A podcast journey of prayer with a focus on the climate and ecological emergency based around Rev Jon Swales' book '26 Prayers for the Climate and Ecological Emergency' .https://atyourservice.arocha.org/en/26-prayers-for-the-climate-and-ecological-emergen
Send us Fan MailWords and Voice: Rev'd Jon Swales www.cruciformjustice.comMusic by Tunetank from Pixabay
Send us Fan MailWords and Voice: Rev'd Jon Swaleswww.cruciformjustice.commusic. pixabay
Send us Fan MailWords and Voice: Rev'd Jon SwalesMusic: Pixabay
Send us Fan MailWords and Voice: Rev'd Jon SwalesMusic Pixabay
Send us Fan Mailwords and voice Rev'd Jon Swalesmusic Pixabay
Send us Fan MailWords and voice Rev'd Jon Swaleswww.cruciformjustice.com Music Pixabay
Send us Fan MailWords Rev'd Jon SwalesMusic : Pixabay 'Only in the Mornings'
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Send a textWords: Rev'd Jon SwalesMusic: Chris Sayburnhttps://www.cruciformjustice.com/post/he-s-seen-the-wounds
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Send us a textwww.cruciformjustice.comwords: Jon Swalesmusic. pixabay 'Hope'The Waiting of All ThingsThe whole creation waits—not quietly,but leaning forwardwith the ache of expectation.Galaxies tilt toward the dark,spirals cupped like listening ears.Stars hold their breathbetween burning and blessing,knowing there is morethan endless expansion and collapse.Rocks remember touch.They remember being named goodbefore they were quarried,before they were brokenfor speed and profit.They bear the weight of violence,the long erosion of sorrow,and still they wait—patient as prayer pressed into stone.Rivers keep movingthrough poisoned veins of land.Waterfalls falllike tears that refuse to be wasted.They groan with the sound of mourning,yet rush with hope,as if every plunge knowsit is not the end.Rainbows stretch themselvesacross wounded skies,not forgetting the flood,but daring to believethat mercy still arches over ruin.They wait,colours pulled taut as promise.Whales sing in the deep.Their voices carry grief and memory,songs heavy with plastic and silence,yet tuned for joy.They groan—but their groaning is music,a labour-song for a worldnot yet born.Trees rise on tiptoes,peering through the dark.Roots remembering light.Branches leaning toward dawn.Then—they clap their hands.Not politely.Not on cue.But wildly.Leaves shudder with memory.Bark strikes barkin stubborn praise.They clap because roots know resurrectionlong before theology names it.They clap because hopeis older than despair.All creation is watching,eyes wide with longing,for the revealingof the children of God.The world is not what it will be—and it knows it.When they appear—not by courage,not by timing,but because the hour has come—creation exhales.Rocks loosen their grip.Rivers quicken their dance.Forests erupt in applause.Galaxies widen with joy.This is the glory creation waits for:not escape,not domination,but belonging made visible.And the whole world—still groaning,still hoping—keeps leaning forward,waitingfor love unveiledto take fleshagain.Rev'd Jon Swales Feb 2026.
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Send us a textWords/Voice Rev'd Jon Swaleshttps://www.cruciformjustice.com/post/the-searchmusic: Pixabay Music Yevhenii Kovalenko 'Mellow Ambient/Piano
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Send us a textWords- Rev'd Jon SwalesMusic: Pixabay 'Tomorrow Morning'https://www.cruciformjustice.com/post/_held
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Send us a textwords-Rev'd Jon SwalesMusic. Music by Pablo Silver from Pixabay 'Piano y cello"https://www.cruciformjustice.com/post/dancing-in-the-sea-a-lighthouse-poem
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Send us a textWords- Rev'd Jon SwalesBeats: SayburnSee https://www.cruciformjustice.com/post/he-wrote-the-date-for-the-lad-who-once-lived-in-the-car-park-opposite-leeds-uni-a-true-story-framed
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Send us a textwords- Rev'd Jon SwalesBeats, Chris Sayburn 'Passing By'https://www.cruciformjustice.com/post/spikenard-ash
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Send us a textWords: Rev'd Jon SwalesBlog Post. https://www.cruciformjustice.com/post/cruciform-adaptation-a-call-to-the-church-in-a-time-of-unraveling
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Send us a textWords: Jon SwalesMusic: Sad Emotional Piano- Copyright Free Music via YouTube “Bats or great crested newts?”“Neither, because I want growth,” Rachel Reeves. The Times Interview- Quick Fire Questions——-‘Bats or Great Crested Newts?'‘Neither,because I want growth.'And the earth exhales,a long, low breath,threaded with dust and diesel.Once, we were called to tend and keep,to walk with careamong the creatures of feather and scale,but now we measure worthin units of concrete and steel.The hum of engines drowns outthe song of the land.Economic growth has become god,its temples rising in glass and stone,its gospel preached in numbersthat do not bleed or bloom.The rivers hold their tongues,the forests lean away,and the bats,those ancient scribes of dusk,write their farewellagainst a sky that forgets.‘Neither,because I want growth.'Beneath the tarmac skin of the world,the great crested newts wait,pressed into the damp earth,their stories unravelledby a people who no longer listen.They were here before us,in the time when the landwas a gift, not a resource.‘Neither,because I want growth.'But the wild ones know.They whisper of a garden,a covenant,a calling shaped from soil and breath.We were dust once,and to dust we shall return—but not before we have paved it all over.‘Neither,because I want growth.'And the earth waits,as it always has,watches the rising towersand falling wings,feels the weightof our forgetting.Still, it murmurs beneath our feet,a quiet, unbroken plea—remember,remember,before all that remainsis hunger.- Rev'd Jon Swales, 2025
Send us a textwords Rev'd Jon SwalesDrill, baby, drill— strange words, a chant from a strange man in a strange world. Forests burn, their ancient voices smothered in smoke. Seas swell, lapping at the bones of drowned cities. The air thickens, heavy with the weight of loss. And yet the President speaks, as if the earth were not already broken, as if the fire were not already here. A voice of denial, slick with crude promises, slick with something darker. He smiles, as though the earth were endless, as though the air were not heavy with the weight of a thousand unheard warnings. Drill , baby, drill— fuel for the engines, fuel for the empire, fuel for the end. A strange hopium, sweet and sickening, whispered into ears too weary to resist. But the wind remembers. The oceans remember. The earth groans beneath each hollow pledge, each drilling rig, each hand raised in defiance of the storm. He builds babels of oil, shadows stretching across scorched plains. He laughs, and somewhere, ice falls, rivers vanish, and the sky weeps for what was lost. Drill, baby, drill!Again and again, as if the earth will not break, as if the children will not choke, as if tomorrow is promised.- Swales, 2025
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