East of Eden: The Compass and the Cross

I. Scripture and Rubble

She read Joshua that morning.

Promised land,

cities razed,

milk and honey,

sweet on the page,

but with the taste of Gazan rubble.

She turned to the Psalms.

“Blessed be the Lord,

who trains my hands for war.”

Then Exodus.

Horse and rider,

thrown into the sea.

She opened 1 Samuel.

“Show them no mercy,

kill every man,

woman,

child.”

Jarring.

Who is this God?

Conquest and song,

salvation and slaughter,

sacred and savage,

all on the same page.

She snapped the Bible shut.

The vicarage kitchen,

too small for conquest and conflict.

Her newsfeed choked with bodies.

Knife wounds,

domestic violence,

the haunted eyes of soldiers,

prayers for hostages,

the screams of Palestinian mothers,

the endless ache of broken hearts.

II. Memorials and War

Later,

east of Eden,

passing memorials,

bearing witness to the sins of Cain,

she stopped.

Brass plaques.

Names of the fallen.

Boys from this parish.

World War One.

The war that should never have been,

where nations naming Christ

maimed each other’s young.

A lost generation.

The war to end all wars.

She longed to honour the dead,

but grieved the empire,

the armaments,

the machinery of death.

Is it enough to wear a poppy?

Red?

White?

Both?

But what of World War Two?

If good men do nothing,

evil triumphs.

Yet,

is lethal violence the only way?

III. Just War and the Cross

Aquinas echoes in her mind.

Ius ad bellum,

ius in bello.

Justice before,

justice within.

But do bombs fall justly?

Do drones love their enemies?

Nuclear threats,

city-destroyers.

How can you bless a bomb

with the name of the Prince of Peace?

She reached the church.

Empty.

Cold.

Beneath the crucifix,

she wept.

Not for answers,

but for the questions too heavy to hold.

IV. The Spiritual Compass

“I don’t know how to preach anymore,” she said.

“Every text feels like a weapon.

Promised lands,

chosen people,

soaked in conquest.”

Her spiritual director listened.

Thin walls.

Thin tea.

Holy ground.

“I want to name the violence,” she said,

“but it feels dangerous,

political,

safer to stay quiet,

keep the collar clean.”

“Scripture is judged by Christ,

not the other way round.”

“Not Joshua,” she whispered.

“Not empire.

Jesus.”

“Let the violent texts break

on the Rock of Christ.

If it doesn’t look like him,

it’s not the final word.”

But the bombs still fall,

and silence feels safer.

“You don’t need slogans,

but you can keep vigil.

Name the crucified Christ

wherever empire spills blood.”

Not a solution,

but a direction.

V. Ploughshares

She left with no answers,

but with a compass.

A cross-shaped compass,

pointing not to victory,

but to the wounded God,

who speaks of enemy love,

and blesses the peacemakers.

Later,

she returned to the square.

Collar visible.

No placard.

No chant.

Just presence.

She stood among them.

Silent,

but not silent.

A prophetic voice.

The emerging strength of a ploughshare,

turned from the silence of complicity.

A priest-shaped dissent

against the machinations of empire

and the masters of war.

—-

Rev’d Jon Swales, East of Eden series