Nicene #8 County Durham

County Durham: Will Anything Live Again?

Matthew is fifty-two.

He lives in Blackstone,

a village built on coal.

Rows of brick terraces.

A welfare hall.

A Methodist chapel.

If you stand

at the edge of the fields,

the older folk

still point and say,

“That’s where the pit was.”

You cannot see it now.

The winding gear

came down years ago.

The railway was lifted.

The earth has grown over

what was once

the beating heart

of the village.

Matthew isn’t sure

whether that’s healing

or forgetting.

Three days ago

he buried Tommy Reed.

Eighty-one.

A miner

from the age of fifteen.

Tommy used to say

he was proud to go underground.

Proud to earn his wage.

Proud to help build

a country.

Coal heated homes.

Powered factories.

Kept the lights on.

Men like Tommy

built Britain.

His lungs

bore the cost.

By the end,

every breath

was work.

At the wake,

someone looked

around the room

and said quietly,

“They’re nearly

all gone now.”

Nobody answered.

The pit closed.

The jobs went.

Whitehall promised

new industries.

New opportunities.

A better future.

Matthew has lived here

long enough to know

that promises

can become

empty shops.

The bookmakers stayed.

The payday lenders came.

Then the dealers.

Standing beside

Tommy’s grave,

Matthew found himself

asking

a question

he could not escape.

Will anything

live again?

Matthew was born

in the seventies.

The eighties

were his childhood.

He remembers

walking the old railway tracks,

building dens,

playing knock-a-door-run,

going milk munching,

coming home

when the street lights

came on.

At school,

PE meant

climbing frames,

thick ropes,

blue crash mats,

the springboard,

and the wooden box

everyone

was frightened of.

Little bottles of milk

waited

outside the classroom,

their silver tops

pecked open

by blue tits.

Every Friday,

the pop man

rumbled into the village.

You heard

the bottles clinking

before his van

turned the corner.

Every July,

the Durham Miners’ Gala.

Brass bands.

Flat caps.

Banners

lifting

above the crowds.

His grandad

always stood

a little straighter

when the music began.

As a boy,

Matthew thought

it would always

be like that.

Jacob is nine.

He does not speak

with words.

Instead, he notices

what everyone else

walks past.

A feather

caught

in a hedge.

Rain

running

down glass.

A blackbird

pulling worms

from wet earth.

The way

light moves

across a wall.

Matthew used

to hurry him.

Now,

he waits.

Sometimes

he wonders

whether speech

is only one language

among many.

People ask if it is hard.

Sometimes. Of course.

There are nights

he lies awake

wondering

who will care

for Jacob

when he is gone.

Yet somehow,

his son

keeps teaching him

to notice

life.

July comes.

The Gala.

Then the rain.

Proper

County Durham rain.

People scatter

into cafés,

doorways,

and St Nick’s Church.

Matthew and Jacob

step inside.

Wet coats.

Old stone.

The smell

of polish

and candles.

Someone says,

“We may as well begin.”

The scripture reading

is Easter morning.

The angel asks,

“Why do you look

for the living

among the dead?”

Matthew has heard

those words

all his life.

Today,

they sound

as though

they are meant

for him.

The congregation stands.

Together they say the Creed.

On the third day he rose again

in accordance with the Scriptures.

The rain stops.

Sunlight

breaks

through the stained glass.

Colour

spills

across the floor.

Jacob smiles.

Not at anyone.

At the light.

As though

it has spoken

his language.

Matthew remembers

Tommy’s grave.

The silence.

The question.

Will anything

live again?

Perhaps,

he thinks,

resurrection

is not

getting back

the life you lost.

Perhaps

it is discovering

that death

never gets

the final word.

Walking home,

Jacob stops.

Wildflowers have pushed

through a crack

in the tarmac.

Tiny.

Fragile.

Uninvited.

Still,

they came.

Matthew kneels

beside his son.

Neither of them

speaks.

Neither of them

needs to.

That evening,

he stands

at the garden gate.

The pit

is gone.

Tommy

is gone.

His grandad

is gone.

His childhood

is gone.

Yet blackbirds

still sing.

Children

still laugh.

Wildflowers

still grow.

Jacob slips

his hand

into his father’s.

Matthew whispers

the words

once more.

On the third day

he rose again

in accordance

with the Scriptures.

For the first time,

they sound

less like words

about the past,

and more like

a promise

that the God

who raised Jesus

has not finished

with villages.

Or miners.

Or fathers.

Or sons.

Or the world.

—

Rev’d Jon Swales

June 2026

Nicene Creed Series #8