East of Eden: Priests

The church was full.

Old hymns sung with cracked voices.

A life remembered.

The old priest laid to rest.

Afterwards,

six deacons,

six priests,

lingered.

They had been ordained together twice:

first as servants,

a year later as presbyters.

The planter never quite knew why it was two —

the first sending,

and then the one with the magic hands.

Fresh-collared, wide-eyed,

they were sent out

into a hungry world,

from the edge of Elmet and Aire.

Eight years on,

they met again —

this time not for ordination,

but for farewell.

They stayed at the retreat house.

Rain on the windows,

logs in the hearth,

mugs warm in their hands.

The silence between them

was heavy with memory,

but also alive.

Someone whispered,

“He once told us —

priests must be many things.

Servants, shepherds, prophets, fools.

Cracked vessels,

pouring living water.”

So they promised each other:

seven words for priests.

Seven voices.

Each would speak.

Each would tell the truth.

The First Word — Servant & Shepherd

The planter begins.

Collar scuffed,

eyes alive but weary.

“I thought I’d build a church.

And I did.

But the weight broke me.

Numbers grew,

family frayed,

my soul cracked.

I thought I’d failed.

Then Christ led me to prison.

HMP Stainforth.

Young offenders.

Cells rank with sweat and anger.

And there,

I found a flock.

They call me Padre.

Half-mock, half-hunger.

I’ve prayed through steel doors,

read psalms scrawled on toilet roll,

lowered boys into a plastic tub

to rise dripping with grace.

It’s messy.

Fragile.

But real.

And I’ve learned —

the Shepherd’s work

is never about empire.

It’s about showing up.

Tending lambs.

Listening in the night.

Carrying the lost

until they recognise His voice.”

He stops.

Steam curls from mugs.

The quiet one murmurs,

“Sounds like a messy revival.”

The wounded one nods,

“Beauty among the broken.”

The mould-breaker grins,

“Give me baptisms in a tub

over pomp in a palace.”

Laughter flickers,

then fades.

Silence deepens.

The planter’s words hang —

echoes of the old priest:

“Power is for tending, not empire.”

The Second Word — Mouthpiece of the Almighty

Next morning,

frost whitens the retreat lawns.

They gather with coffee,

scarves still looped round necks.

The quiet one speaks.

Her hands fidget with notes

she doesn’t need.

A wry smile,

half-apology.

“I never wanted to preach.

Still don’t, most days.

Rural parishes keep me busy enough —

sheep in the lane,

PCC rows over gutters,

school nativity with a papier-mâché donkey.

But sometimes…

a word lands.

Last spring,

I stood by a grave.

Tongue dry,

heart heavy.

I stumbled through prayers,

thinking I’d failed.

Afterwards the widow said,

‘Your words carried me.

God spoke through you.’

And that’s when I remembered —

I’m not the source.

I’m just the mouthpiece.

The voice is Another’s.”

She looks down,

sips cooling coffee.

The wounded one leans in,

“You still doubt yourself?”

She shrugs.

“Every sermon.

Every absolution.

Every time I say,

‘Your sins are forgiven.’

Who am I to say it?

But then I remember:

it isn’t my forgiveness.

It’s Christ’s.

And He’s never failed yet.”

The mould-breaker chuckles,

“Not bad for a priest

who thought she couldn’t preach.”

The quiet one grins,

“I still can’t.

But He can.”

Silence rests.

Logs shift in the grate.

The Third Word — Storytellers of Divine Love

Evening.

Rain taps the chapel windows.

Candles lit,

their faces flicker with shadows.

The wounded one stands.

Her stole creases in her hands.

Voice steady, but low.

“Eight years ago,

I nearly left.

The wounds were too deep.

But therapy —

thank God for therapy —

p.aid for by clergy support trust

helped me breathe again.

I stayed.

And in staying,

I’ve found others.

The bruised.

The excluded.

The ones church forgot.

They come to me,

hesitant, fragile.

And I tell them a story.

Not of wrath.

Not of control.

But of love.

God is love.

Always love.

Sometimes,

I struggle to believe it myself.

But when I say it aloud —

when I tell His story —

something heals in me too.”

Her voice falters.

She lowers her eyes.

The planter whispers,

“That’s priesthood.”

The sacramental one nods slowly,

hands folded on his lap.

“Love told,

love lived.

That’s the Gospel.”

The silence after

feels like prayer.

The Fourth Word — Preach the Word

Next day,

they walk muddy paths

by the river.

The mould-breaker kicks a stone ahead,

talks with his hands.

“Preaching, eh?

I’ve preached in foodbanks,

street corners,

school halls,

a prison yard.

Sometimes it comes out scrambled.

My ADHD brain

jumps like fireworks.

Once I lost my sermon notes

and preached off a Greggs napkin.

But people listen.

Not because I’m slick,

but because they’re desperate for hope.

I tell them about Jesus.

About forgiveness.

About the Kingdom

crashing into our mess.

Last month,

a teenager shouted back,

‘If that’s true,

I want in.’

We prayed in the bus shelter.

Best sermon I ever gave.”

They laugh,

but it’s not mocking.

The quiet one claps his shoulder.

“You’ve got fire.”

He grins.

“Nah. Just sparks.

But sparks catch.

And that’s enough.”

They walk on.

Boots squelch.

Rain begins to fall.

The Fifth Word — Body Broken, Body Blessed

That evening,

they gather round a small altar.

Bread, wine,

simple vessels.

The sacramental priest presides.

His hands tremble,

but with reverence.

Afterwards,

he speaks quietly.

“I’m nearing retirement.

More funerals behind me than baptisms.

But the Eucharist —

still it takes my breath.

Every time,

I tremble.

Bread lifted.

Wine poured.

Christ present.

Not theory.

Not symbol only.

But mystery.

Gift.

Grace.

Everything else shifts.

Buildings crumble,

programmes falter,

sermons forgotten.

But this remains:

body broken,

body blessed,

Christ among us.”

The wounded one wipes a tear.

The activist whispers,

“That’s why I stayed.”

A pause.

Then the mould-breaker, quieter than usual:

“Even I kneel for that.”

Silence deepens,

thick with awe.

The Sixth Word — Resist the Beast

Next morning,

they walk the retreat grounds.

Wind sharp,

trees bare.

The activist speaks,

pace quick,

eyes fierce.

“The beast is real.

Consumerism.

Greed.

Climate collapse.

It’s tearing the world apart.

I’ve stood in roads,

led a vigil at a petrol station,

shouted in halls of power.

People call it politics.

I call it Gospel.

But resistance

isn’t just protest.

It’s planting gardens.

Starting food co-ops.

Teaching children to hope.

Building resilience

when the systems fail.

The beast devours,

but the Lamb still reigns.

And we, priests of the Lamb,

must resist.

Support the weak.

Defend the poor.

Speak truth,

even when it costs.”

The planter shakes his head.

“Careful.

Some say you’ve crossed the line.

Priests should comfort,

not get arrested.”

The quiet one adds softly,

“And yet—

prophets have always unsettled.

Jeremiah, Amos, John.

Truth has teeth.”

The wounded one sighs.

“Your fire burns hot.

But maybe we need it.

Without it,

we drift back to sleep.”

The mould-breaker mutters,

“I hate meetings,

but I’d chain myself with you.”

The sacramental priest,

voice thin but steady,

“Even the altar is resistance.

But we need prophets too.

We need priests

who name the beast.”

They fall silent.

Wind in the trees.

A crow cuts across the sky.

The activist lowers his gaze,

then lifts it again.

Not alone.

The Seventh Word — A Beautiful Symphony

Final night.

Logs crackle in the hearth.

They sit in a circle,

mugs warm in their hands.

No one wants to go first.

Then the quiet one chuckles,

“Maybe this one’s ours to share.”

So they do.

The wounded one speaks of excluded voices

now leading prayers.

The planter of lads in cells

singing psalms at midnight.

The mould-breaker of street choirs

in pubs.

The activist of climate vigils

lit by candlelight.

The sacramental priest of altar rails

where old and young kneel side by side.

The quiet one of villages gathered,

sheepdogs barking outside the church door.

One body.

Many members.

A symphony of grace.

They fall silent.

Then, softly,

they sing.

Not polished.

Not in harmony.

But enough.

The Spirit weaves their cracked voices

into something beautiful.

Epilogue

Morning breaks pale.

They pack bags.

Crunch of gravel as they leave.

No old priest to wave them off.

Only memory,

his words alive in them now.

The planter says,

“Once a deacon, always a deacon.

I used to wonder

why we were ordained twice.

But now I see —

first we were sent as servants,

to walk with the broken.

Then came the hands,

the bread,

the cup.

Servants still,

but with the mystery

to keep Christ among the people.”

The sacramental one nods,

“And still priests —

servants, shepherds,

cracked vessels pouring living water.”

The quiet one pauses,

then adds,

“He used to say,

‘Weakness is the only honest altar.’”

They nod.

The retreat house fades behind them.

Ahead,

the road bends back to their flocks,

their prisons,

their villages,

their streets,

their altars.

The Kingdom waits,

already here,

not yet complete.

And they go,

servants still,

priests of Christ the Shepherd.