My Blood is Green

Let it be officially noted: that my blood is green.
This was confirmed today when I went for a check-up at Newlands Rugby Stadium.

Well over 30 000 fellow green-blooded supporters arrived at Newlands Rugby Stadium at lunchtime. We came in all shapes and sizes: some came on busses or trains from very poor homes, while others arrived from affluent areas in private vehicles. Some were old grannies with pink-rinse hair, some were large “mamas” with beautiful toi-toi dancing, and many were school children who had escaped school to be at the event.

The event?
Meeting the team that won the Golden Grail of Rugby: the World Cup.

The Springbok Rugby team are the world champions. And they brought the cup to Cape Town. And as they walked onto the field at Newlands the stadium erupted. Never have I experienced such euphoria. Singing, cheering, Mexican waves, and screaming for Percy Montgomery and Brian Habana (pictured).

The greatest part of the event was the sense of unity I experienced: here was a moment in the history of our very fractured nation when we stood together: black / white / rich / poor / old / young / boer / bra’tjie / bafana. Next to me was a young black man wearing a miners helmet on which he had mounted a springbok skull; wearing earrings made of the South African flag, a face painted green and gold, khaki shorts, and shoes painted the colours of the national flag. And he furiously blew his vuvuzela in support of the team.

This was the moment that I knew that we all belong together: our blood is green.

Revenge

Daniel Siebert is 53 and dying of Pancreatic cancer.
But Alabama state authorities want to kill him before the cancer does.

Siebert is a convicted murderer on death row. If he is not executed he is not expected to live more than a few weeks. But not if Alabama Governor Rob Riley can help it. He has refused to intervene in Siebert's execution. "I would in essence be commuting his sentence to life in prison and that is not the sentence he was given by a jury," Mr Riley said. "His crimes were monstrous, brutal and ghastly." I wonder how we can so have lost our humanity that we want to kill a dying person.

Even more bizarre is the story of convicted murderer, Jimmy Bland. In June, Oklahoma state put to death 49-year-old Bland who was suffering from advanced cancer of the lung. The state went so far as to pay for Bland's chemotherapy to keep him alive.....so that he could be executed!

This has nothing to do with justice, and everything to do with revenge.
And we in South Africa know this feeling: there have been many moments when members of the public have called for the re-instatement of the death penalty: most recently after the senseless death of Lucky Dube. Some deeply religious people support this, arguing that it is ordained by God that murderers be executed. Personally I do not understand how killing someone teaches us not to kill.

I find the Genesis 4 parable of Cain and Abel very helpful. Cain killed his brother Abel. But the story does not call for Cain to be killed. We read of a God who refuses to kill the murderer. This does not mean that Cain escapes the consequences of his action: he is banished from his community and goes to live “east of Eden”....where he is allowed a fresh beginning at life. This is how God deals with human sin: we are granted the Grace to begin again.

And I am so grateful: because I have killed...and deserve punishment: this might not have been a physical action, but I have known murderous thoughts about someone, and participated in the character assassination of someone else. I am guilty and should be murdered in turn (metaphorically speaking). But Grace is extended, so that I can learn from my mistakes.

Has the time not come to move away from murdering the murderer? Godly action is all about rehabilitating those who sin. But I suspect that the desire for revenge is far stronger than the desire for a renewed world....and so humanity will continue to want to kill killers.

A Beautiful Day

This morning was fantastic.
First of all, Friday is my day off.
Secondly the sun was shining from horizon to horizon and the air was still and calm.
After dropping my daughter Amy at school I took my trusty BMW 1150GS for an outing.
We drove down the Blue Route. We were ticking over comfortably when this Mazda came zipping past me: “Hmm...Should I or should I not show him what a bike can do to him?” Just as well I did not, because the next moment a flashing blue light pulled the Mazda off the road.

Up and over Ou Kaapse Weg feeling sorry for all the cars queued behind a large truck, and very glad that I had two wheels. Because of the truck, the pass was open road and I drifted all alone, enjoying the freedom of leaning into the corners unobstructed by cars. Through Sun Valley and up Blackridge Road. The bike’s torque came into its own as I opened the throttle to 5 000rpm and welcomed the acceleration. I crested the hill relishing how the warm Sun Valley air was replaced by sea-cooled air and a panoramic view of False Bay over the Glen Cairn beachfront. Turning onto the main road alongside the bright sand and white topped crashing waves, I drew in a lung full of salt-laden sea air and was instantly taken back to my childhood days of swimming in this bay. A slow canter alongside the blue sea took me to my breakfast spot at Simonstown’s Jubilee Square. So I sat – coffee, newspaper, and a relaxing view over the yacht club.

My good friend Sue tells me I need to get a real job. Not on a day like today.

Let Me Die!

“I have just asked the doctor to give me an injection that will make me go to sleep and not wake up. But he refused”.

This was said to me today by an 87 year old lady in hospital. She fell and broke her hip, and is in constant discomfort. Until now she has moved with a walking frame, but now might not walk again. Her husband of a 60 year marriage died last year. Her children live in countries that are far away from here. And she is tired of living. So she looked at me and explained that she has had enough of this life. She is not afraid of dying – in fact she would welcome dying as an opportunity to reunite with her husband.

So what do I say to her?
I am not going to offer platitudes about “feeling better in the morning” or some nonsense about God taking her at the right time. She is allowed her feelings without me adding layers of guilt. I held her hand and said that I know that God understands her feelings. And I prayed for God to give her peace....then I went to the hospital chapel and asked God to release her from life.

I do not presume to know if her life should come to an end. Who am I (or anyone else) to know when a person is ready to leave this life? But I do know that there is no merit in pain and suffering. I know that living a long life is far less important than living a useful life. And that this old lady ought to be allowed to leave this life at the time she desires.

World Champions

Rugby Etiquette

Eish*

I know some people in England.
A bit embarrassing to admit right now....considering the looming Rugby World Cup and all.
But I am a very liberal and tolerant sort of fellow... and I am committed to accepting all sorts and types of people. And I am even willing to admit that there are some Englishmen who are better than most. The best Englishmen are those who are willing to buy Springbok kit and wear it in acknowledgement of our great team.

But some are just so blind and besotted that they cannot see the light – especially when it comes to the Gentlemen’s game of Rugby. I suggest that you take a look at John’s Blog to see how low some of my ‘friends’ have sunk. I was more comforted by Sue , who is a deacon in the British Methodist Church. She has offered to send me an English Rugby jersey for a ceremonial burning when they lose the game.

Please pray for the English. They are going to be so sad.

*Eish is used to express sympathy when someone falls flat on their face.

Railroad Songs

Next Saturday evening South Africa plays England in the finals of the Rugby Union World Cup. And the supporters of both teams will sing songs about a railroad:

The English will sing Swing Low Sweet Chariot - a United States spiritual folk song. This was composed by Wallis Willis , a one-time slave of the Choctaw Indians in the old Indian Territory. He was inspired by the Red River which reminded him of the Jordan River and of the Prophet Elijah being taken to heaven by a chariot. Some historians trace a connection between this song and the so-called “Underground Railroad” system of safe houses that allowed escaped American slaves to move from the South to the North.

Swing low, sweet chariot
Coming for to carry me home
Swing low, sweet chariot
Coming for to carry me home

South Africans will reply with Shosholoza, a sad song from our history of black workers travelling by train to work on the gold mines. The simple beat of the chant assisted workers to keep rhythm during hard physical labour. The Zulu word Shosholoza means "Go forward" or "Make way for the next man". The word also sounds like the noise of a steam train. (Stimela is the Zulu word for a steam train).

Shosholoza
Ku lezontaba
Stimela siphum' eSouth Africa
Wen' uyabaleka
Wen' uyabaleka
Ku lezontaba
Stimela siphum' eSouth Africa

Rough English translation: Move faster, You are meandering on those mountains, The train is from South Africa. You accelerate, on those mountains, The train is from South Africa

And may I suggest that the English pay attention.
Because our train is going to accelerate right over the English team – who will need a chariot to carry them home!

Be Blessed

Today Muslim believers around the world celebrate Eid ul-Fitr. This concludes a month of fasting and reflection on life. And Muslim people will greet each other with the traditional Muslim greeting Eid mubarak (Persian/Urdu: عید مبارک). But there is an alternative : “May every year find you in good health!”

I like this:
because I have discovered that as each year passes, good health becomes more precious.
And so I wish all who read this space good physical health, good mental health, good emotional health, and good spiritual health.

Civil Religion*

South Africans are religious.
We practice our religion whenever we are not working – and often while we work. Right now our religion has taken on proportions of national intensity. Newspapers headline our faith – or lack of it. Radio and TV commentators all offer their input into how well we worship.

Some gather in small groups in one another’s homes. Others gather at local community centres. There also those solitary individuals who prefer to worship alone. Many people have the clothing of our religious practice, and dress for the event. And many – if not most – prepare the sacramental elements that enhance sensory stimulation. Sometimes a sacramental fire has been lighted and the sacrifice is ritually burned over hot coals. The smoke adds to the occasion, and the offerings from the fire brings out the best in the worshippers. When the burned offering is added to the ritual drink, we enter into a state of religious readiness.

As with many other acts of religious worship, the time of worship begins with a song. Those who participate most fully in this moment will rise to their feet and place a hand over their heart. Some will even sing with tears in their eyes. But no-one can escape being moved by this moment. In response many will lift the sacramental cup in a toast to the blood soon to be shed.

Our worship is passionately pursued: cell phones are stilled, the non worshippers are banished from the room, and we sit shoulder to shoulder for the next 80 minutes. Worship is participatory: comments, outbursts of wisdom, corrections to the decisions of the levitical adjudicators, and shouts of joy, or groans of passion are often heard.

Our object of worship is a Golden Grail. And the means to recovering the Holy Cup is a small oval ball. There are 15 good high priests who protect this ball from 15 bad high priests. Sometimes the ball needs to be physically rescued from the evil high priests – an act that requires daring courage reminiscent of the quests undertaken by the knights of old. Our high priests wear green and gold. As of now the evil high priests wear white, or blue. But we will overcome them because our cause is noble.

And within two weeks we will have the Holy Grail in our possession.
And the nation will sings songs of gratitude and weep tears of mystical joy.


*(Robert Bellah wrote about “Civil Religion” as a way to describe the social activity that gave a nation its cohesion).

"One and Undivided"

I belong to a divided church.
And some of you who read this will understand how Sundays sees our nation divide – with black people going to black church services, “coloured” people attending “coloured” services, and some white people going to church (most do not go to church at all).

But this is not the division I think of – I am referring to the division between straight and gay people. The Methodist Church of SA has chosen to maintain a distance from gay people. No – this is not overt: as my Bishop’ pastoral letter says : “ We must, and I do, care for them pastorally and with sensitivity.” But this is exactly the divide: “we care for them”.....us and them. “They” are not understood as being “us”. In fact, after the humiliating treatment dished up by straight Christians, I am surprised that there are any gay people left in church.

And to add insult to injury, the MCSA has affirmed that we must be “one and undivided”. But this is not about being in unity with gay people. No, this is about maintaining our unity with those who are anti-gay. Our desire to remain united with the anti-gay lobby outweighs our desire to be one with the gay members of our church. And so we have compromised truth in the name of unity. And we have not even questioned the ethical correctness of this unity.

Here is my pain: the statement that “we are one and undivided” was a statement of courage in the face of the 1958 Apartheid Government’s desire to divide our church on racial lines. We had moral courage – then. We adopted this statement, in the face of a threat by white members to leave our church. We understood that this was a particular kind of unity. It risked division in the name of a greater unity – a unity with the truth of the Gospel of Jesus.

We have lost this. We are so afraid of losing members that we would rather forfeit Gospel truth. I am convinced that the mantra “one and undivided” now gets in the way of our ability to be a church in mission: there are many, many people who look at the Christian Church in bewilderment. All they see is prejudice and bigotry in our response to gay people. And they want nothing to do with us.

Our division undermines our Christian witness.

Back Home

Yes – back home and back at work.
As I reflect on my trip:

• I am aware that many farmers have moved off the land: small farms have been swallowed up into large farms. We can only compete against European subsidised farming by consolidating farms. So people are out of work. And farm houses stand empty.

• I saw many new houses that have replaced the dirt-poor hovels that used to surround the rural towns. I am grateful that our Government has been able to provide so many new homes. But I wonder where the people find work. Because the consolidation of farms has denuded the small rural towns of viable economy.

• I saw decaying tennis courts. The rural towns used to be the backbone of our tennis playing population. But town after town has windowless tennis clubhouses and rotting courts. I doubt that we will soon see world-class players from our country.

• I saw many, many pot-holed roads. I was grateful to be riding a GS11:50 – a bike with a long travel to the suspension. So I survived the roads. But the backroads are in bad repair. We are not much different to countries to the north of us.

Nevertheless, as I reflect on the trip I am aware of the amazing attraction of my country. Not just the variety and the vastness of the land, but the interesting people who live in hidden corners. I am in love with being a South African. And am more committed than ever to participating in building a new nation.

Not a Sex Shop

Jenny and I visited Ronnie’s Sex Shop.
Situated between Ladysmith and Barrydale, it draws on average 200 customers a day. If you walk through the door you will see my business card pasted prominently at eye level in front of you. Ronnie was only too happy to welcome us and sell us his wares.

You see...this is not a sex shop.
Ronnie owned a derelict building in the middle of nowhere, which was humorously painted “Ronnie’s Shop”. One weekend while he was away someone inserted the word “sex” into the sign, and an instant landmark was provided. After enduring 18 months of people stopping to take pictures, Ronnie was persuaded by his friends to capitalise on the potential customers. So he opened a pub. And ever since then his customers have supported him: some buy drinks, some take photographs, and more than one has hung her bra from the rafters or written his greetings on the walls.

And Ronnie is Lord of his Manor. He presides over his pub: listening to sad tales, understanding life’s mistakes, and dispensing wisdom. He also offers advice on local accommodation and opinions on everything. Come to think of it, Ronnie's occupation is really no different to mine. Most people want someone to point out their significance and to give them courage to continue living. The one freedom that I envy Ronnie – is the freedom to speak his mind. I am often constrained by the limits imposed by Church bureaucrats. Perhaps it is time for me to open my own pub.

Not a Dried Fruit Shop

Drive through Calitzdorp towards Cape Town and you will see Elnatan Dried fruit stall at the side of the road. It is filled with every sort of dried fruit product - even some with a layer of yoghurt, or chocolate. The best part of this experience is the manager - Ursula - who encourages you to taste the products before buying. And we did: taste and buy.

But this is not just another Dried Fruit Shop.
We discovered that this was an outlet for a job-creation project being run by Ursula and Klaus Triebe. They are Swiss, and came to South Africa in response to a call from God on their lives. Arriving in Calitzdorp (which is just a rural main road and a collection of poverty stricken hovels allocated to so called "Coloured" people) they chose to live in the coloured section of dorp and work alongside the poorest of the poor. Ursula began a pre-school in a tent on a nearby farm. And speaks of her satisfaction at seeing her first preschoolers top of the Grade Five class in the local school. Her husband taught local people construction skills and together they built a factory to dry local fruit. Now they sell the fruit from the shop.

They have also initiated a bridge-building exercise between the white and "coloured" members of the dorp. And now the white Dutch-Reformed Church members physically work alongside the "coloured" DRC members in improving their homes from one-roomed hovels to decent houses. Here are a couple who have put their faith into action.

I am tired of missionaries who arrive in South Africa to plant yet another church - as if we need more churches! I am tired of how these foreign missionaries seem to need to plant their churches in areas that are accessable to wealth. And for this reason I salute Klaus and Ursula: they have chosen to live and work amongst the poorest of the poor.

So the next time you drive through Calitzdorp - stop at the dried fruit shop on the Cape Town side of the town. It is far more than a dried fruit shop.

The Storm

It was way past black - it was now a gey green with menace.
This was the mother of all storms, complete with lightening, thunder and lots of rain.

Jenny and I had pottered around Graaff-Reinet in the morning, then visited the Valley of Desolation. And it got hotter and hotter. Until we spotted little fluffy clouds collecting on the horison. "This is a thunderstorm" I said to her, as we decided to leave town.

We headed south to Aberdeen, where we admired the leaning church spire. We were ahead of the rapidly gathering clouds, and I was confident that we would reach Willowmore ahead of the storm. The wind pushed us along merrily - but my merriness vanished when I glanced at the fuel guage. I had thought that there was enough to get us through, but the little bars on the guage were dropping faster that I wanted. Until I could not take the tension of calculating "Bars vs Km" any more, and decided to turn back to Aberdeen: 40 km back along the road, into the approaching storm.

We scooted into Aberdeen in time to put in petrol (I had 4 litres left in the tank) and settle at a table at the coffee shop. The heavens opened, and rain and little bits of hail fell. So Jenny and I unpacked our rain gear: We each wear yellow jackets scrounged from roadworkers attire, and black waterproof pants from the hiking shop. And we got back onto the road south to Willowmore.

Only this time the storm was between us and our destination. Amazing black and purple couds. And curtains of rain falling in pockets to the ground. And sheets of water lying on the parched earth. And lightening striking the ground in great zig-zags of brilliance.

And us on a motorcycle.
It was awesome!

People of my Country

Today we got to meet three people.
We travelled 400km from Zastron to Graaff-Reinet. Blue sky from horison to horison. And grassed plains. And long open roads with very little traffic. Jenny saw an owl, a monkey, a springbok, and plenty of meercats. I saw the road. But the richness of the day lay with three people:

Aunty B runs the internet access in Zastron. She arrived in Zastron with her daughter, who works for emergency services - having previously accompanied her daughter to Hobhouse and Coloclan. Born in Austria, she is now 68 and planning her next big adventure: quadbiking. She and three school-friends are planning to ride around South Africa on quadbikes. They will do this when they turn 70, so are enthusiastically planning their trip.

We stopped at Middleburg for coffee on the Main Rd. out of town. A brand new coffee shop, with a cool stoep for shelter. And a friendly 17yr old Grade 11 student who served us. She was not only enthusiastic and keen to sell us more than we needed to eat, but is planning her adventure. She will join three of her friends in December in a cycle ride to Cape Town. A 970km ride to raise funds for a school vehicle. She is at the Afrikaans High School, which is 70% black. Her joy at planning this project was infectious.

Supper at the Spur in Graaff-Reinet. And assisted in our meal choices by Esmerelda who admitted to having had a hectic long weekend with the Harley-Davidson Ralley here in town. But she was cheerful, and readily assisted us with a lovely smile. She is also planning an adventure: in December she will give birth to a child. A new life, within a mother who radiates a zest for life.

And I am inspired by my fellow citizens. I am able to believe in the future, and find joy in living in the present. Pray for us all, that we might live life with joyful abandonment to the will of God.

Heritage

24th September is a National Holiday known as Heritage Day. A day intended as a celebration of our diversity - and a healing of our past division. And Jenny and I rode through the middle of our country's history.

We rode from Clarens to Zastron - 350km. Which is a short distance to cover so much pain, warfare, and political conflict. This used to be a grassed savannah, populated by herds of wildebeest and other game. The ruling tribe was the BaTlokwe, under the leadership of MaNtatese, a wild woman who took no prisoners. She was feared by the KhoiSan (who retreated into the mountains)and the BaRolong and other more peaceful Tswana people. Moshoeshoe was secure in his BaSotho mountain kingdom of ThabaBoseu. But then she ran into migrating Boers from the Cape Colony, who gradually forced her into smaller areas. They staked ownership of Colcolan (a corruption of Hlohlowane "ridge of the battle"), Hobhouse (after civil rights campaigner Emily Hobhouse) Wepener (named after Commandant Louw Wepener), and Zastron (the wife of President Brand)

We stopped at each dorpie, found the town square, and the familiar roads: Voortrekker Rd, Piet Retief Rd, and a Church Street replete with a huge Dutch Reformed church. The towns are small, neglected, and dusty. The sadness of this blood-soaked land is giving way to tired villages that exist for reasons of history: each is the distance an oxwagon could travel in a day.

When we reached Zastron we had ridden enough so stopped at Die Oude Werf B&B. Supper in the Maluti Hotel in little red booths, and rode back to the B&B under a star bedecked sky.

Pray for our land - that our diversity enriches our present.

The Travelling Helmet

I am riding with a new helmet.
(and with a new bike come to think of it)
This helmet belonged to my friend Peter Woods. Who has given up biking and taken to sitting on the side of a hill at Giants Castle Drakensberg. This helmet has travelled over some interesting roads with Peter - and now is on its way on a new adventure.

We left Johannesburg on the N3 to Durban, stopping at Villiers 100 km away. This was to check the bike and each other. All was well. After Wimpy coffee we waved the sea gulls away from the bike...seagulls? Yes, 500km from the nearest beaches there are seagulls scavanging from tourists.

Then we turned south through the Orange Free State - former Boer Republic that was annexed by the British Army in 1902. We stopped at Reitz, a town named after a former President of the Free State. There is a Main Road, and a Voortrekker Road, and a Sarel Cilliers Road. And then we left.

The Free State was wind driven dust. They are waiting for the rains, and it is very dry and thirsty. Our destination was Clarens - at the foot of the Drakensberg. This was named after Clarens in Switzerland, where President Kruger lived in exile after his defeat by the British. A very comfortable B&B (Patcham Place), and supper on the stoep of a local eatery. A beautiful still evening.

And we are grateful for this opportunity to take time out an be with each other.
And the helmet waits for this new day's adventure.

I am an African

Jenny and I went to see The Lion King in Johannesburg.
And I am proud of what has been done to what was a Hollywood movie.
Not only was the theatre purpose built for the show, and the props truly magnificent, but the dance and music has been appropriated by Africa. This is no longer the Western Hollywood kitch: it is African….African rhythm, Arican dance, African language. (Even to one Hyena calling another a “moegoe”).

It is not a show to watch. It is a show that invites participation. Clap with the songs, laugh with the actors, and whistle in appreciation. This is infectious.

And I know that at a very deep place I am an African.

मोटरसाईकिल Diaries

Jenny and I were married in 1982.
We were both 25 years old. We thought that we were in love – so much so that we got engaged three months after beginning our relationship. We were so innocent.

Yet we have survived : 25 years... that have seen three daughters; five different homes; post natal depression; a husband who got so involved in work that he became distracted and grumpy; the deaths of three dogs and two cats; the death of a father; a mother coming to live with us; wrinkles and sore joints; and a rediscovery of the joy of being together .

Tomorrow Jenny and I fly to Johannesburg.
We will see the Lion King. Then we will collect a motorcycle (BMW GS 1150) and ride back to Cape Town. This will take us five days. Five days of ‘going nowhere slowly’. Five days in which we will reclaim our marriage. Five Days of celebrating our life together.

And I am content.