{"id":387,"date":"2002-12-02T00:00:00","date_gmt":"2002-12-02T00:00:00","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/lanuera.com\/cmwp\/?p=387"},"modified":"2002-12-02T00:00:00","modified_gmt":"2002-12-02T00:00:00","slug":"memories-of-redfern","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/church-mouse.net\/?p=387","title":{"rendered":"Memories of Redfern"},"content":{"rendered":"

T<\/span>he death of an Aboriginal man, Ocky, at the back of the Church.<\/o:p><\/span><\/p>\n

<\/div>\n

<\/o:p><\/span><\/p>\n

<\/div>\n

Ocky’s Camp:<\/span><\/strong> the dim back corner of the Church. A little row of medicine bottles for his chest complaint, a little carrier bag, a few papers, the plate of his last meal, and some tattered blankets on the floor. Beside his head, a pair of thick-lensed glasses.<\/o:p><\/span><\/p>\n

<\/div>\n

<\/o:p><\/span><\/p>\n

\n<\/div>\n

<\/o:p><\/span><\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

\n

Kneeling beside the stiffened shell of him lying, as if asleep,<\/o:p><\/span><\/p>\n

poor and humble on the straw matting as his only bed,<\/o:p><\/span><\/p>\n

I thought I was present at the birth of Christ<\/o:p><\/span><\/p>\n

The deathbed of the poor is always the Stable of Bethlehem,<\/o:p><\/span><\/p>\n

that stable contained within itself<\/o:p><\/span><\/p>\n

all places that are symbols of rejection,<\/o:p><\/span><\/p>\n

places where the poor are born and live and die<\/o:p><\/span><\/p>\n

because there is no room for them amongst the well-to-do.<\/o:p><\/span><\/p>\n

As I knelt and looked at him, something happened in my mind<\/o:p><\/span><\/p>\n

as though a golden disk was spinning before my eyes,<\/o:p><\/span><\/p>\n

one side engraved with the death of Ocky,<\/o:p><\/span><\/p>\n

the other side with the birth of Christ.<\/o:p><\/span><\/p>\n

<\/o:p><\/span><\/p>\n

Two sides of the one reality; I couldn’t tell if I were present at a birth or at a death.<\/o:p><\/span><\/p>\n

While Ted and Christine tried to contact relatives,<\/o:p><\/span><\/p>\n

we lifted him and laid him on his back, out of respect.<\/o:p><\/span><\/p>\n

David took his shoulders, I his ankles<\/o:p><\/span><\/p>\n

and my heart cracked as I felt him, light and brittle<\/o:p><\/span><\/p>\n

like a dry gum branch, like an abandoned cicada shell ­<\/o:p><\/span><\/p>\n

and suddenly I knew for certain that the spirit does not die<\/o:p><\/span><\/p>\n

and I knew my certainty was Ocky’s gift in death to me.<\/o:p><\/span><\/p>\n

<\/o:p><\/span><\/p>\n

But was I kneeling beside the dead shell of Ocky on the floor,<\/o:p><\/span><\/p>\n

or beside the new-born Liberator on the straw at <\/span>Bethlehem<\/span><\/st1:place><\/st1:city>?<\/o:p><\/span><\/p>\n

The coldness and the stiffness and the smell of death were there<\/o:p><\/span><\/p>\n

a man in his final helplessness….<\/o:p><\/span><\/p>\n

but how come my mind went not to the Crucifixion or Entombment<\/o:p><\/span><\/p>\n

but to the birth of Christ?<\/o:p><\/span><\/p>\n

There was something new there, something fresh and full of goodness,<\/o:p><\/span><\/p>\n

not just the body of an old man dead.<\/o:p><\/span><\/p>\n

<\/o:p><\/span><\/p>\n

I am convinced beyond all argument<\/o:p><\/span><\/p>\n

that when a poor man dies, Christ’s birth is celebrated anew;<\/o:p><\/span><\/p>\n

the Poor One, rejected from the shelter available to the rich<\/o:p><\/span><\/p>\n

the Poor One, whose birthplace was a dim corner on the straw,<\/o:p><\/span><\/p>\n

the Poor One, without power or possessions.<\/o:p><\/span><\/p>\n

Beloved of God but despised by the rich.<\/span><\/p>\n<\/div>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

The death of an Aboriginal man, Ocky, at the back of the Church.<\/p>\n

\n

Ocky’s Camp:<\/strong> the dim back corner of the Church. A little row of medicine bottles for his chest complaint, a little carrier bag, a few papers, the plate of his last meal, and some tattered blankets on the floor. Beside his head, a pair of thick-lensed glasses.<\/p>\n

\n

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