East of Eden: Stations of the Cross

Fr. Andrew wipes the drizzle from his glasses,

cassock frayed at the cuffs,

a stole of second-hand brocade—

green today,

though few would notice.

The sanctuary lamp flickers,

its tiny defiance against the grey spill

of a Leicester morning.

He’s early, as always.

He likes the hush before the liturgy,

when the silence

feels like breath being held by angels.

The nave smells of damp hymn books

and last week’s incense.

He loves this church,

with its leaning crucifix,

its cracked font

that’s baptised more lost souls

than he can count.

Barbara comes on Thursdays,

from the hospice up the road.

She sits in the third pew,

knees aching,

heart steady,

lighting a candle

for those whose hands she holds

as they slip into eternity.

Over tea, she says,

“Sometimes all they need is someone who listens.”

Fr. Andrew smiles. He knows.

At times he listens,

to pain

and feels the weight.

What he hears keeps him awake at night,

keeps thinking of counselling.

The diocese offers a few sessions

as part of their package.

Maybe he just needs a friend who understands.

It’s never been the same since his wife died.

Jess comes too—

she who knocked on the vicarage door

one rain-slicked night,

asking if God hated her.

He made the mistake of calling her a him once,

he apologised.

He doesn’t quite get it—

Adam’s apple, voice deep, and stubble—

but for this priest compassion trumps dogma.

The times have changed,

but the call to kindness hasn’t.

She reads the Epistle now,

a few used to smirk—

not because they were nasty,

just nervousness and novelty—

but not anymore.

We are on a journey.

LLF helped.

Her voice a bit rough but certain,

her mascara always a little smudged,

dignity shining through.

Andrew told her once,

“I see Christ in you, Jess.

Always have.”

She smiled,

and that was enough.

Steve, the builder,

sent by the diocese to “check the guttering,”

talked of brickwork and faith

over bacon butties in the vestry.

“Church never suited me,” Steve said,

“but these old stones… they’ve seen things.”

Andrew nodded.

“They still do, Steve. They still do.”

Fr. Andrew wrestles with Brew Dog’s words—

Brueggemann’s—

about lament as fierce honesty.

He wonders if disorientation is where he’ll stay.

He’s read Psalm 88 more times than he can count,

its ending silence feels familiar.

He walks the estate

like a pilgrim with no fanfare,

no Instagram stories.

Just steps.

Just presence.

East of Eden,

where crosses aren’t carved in oak

but hammered into concrete lives.

He calls it his “Stations of the Estate.”

Not out loud,

but in his heart.

Fourteen stations, each a bruise

on the Body of Christ.

First Station: Jesus is condemned—

at the Job Centre queue,

where a lad with more tattoos than years

is told to “try harder.”

Andrew sees how shame curls his shoulders,

how judgement doesn’t need a robe or gavel.

Second Station: Jesus takes up His cross—

at the boarded-up Spar

where Donna, the single mum,

hauls shopping bags that weigh more than her hope.

He lifts a bag into her arms,

and it feels like liturgy.

Third Station: Jesus falls the first time—

by the ginnel

where smashed bottles tell last night’s story.

A man is slumped, unseen, unhelped.

Andrew kneels, checks for breath.

He gives a grunt, slurs,

“I’m alright, Father.”

But they both know better.

Fourth Station: Jesus meets His mother—

Barbara, outside the hospice,

lighting a cigarette,

eyes red from the morning’s vigil.

They share a look,

the kind that needs no words.

Fifth Station: Simon of Cyrene helps carry the cross—

Steve the builder, up a ladder fixing gutters,

calls down, “You’re flogging a dead horse here, Vicar.”

Andrew laughs, but they both know

some horses are worth flogging

because the race isn’t finished.

Sixth Station: Veronica wipes the face of Jesus—

Jess appears, takeaway coffee in hand.

She straightens his collar,

her face carrying kindness

learned the hard way.

Seventh Station: Jesus falls the second time—

outside the off-license,

where a dealer’s car idles—

windows tinted, music thudding.

Andrew watches a boy,barely sixteen,

slip into the passenger seat.

He feels the weight of it in his gut.

Kyrie eleison.

Eighth Station: Jesus meets the women of Jerusalem—

a gaggle of mums at the bus stop,

pushing prams, sharing stories, spitting truth.

They’ve seen more crucifixions than most theologians.

Ninth Station: Jesus falls a third time—

in the shadow of the betting shop,

where hopes are gambled for a fiver,

and the faces at the machines

wear despair like a second skin.

Tenth Station: Jesus is stripped of His garments—

in the underpass, where a lad’s hoodie

is tugged by another, not in malice,

but in survival’s cruel game.

Stripped of dignity, unseen by the world.

Eleventh Station: Jesus is nailed to the cross—

in a council flat, where eviction papers

are tacked to a splintered door.

Andrew pauses, hand upon the frame,

feeling the cold steel of systemic crucifixion.

Twelfth Station: Jesus dies on the cross—

by the canal bridge, graffiti scrawled

with names of those gone too soon.

He stands there, saying nothing,

because words would be betrayal.

Thirteenth Station: Jesus is taken down from the cross—

in the small hospice room,

where Barbara clasps the hand

of a man no one else will mourn.

Andrew prays softly,

holding death like a sacrament.

Fourteenth Station: Jesus is laid in the tomb—

in the church porch, where someone’s sleeping bag

is zipped tight against the world.

He kneels, crosses himself,

and in that cold stillness,

he feels the breath of Holy Saturday.

The nave is empty,

but somewhere within the ache,

he feels it—

a whisper of resurrection

breathing beneath the weight.

Not loud.

Not yet.

But enough.

He hangs up his stole,

folds it slower than usual.

The vestry mirror reflects a man

who looks every inch his years—

but the lines around his eyes

speak of laughter too, once.

He thinks of the Brew Dog again,

how lament isn’t the end,

but a doorway,

a fierce honesty that can

(with time, with grace)

make space for reorientation.

He smiles.

Maybe it’s time to call that counsellor.

Maybe even the Archdeacon—

talk sabbatical, talk rest.

He’s never been good at self-care,

but perhaps loving this place

means loving himself enough

to stop… for a while.

Outside, the estate thrums on—

crosses carried,

bodies bruised,

but breath, still breath.

Andrew steps into the street,

cassock swaying like a banner.

He lifts his chin,

the drizzle soft as a benediction,

and walks,

not yet whole,

but no longer undone.

-Swales, 2025