudem on the shelf,

Piper in his podcasts.

Five points,

standing like trusted granite.

Now,

he walks the promenade

with hoodie strings in hand,

coffee warm,

heart open.

Heart half-wounded,

still beating.

Different parish,

different diocese.

It gets complicated

when home and housing

are caught up in conflict.

Above him,

the Tower—half-cross,

half-lighthouse—

keeps watch

over the weary.

On Thursdays,

after youth group,

before his day off,

he eats chips with scraps—

sometimes a battered sausage,

curry sauce—

from the same chippy off the front.

Always vinegar.

Sometimes salt.

Always alone.

Until someone sits beside him.

Which, in Blackpool,

happens often.

There’s Steff—

wide smile, sharp eyeliner,

Adam’s apple and rainbow badge,

voice like cracked crystal.

Estranged from parents,

but not from hope.

They talk about baptism

and belonging.

And Sheila, the lollipop woman—

though her hi-vis vest

names her “school crossing patrol”—

waits by the primary gates.

Her son’s posted abroad.

Drinks too much when he’s home.

Basic training changed him.

For better: he folds his clothes.

For worse: he never backs down.

Which makes the Lifeboat—

local boozer—

feel like a war zone

when he’s back on leave.

She talks about fear

like it’s a neighbour

who won’t stop knocking.

She once called him “Vicar.”

Now just calls him “love.”

He offered a prayer—

New Wine-style:

hand on shoulder,

with permission,

eyes open,

watching the Spirit move.

She thanked him,

tears in her eyes.

Said it gave her the warm fuzzies—

like the kind she had

at a Bon Jovi gig.

Last month,

he met a curate from out of town—

young, tired,

quietly afraid.

They talked in the back of Costa

about spiritual abuse—

Pilavachi,

and the silence

of those who should’ve known better.

How ministry

can feel like a slow unravelling.

They didn’t fix each other.

They just knew.

He hates admin.

Too much of it.

Grows every year.

Demands get bigger.

It wasn’t in the ordinal.

He knows it matters—

but wonders about all those hours

at his desk

he could spend

with his northern flock.

He glances at the books.

Worries if they’ll meet the parish share—

another Vision Sunday looming.

Always the same few

who dig deep.

He remembers Dorothy—

her friends call her Dotty—

a fiver in the collection pot

the same week

he saw her at the food bank.

It moved him.

It shamed him.

He got her an electric voucher—

though she never asked.

This priest still wears his collar on Sundays.

Sometimes cassock and surplice—

covering the 9 o’clock BCP.

Still lights candles—

for the lost,

and for those

searching for them.

He buried Callum in March.

Too young.

The system failed him.

This priest wonders

if he did too.

No neat answers.

Just silence.

Presence.

A name remembered—

but with time,

maybe forgotten.

He worries about the planet.

Mentions it in sermons.

Bronze Eco Church certificate

framed in the vestry.

He admired the priest from Bristol

who glued herself to justice

and called it prayer.

But then her licence wasn’t renewed.

He thought of writing the bishop—

but bottled it.

Best not stick your head

above the parapet.

You don’t rock the boat

when housing and stipend are linked.

He doesn’t know what he is anymore.

Evangelical?

Yeah, sometimes.

Liberal?

Perhaps.

Catholic—

on Sundays,

at the table.

He doesn’t care.

Well—

he does care.

But labels fall apart

when reality kicks in.

And the Church of England,

warts and all,

still gives him space to breathe.

His heart—like his theology—

reshaped

by stories

that don’t resolve neatly.

The Christ he follows now

walks these streets.

Doesn’t judge.

Shares chips with drag queens.

Blesses tired mothers.

Weeps at war

and warming.

Once,

he clung to control.

Now,

this priest clings to Christ—

the one who touches lepers,

feeds strangers,

uses sea breeze and daily prayers

to tend his wounds.

A Christ

who lets the world wound him

without turning away.

And sometimes,

when the illuminations flicker on

and the sea breathes heavy,

he remembers Eden—

not as a place we fell from,

but a future breaking in

whenever love

refuses to look away.

-Rev'd Jon Swales