Two young boys throwing pebbles in the sand.
Cross-legged they sit, lost in concentration
As old men might with dominoes and ale – but
Different in the dreaming, not remembering.
The sand, in fact, makes do where tarmac once
Lay smooth before this “model” town was lost to
Urban deprivation and decay: a people’s spirits
Crushed between the war-lords, barons and police.
Intent these two, as if upon their skin-tight shoulders
Lies the future of the globe. Amid the fading sunshine
Of the afternoon, and gathering dusk, they make of sand
And stone, of laughter and of frowns, their other world.
To adult eyes the shabby street, for such it seems,
Descends through purpling twilight into fearful night.
Not so for these young friends – imagining tomorrow.
In vibrant play, in friendship and in unencumbered hope
They are the urban prophets –
They proclaim the building of the Cidade de Deus.
After observing a street scene in the Cidade de Deus – the City of God –
A notorious slum on the western edge of Rio de Janeiro
October 2011
Wednesday 23 November 2011
Saturday 29 October 2011
SOME COSTLY TREASURE
Darkness slowly engulfs the square.
Night falls amidst a silent shift in
Who walks tall among the city’s streets
And alleyways: now from the shadows come
The forgotten ones, the old, the young,
The babes in arms – whose only home
Is here. For this is Rio, more than any
Other city, where poor and rich are
Neighbours close, but strangers. Such
Inequality of opportunity.
Across the square, ornate in neo-Gothic
Splendour, a mighty “holy” edifice awaits
A groom and bride: flowers in their beauty
And their thousands, adorn the steps and
Doors and aisle; black-suited ushers –
Bouncers for the night – stand by to open
Doors of limousines, but close the wrought-iron
Gates to any but the most chic wedding guests:
Here love is blind indeed. “To have and hold”
For ever in a false security.
Another scene, just yards away. Beneath the
Soft glow of the amber lamp illuminating some
Civic yester-worthy, a simple table holds a cup
And plate. Bread is broken, wine outpoured
Among the city’s poor to whom it best belongs.
And sat around arrayed in rags of beauty and
Of pain come children, women, men, by all
The world forgotten, save by God. So here the
Food of love, the wine of dignity restored is
Offered and received with joy. But then
While priestly hands are held aloft, and all
Is offered, even in this place, according to the
Canon, I spot a woman in the crowd bearing
Her gift: body lotion, cheap and pungent,
Passed from hand to hand – her offering to
Tend the aching flesh of dusty streets. Joyfully
It anoints first arms, then legs, then breasts -
And healing and Shalom are there, an
Alabaster box for all to share. And God, whose
Tears embrace the streets with love, now
Weeps with unambiguous delight.
On observing, and sharing in , a Street Mass
In down-town Rio de Janiero, October 2011
Night falls amidst a silent shift in
Who walks tall among the city’s streets
And alleyways: now from the shadows come
The forgotten ones, the old, the young,
The babes in arms – whose only home
Is here. For this is Rio, more than any
Other city, where poor and rich are
Neighbours close, but strangers. Such
Inequality of opportunity.
Across the square, ornate in neo-Gothic
Splendour, a mighty “holy” edifice awaits
A groom and bride: flowers in their beauty
And their thousands, adorn the steps and
Doors and aisle; black-suited ushers –
Bouncers for the night – stand by to open
Doors of limousines, but close the wrought-iron
Gates to any but the most chic wedding guests:
Here love is blind indeed. “To have and hold”
For ever in a false security.
Another scene, just yards away. Beneath the
Soft glow of the amber lamp illuminating some
Civic yester-worthy, a simple table holds a cup
And plate. Bread is broken, wine outpoured
Among the city’s poor to whom it best belongs.
And sat around arrayed in rags of beauty and
Of pain come children, women, men, by all
The world forgotten, save by God. So here the
Food of love, the wine of dignity restored is
Offered and received with joy. But then
While priestly hands are held aloft, and all
Is offered, even in this place, according to the
Canon, I spot a woman in the crowd bearing
Her gift: body lotion, cheap and pungent,
Passed from hand to hand – her offering to
Tend the aching flesh of dusty streets. Joyfully
It anoints first arms, then legs, then breasts -
And healing and Shalom are there, an
Alabaster box for all to share. And God, whose
Tears embrace the streets with love, now
Weeps with unambiguous delight.
On observing, and sharing in , a Street Mass
In down-town Rio de Janiero, October 2011
Monday 26 September 2011
WHEN YOU'RE WEARY ...
A road far travelled is a
Road never travelled enough:
Beyond the horizon
Where the dust of the track
Colours the fading embers
Of the sinking blood-red sun,
And a lonely heron lazily
Beats her path to home;
There in the dying moments
of the day the urge for rest
Mingles with the irrepressible
Anticipation of tomorrow -
Adventure meets exhaustion
And the deep-hued heart of
Africa beckons through
The pulsing of cicadas and
The star-spattered hours of
Darkness to herald the joyful
Coming of the dawn
And of another day....
Africa under my skin
September 2011
Road never travelled enough:
Beyond the horizon
Where the dust of the track
Colours the fading embers
Of the sinking blood-red sun,
And a lonely heron lazily
Beats her path to home;
There in the dying moments
of the day the urge for rest
Mingles with the irrepressible
Anticipation of tomorrow -
Adventure meets exhaustion
And the deep-hued heart of
Africa beckons through
The pulsing of cicadas and
The star-spattered hours of
Darkness to herald the joyful
Coming of the dawn
And of another day....
Africa under my skin
September 2011
Sunday 25 September 2011
CHANCE ENCOUNTER
Such stories to the lizard
Must belong! Clandestine,
Waiting, hidden in her ancient
Cleft between the deep-hewn
Rock of ancient empire, and
Byzantine church. Tales, not
Tails, of power, whispers of
Passion and murmurings
Of fear – she hears them all.
And as the town is sacked and
Then abandoned, she claims
Her space again, and later welcomes
Pirates to her parlour, booty
And bounty both illicit stored.
Come soldiers, bishops, priests
And fisherfolk across the years.
Our lizard stays her course through
Changing DNA, and still is here
To welcome tourists in the heat:
Most to ignore, but some to step
Aside and wonder at her welcome:
Side’s watchful ancient, armoured,
Gentle, scaly confidante.
A quiet moment in a shaded ruin
-not quite alone!
Turkey, September 2011
Must belong! Clandestine,
Waiting, hidden in her ancient
Cleft between the deep-hewn
Rock of ancient empire, and
Byzantine church. Tales, not
Tails, of power, whispers of
Passion and murmurings
Of fear – she hears them all.
And as the town is sacked and
Then abandoned, she claims
Her space again, and later welcomes
Pirates to her parlour, booty
And bounty both illicit stored.
Come soldiers, bishops, priests
And fisherfolk across the years.
Our lizard stays her course through
Changing DNA, and still is here
To welcome tourists in the heat:
Most to ignore, but some to step
Aside and wonder at her welcome:
Side’s watchful ancient, armoured,
Gentle, scaly confidante.
A quiet moment in a shaded ruin
-not quite alone!
Turkey, September 2011
Saturday 24 September 2011
WHO’S HOME, WHO’S HISTORY?
Wavelets lapping on fallen
Corinthian columns tell
Of empires lost, of flaunted
Pride brought low: for here
Stood ancient Side (See-Day) port
And Roman bastion, high-walled
Against a deeper, hidden fear.
But of this fallen column,
What is known? Glistening in
The umbral early evening
Light, what secrets does it
Long to tell? Of him who,
Slave-lashed, hewed it from
Its distant marble home?
Of them who dragged it, mile
On mile, with many falling by
The way, with only sun-baked dust
To honour as their epitaph?
Of them, to praise some secretly
Derided Caesar, who carved it
To an elegance where beauty
Got the better of defiance? Or indeed of
Those who hauled it then aloft, a column
Stately in its honour of Apollon,
God of the higher arts, and of the Sun?
But later, then, the anger
Burns and boils: insurrection,
The scuttling of the fleet,
The sacking of the city and
Its holy, self-aggrandising
Pantheon: the answer to the
Hubris of the gods.
So how do I remember,
How re-learn, the history
Of the classics? For this is Asia
Minor, home of the dead -
Of empires come and gone;
Strange home too, and
Stranger grand-parental rooting,
To one of countless fallen soldiers
Wasted on Gallipoli’s barren,
Blackened, shrapnel-tortured earth.
Home of another kind, to the living
Daughters and sons of Ataturk, a
Nation caught between her neighbours –
Greece, Syria, Iraq, Iran (and troubled
Kurdistan): her peoples holding faith and
Ambiguity beneath the azure beauty of
This sky and sea – as I with them add
One more tear of loss, and hope
Amidst this middle-earthen
Cradle of the world.
On holiday in Side,
Anatolyan Pamphilia,
Turkey:
September 2011
Corinthian columns tell
Of empires lost, of flaunted
Pride brought low: for here
Stood ancient Side (See-Day) port
And Roman bastion, high-walled
Against a deeper, hidden fear.
But of this fallen column,
What is known? Glistening in
The umbral early evening
Light, what secrets does it
Long to tell? Of him who,
Slave-lashed, hewed it from
Its distant marble home?
Of them who dragged it, mile
On mile, with many falling by
The way, with only sun-baked dust
To honour as their epitaph?
Of them, to praise some secretly
Derided Caesar, who carved it
To an elegance where beauty
Got the better of defiance? Or indeed of
Those who hauled it then aloft, a column
Stately in its honour of Apollon,
God of the higher arts, and of the Sun?
But later, then, the anger
Burns and boils: insurrection,
The scuttling of the fleet,
The sacking of the city and
Its holy, self-aggrandising
Pantheon: the answer to the
Hubris of the gods.
So how do I remember,
How re-learn, the history
Of the classics? For this is Asia
Minor, home of the dead -
Of empires come and gone;
Strange home too, and
Stranger grand-parental rooting,
To one of countless fallen soldiers
Wasted on Gallipoli’s barren,
Blackened, shrapnel-tortured earth.
Home of another kind, to the living
Daughters and sons of Ataturk, a
Nation caught between her neighbours –
Greece, Syria, Iraq, Iran (and troubled
Kurdistan): her peoples holding faith and
Ambiguity beneath the azure beauty of
This sky and sea – as I with them add
One more tear of loss, and hope
Amidst this middle-earthen
Cradle of the world.
On holiday in Side,
Anatolyan Pamphilia,
Turkey:
September 2011
Friday 20 May 2011
A PILGRIMAGE, LONG OVERDUE
To stand in someone else’s shoes
Is not a possibility: for in this place
They wore no shoes.
To see what others saw, to miss
What others missed is also more than
Can be easily done:
For safety and the knowledge of prosperity,
Not fear and brutal separation
Become the cataracts to truth.
Across the teeming bay the utter
Beauty of the Mountain Table-spread
As nature’s sumptuous banquet-hall,
While on the Island, from the
Kitchens come, of Pap six ounces if
You’re coloured, four if black.
So now where brutal power once
Sought to crush the human spirit,
She, in her good time, rose up and
Quarried out of wickedness
A burning hope, and from a stone-built
Prison, a nation standing free.
After visiting Robben Island
Off Cape Town, South Africa,
May 2011
(Pap is one of the words used to describe
the staple, Maize Porridge)
Is not a possibility: for in this place
They wore no shoes.
To see what others saw, to miss
What others missed is also more than
Can be easily done:
For safety and the knowledge of prosperity,
Not fear and brutal separation
Become the cataracts to truth.
Across the teeming bay the utter
Beauty of the Mountain Table-spread
As nature’s sumptuous banquet-hall,
While on the Island, from the
Kitchens come, of Pap six ounces if
You’re coloured, four if black.
So now where brutal power once
Sought to crush the human spirit,
She, in her good time, rose up and
Quarried out of wickedness
A burning hope, and from a stone-built
Prison, a nation standing free.
After visiting Robben Island
Off Cape Town, South Africa,
May 2011
(Pap is one of the words used to describe
the staple, Maize Porridge)
Sunday 24 April 2011
....UNTIL
My Good Friday reflection ended on the single note of uncertain waiting – “...Until?”
Holy Saturday, as it turned out, was a gardening day, and I found myself inadvertently sucked into a long –overdue demolition job on an old greenhouse. It was hot, tiring, bruising work, and the debris was left overnight all over the lawn – a pile of rotten roofing sheets, several bundles of metal spars, a collection of wire and cables cut from its overgrown interior, and a large heap of chopped undergrowth awaiting a trip to the local tip. And then waking early, “on the Sunday morning”, I came to the garden – not with ointment, but with a cup of tea!
The story continues:
…..UNTIL
The pregnant silence of the early morning light.
A lonely heron lazily flaps across
The space between what’s gone
And what is yet to be.
To this suburban garden comes the sun
Suffusing in its mellow misted innocence
A passing plane; a flock of geese high-flying
On the breakfast run.
Fallen blossom bedecks the still parched lawn
And there, by it adorned, a tangled heap of
Metal spars laid out as if for burial, the
Aftermath of demolition yesterday.
Knotted ropes are there as well, perchance a
Whip has done its work and now lies idle
Whispering “It was not I – I did not know
The man”. And tangled roots, a knotted crown.
But with the coming of the sun, the little birds
Take up the victory cry: they sing of life:
They chirrup healing over all that has been
Broken, all that bled, and wept and died.
A dove with wings set low for landing
Swoops to its chimney haunt; and in its
Passing glance it names my name
And peacefully proclaims “This is the day! –
Christus resurrexit!”
Easter Morning, April 2011
Holy Saturday, as it turned out, was a gardening day, and I found myself inadvertently sucked into a long –overdue demolition job on an old greenhouse. It was hot, tiring, bruising work, and the debris was left overnight all over the lawn – a pile of rotten roofing sheets, several bundles of metal spars, a collection of wire and cables cut from its overgrown interior, and a large heap of chopped undergrowth awaiting a trip to the local tip. And then waking early, “on the Sunday morning”, I came to the garden – not with ointment, but with a cup of tea!
The story continues:
…..UNTIL
The pregnant silence of the early morning light.
A lonely heron lazily flaps across
The space between what’s gone
And what is yet to be.
To this suburban garden comes the sun
Suffusing in its mellow misted innocence
A passing plane; a flock of geese high-flying
On the breakfast run.
Fallen blossom bedecks the still parched lawn
And there, by it adorned, a tangled heap of
Metal spars laid out as if for burial, the
Aftermath of demolition yesterday.
Knotted ropes are there as well, perchance a
Whip has done its work and now lies idle
Whispering “It was not I – I did not know
The man”. And tangled roots, a knotted crown.
But with the coming of the sun, the little birds
Take up the victory cry: they sing of life:
They chirrup healing over all that has been
Broken, all that bled, and wept and died.
A dove with wings set low for landing
Swoops to its chimney haunt; and in its
Passing glance it names my name
And peacefully proclaims “This is the day! –
Christus resurrexit!”
Easter Morning, April 2011
Friday 22 April 2011
ANOTHER KIND OF HOST
There’s flour and water,
And perhaps a little salt.
A few sticks, fire, and a
Crumbling mud-bricked
Oven. The rest is kneaded
Through the work-worn
Hands of often unknown
Women, the much exploited
Mothers of the world.
And then they gather in an
Urban tenement, an Upper
Room, discreetly chosen,
Safe – if anywhere is left
That’s free from fear or
Ambiguity. They come from
Far and near: known and
Unknown, nameless and named.
Zimbabwe’s there, her faithful
People pleading for the rule of
Law. Libyans too, longing for
Freedom and another future.
They weep, the divided peoples
Of Sri Lanka, broken apart,
As bread is broken: aftermath of
War and racial arrogance.
Around the table too, hurting Jew
And Palestinian, struggling with
Their ancestry, a hospitality still
Longed for but denied. And from the
West, proud bankers sit in quiet
Contemplation of the ashes of their
Dreams. For all the world is there,
Where bread is broken, wine outpoured.
This broken bread “This is my Body”:
And in this cup, the pain and hurt of
All is poured – until the last sad drops
Are drained, and only love is left.
And then the waiting in the garden –
A betrayal in the deepest terrifying
Darkness – the anguished bloody
Dying: and the laying in a tomb….
….until?
Good Friday 2011
And perhaps a little salt.
A few sticks, fire, and a
Crumbling mud-bricked
Oven. The rest is kneaded
Through the work-worn
Hands of often unknown
Women, the much exploited
Mothers of the world.
And then they gather in an
Urban tenement, an Upper
Room, discreetly chosen,
Safe – if anywhere is left
That’s free from fear or
Ambiguity. They come from
Far and near: known and
Unknown, nameless and named.
Zimbabwe’s there, her faithful
People pleading for the rule of
Law. Libyans too, longing for
Freedom and another future.
They weep, the divided peoples
Of Sri Lanka, broken apart,
As bread is broken: aftermath of
War and racial arrogance.
Around the table too, hurting Jew
And Palestinian, struggling with
Their ancestry, a hospitality still
Longed for but denied. And from the
West, proud bankers sit in quiet
Contemplation of the ashes of their
Dreams. For all the world is there,
Where bread is broken, wine outpoured.
This broken bread “This is my Body”:
And in this cup, the pain and hurt of
All is poured – until the last sad drops
Are drained, and only love is left.
And then the waiting in the garden –
A betrayal in the deepest terrifying
Darkness – the anguished bloody
Dying: and the laying in a tomb….
….until?
Good Friday 2011
Tuesday 22 March 2011
OF SISAL, AND THE KNOTS OF HISTORY
Shortly before the end of British rule in Tanganyika, the UK Government invested in a huge ground-nut scheme following the collapse of the sisal-growing market due in part to the introduction of synthetic ropework. The groundnut scheme too, was a disaster. Traces of the huge sisal plantations remain, a memory of a bygone, more unhappy age; seeing them sparked this reflection on how the baggage and detritus of history often leave their fibrous prickles to hinder our forward journeys.
Moving cautiously along the dusty road
That runs among the gentle hills that form
The backdrop to the city; letting go the hours
Of flying through the night, its stiffness and
It’s articifial air: now leaving the sweating
Heaving urban sprawl of modern day
Dar es Salaam, we join the welcome tarmac
Leading West to Morogoro and beyond.
Trucks struggle on the gradually rising road
While taxis duck and weave a wild roulette
With death, where human life is cheap, but
Hopes and dreams are high. Fading the sounds
And smells of city life, soon houses and shacks
Give way to green bananas swaying in the
Freshening air, and they in turn yield to the
Scrub and bush of Africa’s beguiling heart.
And later on the butts of sisal poking through
The yellowed grass. Their flowering heads fly
Flags of colony and empire - now long gone.
Sharp-edged and angry, their cactus tendrils shout
A fibrous warning to the world: grand schemes
Will only rise and fall, and leave a legacy of
Pain and hurt when greed and exploitation
Take the place of people and their aspirations.
And so we find a Tanzanian church still wrestling with
Its past, amidst its beauty, joy and faithful inspiration.
Amidst its gentle grasses too, the butts of history flag
Their false allegiances, dividing in their memories the
Future that they share. The legacy of mission, once
Hope and inspiration, now becomes the sisal project
Of the mind, perpetuating all that chokes and kills,
Yet needs to learn from Africa: and see, and grow.
For Africa is rich, her people
Strong, and God is bigger
Than the sisal-spikes and thistles of
A soon-to-be-forgotten past.
After meeting the Tanzanian House of Bishops,
Morogoro, March 2011.
Moving cautiously along the dusty road
That runs among the gentle hills that form
The backdrop to the city; letting go the hours
Of flying through the night, its stiffness and
It’s articifial air: now leaving the sweating
Heaving urban sprawl of modern day
Dar es Salaam, we join the welcome tarmac
Leading West to Morogoro and beyond.
Trucks struggle on the gradually rising road
While taxis duck and weave a wild roulette
With death, where human life is cheap, but
Hopes and dreams are high. Fading the sounds
And smells of city life, soon houses and shacks
Give way to green bananas swaying in the
Freshening air, and they in turn yield to the
Scrub and bush of Africa’s beguiling heart.
And later on the butts of sisal poking through
The yellowed grass. Their flowering heads fly
Flags of colony and empire - now long gone.
Sharp-edged and angry, their cactus tendrils shout
A fibrous warning to the world: grand schemes
Will only rise and fall, and leave a legacy of
Pain and hurt when greed and exploitation
Take the place of people and their aspirations.
And so we find a Tanzanian church still wrestling with
Its past, amidst its beauty, joy and faithful inspiration.
Amidst its gentle grasses too, the butts of history flag
Their false allegiances, dividing in their memories the
Future that they share. The legacy of mission, once
Hope and inspiration, now becomes the sisal project
Of the mind, perpetuating all that chokes and kills,
Yet needs to learn from Africa: and see, and grow.
For Africa is rich, her people
Strong, and God is bigger
Than the sisal-spikes and thistles of
A soon-to-be-forgotten past.
After meeting the Tanzanian House of Bishops,
Morogoro, March 2011.
Monday 7 March 2011
BEFORE I SNEEZED
The scent of frangipani on the sultry air
Amidst the blue and white of
Yesterday, Tomorrow and Today:
A hint of eucalyptus; the pungent stench of
sullied road-side sewer blessed by
Tempting sausage and samoosa
On the bustling street-edged fire;
Thick clouds of diesel smoke surround the thunder-
Rumbling truck upon its homeward hill;
So brother sun greets sister moon
In the fading light of gentle
Madagascar’s afternoon.
Yes! This cacophony of smells
Invades my lungs and,
Ochre-red in memories,
It captivates my heart.
Antananarivo,
Madagascar,
March 2011.
Amidst the blue and white of
Yesterday, Tomorrow and Today:
A hint of eucalyptus; the pungent stench of
sullied road-side sewer blessed by
Tempting sausage and samoosa
On the bustling street-edged fire;
Thick clouds of diesel smoke surround the thunder-
Rumbling truck upon its homeward hill;
So brother sun greets sister moon
In the fading light of gentle
Madagascar’s afternoon.
Yes! This cacophony of smells
Invades my lungs and,
Ochre-red in memories,
It captivates my heart.
Antananarivo,
Madagascar,
March 2011.
Monday 17 January 2011
Home at last
Notes from a Funeral address for my mother, Evelene Alice Ruddock who died on 8th January 2011 aged 95
St John the Baptist Church Horsington
14th January 2011
Reading: Mark 6:30-43 – The feeding of the 5000
“The eternal picnic” was a family joke associated with many happy years of summer holidays in West Wales: everybody had a job making collecting or carrying something for these make-do banquets on beach or cliff (“but where’s the salt?!!)
I am reminded of the Church of the Multiplication in Galilee – built on the traditional site of the feeding of the 5000. On the grass there today is a big sign reading “no picnics!”
Hospitality was at heart of Evelene’s life
Everyone is welcome: there is room for all! Reg and Evelene’s home was known for its open doors and warm welcome, down many decades.
The feeding of the 5000 in Mark is a story about the hospitality of God – about a bigger deeper banquet, where there is room for all! Four things from the story link with Evelene’s life and are for us to reflect on as we give her back to God.
Jesus says to his grumbling disciples, when they are overwhelmed by the size of the hungry crowd before them “You give them something to eat”
Hospitality provides the context for encouragement
Evelene was ever the great encourager – believer in others; and of course the magnet for little children because she knew how to enter their world and share its wonder with them
Mark tells us: “Jesus’ heart went out to them… Where can we find food in this lonely place?”
Hospitality can be offered, even in a lonely (deserted) place
Evelene, since Reg’s death, lived with loss and transformed it with love for others
The story continues: “Jesus took the bread – and gave thanks”
Hospitality is not rooted in being nice!
Hospitality is rooted in committed thanksgiving – and Evelene’s quiet inner life of prayer and thankfulness opened her heart and home to others. In this age of instant everything it is easy to miss the secret that drives a deeper giving and loving – a quiet, inner feeding, on the deep love of God for each of his creation.
And our story concludes: “12 baskets were gathered of what was left”
Hospitality generates abundance! Evelene’s capacity to produce and reproduce puddings “ex nihilo” illustrates the point! (They were a temptation for a gastronomist’s archaeological dig!)
So in conclusion: We have seen in Evelene a glimpse of God – several glimpses in fact!
If ever it were true that God is not discovered in books, or sermons, or weighty words, then Evelene’s life points us to where God is found: in one another, in love given and received; in forgiveness freely offered even at a cost; in welcome, in patience; in compassion; in a deep belief in the value of the “other”, and in that wonderful gift of affirmation and encouragement…
Perhaps we can hear her saying to us today:
Go on, be yourself, take a risk, learn to love and be loved – and above all never forget that you are loved eternally and for all time by the one who is the source of all life.
Thanks be to God for an amazing lady, and for one amazing life!
Edgar Ruddock
These notes link with those of the tribute offered on behalf of the grandchildren and great grand-children by Lisa Wellesley, Evelene’s oldest grandchild. As that concluded the great grandchildren brought forward 6 red helium-filled balloons to adorn Evelene’s coffin. After the burial they were released at the graveside, to mark Evelene’s liberation from a worn-out body!
St John the Baptist Church Horsington
14th January 2011
Reading: Mark 6:30-43 – The feeding of the 5000
“The eternal picnic” was a family joke associated with many happy years of summer holidays in West Wales: everybody had a job making collecting or carrying something for these make-do banquets on beach or cliff (“but where’s the salt?!!)
I am reminded of the Church of the Multiplication in Galilee – built on the traditional site of the feeding of the 5000. On the grass there today is a big sign reading “no picnics!”
Hospitality was at heart of Evelene’s life
Everyone is welcome: there is room for all! Reg and Evelene’s home was known for its open doors and warm welcome, down many decades.
The feeding of the 5000 in Mark is a story about the hospitality of God – about a bigger deeper banquet, where there is room for all! Four things from the story link with Evelene’s life and are for us to reflect on as we give her back to God.
Jesus says to his grumbling disciples, when they are overwhelmed by the size of the hungry crowd before them “You give them something to eat”
Hospitality provides the context for encouragement
Evelene was ever the great encourager – believer in others; and of course the magnet for little children because she knew how to enter their world and share its wonder with them
Mark tells us: “Jesus’ heart went out to them… Where can we find food in this lonely place?”
Hospitality can be offered, even in a lonely (deserted) place
Evelene, since Reg’s death, lived with loss and transformed it with love for others
The story continues: “Jesus took the bread – and gave thanks”
Hospitality is not rooted in being nice!
Hospitality is rooted in committed thanksgiving – and Evelene’s quiet inner life of prayer and thankfulness opened her heart and home to others. In this age of instant everything it is easy to miss the secret that drives a deeper giving and loving – a quiet, inner feeding, on the deep love of God for each of his creation.
And our story concludes: “12 baskets were gathered of what was left”
Hospitality generates abundance! Evelene’s capacity to produce and reproduce puddings “ex nihilo” illustrates the point! (They were a temptation for a gastronomist’s archaeological dig!)
So in conclusion: We have seen in Evelene a glimpse of God – several glimpses in fact!
If ever it were true that God is not discovered in books, or sermons, or weighty words, then Evelene’s life points us to where God is found: in one another, in love given and received; in forgiveness freely offered even at a cost; in welcome, in patience; in compassion; in a deep belief in the value of the “other”, and in that wonderful gift of affirmation and encouragement…
Perhaps we can hear her saying to us today:
Go on, be yourself, take a risk, learn to love and be loved – and above all never forget that you are loved eternally and for all time by the one who is the source of all life.
Thanks be to God for an amazing lady, and for one amazing life!
Edgar Ruddock
These notes link with those of the tribute offered on behalf of the grandchildren and great grand-children by Lisa Wellesley, Evelene’s oldest grandchild. As that concluded the great grandchildren brought forward 6 red helium-filled balloons to adorn Evelene’s coffin. After the burial they were released at the graveside, to mark Evelene’s liberation from a worn-out body!
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