East of Eden: Manchester

They say he only works on Sundays,

truth is,

he works six,

and Sunday’s the easiest.

Done by noon,

maybe even time for a snooze

before walking his cockapoo

through estates where prayers

rarely make it to the parish pews.

He tries—really tries—

to cap it at forty-five hours,

but the diary never accounts

for Liz on the doorstep,

lip split,

ribs aching,

needing more than a pencilled-in slot

or polite tea in a china cup.

The calendar’s blank

date night with the Missus

when the hospice calls

to say Sheila’s slipping into eternity

and wants last rites—

someone to tell her

death isn’t the last word.

Date cancelled,

collar on.

And Tony,

Tony’s in the graveyard again,

lingering by the old yews

when Steve’s locking up.

Sobbing, shaking,

wants to drag his pain

down into the soil.

Steve sits beside him

on a cold stone step,

while Tony rolls a smoke

with trembling fingers.

He bought him that Amber Leaf,

never claimed it through expenses.

Wouldn’t sit right in the PCC minutes,

but it’s mercy nonetheless.

He also gave him the lighter from the prayer station…

he must remember to replace it.

They say Christendom’s dead,

yes it’s gasping,

but his collar,

rightly or wrongly,

still draws

the heavy-hearted.

“Father, bless my beads.”

“Can you pray for my Harry,

he’s inside again?”

“Hey Vic, got a couple of quid, I’m starving.”

“Steve, our lass has popped another out.

Can we sort out getting his head wet,

so it’s all proper?

We’re not wed yet,

but will be

when I’ve got the money for a ring.”

Sometimes they just want a hug,

a mercy transaction,

no receipts required.

But the streets don’t always bless him back.

One night,

five minutes from the vicarage,

someone stepped out from the pub,

clocked his collar,

spat venom,

“Paedo gang, you priestly scum!”

Fist flying.

He’s learning to duck,

priesthood isn’t altars and vestments,

it’s feeling the edge of someone’s pain

and past.

But this ain’t the worst.

The deeper wounds

come from the saints,

not the sinners—

from the

systems and structures,

theology and culture,

personalities and pilavachis.

Leaders meant for good

now release a toxic air

that chokes what was once called Tov.

He used to have the chart.

Clean lines,

clear lists of who’s in,

who’s out,

who gets the gospel,

who’s lost beyond repair.

Evangelical certainties,

colour-coded like Sunday School diagrams.

But Larry messed that up.

Larry, found cold in the graveyard,

his sleeping bag a shroud.

Only four at his funeral—

two wardens, Steve,

and Larry’s mate, half-cut,

clutching a can,

singing off-key.

And yet,

Steve can’t shake the thought

that Larry’s in heaven,

Lazarus in rags,

resting in Abraham’s lap.

So now he asks—

who draws the lines?

Not him.

Not anymore.

But that doesn’t mean anything goes.

The gate is narrow,

but maybe not in the way

he was taught.

Narrow like a birth canal,

where new life

comes through blood and ache.

Jesus is still the Way, the Truth, the Life.

Faith still matters.

Repentance still matters.

But it’s not a club,

not a purity cult

for the polished and precise.

He sees how trauma sticks,

how poverty scripts people’s lives

before they can write their own.

People don’t need lectures

about bad choices—

they need someone

to sit with them

in the ruins,

someone who believes

the gospel is for them.

Still, it stings—

the soft-shoe clergy

who’ve blurred Christ to a slogan,

too clever to call people to faith,

too polite to mention sin.

He’s not signing up

for their sceptical drift.

Grace isn’t vague.

It’s fierce.

It calls by name.

It wounds and heals.

It demands surrender

and gives everything in return.

Steve’s just a priest in Manchester,

East of Eden,

forty-seven, tired,

collar slightly askew,

walking the estates,

grace spilling over borders

love entwined with mercy

still called

still collared.

Rev’d Jon Swales