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.

Racism

I know that black is beautiful and white is beautiful. But the most beautiful color of all is black and white together.



We hate each other because we fear each other. We fear each other because we don't know each other. We don't know each other because we won't sit down at the table together.

- Rev. Ralph David Abernathy, quoted in Partners to History, by Donzaleigh Abernathy



O God:
Pour your Spirit into our hearts so that we might bear your welcome to all around us, that we might love our neighbors as ourselves and in so doing live out our love for you. We confess our own welcome is limited, that we tend to care for only those we like or who care for us. Challenge us, God, to love more and to welcome more.
Amen

Proud of Her

On Saturday I had an amazing morning: I completed the Two Oceans half-marathon. I have run it before: but this was my best ever…. because I ran it with my daughter Lisa.

My happiest moment was when we entered the stadium. We ran down the final stretch: with crowds on both sides. And they were applauding. And I felt so proud to be running alongside Lisa.
You see here is the thing:
Three years ago she was very, very sick. She had no energy even to get through her day without having an afternoon nap. But as she got better she decided to run this race. So Lisa and I have been training together. We trained during the week. And over the weekends we have run progressively longer races – first 10km, then 15 km, and now the 21km.

I am proud of her willingness to set a difficult challenge for herself. There are much easier 21km runs, but she was determined to run this one. I am proud of her ongoing commitment to this challenge, even when she was juggling work, studies and social life. And I am proud of her for not giving up during the race, particularly when she was tired and struggling with sore feet and fluctuating sugar levels.

Lisa inspires me to commit to my own goals. And not to give up on my dreams and ideals. I am proud to be her father.

The photograph is taken by my friend Jurgen . He is a fabulous photographer and I would encourage you to use him.

God Bless the King

Luk 19:37-40 When he came near Jerusalem, at the place where the road went down the Mount of Olives, the large crowd of his disciples began to thank God and praise him in loud voices for all the great things that they had seen: "God bless the king who comes in the name of the Lord! Peace in heaven and glory to God!" Then some of the Pharisees in the crowd spoke to Jesus. "Teacher," they said, "command your disciples to be quiet!" Jesus answered, "I tell you that if they keep quiet, the stones themselves will start shouting."


I do not speak the Word of God.

This is because only God can speak God’s Word! The Word of God is beyond my human understanding (Psalm 145 vs 3). In contrast I speak of what I have seen and heard about God…. from within my very limited human experience. So when I write a comment in the Church notices, or when I preach a sermon, or when I lead a Bible Study, the best that I can do is express my opinions about the spiritual things I have experienced and thought about. And because I have so much more to learn about God ,I know that I will often have to change my mind. The best that I can do is to follow Jesus like the crowd of long ago…. even though I do not know where he will lead me.

This is what most angered the Pharisees when the crowds shouted their support. They were unable to follow someone without first having come to a correct theological position. It is this that led to the religious inertia of Jerusalem’s faith. And so when Jesus brought the joyful fresh air of God’s Spirit into Jerusalem, the Pharisees were unable to celebrate. Instead they wanted to silence Jesus.

I am inviting us to discover the Spirit-inspired joy of following Jesus into Jerusalem; I am inviting us to the Spirit-disturbing experience of allowing our temples to be cleansed by Jesus; I am inviting us to allow the Spirit to lead us to the Good Friday death of our most precious convictions; and I and inviting us to a Spirit-inspired resurrection of faith on Easter Sunday. I am inviting us to say with the crowds through the ages: "God bless the king who comes in the name of the Lord! Peace in heaven and glory to God!"

Whattabike

The Buff

5000 motorcycles, people, noisy exhausts, fast food, alcohol, and lots and lots of make-believe. This is a gathering of bike lovers who gather to talk, look and share knowledge... (read 'talk rubbish, look at girls, and brag about everything'). Here is a moment of fantasy where we can dress up in fierce clothing, look like thugs, swagger and swear, rev your bike's engine, and generally behave badly. This provides a cartharsis from the stress of life, and allows us to get back to the real world on Monday. Make-believe on two wheels.

Road Trip

8 men on motorcycles, four days, 2000 kilometres, lots of dorpies, three Royal hotels, finishing with the Buffalo Motorcycle Rally of more than 5000 motorcycles. Life is great.

Phishing

Here is an e-mail that I receive from time to time:


Dear Customer
....... is working to increase the security of all Internet Banking Users.
To ensure the integrity of our online payment system, we periodically review certain accounts.
Your account might be placed on restricted status due to a number of invalid login attempts.

Restricted accounts continue to receive payments but they are limited to certain Internet banking features.
To initiate your Internet Banking Confirmation Process, please click below:

Account Reference: (0x3d.0x38.0x4e.0xcf)

This email (including any attachments) is intended for the above-mentioned person(s). If you are not the intended recipient of this email, please delete this email immediately. It is private and confidential and may contain legally privileged information.


Too bad that I do not bank with ......!

I omitted the name of this bank because it could as easily have been any other bank. I have friends who believed this to be genuine and responded with their banking details. A few weeks ago one lost all of his university study loan from his account - withdrawn within minutes of responding. A faceless trickster has shattered the life of a promising student. It is so easy to do this within the anonymity of a computer - the perpetrator probably does not even think of it as crime because it does not have the element of face to face violence. But it is deeply evil.

I went for a Walk

On Saturday morning I went for a walk with people who feel excluded from my city; and from my church; and from my continent. They are persecuted for the way they experience life. They experience mockery, insults, beatings, and rape – and mostly my continent silently approves. I have not heard my church leaders speaking out against their abuse. In fact I have just heard that my church has rejected one of my colleagues who scraped together enough courage to admit to her orientation. You see… she is a lesbian. And anyone who is not heterosexual is excluded.

I read in the Bible of Jesus who spent time with those who were excluded by his society…. And so chose to believe that Jesus would have joined me in the Cape Town Gay Pride March. It was a street parade of thousands of people – some “dressed in their best” and others just happy to have a momentary freedom to exist without stigma. I wore my clerical shirt as a sign that the people of Jesus could accompany the marginalised. Sadly there were some other people of Jesus who stood with banners that condemned the parade to hell. I was struck by the response of the crowd : they blew kisses towards those holding the spiteful banners.

And so I walked the streets of my city – with people who sang, and danced, and shared their joy at experiencing a glimpse of what freedom for all our people could look like.

Ten days in Uniform

It is 32 years since I last regularly wore a uniform. I was in Regimental Instructor in the South African Air Force (which now seems like another life). One of my duties was to ensure that the troops dressed correctly – and to frighten them into correcting anything that was out of order. Well I have worn my clerical uniform since Ash Wednesday.

This has become my Lenten practice/penance. I have worn a clerical shirt every day of the past ten days. And in the process of doing this, I have discovered that I have both given up something, and taken on something.

I have discovered that wearing a clerical shirt takes away my anonymity. I am now noticed. In the past week I have taken two weddings and a funeral (why does this sound familiar?), and numerous church services and meetings. Here the clerical collar was accepted mostly without comment – although some wondered why I was “dressed for a funeral”. It was the other occasions that raised comment: I attended a 21st birthday party at a beach venue at Yzerfontein; I went to On Broadway, a dinner theatre venue; I went to the Maynardville Carnival; and in between I had coffee at VidaE, and Dulce Café; and shared meals at Montebello, and Kauai. These moments caused more than a second glance, with me being aware of ‘being watched’ and others around me aware of my presence. Someone remarked that she had spotted me at the theatre because of my collar, while many strangers at the Carnival either greeted me or – more disturbingly - moved out of my way. The 21st party did not know what to make of me, but it was my niece’s party and she is always unfailingly warm and welcome of me.

What have I gained? I have gained an awareness of living my life for Jesus. The outer garment is a constant reminder of this. It is always my desire to integrate my religious practice with my daily living, but I realise just how easy it is to rise to the occasion from time to time, but mostly to survive the daily pressures of life with little conscious thought of living for Christ (Note to self: I must read Brother Lawrence again). I have also gained an acute awareness of representing the Christian Church. I have had many greet me as “Father” and “Priest”, although my own church tradition does not ask this. In the process I have been humbled by this respect (entirely unmerited), and aware of the way I struggle represent the Church. Because right now my church has persecuted my friend and colleague Ecclesia de Lange for her sexual orientation. She has been dismissed by the Presiding Bishop from her ministry because she married her partner Amanda. I do not want to represent this awful legalism, and yet I am called to be part of this church. I continue to experience the deep conviction that I am exactly where God wants me to be.

So I will continue to wear my uniform for in Lent: and learn the lessons God has for me. While I do not run road races in my collar, I look at the next few weeks and I see that I have taken a weekend off to attend the Buffalo motorcycle rally – I will keep you posted!

The Funeral

I walked into a swaying throng of singing people – mostly dressed in the red and black uniform of the Methodist Church of SA.


On Friday morning I attended the funeral of Nonkosi Makananda, the wife of my friend and colleague Fikile. The venue was the Langa community hall, which was really too small for the occasion, but was the largest building available. I am not really good at estimating numbers, but at a guess I would say that there were 1500 people present. … five of us were white surrounded by a grieving black community.


I had nothing to say, and had no official part to play in the proceedings, but just being there was enough for me. This is consistent with the African urge towards ubuntu – a concept of human solidarity encapsulated in the Zulu maxim umuntu ngumuntu ngabantu. I believe that my humanity only becomes real when it connects with others, and in attending this funeral I became part of the human community. And it is here that I recognized the sharp division between the white and black members of my denomination: black Methodist people came to this funeral from all over the country, while white Methodists were conspicuous by their absence. For black Methodist this was about standing alongside a family in their grief, something white Methodists simply do not understand.

White South Africans are generally very bad at dealing with death. We want our funerals to be swift and painless; we want our grieving to be private and invisible; and we do our best to “put it behind us” and to “move on with our lives.” In the process we do not grieve well, and have very little space to find real spiritual healing from the trauma of death – witness the thriving trade of psychologists, spiritualist mediums, and anti-depressant medication. And for this reason we avoid funerals.

I stood alongside my friend Fikile – because I am a human being who recognized his humanity.

And I was in uniform.

Exerpts from "Ash Wednesday" by T S Eliot

Because I do not hope to turn again
Because I do not hope
Because I do not hope to turn
Desiring this man's gift and that man's scope
I no longer strive to strive towards such things
(Why should the agèd eagle stretch its wings?)
Why should I mourn
The vanished power of the usual reign?

Because I do not hope to know
The infirm glory of the positive hour
Because I do not think
Because I know I shall not know
The one veritable transitory power
Because I cannot drink
There, where trees flower, and springs flow, for there is
nothing again………



This is the time of tension between dying and birth
The place of solitude where three dreams cross…..





Suffer us not to mock ourselves with falsehood
Teach us to care and not to care
Teach us to sit still
Even among these rocks,
Our peace in His will…..

And let my cry come unto Thee.

In Uniform

Today is Ash Wednesday, and I spent the day in my uniform.


I have been a Methodist minister for the past 30 years. And I very seldom dress in official clergy garb. When I first began this ministry, I had no wish to be like the senior ministers in this church: they dressed in black, and many wore their clerical collars permanently. They did not connect with the rock music culture that shaped me - a culture of blue jeans, t-shirts and informality. I wanted to be the kind of minister who was approachable; one who young people could talk to; one who stood alongside people who were marginalised by the formality and the rigidity of the “professional clergyman.”

Later in my ministry I found myself amongst poor, working-class people. These were people who worked under supervisors and foremen in factories and on shop floors. They translated this into their church life and wanted me to be their religious “boss” / supervisor / foreman. And I resisted this by refusing to dress in a way that reinforced the power of the clergy. For the ten years that I was their minister, I never once dressed in any clerical uniform. I wanted to underline the fact that that we were a team of people – each bringing different gifts and abilities to serve the common good, but no one more powerful than any other.

And so I have spent most of my life dressing down, dressing like my congregation, dressing in ways that speak of being a team rather than emphasising status. But I am gradually discovering space for “Clergy Clothes”: there are moments when it is necessary to be clearly identified as clergy – like when I officiate at a funeral of people who are strangers to me and my church… it simplifies matters when the mourners can immediately identify who the minister is. There have also been other moments – such as walking into a busy city hospital, or participating in a political protest – when being instantly recognisable has been useful.

I am now finding it helpful to dress as a clergyperson for sacramental moments: Baptism and Holy Communion are becoming increasingly strange to the society we live in. People in my congregation are no longer schooled in my church tradition. Many have come from little or no church tradition at all. So I need to find ways of indicating moments of special significance. It is therefore helpful to put on a uniform to indicate to those who come to church that this is a special event.

Today I wore clergy uniform…..Because it is Ash Wednesday.
And I wanted to mark this as a significant day in our Christian journey.
Perhaps I will wear my clergy shirt tomorrow as well - to mark this journey of Lent.

...... I will let you know.

Mourning

My friend and colleague Fikile is having to deal with something truly terrible. This is the report of the incident on the front page of the Cape Argus today:




"The wife of a Methodist minister was found stabbed to death in her Bothasig home on Friday night on her 54th birthday. Police have named as a suspect an 18-year-old relative, who has since disappeared.

Expecting to celebrate his wife's birthday, Fikile Makananda and three of his children arrived home just after nine with a cake. But instead of a celebration, they were confronted by Nonkosi's body lying in a pool of blood in the living room.

She had been stabbed seven times in the chest. There were also slashes on her arms indicating she had tried to fend off her attacker. There were no signs of forced entry and nothing had been taken from the house."

Rumours are flying around - including one that says his son is missing.
I ask your prayers for this trumatised family.

Ssshhh!

Silence frees us from the need to control others ... A frantic stream of words flows from us in an attempt to straighten others out. We want so desperately for them to agree with us, to see things our way. We evaluate people, judge people, condemn people. We devour people with our words. Silence is one of the deepest Disciplines of the Spirit simply because it puts the stopper on that.
- Richard Foster, from his book Freedom of Simplicity

Being Sure

Sometimes I feel sure I am loved by God, and other times I have doubt. There are moments when I am sure that God loves me, and there are moments when tiredness, frustration, financial worry, and stress crowd out the peace and joy of the presence of God.

I do not doubt that Jesus came to live amongst us and offered his life as a “fragrant sacrifice” (Ephesians 5:2). But I do not always “feel” close to God. Scientists have shown that human feelings have to do with chemistry in our brains, and shows how useless it is for us to trust our feelings as a sign of the presence of God.

It is for this reason that Jesus points beyond feelings to the fruit of our lives. Jesus says that if we want to be sure of God’s presence in our lives we must look for signs of God activity (John 15:8). Our relationship with God is based on God’s goodness within us that transcends both our ups and downs. This is a goodness that is shown in the way we care for those who struggle with life; in the way we encourage those who have lost faith; in the way we practice generosity with people around us; and in the way we refuse to repay anger with anger, pain with pain and hate with hate.

This has nothing to do with me “feeling good”. This has to do with surrender: I surrender my tiredness, my irritability, my scepticism, to God – and God’s Spirit uses me to bless someone else. It is in these moments that I m sure of my faith: because in spite of my weaknesses, God’s blessing has been given to another person (1 Corinthians 1:23-31).

Paul Verryn

Paul is a friend of mine.
I have known him for the past 23 years. Back then we both were both Supervisors of Probationer Methodist Ministers – he in Johannesburg, and I in Cape Town. I would stay with him when I went to Johannesburg, either in Hillbrow (when it was not safe), or in his Soweto home.

Why not safe? Because he found himself caught up by the political currents that swirled around Winnie Mandela and her “soccer team”. Paul was followed by the security police. He was shot by a local township gangster who tried to take his car. He was vilified by white Methodists for his commitment to political change, and excoriated by black Methodists for challenging the inept and often lazy ministry exercised by some. He was fearless in challenging injustice and in championing those without a voice.

And I am appalled by the short memories of those in leadership of our country. Many of the current political leaders were helped by Paul when they were still youngsters in the townships. And many of the current Methodist leadership were taught by Paul when they were student ministers. He is not a saint. He is often stubborn, and irascible, and determined to have his own way. These were required weapons to cope with the ugly face of the Apartheid years. And these have become necessary tools in the face of entrenched xenophobic South Africans.

Clearly these are not helpful tools to deal with the intricacies of Church politics. In the holy huddles of Bishops and other church flunkies, blunt honesty and fearless comment are unwelcome. They muddy the carefully purified waters that are sprinkled on troubled brows. Many have bided their time and waited for the right moment to put him in his place. And now he is being charged in a church disciplinary committee with a technicality: he is accused of usurping the right of the Presiding Bishop to go to court on behalf of the Methodist Church; and of speaking to the press without the authority to do so. Grave crimes indeed!

My church is less concerned with the children than with the instigator of the court action. And these charges could have been brought months ago: Paul has spoken to the press for years and years without church complaint… but they are timed to do the most damage to his reputation.

Paul remains my friend. And I will pray for my church’s leadership.

Weeping.

I have not known how to speak about the disaster in Haiti. But have been deeply moved by two articles. I am asking you to read the following quotes:





On Oct. 17, 1989, a major earthquake with a magnitude of 7.0 struck the Bay Area in Northern California. Sixty-three people were killed......
...........a major earthquake, also measuring a magnitude of 7.0, struck near Port-au-Prince, Haiti. The Red Cross estimates that between 45,000 and 50,000 people have died. This is not a natural disaster story. This is a poverty story. It’s a story about poorly constructed buildings, bad infrastructure and terrible public services. ( David Brooks )

Why have Haitian farmers been run out of business? Why is the Haitian soil stripped and the country plagued by mudslides? Why are Haitian girls sold into slavery? Why is 80% of the Haitian budget going to pay other countries? Why are the people there eating mud? Why is their government corrupt? Why are there hardly any jobs in Haiti? Why are there no supplies to build decent buildings? Why is it so hard for kids there to get education? Why are there no roads? And when we discover that the answers to many of those questions are unjust U.S. trade and military policies, it can be hard to swallow. We can brush it aside as just trying to pass blame and point fingers – and continue to give aid and remake the country in our image. Or we can own up to our collective sins and take responsibility for making amends.
( Julie Clawson )

Weep for those who have died.
Weep for those who survived and now have less than nothing.
And weep for those of us who have more than we need and cling stubbornly to our riches.
Weeping.

Abused

Her has brother died – and the family is relieved.

Last year the family had gathered for her mother’s birthday, and her brother got drunk and raped his sister. The other members of the family stayed in their rooms and ignored her cries for help. You see - he is a member of a gang and they were afraid.

He then ran away and she laid charges with the police – who eventually caught him. And the family lived in fear. They were afraid of the way this tore up the family. They were afraid of retaliation by his gang. And they were afraid that he would come out of prison on bail.

But then they heard the news that he was ill – in fact he was fading away. She had herself tested for HIV/Aids, which showed negative. Her sisters asked her to drop the charges because of his illness. And then last week they arrived with a church pastor to pressurise her into withdrawing the charges. She was accused of having a “cold heart” and of “not acting like a Christian.” But she stood her ground. He had entered a ‘not guilty’ plea in court and until he admitted guilt she would not speak to them . In desperation she finally threatened to bring her own pastor (me) to take them on.

Last Friday her brother died in prison. Since then her mother and sisters have apologised to her for their actions: and she knows it was because they feared him. Since then she has been assaulted with a brick by a member of his gang. And now her mother wants her to be a pall-bearer at his funeral tomorrow.
So today she feels conflicted.

I have no answers for her. I listen….I pray with her…..and I assure her of God’s love for her.

La Chaim

I have just watched the sun settle into the Atlantic Ocean.

Jenny, my friend Rick , and I drove our motorcycles over Constantia Neck, through Hout Bay and up Chapman’s Peak Drive. Just past the toll booths we found a picnic spot and parked our bikes. We sat under the towering buttresses of the Twelve Apostles that range back from Table Mountain and savoured the warm afternoon, with its still air and view over a calm sea. We talked, and drank cold drinks, and relaxed.

And I was aware of the conflicted reality – that I am privileged to be in this moment of tranquillity, while others half a world away are desperately trying to reclaim their lives from the rubble of an earthquake.
I have no answers. But am grateful for my life.

God with us

I hung out with God today.

At 6:30 am I rode my motorcycle from my home through the oak trees of Constantia, over the winding mountain pass, and down into Hout bay. I encountered God in the crisp early morning air, the beauty of the new sunlight on the mountains, and the sparkle of the sea. I joined 1 000 runners in a road running race between Camps Bay and Houtbay and encountered God in the encouragement given me by both spectators and fellow runners. I met God in the joy of sharing a family breakfast in Dunes restaurant. We laughed together, watched dolphins frolicking in the waves, and were proud of Granny (my 85yrs old mother-in-law) who completed the 5km fun run.
This afternoon our family went for a picnic at Kirstenbosch. We were entertained by Freshly Ground (a local band) and encountered God in the music, the awe-inspiring setting, and the friendly camaraderie of about 5 000 other picnickers. So I come to the end of a perfect day – a day infused with the presence of God.

Today I did not find God in a Church.

Most Sundays I spend inside of Church buildings. I normally have three Sunday services, sometimes four. My Sundays are consumed with the people who meet inside the buildings. And I love them dearly and find great joy in being with them. I also appreciate how the weekly routine of worship keeps me spiritually grounded. But today I was reminded that God is not trapped inside of a Church building. I was reminded that there are many more people outside of the church buildings than there are inside. These are not unspiritual people – they are just people who do not find church helpful in their spirituality. Instead they run, they cycle, they climb mountains, they go to the beach, and they share breakfast as families and friends.
Today I was reminded that I dare not reduce my reality to my church. The church is an important part of my life – but there is another world outside of the fellowship of my church. And I am reminded of John Wesley who insisted that “the world is my parish.”

Christmas everyday

I sometimes think we expect too much of Christmas Day. We try to crowd into it the long arrears of kindliness and humanity of the whole year. As for me, I like to take my Christmas a little at a time, all through the year.
- David Grayson
American author and journalist (1870-1946)

New Year’s Eve

“There is a bullet with my name on it.”
This was a common thought during my days in the South African Defence Force. On border patrol there was no point in wearing a helmet because no matter what I do - “There is a bullet with my name on it.” I have since found that many people use a similar thought to express the idea that no matter what we do we have no control of our fate. “God has already decided my fate.”

I do not believe this.
I believe that God has dreams and plans for my life, but that God has given me the freedom to choose to participate in them – or not.


Today I stand at the end of the old year and the beginning of the new. I will therefore admit to the moments in 2009 when I failed to participate in God’s dream for my life. Some of this was because I became too busy, and did not allow space for reflection. And some of this was because although I knew what God expected of me, I did not want to surrender my lust, greed, and inner selfishness.

And tomorrow I will again choose to seek God’s will each moment of each day in 2010. When I get up each morning of the New Year I will place my day at God’s disposal. Then I will choose to live the day as richly and as generously as possible. And when it is over I will thank God for the experiences of the day and make peace with my mistakes.

May the Peace of God be with all of us.

Virginity, Sex and Christmas

markpenrith read my previous post Scandal and asked me the following question:

"Does, Now I do not know how Mary got pregnant. I do not believe that pregnancies can be manufactured from thin air. mean you don’t believe in the virgin birth?"


I believe that God – the Almighty Creator – is capable of creating life out of nothing. This means that God can use a virgin to give birth to Jesus. I am not alone in this, as there are millions of Christians who believe this too. But Christians are not alone in this belief: Parthenogenesis - the Greek word for virgin birth – is a common requirement in ancient mythology for the birth of kings or gods.

For me the more important question is why we need to believe that Jesus was “born of the Virgin Mary”. The original Greek for what we now choose to translate into English as “virgin” does not insist that this be a woman who has not known sexual activity – these texts can also be translated as a “young woman.” In fact the early Christian community new nothing of Mary being a virgin. This was the work of Augustine of Hippo, who formulated a theology that equated the absence of sex with goodness. He suggested that those who abstain from sexual activity are pure, and are therefore closer to God.

Which is why Mary the “young women” was transformed by the Church into Mary “the Virgin”: this line of thought held that the Mother of God could not possibly have engaged in the defilement of sexual activity. Some even suggest that she never ever knew what sex was, and went to heaven in this “pure” state.

Which is fine as a quaint and interesting notion. However, this becomes the foundation for far graver implications.
1. From this we live with the idea that for priests of God to be pure they need to be celibate. And this suppression of sex as a natural God-given human function has led to some priests expressing a distorted sexuality with choir boys and other vulnerable people.
2. The idea that abstinence from sex equates with purity has left many young people feeling defiled and guilty for their early sexual awakenings. No matter how hard they pray – they still think of sex, and therefore are defiled.

So while I can be awed by the idea of God impregnating Mary, I can be as awed by the idea that God took the seed and egg in the womb of Mary and created Jesus from it. The latter idea certainly gives me hope for the power of God to take what could have been a “scandal of this world” and to transform it into a “triumph of heaven.” This then gives me courage to believe that God can take my own frail, deeply flawed life and turn it into something useful and good.

Scandal

Joseph, a respected member of the town, with a well-established carpentry business, discovers that his fiancée Mary is pregnant. She has been living under the strict supervision of her parents and he knows that he is not the father of the child. And he had asked the village mothers to examine her before they got engaged to ensure that she was a virgin.

And as the women gathered to draw water at the well they all passed on the gossip, which was quickly relayed as soon as the women got back home. The whole village knew.

I have often wondered what Joseph’s parents must have thought of Mary. Imagine this: Your son gets engaged, and then you hear that she is pregnant. So you storm into your son’s room and ask him – "Don’t you know how to be careful?" And he says to you: “It isn’t me.” What would the next words be? Probably something like:
“Get rid of the slut immediately.”

We have dressed up the Christmas story with so much holy language that we have lost the impact of it. Mary is about to have an illegitimate child….in a culture that did not just skinder – they stoned women for such things.

Now I do not know how Mary got pregnant. I do not believe that pregnancies can be manufactured from thin air. But I do see God taking what was a disaster and turning it into a blessing.

We are told in Matthew Chapter 1 that Mary’s scandalous illegitimate child was to be called Jesus – which means “God saves”. Matthew then points us back to the Old Testament, and says that the birth of this baby is a sign that God is with us. The shame has been turned into good news. This is the way God works with us. God can take a scandal and turn it into something useful.

We do not have to be perfect before God notices us.
God is with us in our scandal.
God is with us at the places that we feel ashamed.
God is with us when the whole community rejects us.
God is with us even when we know we have failed.
This is the good news of Christmas – even when we feel rejected by everybody – God does not reject us!
If God could love Mary, and use her scandal as a blessing to the world – then how much more will God not turn our scandals into blessings.

The Wedding

My friends Ecclesia and Amanda were married on Tuesday night.
I have known them for the past 5 years, and have shared the very difficult journey that allowed them to acknowledge the love they have for one another.


I grew up in a society does not easily cope with two women who love one another.
More particularly – I grew up in a Christian community that never thought about people of the same gender who love one another. And so right now my church (the Methodist Church) is really struggling with the fact that Ecclesia, who is a Methodist Minister, has chosen to get married to a woman. Her Superintendent minister has asked for her to be suspended, and has laid a disciplinary charge against her in our church courts.

I understand the thinking of her Superintendent. He believes that he is defending the truth, and therefore needs to protect our church from people who do not conform to the traditional teaching. This is familiar to me: It was this thinking that prevented people of different racial groups getting married in our church in South Africa’s past. It was also this that prevented divorced people from being married in our church. But we changed: God convicted us to move beyond the limits of the racially segregated marriages proposed by the Apartheid government. And God helped us to become more Grace-filled in our approach to divorced people who wish to marry for a second time.

I have discovered a God who challenged me to outgrow my prejudices. And for this reason I am convinced that my church needs to change our position on same-sex marriages. I would rather see us encouraging people to live in committed relationships, than see the secretive behavior manifested by gay and lesbian Christian people. I believe that the uncommitted relationships (and often promiscuous sexuality)of Gay Christian people are a result of our failure to ask them to commit to marriage.

I therefore wish Amanda and Ecclesia God’s blessings as they begin a new life together.

No Words

Hi Pete,
Just checking all is well, you have not been blogging for a while and I have missed you!!
Love in Christ,
Stephen

Dear Stephen
I am so tired. Not physical tiredness – I am running 5km per day at the moment and am beginning to feel fitter again. I am also eating well, and am generally sleeping at night.

No - I am emotionally tired.
I have had seven funerals in seven weeks. And it has wiped me out. I meet with the families; I plan the service in a way that has personal meaning for the family; and I try to say something that both celebrates the life of the one who has died, and that offers courage to those who continue with life. And I have run out of words.

But I have to find the words:
Because outside of the funerals life goes on: I have to come up with words for Sundays, and for Christmas, and for New Year. And for the 4 week teaching series in January that needs to be printed now before the Christmas shut-down of businesses.

So I have nothing to say in a blog right now.

Except that I am very, very grateful for the friends like you who ask me how I am. And who pray for me. And who write from time to time to give me courage.

God Bless
Pete



(Stephen’s only fault is that he supports England’s sports teams. Naturally as a South African I support the World Champion Springbok Rugby team, and the world Number 1 Protea cricket team, and world ranked golfers like Ernie Els and Retief Goosen, and surfski world champion Dawid Mocke).

Lost

He lost his way in the middle of the sentence.

I was invited to attend a dinner tonight – along with seventy other people. And we were standing around the bar making “before dinner small talk”, when he struck up a conversation with me. After exchanging names we talked for about ten minutes. But the conversation never went anywhere, because it consisted of half completed sentences. He would begin a sentence and forget where he was going. He could not remember the names, places or events he wanted to describe. His memories have been locked up in a place he cannot find. And my heart bled for him.

Here is a man with an illustrious history behind him, but who is unable to maintain coherence in his present. His brain has become forgetful/foggy/distracted. And so we chatted together about nothing - literally. And I wished him well; and he thanked me for my good wishes; and he wandered off with a gentle smile.

And I deep down inside of me I prayed that I would never get lost like this.

Calling back the Past

I am sitting in a service at the Rusthof Methodist Church. I was the minister here from January1988 - December 1997. This congregation was established 100 years ago, but was torn apart by the forced removals of the Apartheid era. So today they celebrate their survival and growth here in 'the wilderness' of what was the Rusthof farm. This congregation has worshipped in this building for the past 40 years. Many tears were shed, much bitterness has been overcome, and this church flourishes long after the Apartheid government has been buried. I thank God for this resurrection from the ashes of the old past.

Living and Dying

He is dying.
He looks healthy and well – but after blood tests, scans, a biopsy, and surgical investigation, the doctors have told him that cancer has invaded his body to such an extent that there is nothing they can do. So he and I sat one afternoon last week and talked about his future. Then he summoned his family and friends to a meeting on Monday evening.

And about 25 people gathered in his garage. This is the place he plays darts, and drinks beer, and generally hangs out with his friends. And we talked together about life, and death, and about dying well. He told them about his illness. Then he asked his family and friends not to feel sorry for him, or to begin treating him differently. I invited them to help him die well – to go out with “all flags flying.” I suggested that they get hold of the movie “The Bucket List” and watch it. And I suggested that he draw up his own list of things he wants to do before he dies.

I facilitated a moment when his friends and family each expressed a wish for his life. Amongst these were wishes for strength and courage and joy. They also suggested that he needs to go fishing, hang out with his grandson, and let go of bitternesses and hurts from the past. We sang some hymns, I read Psalm 23, and we prayed for him.

Then we had tea together. His friends teased him that he was hiding the “good stuff” because the minister was present, and he promised to leave a will where he allocated all his financial debt amongst his children.

When I left his home I knew that he would die well.

The Baptism

The congregation mostly walks to church – and today is grey with rain. It began raining yesterday afternoon and has not stopped. And so the people dodge puddles as they arrive, wet and shaking umbrellas.


Today is a baptism service and the church soon fills up with family members, supporters and congregation. The band members trickle in and begin to tune their guitars - waiting for the keyboard player. I too am waiting for him, because I want this service to go well. Not only does he play the keyboard, but he owns the laptop which is connected to the projector for the words to the songs. But he does not appear so I allow the band to lead some community singing: which is really the old favourites that (hopefully) can be sung from memory.

I am in the vestry praying with the stewards when we get a message that one of the members of the congregation has had an epileptic fit. He is known to everyone – and so I lead the congregation in a prayer for him while various church members get him out of his seat and carry him to a side room where he recovers.
I read from John Chapter 4: the story of a Samaritan woman who engages a Jewish rabbi in conversation about religious division. (OK, OK, I know that there is much more in this passage – but I spoke about the way we use religion to perpetuate our religious divisions). I invited the people to discover God’s blessing that transcends the human barriers we erect. And I invited them to see the baptism of infants as a moment of God’s unconditional welcome.

Then I invited the parents to bring their children: there were four of them: dressed in their “Sunday best.” And amongst them was a little boy whose mother is lost in a haze of “tik” – but whose granny brought him so that we could pray for him and, in her words, “so that the church could know who he is.” And I baptised him, and prayed for him, and introduced him to the congregation.

As I watched the tears run down the cheeks of his granny, I knew we had done the right thing.

Prayer for Preparation to Study

O God
It is exam time again. And I want to do my best.
I believe that You gave me my mind and the ability to think; and that You gave me my memory and the ability to learn. I am grateful for all I have learned in the past, and I choose to trust You for all I am to learn today.
Open my mind Lord as I read my books and notes. Help me not to be distracted by the other things of life. Keep me from getting into a panic and help me to do justice to all my work and preparations.
O Jesus Christ may this be a worthy time that is faithful to you. I offer this time and prayer in your holy Name. Amen.

Baptism

There are sixteen families living in this City Council concrete block: four apartments across and four levels up. Graffiti, children underfoot, dogs, minibus taxis with loud hip-hop music, and young men sitting on the pavement.


She lives on the ground floor, corner apartment. Warily eyeing the dog of nondescript origin, I carefully open the property’s gate and walk down the short cement block pathway. She is sitting in a worn chair at the door, managing three toddlers who busily clamber around her furniture. They are her grandchildren. She cares for them, assisted by state welfare grants. Her youngest daughter finished school two years ago and has yet to find a job. She is not a mother, and helps to care for the three toddlers. Her sisters live elsewhere and struggle with their addictions.

I am here to talk about the youngest addition to the family. His mother is addicted to “tik” (Methamphetamine, also known as “speed” or “crystal meth”) and her only interest in life is satisfying her craving. She used to live with her mother, but exasperated with the constant theft of her possessions, granny kicked her daughter out, but kept the grandchild. And now wants to “do the right thing” for her grandchild: she wants him baptised.

And I will do this – because baptism is not a reward for good behaviour, or a way of getting people into heaven, or a way of showing that someone has been especially righteous. Baptism is a sign of the Grace of God: a grace that says to a struggling grandmother that she is not alone. God is with her as she raises this child.

This coming Sunday the welcome of God’s community will freely embrace her and her grandchild. We will sing songs, and pray for her, and assure her of the love of God. Perhaps you can pause on Sunday and pray for her too.