East of Eden: The Kingdom

He left the cottage quietly,

wife having a mid morning snooze,

the newspaper folded neat.

Two weeks by the sea,

far from vestry quarrels

and St Hilda’s polished calm.

Once he had been fierce,

radical in his youth.

But years had settled him.

Sermons now measured,

prayers tidy,

faith safe.

That morning he wanted only

the bite of salt air,

a cup of tea.

He breathed a quick prayer,

the arrow kind,

fastened his collar,

felt a nudge—

perhaps he might minister.

A side street.

A sign on old brick:

Salvation Army.

Tea and Welcome.

He pushed the door.

Expecting biscuits.

Found a circle of chairs.

The smell of damp coats,

instant coffee,

scarred lives.

“Grab a seat, Father.”

He sat,

collar shining,

cup cooling in his hand.

The stories came.

A woman leaned forward.

“Concrete steps,” she said,

“cold every night.

My body—taken, traded,

till I believed

I was worth less than nothing.”

A man, voice hoarse.

“Bottles drained too fast.

Every drink was me

trying to silence

a grief too heavy to name.

I wanted to be numb.

I wanted to forget.”

Another, hands trembling.

“They took my children.

And I drank—

not to lose them,

but because they were already gone.

What else could I do?”

He felt their pain

like salt in an open wound.

The wound comes first,

he realised.

The craving only follows.

Pain is the root.

When the stories ebbed,

a Salvation Army officer,

jacket worn shiny at the elbows,

opened a small Bible.

He read aloud, steady and kind:

“Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.”

Then he spoke:

“Jesus spoke these words to a battered crowd.

Fishermen worn by labour.

Beggars scraping by.

Women treated as property.

Tax collectors hated by their own.

He saw their pain,

and instead of pity,

he declared blessing.

This wasn’t sentiment.

This was revolution.

Not the mighty, but the meek.

Not the empire-builders,

but the ones crushed under its weight.

And friends—

it wasn’t a promise for later.

It was a truth for now.

God’s kingdom belongs

to those at the bottom.

To the bruised and broken.

To you.

To us.

The world tells us we are failures.

Jesus tells us we are blessed.

Every time the hungry are fed,

every time the broken are lifted,

the kingdom is revealed.

The blessing is here,

in this circle,

in our struggle,

in our hope.”

The room fell quiet.

Some nodded.

Some wiped tears.

The priest felt pierced.

He thought of St Hilda’s.

How suffering there

came veiled:

“I’m under pressure at work.”

“Would you pray discreetly?”

Never raw.

Never bleeding.

He loved them.

Truly.

But how he longed for them

to taste this rawness,

to walk unafraid

into the pain.

Here pain was language.

Here grace was presence:

You’re not alone.

You’re with us now.

And now Scripture itself

was naming it holy.

He had preached those words

a hundred times,

rolling easily from the pulpit.

But here they were,

incarnate.

Not metaphor.

Not later.

Now.

The kingdom—

in cracked voices,

in trembling honesty,

in hope whispered

for one more day.

And he—

rector of order,

keeper of mahogany—

was the guest.

The meeting ended.

He gave no sermon.

No blessing.

Only thanks.

Only a nod.

Heart pierced open.

Rain fell

as he walked the narrow streets.

The sea smelt sharp,

like iron, like truth.

He thought of St Hilda’s.

Gleaming brass,

polished wood,

hymnals neatly stacked.

Good things.

Faithful things.

But safe.

Bloodless.

And he whispered,

half-prayer, half-confession:

“The kingdom belongs to them.

Not to us.

To them.”

⸻

Epilogue

Later that week,

outside a shuttered shop,

he saw one of the voices again—

the man whose children were gone.

He was sitting with a paper cup,

asking for change.

The priest sat beside him.

They spoke little.

He prayed for the man,

words stumbling in the rain.

And then the man,

eyes raw but steady, said:

“Father,

can I pray for you?”

His prayer was clumsy,

simple,

but it cut straight through.

And as the prayer left them both,

the priest whispered,

soft as a secret,

“The kingdom is yours.”

And for the first time in years,

he believed it.

Rev’d Jon Swales