East of Eden: Sheffield

After Morning Prayer,

Father Pete lingered.

The New Testament reading

had been plain enough—

a call to live at peace

with one another.

He closed the Bible slowly,

hand resting on leather,

and let the words settle, heavy.

Peace.

Simple on the page,

elusive in the pews,

sometimes absent at PCC.

Every church had leaders.

Every church had a culture.

Named or unnamed—

always shaping God’s people.

Culture isn’t just rules or programs;

it’s what people pay attention to,

what they celebrate or ignore,

how they respond

when no one is watching.

He thought of a younger curate,

bright eyes, questions tumbling out:

“What makes a church flourish, Peter?”

Pete smiled.

He’d walked enough streets and halls

to know the answer isn’t quick.

He remembered Hillsborough.

Terraced streets,

trams rattling by,

neighbours leaning on garden walls,

knocks on the vicarage door—

grief,

gossip,

once a bag of chips,

vinegar soaking the paper.

There he’d learned:

culture is atmosphere,

the air we breathe.

What people laughed at,

what they hid,

how they treated one another

when hymns ended

and halls emptied.

A church could seem alive on Sundays

and quietly suffocate during the week.

The heart of a community

was rarely in the policies—

it was in relationships, rhythms,

and what was assumed normal.

A smile crossed his face at Butlins.

Half-term with the kids.

Centre Parcs would have been nicer,

but they couldn’t afford it.

Fairground lights,

Red coats,

2p machines,

fried onions drifting through the night air.

This priest was brought up on a council estate.

and knows that being

working class isn’t just about money;

it’s culture,

a way of life.

You notice who looks you in the eye,

how people settle disagreements,

how humour holds the line

between grace and honesty.

The middle class sometimes don’t get it.

They look down,

fail to value the working-class virtues:

loyalty,

resilience,

authenticity,

a present-oriented perspective

that doesn’t chase the greasy pole.

He still liked a Greggs pasty on Fargate,

preferred to sort out conflict face to face,

and recognised banter as a spiritual gift.

The Church had polished his voice,

made him sound posher than he felt,

but he hadn’t forgotten where he came from.

Leadership and culture carry weight.

Both can bring life,

or death.

Often a messy mixture of both.

He had seen the good:

places where air was lighter,

where laughter and truth met,

where repentance wasn’t shamed

but welcomed.

Where leaders and people together

attended to the smallest cues of care,

listening to what mattered,

and not just what looked impressive.

There, the Spirit moved,

and the kingdom drew close.

He had seen shadows too.

Good leaders drained

in toxic culture.

Healthy culture crushed

under poor leadership.

Sometimes both forces

aligned in harm.

He remembered a diocesan safeguarding day

at Church House.

Rows of tables,

posh coffee,

biscuits in wrappers,

the sharp hush

when painful truths

were named aloud.

Some churches cultivated tov,

trust,

nurture,

justice,

attention to what matters.

Others,

mask abuse

with holy words.

Not all harm came from rebellion.

Sometimes from habit,

burnout,

wounds left unhealed.

People doing what they’d always done

until someone asked:

“Is this Christlike?”

Later, at the garage on Penistone Road,

Peter watched staff at work.

Grease on their hands,

banter rolling back and forth,

but beneath it—care.

Respect.

The work hummed without fear.

If they could build this culture here,

why not in church?

He had seen it happen.

Leaders broken down,

raised up again by grace.

He had been one of them,

taken hard truth,

whispered,

“I’m sorry. I can do better.”

Cultures can move:

from fear to faithfulness,

silence to truth,

self-preservation to sacrificial love.

What matters most is what people notice,

what they care enough to protect,

and how consistently they act on it.

Truth, received with humility,

becomes soil

for transformation.

Peter picked up his Bible.

The words rang clear:

Live in peace with one another.

He thought of the curate’s question.

Next time they met, he’d answer straight:

“This is the work, lad.

This is the call.

To help the church breathe again.”

And somewhere deep, he knew:

even broken,

even bruised,

even in shadow,

God’s kingdom waits,

tender,

stubborn,

alive.

Rev’d Jon Swales, 2025