East of Eden: Burnley

The priest from Burnley

remembers weekends away,

instant coffee,

cheap pastries,

voices saying the Bible was flawless.

Later, at college,

no one pressed it.

They just said,

something like,

“God’s Word.

Trust it.”

He wanted to.

He still does.

But Burnley interrupts.

This morning—

he buried an addict.

Rain sideways,

cassock soaked,

coffin lid streaming.

A few mates hung back,

hands in pockets,

muttering,

“He was sound, really.

Just couldn’t shake it.”

The priest said words of resurrection.

They felt thin.

Wallpaper over rot.

By afternoon

he sat in a council flat,

smell of damp,

last night’s frying pan.

A woman spread letters,

arrears, red ink,

threats of eviction.

Her voice cracked.

She hadn’t told the kids.

She feared the knock at the door.

He nodded,

sipped cold tea,

and stayed silent.

The psalm caught in his throat.

On the bus home

he opened his Bible.

Psalm 121.

'He will not let your foot slip.'

But the lad in the ground had slipped.

'The Lord will watch over your life.'

But the woman was drowning in debt.

Are these words true?

Yes—because they ache to be.

No—because Burnley says otherwise.

Back home,

a Christian channel blared:

white teeth, bright eyes.

“Trust Jesus!

All will be well!”

The priest almost laughed.

Almost wept.

It felt obscene.

Like hymns at a house fire.

He closed his eyes.

Spoke back to the psalm.

“You say You don’t sleep.

But I feel storm-tossed.

And Jesus snores in the stern.”

What if God isn’t in control?

Not the puppeteer

Piper promised.

What if God looks like Jesus—

wounded,

breakable,

here among addicts,

debts,

despair?

And what if Jesus is asleep?

His prayer is guttural,

not polite:

Wake up, Jesus.

Wake up.

Maybe this is faith—

not certainty,

but refusal to quit.

The psalms as sparring partners,

not rulebooks.

Ordination vows

colliding with disorientation.

At the end of the day

he scribbles it into a poem.

Faith-filled doubt.

Doubting faith.

Words that won’t make the pulpit.

But maybe keep him human.

East of Eden.

Hope is not glossy.

Not triumphant.

It is a soaked cassock at a grave.

A cold cup of tea in a flat.

A prayer on a rattling bus.

A whisper in the storm:

Wake up, Jesus.

Wake up.

-Rev'd Jon Swales