What does it mean to emigrate to the New South Africa, you ask? I wish I had enough insight and time to reflect fully on that and explain, but for now, I must relate part of my understanding to you by describing some more of my week.
Emigrating to the New South Africa means engaging with humanity's issues with patient hearts and creativity. We attempted to enter into this through preparing for our Faith and Science evenings on Monday and Tuesday, helping people of the congregation and the community to engage with Scripture and the insights of culture imaginatively and with humor and academic exploration.
Emigrating to the New South Africa means, however, that while this engagement is taking place, we have no choice but to be mindful of the desperation, anger, and suffering that circles and attempts to wipe out that imagination.
On Monday morning, I went to the hospital to visit Sidney, a patient I had seen before - a woman dying of lung cancer. Her grown children and husband were beside themselves, not knowing what to do in the face of her death but also in the face of her fear of death. She was so very afraid. Such a strange feeling for me, to begin a day in the midst of the helplessness of imminent death. It was a moment in life, when you know that your words will never be enough - that you can tell someone not to be afraid until you turn blue, but ultimately, the only thing that will make a difference is expressing God's love for her and trusting that God is present. Trusting Maranatha - that Jesus comes. She was in Parklands, one of the most beautiful hospitals I have ever seen - one of the private hospitals in Durban, where only those with private medical aide may go for care. She was hooked up to a million machines in an impeccably clean room with nurses scurrying to and fro. It was such a different scene from that of other government hospitals for those without medical aide where I have visited here, one of which is literally two blocks away from the private hospital. In the government hospital the roof leaks rain inside and patients are stacked six or more in a cluttered ward. I began my day in Parklands and ended it with visions of just such a government hospital, but in between, many preparations had to be made for our evening of Faith and Science.
After an afternoon of preparation, wherein one of the young ladies of the church had her cell phone stolen by another congregant homeless man from the church sanctuary, I was sitting at a desk in the office, furiously scribbling out equations from organic chemistry to decorate the walls of the church, Gareth popped his head in with more bad news. Gideon, a young adult friend (a member of Manning Road, a refugee from the Democratic Republic of Congo, and a gentle, intelligent university student) had been stabbed in the back, while walking from university to church. Paul, our youth and young adults director, was called to rush him to the hospital, while we all sat stunned and attempting still to present an evening of "fun" and lectures on the intersection of faith and science, while Gideon bled for four hours in Paul's arms in the waiting room at Addington Hospital because the government hospitals are on strike here, and only one doctor was on duty for an entire hospital. Some might call this madness. And it is. But, part of the challenge of the New South Africa seems to be to stop placing blame.
This night, however, was a night of many tears, as it is difficult not to place blame, when violence and suffering seems so very senseless. At first, we thought that the person who stabbed Gideon had stolen his bookbag, which seemed senseless enough, in and of itself, since all the bookbag held were textbooks. We have now discovered that the stabber took nothing. Absolutely nothing. It was pure violence. "The bastards," we said - they're not worth our time. And yet, it is in exactly this climate of desperation and anger where we do minister and must. In a world of so much fear, as much as we lash out in the face of such violence, claiming to want nothing to do with it, if we do not meet it in all its gruesome reality, we let it win.
And so, as I had begun the day by praying, we ended the day by praying - this time for Gideon and for the attacker. Praying that Gideon would survive this, and he has so far. His lung was punctured. He thought he was going to die, and yet Tuesday came, and he is yet alive.
Tuesday was a day of reflection on the madness. A day of trying to improve the previous night of Faith and Science. In the midst of this reflection, we were privileged to visit Gideon in the hospital, privileged to see him alive. And I was distraught to discover upon taking communion to Sidney at Parklands that she had died early that morning. The life of Gideon. The death of Sidney. The death of a part of Gideon's innocence. The life of Sidney now without fear. The madness of the guards walking around with AK-47s and six patients to a ward in Addington Government Hospital. The madness of cancer at Parklands. The awe of persistent joy and compassion - the persistent presence of God through it all. The New South Africa.
Tuesday meant, also, my regular visit to the local Children's Home. It meant the joy of photographing the lives of the girls there and working with them to join the wisdom of Scripture to the beauty of their lives in the making of scrapbooks. This is joy and pain united into one. Mixed in with this joy and pain was the news that one of the girls had cut herself the past weekend out of frustration and anger, and another young girl had overdosed on pills, landing in the government hospital I had visited on Monday. And thus, life comes full circle.
She wanted to die, but she is yet alive. I began this day by a visit to see her. Surrounded by a team of psychologists in a ward of six miserable women, as rain absolutely poured down from the heavens, I could not help but think that these must be the tears of God. I glimpsed her through the door, and she gave me a weak smile. I waited my turn, and it seemed the tears of God were raining on me, when she collapsed in my arms in sobs. I have never seen a young person with as much trauma in her life as this child has seen - I could not bear to relate all of it to you, but if you can imagine it, I can pretty much guarantee that it is a part of her story. She cannot see herself with a future, and it takes little imagination to wonder why. She's covered in cut marks and burn marks and now, holes from IVs, and yet, she is still beautiful, and I pray tonight that she - that we all - will continue to comprehend that death doesn't win - if we die of an insidious disease, if we descend into violence, even if we attempt to bring it on ourselves - death still does not win in South Africa or any other place in this world because this is God's world.
This is a world of faith and science. Science may prove that death exists, but regardless, in the New South Africa, faith says we are yet alive.
Wednesday, June 27, 2007
The bishop
This is how my week began. When picking up Peter Storey, former Methodist Bishop of South Africa and one of the people that I admire most in the world, from the airport on Sunday night, I arrived at the airport just fine (after missing a turn-off and having to drive in a circle around a big chunk of Durban). After driving by the Arrivals terminal, having Peter Storey fling himself into my bitty car, clutching his bag and offering to drive for me, I gave in to the pressure of traffic around me and drove out of the airport to get back on the highway. Things went fine for the first few minutes, as I attempted to merge into oncoming truck traffic in the dark on the wrong side of the road, while reflecting theologically to one of the greatest practical theologians of this century. Yes, things went fine, until I turned off on the first exit to Pinetown - the wrong exit to Pinetown - since no one had ever told me that there were two, and I was actually to take the second one. And so, there we were, the bishop and I, sitting in the dark on a fairly deserted road in South Africa, as I wondered why the scenery didn't look familiar to me and what on earth I was to do next. Redemption finally came when we stopped at a petrol station, and someone miraculously could direct us in the proper way. The bishop took over the steering wheel, and I was demoted to "navigator." Which, I thankfully accomplished with a minor amount of miraculous finesse, as we got to our destination, Pinetown Methodist Church. Peter Storey thanked me for the ride, described me as his "blind navigator," and we all went to tea at a Pinetown Methodist member's home and shared experiences about South Africa and listened to Peter Storey describe stories from his life, including his experiences in situations such as being the man in charge of peacekeeping in Soweto during the first South African democratic elections in 1994. It was a fairly awe-inspiring evening, listening to the Bishop's sharp mind relate how we need to emigrate to the New South Africa.
The gate
As are many days in Durban, the day I will describe was a day of laughter and tears. I'm beginning to realize (sad, it's taken me so long) that this is inevitably the nature of life and ministry. The morning was stunningly beautiful and filled with preparations for Manning Road's multi-sensory, multi-media Faith and Science extravaganza. Nothing gives me a greater chuckle than seeing the senior pastor of a Methodist Church on video wearing snorkelling gear to interview people such as me (dressed up as Celine Dion), Darth Vader, and the church deacon (as the world's greatest Moses impersonator). It is truly a joy to work in a congregation where the pastors have such fantastic funny bones. On a broader level, it is truly poignant to live in a place where people have experienced and continue to feel immense communal pain and yet often display such profound hope and joy. Since my first night in South Africa, I have been overwhelmed by the hospitality and overtly shared joy of the people I have met here – the open smiles of people from all backgrounds. In hearing many of their stories and feeling the insidious stress that can creep into life here through the daily observance of and conversation about crime and related racial, political, and economic tensions, the smiles I see carry something deeper than our American, generally shallow understanding of “happiness.” The joy in many people here seems to have a great sense of rebellion, rebellion against being weighed down by pain and fear.
Such pain and fear, however, still does seem common in conversation and in daily living here. On this particular day, I finished my lunch of leftover fish, prepared and packed for my spoiled self by my doting host-mother and journeyed with our church secretary, Phelo, to Cato Manor, an enormous informal settlement just fifteen minutes away from our fairly wealthy church. There is no electricity in most parts of Cato Manor. There is no preparation for a multi-media extravaganza. On the edge of the settlement, there is, however, a school and a fortress-like library, wherein I found about fifty small boys out of school because of the strikes and watching a DVD. If not for the facts that a young man asked for my number in isiZulu on the steps outside, that inside the library several shelves are labelled "Zulu," that every face but mine is black, and that every poster on the notice board warns against HIV/AIDS and STIs, a visitor might think they had wandered overseas into a library in Durham, North Carolina. And actually, apart from the Zulu, such a scene could absolutely be found in Durham.
And yet, if you walk back outside, down the steps of the concrete fortress library, and turn right, you see what seems to me, the epitome of vulnerability. Cato Manor is one of the places where I am not supposed to go by myself. A debate in the office that morning between pastors even mulled over whether it was alright for me to go alone with Phelo without a man escorting us. Cato Manor is a place where I am told it is not safe to wear jewellery or carry my cell phone. As you look out over the hill, your eyes scan a horizon of shacks made out of cardboard and scrap metal, leaning on the Durban hills, planted among weeds and dirt paths. More small children run around, gawking at me confusedly. If you walk down the road a little ways, you see government construction being done on several cement block homes, creating a brighter "good" section of this largely displaced community. Taxi vans zigzag up and down the potholed road, stopping at unexpected moments to pick up men, women, and children, waiting on the side of the road to go into downtown Durban.
Downtown Durban and the Berea, where I live, are areas where children do not run around unless they are street children. Durban is a city where no yards adjoin and where every building has walls or a gate, an electric fence or barbed wire. When I ask people from Manning Road when all the walls went up and why, they inevitably sigh and begin to talk about the days before 1994 when people had gardens in their front yards and you could go into downtown Durban without being afraid of having your car hijacked.
I have so many security buttons and keys on my keychain that I actually have to divide my keys into three in order to create room for my hand to put my car key into the ignition. With one of those security buttons, I have the power to let people of my choosing in and out of the church gate, and I exercise that power in the church office every day, attempting to decipher between “legitimate” beggars and bishops. In that neighbourhood, people tell me often that they feel very vulnerable, and seemingly thousands of fortresses have been created to protect against the threat. And, it seems on many levels that the threat is real – within my first week here, two people were killed in a restaurant robbery at the end of my block, three other robberies took place in my neighbourhood, and someone had their car hijacked on the road of the church. I am sure many devastating things similar to these and worse happen in Cato Manor where there are no gates or even any real walls. So, I struggle with what it means to be vulnerable. I am continually asking myself and others from what, exactly, are we seeking protection? The Durban Children’s Home where I work has a high wall and gate, but that did not prevent two of the girls from running away two weeks ago. What is it that we are trying to protect or keep out with the walls (both physical and spiritual) that we put up? Is it our lives, or our fears, or our prejudices, or something entirely different?
Now, I do not want to die, and there have been many moments (particularly when learning better how to drive) when I seriously have been more afraid of that than ever before in my life. But, I do want to live, and I find that while I’ve been here, I have prayed more and relied more deeply on God for daily sustenance – for manna. I have found that life in general seems more outside the realm of my control here than it does at home, but it seems that this is really just helping me live into the reality that I was never in control in the first place. Over the past few weeks, the Scripture, Galatians 2:20, has emerged frequently. “I have been crucified with Christ; and it is no longer I who live, but Christ lives in me; and the life which I now live in the flesh I live by faith in the Son of God, who loved me and gave Himself up for me” (NASB). I have used this Scripture to discuss with the youth at Manning Road the meaning of having a unique, beloved identity in Christ. This Scripture came up at a staff meeting, when discussing possible security threats to the church premises. And it is a Scripture that I grapple with daily, whether I am walking on the dirt paths of Cato Manor or down the sidewalk from my house to the mall. It is a Scripture that I struggle with whether I am laughing uncontrollably at a goofy joke with my colleagues or wiping away tears when a homeless man that I love comes to the communion rail for prayer. And, I hope that I will continue to struggle with the meaning of being crucified with Christ, along with all my fears and vulnerabilities, and being transformed into a new creation.
I hope I will continue to ask myself, other people, and God, about what it means to be vulnerable to humanity and to God. What does it mean to be safe? When I spoke to Gareth about my concerns and thoughts about remaining wisely vulnerable during my time here, he mentioned to me that Jesus said we are to be cunning as snakes and innocent as doves. It is true that we are given cunning brains, intuition, senses, and protective relationships with others for good reason. These things all make me aware of my environment so that I can attempt to live in wisdom and in rebellion against a life overrun with fear instead of succumbing to fear’s crippling effects. I do not yet know how the walls and gates, how the cardboard and scrap metal shacks, fit into this vision of life. But, in the midst of all of the chaos of a life that is beautifully and thankfully out of my control, I will continue to seek after the joy and the privilege that is this life in this place at this time. I will continue to seek manna in conversation with those who have much bread and those who beg for it daily. In that sense, I can only hope to be labelled a beggar, and I can only hope to be let in the gate.
Such pain and fear, however, still does seem common in conversation and in daily living here. On this particular day, I finished my lunch of leftover fish, prepared and packed for my spoiled self by my doting host-mother and journeyed with our church secretary, Phelo, to Cato Manor, an enormous informal settlement just fifteen minutes away from our fairly wealthy church. There is no electricity in most parts of Cato Manor. There is no preparation for a multi-media extravaganza. On the edge of the settlement, there is, however, a school and a fortress-like library, wherein I found about fifty small boys out of school because of the strikes and watching a DVD. If not for the facts that a young man asked for my number in isiZulu on the steps outside, that inside the library several shelves are labelled "Zulu," that every face but mine is black, and that every poster on the notice board warns against HIV/AIDS and STIs, a visitor might think they had wandered overseas into a library in Durham, North Carolina. And actually, apart from the Zulu, such a scene could absolutely be found in Durham.
And yet, if you walk back outside, down the steps of the concrete fortress library, and turn right, you see what seems to me, the epitome of vulnerability. Cato Manor is one of the places where I am not supposed to go by myself. A debate in the office that morning between pastors even mulled over whether it was alright for me to go alone with Phelo without a man escorting us. Cato Manor is a place where I am told it is not safe to wear jewellery or carry my cell phone. As you look out over the hill, your eyes scan a horizon of shacks made out of cardboard and scrap metal, leaning on the Durban hills, planted among weeds and dirt paths. More small children run around, gawking at me confusedly. If you walk down the road a little ways, you see government construction being done on several cement block homes, creating a brighter "good" section of this largely displaced community. Taxi vans zigzag up and down the potholed road, stopping at unexpected moments to pick up men, women, and children, waiting on the side of the road to go into downtown Durban.
Downtown Durban and the Berea, where I live, are areas where children do not run around unless they are street children. Durban is a city where no yards adjoin and where every building has walls or a gate, an electric fence or barbed wire. When I ask people from Manning Road when all the walls went up and why, they inevitably sigh and begin to talk about the days before 1994 when people had gardens in their front yards and you could go into downtown Durban without being afraid of having your car hijacked.
I have so many security buttons and keys on my keychain that I actually have to divide my keys into three in order to create room for my hand to put my car key into the ignition. With one of those security buttons, I have the power to let people of my choosing in and out of the church gate, and I exercise that power in the church office every day, attempting to decipher between “legitimate” beggars and bishops. In that neighbourhood, people tell me often that they feel very vulnerable, and seemingly thousands of fortresses have been created to protect against the threat. And, it seems on many levels that the threat is real – within my first week here, two people were killed in a restaurant robbery at the end of my block, three other robberies took place in my neighbourhood, and someone had their car hijacked on the road of the church. I am sure many devastating things similar to these and worse happen in Cato Manor where there are no gates or even any real walls. So, I struggle with what it means to be vulnerable. I am continually asking myself and others from what, exactly, are we seeking protection? The Durban Children’s Home where I work has a high wall and gate, but that did not prevent two of the girls from running away two weeks ago. What is it that we are trying to protect or keep out with the walls (both physical and spiritual) that we put up? Is it our lives, or our fears, or our prejudices, or something entirely different?
Now, I do not want to die, and there have been many moments (particularly when learning better how to drive) when I seriously have been more afraid of that than ever before in my life. But, I do want to live, and I find that while I’ve been here, I have prayed more and relied more deeply on God for daily sustenance – for manna. I have found that life in general seems more outside the realm of my control here than it does at home, but it seems that this is really just helping me live into the reality that I was never in control in the first place. Over the past few weeks, the Scripture, Galatians 2:20, has emerged frequently. “I have been crucified with Christ; and it is no longer I who live, but Christ lives in me; and the life which I now live in the flesh I live by faith in the Son of God, who loved me and gave Himself up for me” (NASB). I have used this Scripture to discuss with the youth at Manning Road the meaning of having a unique, beloved identity in Christ. This Scripture came up at a staff meeting, when discussing possible security threats to the church premises. And it is a Scripture that I grapple with daily, whether I am walking on the dirt paths of Cato Manor or down the sidewalk from my house to the mall. It is a Scripture that I struggle with whether I am laughing uncontrollably at a goofy joke with my colleagues or wiping away tears when a homeless man that I love comes to the communion rail for prayer. And, I hope that I will continue to struggle with the meaning of being crucified with Christ, along with all my fears and vulnerabilities, and being transformed into a new creation.
I hope I will continue to ask myself, other people, and God, about what it means to be vulnerable to humanity and to God. What does it mean to be safe? When I spoke to Gareth about my concerns and thoughts about remaining wisely vulnerable during my time here, he mentioned to me that Jesus said we are to be cunning as snakes and innocent as doves. It is true that we are given cunning brains, intuition, senses, and protective relationships with others for good reason. These things all make me aware of my environment so that I can attempt to live in wisdom and in rebellion against a life overrun with fear instead of succumbing to fear’s crippling effects. I do not yet know how the walls and gates, how the cardboard and scrap metal shacks, fit into this vision of life. But, in the midst of all of the chaos of a life that is beautifully and thankfully out of my control, I will continue to seek after the joy and the privilege that is this life in this place at this time. I will continue to seek manna in conversation with those who have much bread and those who beg for it daily. In that sense, I can only hope to be labelled a beggar, and I can only hope to be let in the gate.
Monday, June 11, 2007
Clouds of hope
A lot of talk has surfaced over the last year at Duke about what "privilege" means and about what it means to take advantage of that privilege. While I have always known that I am a privileged person, over the past few days, my privilege - its definition, its cost, and its responsibility - have become dramatically real and equally confusing to me.
My privilege is that I can walk into a place like Clouds of Hope, a home for abandoned and orphaned children, in the foothills of the Drakensberg Mountains (Dragon Mountains), over two hours from the nearest city - and I can walk out again. I can parade in with my camera, which cost more than the house mothers there make in months and months. I can take pictures with the children, like the sweet boy sitting with me in my blog picture. I can hold their hands and carry them and go to visit their pigs. I can learn all about how one sweet baby, named in Zulu after the 'will of God', came to the orphanage after his mother had tried to abort him by swallowing every poison possible and attempting numerous times to drown him after he was born, and still he survived to go live in Clouds of Hope with house mothers who envision this baby survivor as president of South Africa someday.
It is my privilege that allows me to walk in and out of every one of life's circumstances, knowing that I have a hundred options in a future beyond the sugar cane plantation or the wealthy South African's kitchen or the church where I work.
Or, is it? Would it be a greater privilege to nurse "God's will" into health, nurture him, and remain with him in the foothills of the Drakensberg until he reaches the presidency, or just a job at the local Spar grocery store?
Sipho, one of the Manning Road Church custodians, is absolutely fascinated with the United States - he does not speak a lot of English, but when he sees me, he constantly asks questions about life in America and loves to see pictures of American people and places like the Atlantic Ocean. He is forty-two years old and lives at the church all week long, keeping watch over the grounds to make sure everyone is safe, and yet today he told me he has eight children at home, whom he barely sees. He had ten, but two of them died. He says he is too old to go to the United States. It is very expensive, he nods. But hopefully, he says, his children will get to go.
I never once second-guessed whether or not I would be able to afford to come to this country. The issue never crossed my mind.
I am privileged to come here, and I am privileged to be able to go back to the United States - the place that so many people here seem to see as a utopia. Their eager smiles fade a little, when they ask me how life is in America, and I tell them that in many ways, it is not very different from here. And yet, the privilege that I sense simply because I have an American passport locked up in a safe, at my disposal whenever I need it, is tangible.
I am privileged that I've never before had to live a life where I say "when" not "if my car is ever hijacked, I hope I will respond in a safe and Christian way." This is the life that young people, in appearance, just like me, live here.
And yet, does it make me privileged that I never before have held the value of a day so tenderly - like manna - as I do here? Knowing the security risks, knowing the often legitimate frustration and anger and fear of people in this country, never before have I fallen asleep at night so grateful for a day lived. Perhaps that is true privilege - to better feel the value and precious nature of life each day.
I am privileged to be able to walk into the Office of Home Affairs in Durban and speak in English, politely attaining help for Beghi, a homeless, mostly Zulu-speaking, illiterate man, who needed a temporary id card so that he could receive his disability benefits. I am privileged that I have the use of both hands, while Beghi's birth deformity has rendered his left hand so unusable that the woman in charge of fingerprinting was so at a loss as to how to obtain his fingerprints that she gave up. I am privileged that I have the use of all my teeth, while Beghi's have mostly rotted, even though he is not much old than I. I am privileged that to drive in this country, all I had to do was pay 15 dollars, show AAA my driver's license, borrow a car, and get a few lessons. Beghi has to ride in the back of my friend Paul's pickup truck.
And yet, when we called for people to come to the communion rail for prayer during worship on Sunday, after I gave a testimonial sermon on the presence of God amidst our fears and God's seeming silence, it was Beghi who came to the communion rail. It was Beghi who was brave enough to admit that he's had enough of anger and fear. It was Beghi who folded both his hands, bowing in prayer, as we sang:
"I've had questions without answers...I've known sorrow. I have known pain. But there's one thing that I'll cling to - you are faithful - Jesus you're true. When hope is lost, I'll call you saviour. When pain surrounds, I'll call you healer. When silence falls, you'll be the song within my heart..." (Tim Hughes).
One thing I know - that is it is my privilege to hear and see the stories of people here, and it is my privilege that allows me to pass them on to you. Other than that, I simply know it is my privilege to be given life and to have it abundantly.
My privilege is that I can walk into a place like Clouds of Hope, a home for abandoned and orphaned children, in the foothills of the Drakensberg Mountains (Dragon Mountains), over two hours from the nearest city - and I can walk out again. I can parade in with my camera, which cost more than the house mothers there make in months and months. I can take pictures with the children, like the sweet boy sitting with me in my blog picture. I can hold their hands and carry them and go to visit their pigs. I can learn all about how one sweet baby, named in Zulu after the 'will of God', came to the orphanage after his mother had tried to abort him by swallowing every poison possible and attempting numerous times to drown him after he was born, and still he survived to go live in Clouds of Hope with house mothers who envision this baby survivor as president of South Africa someday.
It is my privilege that allows me to walk in and out of every one of life's circumstances, knowing that I have a hundred options in a future beyond the sugar cane plantation or the wealthy South African's kitchen or the church where I work.
Or, is it? Would it be a greater privilege to nurse "God's will" into health, nurture him, and remain with him in the foothills of the Drakensberg until he reaches the presidency, or just a job at the local Spar grocery store?
Sipho, one of the Manning Road Church custodians, is absolutely fascinated with the United States - he does not speak a lot of English, but when he sees me, he constantly asks questions about life in America and loves to see pictures of American people and places like the Atlantic Ocean. He is forty-two years old and lives at the church all week long, keeping watch over the grounds to make sure everyone is safe, and yet today he told me he has eight children at home, whom he barely sees. He had ten, but two of them died. He says he is too old to go to the United States. It is very expensive, he nods. But hopefully, he says, his children will get to go.
I never once second-guessed whether or not I would be able to afford to come to this country. The issue never crossed my mind.
I am privileged to come here, and I am privileged to be able to go back to the United States - the place that so many people here seem to see as a utopia. Their eager smiles fade a little, when they ask me how life is in America, and I tell them that in many ways, it is not very different from here. And yet, the privilege that I sense simply because I have an American passport locked up in a safe, at my disposal whenever I need it, is tangible.
I am privileged that I've never before had to live a life where I say "when" not "if my car is ever hijacked, I hope I will respond in a safe and Christian way." This is the life that young people, in appearance, just like me, live here.
And yet, does it make me privileged that I never before have held the value of a day so tenderly - like manna - as I do here? Knowing the security risks, knowing the often legitimate frustration and anger and fear of people in this country, never before have I fallen asleep at night so grateful for a day lived. Perhaps that is true privilege - to better feel the value and precious nature of life each day.
I am privileged to be able to walk into the Office of Home Affairs in Durban and speak in English, politely attaining help for Beghi, a homeless, mostly Zulu-speaking, illiterate man, who needed a temporary id card so that he could receive his disability benefits. I am privileged that I have the use of both hands, while Beghi's birth deformity has rendered his left hand so unusable that the woman in charge of fingerprinting was so at a loss as to how to obtain his fingerprints that she gave up. I am privileged that I have the use of all my teeth, while Beghi's have mostly rotted, even though he is not much old than I. I am privileged that to drive in this country, all I had to do was pay 15 dollars, show AAA my driver's license, borrow a car, and get a few lessons. Beghi has to ride in the back of my friend Paul's pickup truck.
And yet, when we called for people to come to the communion rail for prayer during worship on Sunday, after I gave a testimonial sermon on the presence of God amidst our fears and God's seeming silence, it was Beghi who came to the communion rail. It was Beghi who was brave enough to admit that he's had enough of anger and fear. It was Beghi who folded both his hands, bowing in prayer, as we sang:
"I've had questions without answers...I've known sorrow. I have known pain. But there's one thing that I'll cling to - you are faithful - Jesus you're true. When hope is lost, I'll call you saviour. When pain surrounds, I'll call you healer. When silence falls, you'll be the song within my heart..." (Tim Hughes).
One thing I know - that is it is my privilege to hear and see the stories of people here, and it is my privilege that allows me to pass them on to you. Other than that, I simply know it is my privilege to be given life and to have it abundantly.
Wednesday, June 6, 2007
Gentlemen...Lady...Gentlemen
In contrast to yesterday...
Today I met with the other pastors in Manning Road's circuit of the South African Methodist Church. Yes. They are all men. Yes, Gareth asked me to pray the prayer to open the meeting. It's moments like these when I'm intensely glad that prayer may come from my mouth, but it's not about me. It takes the pressure off...
Yes, the primary topics of conversation were how to improve the Church Synod, whether or not to accept a ministerial candidate into the circuit, pension funds, whether or not to pray for an enormous cyst that's developed on one of the pastor's faces. He refuses to go to the doctor.
Sitting in the same room where I'd taught the ladies about Maya, Vashti, and Esther yesterday, the gears in my head struggled to shift. It felt like when I was in the car earlier today and forgot to put it into first before I tried to take off. The engine doesn't like that. And so, it was good to remember that part of living and working in God's church is living and working with people - people who are usually not the same as I am. Apparently, part of this job - part of life - is allowing God into every relationship and aspect of the process of being a church, no matter how tedious or political it may seem.
And so with that, gentlemen...lad(ies)...gentlemen, I say good night and say thanks for one more day of this life with all its challenges - all its mandatory gear shifts - and all its many joys. Like the joy of Rusk buttermilk biscuit in tea with two sugars and a milk, prepared for you by your pastor - a man, but a gentleman at that.
Today I met with the other pastors in Manning Road's circuit of the South African Methodist Church. Yes. They are all men. Yes, Gareth asked me to pray the prayer to open the meeting. It's moments like these when I'm intensely glad that prayer may come from my mouth, but it's not about me. It takes the pressure off...
Yes, the primary topics of conversation were how to improve the Church Synod, whether or not to accept a ministerial candidate into the circuit, pension funds, whether or not to pray for an enormous cyst that's developed on one of the pastor's faces. He refuses to go to the doctor.
Sitting in the same room where I'd taught the ladies about Maya, Vashti, and Esther yesterday, the gears in my head struggled to shift. It felt like when I was in the car earlier today and forgot to put it into first before I tried to take off. The engine doesn't like that. And so, it was good to remember that part of living and working in God's church is living and working with people - people who are usually not the same as I am. Apparently, part of this job - part of life - is allowing God into every relationship and aspect of the process of being a church, no matter how tedious or political it may seem.
And so with that, gentlemen...lad(ies)...gentlemen, I say good night and say thanks for one more day of this life with all its challenges - all its mandatory gear shifts - and all its many joys. Like the joy of Rusk buttermilk biscuit in tea with two sugars and a milk, prepared for you by your pastor - a man, but a gentleman at that.
The Book of Women's Lives
I realize this has happened and will continue to happen often in life, but over the past few days, I've had so very many of those life moments where you say to yourself...'how did i get here?'
Take yesterday - my first day teaching a Bible study on the Book of Esther to a group of elderly, white South African ladies. And I do mean 'ladies' in the most ladylike sense of the word. I had met them once before, to tell them who I was and ask what they would like to study. They simply commented then that 'anything would be lovely.' They said they are all students - mind you, some of these ladies are over 90 and absolutely have more to teach me than I can hope to teach them.
The only thing, however, that they had covered so far on the Book of Esther was that it was the only book of the Bible that does not mention God...I thought perhaps that was a good place for us to start...
And so, I prepared and got a lesson plan together, but I only really have two commentaries available, so I thought I'd have to get a little creative... It just so happened that in my room at Janice's house I had found and been reading The Penguin Book of Women's Lives. It includes a story that I read and treasured long ago by Maya Angelou, from her book, I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings. It seemed to me that part of this story drew some beautiful parallels to the ways that Esther took responsibility for the unexpected life in which she found herself. In it, Maya Angelou's grandmother is taunted by some "powhitetrash" girls, much to Maya's horror and rage. All her grandmother does is gracefully stand strong, singing hymns so that by the end of the scene, you realize that the "oppressed" has triumphed, and perhaps it is the oppressor who is truly oppressed after all.
In this place - in South Africa at this time - there is much to be pondered about who is oppressed and who is oppressing.
And so, here I was, a 25 year old American ministerial candidate, reading Maya Angelou's wisdom resulting from years of oppression in America, to a group of post-Apartheid, white South African ladies in the Cry Room of a Methodist Church in Durban.
How did I get here?
I told them that one of the things I love about Esther's story is that it is an example of ordinary humanity being called to a life and a love and a commitment far greater and beyond her than she or anyone else could possibly have imagined. I posited to the ladies that the same was true for Maya's grandmother - how could she possibly have ever known that over seventy years after such an incident in her life took place, a young white girl would be reading her story of grace to a group of white South African women. How could she have known that they would listen to such a story with ears and hearts wide open. How could she have known that they would respond with moans and exclamations of amazement at the courage displayed. These women (myself included) who watched millions of people become displaced, taunted, and killed because of their color.
It is a crucial reminder for me in this place, at this time, that my life here is not about me at all but is about a far deeper, greater history and future than I can understand. It is about a relationship with God that has brought life to others throughout centuries and centuries and will continue to bring life to others long after I am gone.
Maya's grandmother from I Know Why...: "Glory, glory, hallelujah, when I lay my burden down."
Take yesterday - my first day teaching a Bible study on the Book of Esther to a group of elderly, white South African ladies. And I do mean 'ladies' in the most ladylike sense of the word. I had met them once before, to tell them who I was and ask what they would like to study. They simply commented then that 'anything would be lovely.' They said they are all students - mind you, some of these ladies are over 90 and absolutely have more to teach me than I can hope to teach them.
The only thing, however, that they had covered so far on the Book of Esther was that it was the only book of the Bible that does not mention God...I thought perhaps that was a good place for us to start...
And so, I prepared and got a lesson plan together, but I only really have two commentaries available, so I thought I'd have to get a little creative... It just so happened that in my room at Janice's house I had found and been reading The Penguin Book of Women's Lives. It includes a story that I read and treasured long ago by Maya Angelou, from her book, I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings. It seemed to me that part of this story drew some beautiful parallels to the ways that Esther took responsibility for the unexpected life in which she found herself. In it, Maya Angelou's grandmother is taunted by some "powhitetrash" girls, much to Maya's horror and rage. All her grandmother does is gracefully stand strong, singing hymns so that by the end of the scene, you realize that the "oppressed" has triumphed, and perhaps it is the oppressor who is truly oppressed after all.
In this place - in South Africa at this time - there is much to be pondered about who is oppressed and who is oppressing.
And so, here I was, a 25 year old American ministerial candidate, reading Maya Angelou's wisdom resulting from years of oppression in America, to a group of post-Apartheid, white South African ladies in the Cry Room of a Methodist Church in Durban.
How did I get here?
I told them that one of the things I love about Esther's story is that it is an example of ordinary humanity being called to a life and a love and a commitment far greater and beyond her than she or anyone else could possibly have imagined. I posited to the ladies that the same was true for Maya's grandmother - how could she possibly have ever known that over seventy years after such an incident in her life took place, a young white girl would be reading her story of grace to a group of white South African women. How could she have known that they would listen to such a story with ears and hearts wide open. How could she have known that they would respond with moans and exclamations of amazement at the courage displayed. These women (myself included) who watched millions of people become displaced, taunted, and killed because of their color.
It is a crucial reminder for me in this place, at this time, that my life here is not about me at all but is about a far deeper, greater history and future than I can understand. It is about a relationship with God that has brought life to others throughout centuries and centuries and will continue to bring life to others long after I am gone.
Maya's grandmother from I Know Why...: "Glory, glory, hallelujah, when I lay my burden down."
Tuesday, June 5, 2007
First Winter Birthday
Sooo...
Over a week and a half done in Durbs, and not a blog to show for it. There is simply too much to absorb here - much less regurgitate in any meaningful format for you all... But, I will do my best for a few minutes, as I wait for a meeting on New Members to start. Thank God for new members of the body of Christ in all corners of the globe.
A few thoughts...
on what it's like to turn 25 on the other side of the globe. It was kind of a funny feeling to have my birthday start a full 6 hours earlier than it would have, were I at home. It felt a little like I was cheating, jumping the gun on June 1, when everyone I know was still stuck in May. As I'm getting used to (because it seems I'm rarely home for my birthday), it was a tad strange to be among a lot of people I barely know to celebrate such a day. But, as I have quickly learned, the people I've met here are more hospitable than a Southerner. They gave me flowers and a cake with a candle that sang "happy birthday," Janice, my host-mom, took me to lunch in the hills beyond Durban, along with my friend Audrey from Duke, who is stationed about twenty minutes away. It was absolutely beautiful with very rolling hills (which I am getting much better at mastering with my gear shift clutch control plus hand brake), and humid, cool air. It was, however, a tad sobering to be eating an enormous meal of Chicken Mushroom Pie, while asking Janice what all the buildings were a hill over - only to be told that they are settlements - settlements being areas mostly housing very, very poor black South Africans who have been displaced through Apartheid and any number of other economic injustices. We didn't have dessert.
That night, I went with a bunch of the young adults to see a movie at the theater a block away from our house. Everyone agreed that Freedom Writers was the best option, and it was a great movie - except for the fact that it was also quite sobering to watch a movie about high school gangs in California while being in South Africa, which also has an enormous gang problem - much of it, ironically, copied from their observation of American gangs... By the end of the movie, I have to say though, that I wasn't sure I wanted to move back to the United States. And so what did we do? We went to get coffee, which is, I am told by South Africans, what all Americans do. I, much to their amazement, do not drink coffee, so I had Horlicks - a fabulous hot British malt beverage that is far superior to coffee in every way.
More later on learning and teaching in South Africa...
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
