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)

....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

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

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.

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.

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!

BEHIND THE VEIL

 

In softened pinks, the early morning

Mist belies the worn-out

Sad corrosion of the City or

In  tones of grey, a gracious  

Veil conceals the beauty of her face

As she approaches Eucharist.

So now do I, in pastel tones, ask

What can lie behind this gentle

People's mask of unintended

Silence –

A silence born of fear and

Years of anxious dread, 

Of other eyes and ears that

Notice everything

And by their hidden threats

Anaesthetise

The birth of hope?

 

 

On a visit to Myanmar

December 2010