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