Law and Heart

....if the problem is to be solved then in the final sense, hearts must be changed. Religion and education must play a great role in changing the heart. But we must go on to say that while it may be true that morality cannot be legislated, behavior can be regulated. It may be true that the law cannot change the heart but it can restrain the heartless. It may be true that the law cannot make a man love me but it can keep him from lynching me and I think that is pretty important, also. So there is a need for executive orders. There is a need for judicial decrees. There is a need for civil rights legislation....
Martin Luther King

Vrygrond

I am in Vrygrond: this is an informal settlement in the sand dunes near Muizenberg. I am Superintendent minister of a Methodist church that meets in a iron shack. Today the junior Manyano (the junior youth) have arranged a cultural lunch. And I have been welcomed with joy and hospitality. In the midst of great poverty is great kindness and capacity for grace.

A Meeting of Beliefs

I am sitting in a committee discussing belief. I am a member of the Doctrine, Ethics and Worship Committee - a standing committee of the Methodist Church of Southern Africa - charged with reflecting theologically on what it means to be Christian in our context. I am humbled to serve on this committee and aware that this is a position of sacred trust. One issue troubling our church at the moment is how to offer the love of Jesus to gay and lesbian people. We have divergent positions in our church, fuelled by deeply held convictions and passionate debate. My desire is to follow faithfully in the footsteps of Jesus. I want to do this with integrity and an unwavering commitment to the perspective of oppressed and marginalised people. Pray for me.

A Day in My Life

I began the day with a cross on my forehead. I am part of a group who mourn the dismissal of my colleague Ecclesia de Lange from my church denomination. This was because she entered into a lesbian marriage. So we prayed with her this morning, and used an ash cross as a sign of mourning – because she was dismissed on Ash Wednesday 2010.

I left this gay-friendly group to go and care for my gay-antagonistic congregation. Here I visited six homes of shut-in elderly people, where I prayed with them, and offered them encouragement. I am humbled by their fortitude and ability to find humour in what are very difficult circumstances of frailty and ill-health.

This was followed by a funeral of a granny who is not connected to any of my churches. I got to know her through a monthly service that I lead in one of the homes for the aged in my area. Her grandson told us how she used to care for the grandchildren while their parents were away on business – and how the grandchildren as teenagers would have raucous parties supervised by granny, who would then clean up and swear everyone to secrecy!

In the afternoon I attended an administration meeting where we discussed selling a church residence and buying another. This is part of completing the red-tape necessary to put in place an upgrading of accommodation for a colleague.

And in the evening I led a home fellowship meeting, where we reflected on a parable told by Jesus in Luke Chapter 12 vs 45-48. This is a story about a housekeeper who acts as if the Master of the home is no longer in charge, and assumes power in deeply abusive ways. We agreed that this can speak about Church leaders who live as if Jesus were no longer with us, and so leadership is exercised in ways that are abusive and damaging to the servants in the home.

This brings me back to my colleague of this morning. Ecclesia has been victimised by the stewards of the household of God, who have acted as if they are Jesus. But I do not believe that the service-ethic of Jesus would have acted in such high-handed and un-pastoral ways.

And it was for this reason that I prayed with her this morning.

A Prodigal People

Hosea 11: 1-11 is a familiar story: it is the story of a prodigal nation. It is the story of a parent-God who has loved his child and given him everything he has ever needed. This was a child rescued from Egypt and given love and affection, only to have that child throw it all back in his parent-God’s face and go off to live life another kind of life.

At the time Hosea was a preacher, Israel was trying to make a treaty with Egypt in the hope that it would protect them from Assyria. This is the story of the people of God who refuse to trust God, and instead wanted to trust Egypt.

It is also the story of the rich people in Israel wanting to hang onto their wealth – so instead of sharing it with the poor people in Israel, they make a deal with the rich people in Egypt. They make an alliance that betrays every moral value they have : so that they can protect their wealth.

In the New Testament Jesus is confronted by a similar problem:
Two brothers are arguing about their inheritance, and Jesus spots the problem at the centre of the argument:
Luk 12:15 "Watch out and guard yourselves from every kind of greed; because your true life is not made up of the things you own, no matter how rich you may be."
This is the stuff that destroys lives : that moment when we think that our stuff is more important than following God. And so in the words of Hosea, we hear of this Parenting God who watches as the people of Israel pursue wealth: and become more and more distant.
Hos 11:5 "They refuse to return to me, and so they must return to Egypt, and Assyria will rule them.

At this point I become aware of ways in which these passages speaks to us today: There are many of us who understand this because we have been parents – and have had to wait for our children....or had our parents waiting for us!
But this is also the story of God who has waited for us to respond:
This is the story of a God who has given us life
and nurtured us
and given us strength for each day
and given us gifts and abilities and talents
and we live our lives consumed by all our needs
and all our problems
and all the things we want to do
and all the things we still need to get

and at no point ever acknowledging our Creator’s generosity by being willing to share the wealth God has given us.

Perhaps this is the moments to pause – and be reminded that God is waiting for us to respond to His love by generously sharing our blessings.

Rested

I am back home... after a week in the Cedarberg mountains. Nothing but fresh air and sunshine. No television or cellphone conection. But plenty of sleep, running on mountain roads, reading, and time with the family and with two wonderful friends - Eric and Angela.

Freedom

July 14 is Bastille Day.
On this day in 1789 the citizens of Paris stormed the Bastille, a prison that symbolized the power of the King over anyone who disagreed with the absolute monarchy. There were only 7 prisoners in the Bastille at the time, but the citizens saw their freedom made visible in the fall of this prison. And each year the French return to this day as a reminder of their freedom.


Which is why I find it so strange that yesterday – the day before Bastille Day – France chose to take away the freedom of some of her citizens. Yesterday France's lower house of parliament overwhelmingly approved a ban on wearing burqa-style Islamic veils. While I am opposed to the imposition of this garment on unwilling women, I am as opposed to a government preventing people from choosing their religious mode of dress – no matter how strange it may seem to those outside of the religion.

Because I treasure the freedom of religious belief and expression for myself, I therefore need to defend this space for someone of a religious tradition different from my own.

A Lekker Oke

This is Pieter Greyling. He is a man of great integrity, of unstinting generosity, and posessing a thoughtful spirituality. Pieter has a wonderful sense of humour and is deeply committed to his family. He loves his sport, as can be seen from this photograph of him at the final of the football World Cup. In fact his only weakness is his support for the Blue Bulls. I would recommend him to anyone and am privileged to call him a friend

First Things

This is the first gathering on the new campus of the new seminary of the Methodist Church of Southern Africa. It is morning worship for seminarians who have returned from their mid-year break. This is the realization of the dreams and hopes of my church. We lost a seminary at Alice to the twisted designs of the Apartheid masters in the old South Africa. We lost a second seminary in the social and polirical turbulence that gave birth to the new South Africa. And like the Old Testament story of people who wandered in a wilderness, we as a church have dreamed of a Promised Land. And i am a witness to this rebirth. I am uniquely blessed to be part of rhis.

Changing Location

Today I signed a new employment agreement. I have been asked to leave my church in Cape Town and move to a brand new Methodist Seminary in Pietermaritzburg. I am privileged to have another opportunity to participate in the teaching of student ministers. This has come as a surprise to me... And to my congregation. I photographed this sign on an empty wall in a home for the aged where a clock used to hang: Most of the church members have reacted in the same way - they do not want me moved. But my ordination vows included an agreement to go wherever I am needed. And I am honoured to have been asked. So at the end of this year I will leave my congregation of nine years with deep sadness, and set off to the Seminary with eager anticipation.

Africa Wins

Thank you Ghana and the USA for a great game tonight. Thank you Ghana for keeping African hopes alive. It feels right that the first World Cup Football competition on the African continent should have an African team that wins through to the quarter finals: I will continue to shout for the Black Stars against Uruguay.

The Game

This is it. I am surrounded by at least ten thousand German football fans, and perhaps a thousand Serbian supporters. And lots of South Africans, some Australians, some Brits, and plenty of excited school children. 28 000 spectators.


The excitement is infectious. The music invites us to dance – and we do. Vuvuzelas (plastic trumpets that have become the symbol of this competition) are being enthusiastically blown by hundreds of Germans around me. As I reach for my ear plugs I am aware that there are more white people blowing this African football appendage than black people. This long thin trumpet is actually a wonderful unifier of people at a football match.

The football is wonderful. This stadium brings spectators close to the game. We can taste the sweat of the players, sense their anguish at missing goals, and smell the impending joy of the underdogs as they trounce the mighty German team. The facilities are magnificent, the ease of access is great, and the game makes the trip well worth the effort

For just a moment I glimpse what it is to belong to the human race without tribal barrier, racial prejudice, or cultural reserve. It feels great to be a human being on planet earth.

Now for that bus trip back home

Going to the Game

I was catching a bus on the coldest, wettest day Cape Town had experienced in many years. Not just a local bus, but a bus that would carry me 800km to Port Elizabeth to watch a football match. Did I hear you ask why? Because the biggest sporting event on the planet is taking placed in my country and I want to be a part of the experience.


I was catching a bus with my English friend John, who wanted to go to Port Elizabeth to cheer for the English football team. We stared grimly at the bus parked outside of the ticket office. More and more people were being squeezed in, their luggage squashed into big lockers along the sides. We breathed a sigh of relief when we discovered that this was not our bus company. “OK, where is it?” And then a bus drove in, its windscreen wipers battling the elements and windows misty with the promised warmth inside. We made a dash for it, and stowed our stuff on the shelf above the seat. I sank gratefully into my refuge and watched the driver’s assistant check the tickets of the embarking passengers. They came from all walks of life, some clutching plastic packets while others stowed large bags in the compartments next to the wheels. The doors swished shut and we set off through the driving rain.

I was settling deeper into my seat with a sigh of insulated comfort when it struck me – the sweetly sour smell of urine. I hoped that whoever it was would not stay long on the bus. But the smell persisted until I noticed a creeping sense of wetness at the back of my thighs...the seat I was on was wet! I rapidly moved to another seat, hoping that my pants would dry without smell. Ah, the joys of community transport.

We drove amongst beautiful snow-covered mountains, stopping in Paarl, Worcester, Robertson, Mossel Bay and Plett to exchange passengers. The newcomers would climb the stairs into the bus looking hopefully for an empty row of seats. Some were lucky to find a private space, while others had to share bum space. As the journey proghressed we began to bond with one another, united by the irritation we experienced at the onboard movies. There was a communal television screen at the front of the bus, turned up loud through the bus’s intercom system. We watched a fundamentalist Christian movie that invited us to fireproof our hearts. Having given our hearts to Jesus, we then were invited by Leon Schuster to believe that he was a African traditional healer in the second version of a movie that should never have seen its first creation.

A toddler walked down the aisle and charmed all the passengers with her smile, and was instantly rewarded with crisps and sweets from various passengers. An old granny chewed on her gums quietly in the corner. A German tourist with a Maltese cross tattooed onto the back of his neck claimed a smoke break at every possible opportunity. A wealthy white pensioner, retired from Cape Town’s northern suburbs to Sedgefield, got off muttering confidentially to me that this trip with the Blacks was not as bad as he had expected. The toddler waved to the whole bus before following her mother down the stairs to the exit.

Our stops are predetermined. They are at the less significant petrol stations with attached shops. We get to use their toilet facilities in exchange for trooping into the shop to buy food.... well not real food but rather pies, crisps and sweets, tired sandwiches, and various beverages. When a passenger complained that we were 60 minutes behind schedule, the driver’s assistant suggested that we could see it in a positive light. He explained that in such bad weather we had a choice - we could either take a swift bus trip that might land us in hospital, or we could take a slower trip that would get us safely to our destination. The passengers agreed that we would exercise the latter choice, and settled in for a slightly longer trip.

And we did indeed arrive safely – eagerly anticipating renewed friendships with Eastern Cape friends, and football in the new Mandela Bay stadium.

Silence

Abba Arsenius prayed 'Lord, lead me in the way of salvation.' And he heard a voice saying, 'Arsenius, flee from men and you will be saved.'

In 394 Arsenius, the teacher of the Emperor’s sons, left the palace of the Emperor Tbeodosius 1 and sought the guidance of Abba John the Dwarf. He became an anchorite near Petra in Scetis, eventually living in silence on the mountain of Troe, where he died in 449. Here was a man who had become so overwhelmed by the noise of life that he became silent.

I understand his need. Because I have become overwhelmed by the ‘noise’ of life. I have fled the noise of words, and blogs, and facebook, and twitter. And I have needed to be silent. So there has been nothing written.... no not quite true because I did write one evening but chose to delete it.

So bear with me. I might return.

Congregational Dissent

It is amazing how a small group of people can claim to speak on behalf of the congregation – until this is tested by meeting with the rest of the congregation!

I called a meeting of my troubled congregation last Sunday night. My friend Craig facilitated a conversation amongst the membership. He asked my bishop to attend, as well as some other colleagues. And so the airing of opinions began: and people discovered that we are diverse. We discovered that there is no one definitive point of view on how we live as Christian people. We are divided by different generations, by our history, by our theological opinions, and by our family ties. And having allowed the different points of view to be expressed, Craig allowed us to discover our unity of purpose, of faith commitment, and of mission.

As Craig reminded us: difference of opinion is a normal human expression of life. It is how we resolve our differences that is critical. I want to believe that space has been opened up within this congregation for an acceptance of different points of view.

Jeremiah

Jer 1:1 ..... Jeremiah son of Hilkiah, of the priests who were in Anathoth in the land of Benjamin, to whom the word of the LORD came ........
Jer 1:17 But you, gird up your loins; stand up and tell them everything that I command you. Do not break down before them...They will fight against you; but they shall not prevail against you, for I am with you, says the LORD, to deliver you.

Jeremiah was a conflicted, tortured man who was asked to speak very difficult words that nobody wanted to hear! And we have a way of calling someone a Jeremiah when we think them as a ‘prophet of doom’.

And I really, really understand him.
Because I have had moments when I have felt an inner compulsion to speak about difficult things – knowing that they are unpopular words. These words often begin inside of me: somewhere in the region of my stomach. I sense that they need to be said, but my stomach gets knotted and my voice becomes trapped somewhere in my throat. My mind burns with the knowledge that the words need to be spoken, but I struggle to speak them.

I remember this during the turbulent years of South Africa in the 1980’s. And how I very reluctantly spoke to my local white parishioners about the injustices of our land – and faced disgruntled members who told me that they “did not come to church to hear about the problems of the country.” When I was arrested by the security police they stopped paying my stipend.... even though no charges were ever proved against me! I remember speaking in the years we were moving into a new democracy of the need for a gun-free society, and having the military-employed members of my congregation choosing to withdraw their financial contributions because “you do not want money that is earned from guns.” Well it is happening again: I have a congregation who have discovered that their former minister has entered a same-sex civil union. They are deeply unhappy that I have asked them not to be her executioners, but rather to offer her their support and prayers. And so they walk out of my services when I get up to preach; and they with-hold their financial contributions; and they have run to my bishop to complain about my lack of Christian belief.

And it eats at me!
Because I have no aspirations to be Jeremiah. I wonder if there is a way to avoid saying the words. I look desperately for reasons why I should stay silent. I long for a peaceful life – the kind of life where people love me, and thank me for the reassuring words I offer. But all the time I know this driving inner prompting that asks me to speak about the difficult things.

So pray for me that I might be faithful to the promptings of the Holy Spirit – especially when I feel like putting my head down and avoiding the flack.

Gardening

We built a garden.
It began at a rubbish dump in Rosemore, a very poor, neglected suburb outside of the city of George in the Eastern Cape. Many years ago the Methodist Church worshipped on this site. But the Grand Apartheid policies of the old South Africa moved the black members to “their own” township and the remaining members gradually dwindled away...until all that was left was a broken down building that the city council eventually demolished.

That is until the Rev Ansie Liebenberg became the minister to the handful of members who faithfully met in the local crèche building. She heard how the church used to occupy what had become a wasteland, and she helped build a vision to reclaim this ground. Daring to dream the impossible, the people raised funds and bought back their land. Assisted by Methodist people from George, a simple church building arose out of the rubbish tip. Then they built a garden. The permaculture skills of the Rev Philip Bauser were imported from Johannesburg, and he helped the people build a church garden. Now they are feeding the poor in the community from the vegetables in their garden.

So this week I accompanied a group of student ministers to the Rosemore Methodist Church. My task was to help them develop a theology of ecology. Sponsored by the training unit of the Methodist Church of SA, Phil Bauser shared the principles of Earthkeeping, and taught them how to build a garden. Then they were asked to go into the community to lay out gardens for 8 local families. As the students left the church building it began to rain, and I thought that they would begin to grumble. But to my amazement, undeterred by the drizzle, small groups walked cheerfully through the surrounding shacks to their designated hosts.

I accompanied one group to a home occupied by a mother, her triplet daughters and a toddler. This was a one roomed building with a “long-drop” toilet outside. After initial introductions the family took us to the place they had identified for their garden. They knew about the garden because they had seen the example at the church.

This family’s garden was alongside the toilet – which was also where the local tap for water was located. The mother and girls joined the students in laying out the garden, putting down the mulch, and planting the seedlings. There was laughter, rain, dirty hands and excitement.

They all posed for a photograph, and prayers were offered: one of the students praying in Afrikaans while the mother simultaneously prayed in Xhosa, both expressing thanks for the gift of life.

Then a splashy scramble back to the church, soaking wet and deeply satisfied.

Two Oceans Half Marathon

Coming of Age

It is the biggest day of their lives: white dresses, an iced cake, weeks of careful preparation for the big day – and the solemn “I do” before the congregation.
No... not a wedding. This is Confirmation Sunday.


We were in Lotus River, a poor “coloured” community of Cape Town (why do the worst areas always have such beguiling names?). The morning service was filled with family and friends, whose highlight was the opportunity to take communion together with “their” confirmation candidate. This is then followed by the afternoon Confirmation Tea, complete with photographs, prayers and speeches.

For many of these 16 year olds, this is their coming of age ceremony. By the time they are 21 they have already faced the crisis of finding work, been in debt, dealt with drugs, alcohol, and petty crime, had children, perhaps got married, and seen all the other challenges of adult life that this impoverished community throws at young people.

So I went to Confirmation tea with families in the council flats. These are three story cement blocks, where people live (literally) on top of each other. The walls have graffiti of local interest: one wall proclaimed support for Everton FC, while another claimed territory for a local gang. There is scuffed playpark equipment populated with clambering children, and ‘pimped-up’ 20 year old cars that are the status symbols of the young men hanging around the edges of the cement park.

The first home had a make-shift shelter attached to the front wall. This is probably used as a “shebeen” - selling liquour to the neighbourhood for extra income - because the granny has to care for the four toddlers that her children had produced. Sunday afternoon turned this into a tea venue. We sat around the walls, while the main table held the confirmation cake. The princess of the day sat behind the table, while each of the guests lined up to have photographs taken with her. The church leader then arrived to lead the family in a prayer, after which the table was declared “open” and tea was served. The table was loaded with doughnuts (called koeksusters in this community), potato crisps, sweets, small cakes thickly iced with bright colours, and bright red or green cooldrink.

After what we considered a respectful time of visiting, my wife Jenny and I excused ourselves and made our way upstairs to the next home. We passed doorways that spilled loud music, tripped over bicycles on the landing, and finally emerged on the top of the flight of concrete stairs and knocked on the door. It was opened by a total stranger who invited us in. We discovered that she was the “neighbour from downstairs” who had come to help for the occasion. I walked into a lounge just large enough for a table covered with the requisite chips/sweets/cakes/cooldrink and confirmation cake. There was a two-seater sofa, and one other chair. Jenny and I squeezed onto the single chair while the grandmother, her friend, and the white-clad confirmee sat on the other two seats.

And all conversation dried up. We all struggled to find common ground. The 16 year old was too tongue-tied in the presence of older adults, the granny remained painfully silent, and her friend tried to hold the show together by recounting her work as a domestic worker in the upmarket suburb of Pinelands. Jenny and I drank a cooldrink, ate some chips and took a photograph. I then prayed with the three of them, and wished them well before making my escape. It was dreadfully sad – the evident grinding poverty of the grandmother, contrasted by her desire to “do the right thing” for her granddaughter.

As we left we bumped into the mother of the 16 year old, who was coming up the stairs. She is probably in her early thirties, care-worn by her life.... and pregnant. All I could do was wish her God’s blessing.