Strange Vagabond of God

I would like to write a bit about a strange man who seems to epitomise a form of Christianity that was common in the Middle Ages but is rarely seen today. John Bradburne was a sort of wandering anchorite, a man who cared nothing for those things that seem so important to most of us. He cared nothing for money, possessions or power.

He was born in 1921 into an upper- middle-class family in Skirwith in rural Cumbria, a beautiful region of England that has the English Lake District within its borders. His family was a distinguished one. Terence Rattigan, the playwright, was a cousin and another was Christopher Soames, the last governor of what was known as Rhodesia.

He had s distinguished military career in World War 11, during which he worked with Gurkhas in Burma. After the fall of Singapore he and a fellow officer sailed in a primitive sampan all the way to Sumatra. He was decorated for his bravery.

After the war he converted to Catholicism. He tried three times to enter monasteries but failed every time. He spent a lot of time wandering around Europe and the Holy Land, doing odd jobs and sleeping wherever he could find a couch for the night. He was obvious a restless seeker after God.

He realised that material things can never really satisfy the deepest longings of the human heart. He would express his deepest feelings in verse, some of it surprisingly good.

This sonnet seems to sum up his feelings.

No more, my Lord, to dream away Thy time,

Among the fading blooms of pleasure's lawn,

No more to slumber heedless of the chime

Which keeps untiring watch from dawn till dawn.

No more the quest of this world's finest views

Which can but fill the eye with fresh desire,

No more the crowding vanities and news

That keep from souls Thy Holy Spirit's fire.

No more the wanderer way, the wide unrest

And weary search for joys that will not cease;

No more, good Lord, to turn from Thy behest,

No more! We know Thy will to be our peace.

To thee we tread the road that Christ has trod,

So rest our hearts in His: Thy heart dear God.

In 1969 he found himself in Rhodesia, now Zimbabwe. He said he was seeking a cave where he could pray. A friend, Heather Benoy, suggested to him that he could be useful looking after small leper colony at Mutemwa, an area to the east of Harare. When he got there he found a scene of utter dereliction. The lepers were dirty and hungry; their sores were suppurating and primitive huts had roofs that let in the rain. John looked around and , "I'm staying." He kept his word and spent the rest of his life in selfless service to these outcasts. feeding them, washing their open sores, tending them in sickness and reading the scriptures to them.

In 1979, at the height of the insurgency against the Smith regime, he was abducted by a gang of insurgents. They took him to a secret location and tried to tempt and humiliate him. Young girls were offered him , but he simply held his peace and quietly prayed. A smaller group to him away into the bush and shot him in the head. He was found the next day clothed simply in his under pants by a rural road.

I include a part of another of his sonnets, probably his best, that seems to sum up his life.

Your heart's desire is nearest, though unseen,

Your haven of perfection close at hand;

And that drear quest was as a fevered dream;

God's love within you is your native land.

So search none other, never more depart,

For you are homeless, save God keeps your heart.