East of Eden: Unite the Kingdon

Thomas, parish priest,

opens the Bishop’s statement

on his screen:

“We are deeply concerned to hear of the planned ‘Unite the Kingdom’

march in London this weekend.

Though framed as a celebration

of free speech,

it is inextricably linked

to voices and movements

that have previously contributed to division and racial intolerance.

This is at odds with everything we, and millions of Londoners, stand for.”

Concern,

yes.

Division,

yes.

But Thomas wonders:

is this unity,

or another line in the sand?

Words that claim to heal,

but leave the fracture exposed.

On Sunday he hears both refrains:

“We can’t cope — too many migrants,

our town is overwhelmed.”

And in the same pew:

“Welcome the stranger.

And anyone who disagrees — far right.”

The Bishop’s words return,

like a refrain in his head:

“We affirm that freedom of speech is a vital democratic right,

and at the same time pray for a nation

where that freedom is exercised

not to deepen fear or exclusion,

but to foster compassion and unity.”

Compassion.

Unity.

Yes, Lord.

But what of the voices he hears tonight?

On YouTube he sees tens of thousands march,

flags wave, chants crash like waves.

And among the banners,

signs about Jesus:

“Jesus Saves,”

“Jesus is King.”

A chant rises:

“Jesus is King! Jesus is King!”

But then — twisted,

cut through with bile —

“Starmer is a #%€*^’

Christ’s name invoked as cover,

a chant of worship

spliced with hatred.

Thomas shudders.

Which Jesus is this?

Not the crucified one.

Not the refugee child.

Not the lamb who takes away the sins of the world.

The mic swings closer:

“I’ve grafted all me life,

can’t heat the flat — no one listens till Tommy shouts.”

“We’re not racist, just ignored.

They’ve forgotten us.”

And then the sting again:

“This is our country.

Send them back.”

Thomas exhales.

The wounds are real,

but the chant is not Christlike.

Never Christlike.

The Bishop’s voice again:

“Every day, in our churches and on our streets,

we see a very different city…

One where people from all cultures, religions, beliefs and classes

can work, worship, and live together.”

Yes, Thomas thinks,

but also no.

For in his church he hears fracture,

fear, anger, welcome, hope —

all mingled.

Not a simple city,

but at times a divided people,

held uneasily under one roof.

He scrolls again:

counter-protestors penned in,

shields shudder,

stones fly.

The city trembles.

And beyond the livestream,

another crisis swells —

fields fail, seas rise,

creation groans.

How small our slogans,

how vast the storm.

The Bishop’s final words:

“We will hold all marginalised communities in our prayers this weekend,

and ask for safety, peace, and justice for all.”

Thomas kneels.

Yes, Lord. Safety. Peace. Justice.

But how? Whose?

And what does unity mean

when voices clash so fiercely?

He prays:

Christ, show us a unity

not crafted in statements,

not shouted in streets,

but broken in bread,

poured in wine,

birthed at your table.

Tomorrow at the altar rail,

Thomas will say,

“All are welcome.”

And they will come.

Samira and Ahmed,

refugees from Sudan,

their children fidgeting at the rail.

Gareth,

white van builder

taxed by emmision laws,

who went to the protest,

angry at politicians,

wary of migration,

doesn’t get climate,

yet hungry for Christ.

PC Evans,

eyes tired from long shifts,

still carrying the echo of pushing and shouting,

the press of the crowd in his bones,

holding out empty hands.

Arash, Iranian,

shaken from being spat at

on his way to church,

now kneeling, silent.

Eileen,

retired nurse,

NHS at breaking point,

who weeps for the cruelty of slogans,

yet prays for the marchers by name.

One bread.

One cup.

One Christ.

And Thomas whispers,

“Unite the church, Lord,

so that the world may yet

see another kingdom.”

- Rev’d Jon Swales