East of Eden: Questions

Morning Prayer ended.

The last “Amen” drifted

through the nave.

Candles flickered low,

the air cool with stone.

Charlotte closed the daily prayer app,

her collar still snug

against her neck.

She lingered,

eyes resting on the cross

above the altar.

The reading had spoken of freedom.

She thought of the years

when freedom was missing.

Before St Mark’s

she had worked for a church plant

where questions were dangerous.

Policies were glossy,

words of justice repeated,

but staff learnt to keep quiet,

to nod,

to survive.

She had carried that weight.

She had friends too—

curates, pastors, wardens—

burned by churches

where air was tight,

and leaders brittle.

From the side chapel

came the sound of a piano.

The worship leader

was auditioning a young player.

“Way Maker” rose,

hesitant but full-hearted,

notes catching in the rafters.

The song stung her—

not because it wasn’t true,

but because she had been

in places where such words

were sung over silence and fear.

So when she came to Bridgemont,

she braced herself.

St Mark’s was large,

charismatic,

a resource church

with all the polish.

She half expected

the same patterns.

But here—

it felt different.

Lighter.

Staff laughed freely.

Leaders listened.

When questions surfaced,

they weren’t deflected.

Coffee after church

was more than small talk—

stories told,

questions asked,

sometimes tears.

Her spirit sang.

This air was different.

This was tov.

That evening her phone buzzed.

Anna in Chicago:

“Friend, listen to this.”

Charlotte pressed play.

A voice filled the room—

steady,

compassionate,

almost like a sermon.

“Let me tell you about culture.

In some churches

questions are filtered,

softened,

delayed until forgotten.

Reports are polished

until pain is invisible.

People leave—

quietly,

without explanation.

Leaders speak of unity,

but it is a unity built on fear.

The silence itself

becomes the liturgy.

This is toxic culture.

It suffocates faith,

exhausts leaders,

and damages the vulnerable.”

Charlotte’s chest tightened.

She had lived this before.

She had watched friends

carry scars from such places.

The voice pressed on:

“But there is another way.

When culture is tov—

good,

rooted,

life-giving—

questions are welcomed,

not feared.

Doubts and hopes

can sit side by side.

Leaders are not brittle

when pressed.

They tell the truth,

even when it costs.

They celebrate repentance

as much as success.

There is laughter

and there is lament,

both finding their place in prayer.

In such places

the Spirit is free to move.

In such places

the church can breathe.

This is the culture

of the kingdom of God.”

Charlotte let out a long breath.

Her eyes lifted.

“Yes,” she whispered,

“this is what I feel here.”

That week she spoke with the rector.

They sat in his study,

steam rising from mugs of tea,

papers piled in ordered chaos.

“I’ve seen places,” she said,

“where questions are dangerous.

I’ve carried that heaviness.

But here it feels different.

Is it really so?

Can I bring my questions,

even when they don’t fit the script?”

The rector smiled.

Not thin.

Not practiced.

But warm.

“Charlotte,

this is the culture we want.

Open.

Honest.

Bring your questions.

We don’t always

have to sing

from the same hymn sheet.

Better to sing truth

in different tones

than mouth the same words

and choke.”

Charlotte left the study,

light on her feet,

her spirit quietly singing:

thanks be to God.

Rev’d Jon Swales, 2025