Nicene #3 Manchester

Manchester: A Longing for More

Nicene #3

——

Rachel is thirty-six.

Every Thursday morning

she pushes a buggy through Manchester

towards the church hall.

She comes for the toddler group.

At least that’s what she says.

Her daughter loves it:

the train set,

the toy kitchen,

the biscuits.

Rachel likes it too—

the tea,

the conversation,

the warmth.

The church hall means a few less hours

heating the flat.

The food bank runs

from the building next door.

Most weeks she calls in afterwards.

The volunteers know her name.

Not much more than that.

Just enough.

The kind of knowing

that reminds you that you exist.

Rachel lives in a council flat.

She waited a long time for it.

When the keys finally came,

she sat on the floor

and cried.

Not because it was beautiful.

Because it was home.

Still, she thinks about her friends.

The family in a B&B.

The mum sharing one room

with two children.

Lives suspended,

waiting for somewhere permanent,

waiting to begin.

Life feels harder now.

Every week

the money stretches less far.

The supermarket bill.

The gas meter.

The electricity.

Most people she knows

are not asking for luxury.

Just enough.

Enough to breathe.

Enough to imagine a future.

When Rachel was young,

she knew the Creed by heart.

Every Sunday:

We believe in one Lord Jesus Christ.

She grew up in church.

Later,

after the divorce,

and after finding the courage

to tell the truth about who she was,

faith became complicated.

Not impossible.

Just complicated.

She never stopped longing.

Back then

the world seemed larger somehow.

She remembers lying in grass,

watching clouds drift,

collecting conkers,

turning over stones.

The feeling that the world

was alive with mystery.

Now every silence seems filled.

A screen.

A headline.

A notification.

Another demand

for her attention.

Sometimes she worries

about her daughter.

Not only the climate crisis,

though she worries about that.

The floods.

The fires.

The warnings she reads

when she should be sleeping.

But whether her daughter

will know how to wonder.

Whether she will know

the names of birds.

Whether she will grow up believing

the world is more than something

to consume.

Most Thursdays,

after the toddler group ends,

there is a lunchtime Eucharist.

Rachel started dropping in

because she had an hour to spare.

Now she keeps returning.

The church is quiet.

No screens.

No adverts.

No one selling anything.

Just silence,

candles,

and old prayers.

One Thursday,

watching a volunteer carry food parcels

to a waiting car,

Rachel remembers a story

from childhood.

Jesus feeding a crowd.

People with empty hands.

People who had run out.

People who needed help.

Not a lecture.

Not a transaction.

Just bread.

And she catches herself thinking:

If Jesus were around now,

he’d probably be doing

something like this.

Carrying bags.

Making tea.

Learning names.

The thought surprises her.

Then another follows.

What if he is?

The service begins.

Bread.

Wine.

Prayers.

Stories she thought

she had forgotten.

A man who welcomed children.

A man who ate with people

others preferred to avoid.

A man who spoke about birds,

wildflowers,

and seeds,

as though the whole world

was shimmering with meaning.

Then the Creed:

We believe in one Lord Jesus Christ.

And suddenly

it is the first word

that catches her.

We.

Not I.

We.

Because she isn’t sure

what she believes anymore.

But these people

keep showing up.

Keep feeding strangers.

Keep welcoming children.

Keep acting as though love

is stronger than despair.

Perhaps faith,

she thinks,

is letting others

carry the words

until you can find them again.

Afterwards,

she and her daughter

step back into the city.

The buses rumble past.

The rain eases.

A shaft of sunlight

breaks through the clouds.

“Look, Mummy.”

Rachel looks.

For a moment

the wet pavement shines.

A child laughs.

Someone holds a door open

for a stranger.

The whole ordinary world

seems brighter than before.

And she wonders

if this is where faith begins.

Not with certainty.

But with the stubborn refusal

to believe that fear,

scarcity,

and despair

tell the whole story.

As they walk home,

past the food bank,

past the bus stop,

past all the unfinished sorrows

of the city,

Rachel finds herself hoping

that her daughter might inherit

a world still capable of wonder.

And perhaps,

without quite knowing it,

she is hoping for herself too.

Not for certainty.

Just for enough light

to take the next step.

And perhaps that,

for now,

is prayer enough.

Rev’d Jon Swales, June 2026

Nicene #3