Faith and the Margins
A salt‑stained wind moved in from the Channel as the congregation filed out of St Anne’s, the little flint‑and‑cream church perched above the harbour in Trewissick.
A salt‑stained wind moved in from the Channel as the congregation filed out of St Anne’s, the little flint‑and‑cream church perched above the harbour in Trewissick.
It was late summer in 1996 in Cornwall, the sort of Sunday when the hymn boards still smelled faintly of polish and the cassette player in the vestry wheezed its way through the final bars of “Be Thou My Vision.”
The Reverend Margaret Ellison had preached with her usual soft, earnest cadence. Near the end she had leaned forward over the pulpit, hands resting on the green felt edge, and offered the lines she had been polishing all week:
The Reverend Margaret Ellison had preached with her usual soft, earnest cadence. Near the end she had leaned forward over the pulpit, hands resting on the green felt edge, and offered the lines she had been polishing all week:
“So if you’re feeling a bit marginalised for whatever reason, or you know people who are, know that Jesus’ love reaches that far. Jesus’ love reaches infinitely far. Not only that, but we often see that Jesus has got a particular soft spot for those on the edge.”
People nodded. A few dabbed their eyes. The churchwarden whispered that it was “one of her better ones.” Margaret smiled, receiving the praise as though it were a warm shawl.
But in the porch, as the last hymn sheets were being gathered, she spotted Ruth Harding waiting for her. Ruth, once a lively lay reader, now walked with a stick after a stroke the previous winter. Her speech was slower, her right hand curled inward like a sleeping bird.
“Margaret,” Ruth said, “I wondered if I might help again with the midweek service. Even just reading the intercessions. I miss it terribly.”
Margaret’s expression tightened almost imperceptibly. She glanced at her watch, an old digital Casio whose beeps always sounded too loud in the vestry.
“Oh, Ruth… I’m so terribly busy these days. The parish council, the youth group, the new stewardship campaign. I simply can’t take on the extra burden of supporting you in ministry right now. It would be too much for me.” She touched Ruth’s arm lightly, as if that softened the words. “Perhaps it’s best if you step back for the time being.”
Ruth nodded, though her eyes clouded. She turned away slowly, the rubber tip of her stick tapping the stone floor like a metronome.
Inside, the lay reader, Peter Lacey, was folding his notes for next Sunday’s sermon. He had laid out his cassock and surplice on a chair, brushing off a few stray threads.
Margaret paused in the doorway. “Peter, I meant to say, don’t wear robes next week.”
He looked up, startled. “Not wear? But I always do when preaching.”
“Yes, well,” she said, smoothing her skirt, “I don’t believe in all that dressing up. It distracts people. Just come as you are. A jumper and trousers will do perfectly well.”
Peter hesitated, then nodded, folding the cassock away with a care that made the fabric seem suddenly fragile.
Outside, the gulls wheeled over the harbour, their cries sharp against the hum of a distant ice‑cream van playing its high-pitched, electronic chime version of “Greensleeves.” It was a first warning to children to run for their pocket money to buy Mr Whippy. Holidaymakers wandered leisurely along the promenade, unaware of the small fractures forming inside the parish that prided itself on welcome.
Margaret locked the vestry door and walked briskly toward the vicarage, her sermon notes tucked under her arm. The words she had spoken from the pulpit still rang in the air behind her, warm and expansive.
But the wind carried other truths too, quieter, more uncomfortable ones, drifting like sea mist through the narrow lanes of the Cornish seaside town, waiting for someone to notice.
People nodded. A few dabbed their eyes. The churchwarden whispered that it was “one of her better ones.” Margaret smiled, receiving the praise as though it were a warm shawl.
But in the porch, as the last hymn sheets were being gathered, she spotted Ruth Harding waiting for her. Ruth, once a lively lay reader, now walked with a stick after a stroke the previous winter. Her speech was slower, her right hand curled inward like a sleeping bird.
“Margaret,” Ruth said, “I wondered if I might help again with the midweek service. Even just reading the intercessions. I miss it terribly.”
Margaret’s expression tightened almost imperceptibly. She glanced at her watch, an old digital Casio whose beeps always sounded too loud in the vestry.
“Oh, Ruth… I’m so terribly busy these days. The parish council, the youth group, the new stewardship campaign. I simply can’t take on the extra burden of supporting you in ministry right now. It would be too much for me.” She touched Ruth’s arm lightly, as if that softened the words. “Perhaps it’s best if you step back for the time being.”
Ruth nodded, though her eyes clouded. She turned away slowly, the rubber tip of her stick tapping the stone floor like a metronome.
Inside, the lay reader, Peter Lacey, was folding his notes for next Sunday’s sermon. He had laid out his cassock and surplice on a chair, brushing off a few stray threads.
Margaret paused in the doorway. “Peter, I meant to say, don’t wear robes next week.”
He looked up, startled. “Not wear? But I always do when preaching.”
“Yes, well,” she said, smoothing her skirt, “I don’t believe in all that dressing up. It distracts people. Just come as you are. A jumper and trousers will do perfectly well.”
Peter hesitated, then nodded, folding the cassock away with a care that made the fabric seem suddenly fragile.
Outside, the gulls wheeled over the harbour, their cries sharp against the hum of a distant ice‑cream van playing its high-pitched, electronic chime version of “Greensleeves.” It was a first warning to children to run for their pocket money to buy Mr Whippy. Holidaymakers wandered leisurely along the promenade, unaware of the small fractures forming inside the parish that prided itself on welcome.
Margaret locked the vestry door and walked briskly toward the vicarage, her sermon notes tucked under her arm. The words she had spoken from the pulpit still rang in the air behind her, warm and expansive.
But the wind carried other truths too, quieter, more uncomfortable ones, drifting like sea mist through the narrow lanes of the Cornish seaside town, waiting for someone to notice.
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