East of Eden: Not a Museum

I. Prayer

The nave is empty.

Candles gone cold.

Stone heavy with silence.

He kneels, old knees aching.

Hands grip the rail.

His whisper scatters like ash.

“Lord,

I have seen faith burn bright—

a hut of mud and song in Africa,

the poor giving more

than the rich in my parish ever dared.

And now—

stone upon stone,

money for heating,

sermons that fall

like dull rain.

Are we only curators of decline?

Keepers of dust?

Have we embalmed your gospel

in brass and organ pipes?”

No answer.

Only echo,

and the faint smell of wax.

⸻

II. The Convert

Rain on the grass.

The font still dripping.

A young man,

shirt clinging from baptism,

eyes blazing.

“Father, this is it!

Christ alive in me!

Not old stone,

not dead tradition—

but fire, burning now!”

The priest smiles,

half-ashamed,

half in awe.

“Yes, child.

But hear me—

stone can steady you

when fire flickers low.

Do not despise what endures.”

The boy laughs,

rainwater bright on his skin,

as though the heavens themselves

have joined the rite.

The priest watches,

hope striking like a match

in the dark—

and fears the wind.

⸻

III. The Caretaker

Keys jangle in calloused hands.

Dust drifts in shafts of fading light.

Pot noodle carton on the step.

Tattooed arms,

scars hidden.

He locks the west door,

turns,

squints at the priest.

“Beautiful place, Father.

Older than empires.

Some come for the glass,

some for the silence.

Even a tourist

can feel their chest crack open.

But listen—

I know my job.

It’s not just stone.

It’s souls.

If the stones sing,

let them sing for the living.

You’re not caretaker of bricks.

You’re caretaker of people.

Don’t forget that.”

The priest stares at the altar.

The silence throbs.

He feels smaller

and heavier

all at once.

⸻

IV. The Wife

The vicarage kitchen.

Tea gone cold.

Rain easing at the window.

She sits across the table,

eyes sharp,

voice steady.

“You talk like a mourner.

But have you not seen it—

a child stilled by glass,

a tourist hushed by arches?

The stones point,

like a finger to the moon.

Beauty cracks us open.

Even in an age deaf to God,

awe can slip in sideways.

But do not mistake the finger

for the moon.

Stone without love

is only echo.

You are called

to live Christ,

not just guard him.

So love—

love with all that remains.

Let the building hold their awe.

Let your life hold their pain.

One steadies.

The other heals.”

He trembles,

tea rattling in the cup.

“What if I fail them all?”

Her hand closes over his,

firm, not soft.

“Then you will have loved.

And that will be enough.”

The rain stops.

The silence is not empty.

But it does not resolve.

—

Epilogue

At dawn,

the priest unlocks the church.

Stones glisten with rain.

Inside, silence breathes.

Not museum.

Not body.

Not yet one,

not yet whole.

Between conservation grants

and the thought of running

another Alpha course,

a voice breaks through the quiet:

“I will build my church.”

He stops.

Hand on the latch,

heart struck still.

“Yes,” he thinks,

“yes, he will.

And he may even use

these very stones

to help.”

The rain eases.

The nave waits.

The priest steps in,

half afraid,

half ready.

Rev’d Jon Swales 2025

East of Eden