East of Eden: Not a Business

Rain at the window.

The fire spitting ash.

Two priests, two pints.

On retreat,

The air thick with weariness.

Steve leans forward,

voice quick, clipped,

like minutes on a clock.

“Look, Penny,

I came from business.

I know how teams work.

Clear vision,

tight roles,

high accountability,

tight control.

We measure.

We deliver.

Church needs the same.

We can’t waste time

on drift or dead weight.”

Penny tilts her head,

eyes steady as flint.

“Steve,

churches are not businesses.

Yes, there are budgets,

resources to steward,

plans to hold lightly.

But don’t fool yourself.

The church is not about profit.

Not about performance metrics

or branding strategies.

It is about people—

image-bearers of God.

A gospel people,

called into grace.”

Steve bristles,

sips too quickly,

foam on his lip.

“But efficiency matters.

Clarity matters.

We can’t afford chaos.

The brand has to be strong.

How else will people come?”

Penny’s laugh is short, bitter.

The fire snaps behind her,

spitting sparks like judgment.

“The widow with her two small coins

was not efficient.

The ragged crowds Jesus drew

didn’t fit a brand.

When you measure success in numbers

instead of faithfulness,

you trade the kingdom

for a spreadsheet.

And when you prize the wealthy donor

above the broken addict at the back,

you’ve already lost the gospel.

Church is not your curated story.

It is the messy, living testimony

of a people remade by grace.

It is truth over optics.

It is people over performance.

It is the last, the least, the lost—

not liabilities,

but sisters and brothers.”

Steve shifts,

a defensive smile twitching.

“You don’t understand the pressure.

We’ve got targets,

expectations from above.

The team needs strong leadership.

They look to me for certainty.”

Penny leans in close,

her whisper cutting like iron.

“Your team are not robots, Steve.

Not AI waiting for input.

They are flesh and blood,

dust and Spirit,

image-bearers of God.

If they sound wooden,

it is because you have made them so.

Loyal, yes—

but loyal like stone.

Fear has shaped them.

And you call it clarity.

But the church is not a brand.

It is not your vision to defend.

It is not efficiency to manage.

It is Christ’s broken body,

a fellowship of difference,

a Eucharistic table

where all are welcome.

And if your leadership cannot hold

the messy, inconvenient,

unmarketable people of God—

then it is not leadership in Christ at all.”

Steve swallows,

the pint heavy in his hand,

his slogans dying on his lips.

For a moment

the firelight flickers in his eyes,

and something softer stirs,

aching to breathe.

Outside, the abbey bell calls for prayer.

They rise into the rain:

one carrying brand-speak like chains,

the other carrying truth like fire.

⸻

Epilogue: Apology

Rain on stone.

Graves dark with moss.

Two figures, one step apart,

umbrellas clumsy in the wind.

The fire’s heat is gone.

Only the cold,

the ache of water on skin.

Steve clears his throat.

The words stumble out,

more cough than speech.

“Look… I—

I’ve been wrong.

Too sharp. Too certain.

I thought leading meant control.

But it was fear,

fear dressed up as clarity.

And I’ve driven it into you.”

The curate walks slow,

eyes lowered,

listening like prayer.

Steve’s voice shakes,

ragged against the rain.

“I’m sorry.

I don’t know how to lead

without the slogans.

I don’t know how to trust

what I can’t measure.

Sometimes I think…

maybe I don’t know how to love well.”

Silence, except the rain.

Gravel crunches underfoot.

The curate lifts their head,

soft voice almost lost in the storm:

“You don’t have to know, Steve.

You only have to begin.”

And for a moment,

under the weeping sky,

something like grace

moves between them.

The bell tolls across the churchyard,

echoing through stone and bone.

Steve grips the only pen he owns,

ink bleeding in his pocket notebook.

Not a plan.

Not a strategy.

Only seven trembling words—

a prayer,

‘Jesus,

help me to

lead with love.’

Rev'd Jon Swales