Good on You

Bishop Desmond Tutu is a man of integrity and courage.

He was a key participant in the emergence of a new South Africa. He wrote deeply pastoral letters to President P W Botha pleading for change in our country. He marched in the streets for justice. I remember this brave cleric as he rescued a man from a township mob intent on “necklacing” him with a burning tyre. And he was criticised by President Botha, and by many, many white members of the Anglican Church in South Africa – as well as many others who wanted to retain the status quo. Mostly his critics said something about “keeping politics out of religion”.

Fr Desmond’s integrity did not end with the emergence of a democratic South Africa. His goal was never political: he genuinely believes that God loves all people, and that God calls us to work for a renewed land. He took up the struggle for free anti-retroviral treatment for HIV/Aids sufferers. He also challenged former deputy president Jacob Zuma to relinquish his bid for our country's Presidency after Zuma admitted to having sex with a young HIV-positive woman: "What has come over us? Perhaps we did not realise just how apartheid has damaged us so that we seem to have lost our sense of right and wrong," he said in a lecture at the University of Cape Town. And found himself roundly criticised by his erstwhile comrades in the struggle. Amazingly he was told to keep religion out of politics!

Fr Desmond has also spoken out on international issues: most often in opposition to people who want to wage war as a solution to the world’s problems. And his words have not always been welcome. In April the University of St. Thomas initially refused to invite him to speak because its officials were worried that his opposition to the Israeli-Palestinian conflict would offend the Jewish community.

In this past week he spoke up on the way some Christians have created the perception that God hates gay and lesbian people: "We treat them as pariahs and push them outside our communities. We make them doubt that they too are children of God - and this must be nearly the ultimate blasphemy” Tutu said he was "saddened and ashamed" of the Anglican church over their opposition to the ordination of a Gay Bishop: "If we are going to not welcome or invite people because of sexual orientation...if God, as they say, is homophobic, I wouldn't worship that God."

I salute this man. He has not wavered in his opposition to any form of discrimination. His photograph hangs in my office. And I pray for him each day – that he will remain a troublesome prophet. We need people who are willing to speak uncomfortable truths.

Shame on You

Sometimes I am so angry/sad with leaders in various parts of our world – and at my inability to do anything about their disgraceful conduct. So instead of shrugging my shoulders, I am calling for “shame on their heads”:


Shame on the court in Al-Qatif, Saudi Arabia: a 19 year old women raped by six armed attackers was sentenced to 200 lashes and six months in jail “for being in the car of an unrelated male at the time of the rape”. In fact she was originally sentenced to 90 lashes, and when her lawyer appealed this injustice, the court increased her sentence for her “attempt to aggravate and influence the judiciary through the media”. It is un-Islamic to punish the victim of a crime: Shame on you!

Shame on the Japanese Fisheries Agency: who have launched 4 ships to hunt 50 humpback whales – the first known large-scale hunt for the whales since 1963. This fishing expedition will also take 935 Antarctic minke whales and 50 fin whales between November and mid-April 2008. Shame on you for calling this “scientific testing”, when the whole world has opposed your destruction of whales.

Shame on Pakistani President Pervez Musharraf: for making himself the sole dictator of his country. Because he was in danger of losing another term of office in the face of an impending court judgement he arrested the chief justice, fired judges seen as hostile to his rule, curbed the media, and locked down political opponents. Shame on you for such flagrant disregard of your constitution, and your people.......

....and shame on the United States for still supporting Musharraf: because of American fear of “Islamic fundamentalist terrorists” President Bush will not suspend military aid to Pakistan. But then the USA has a long history of supporting any leader who supports the USA – irrespective of whether they are democratically elected or not. The USA is not pro-democracy, it is pro the interests of the USA. Shame on you for such blatant selfishness!

Cry bitter tears with me at how self-interest corrupts our hearts and makes us less than human. And pray for God to challenge those parts in us that become complacent with inhumanity.

Piet Promises

He was an Apartheid politician who knew that Apartheid was wrong – but enjoyed its benefits too much to actively work for its destruction.

Piet Koornhof was very bright. He began theological studies at Stellenbosch University before winning a Rhodes Scholarship to Oxford University. He was so bright that in 1953, on graduating with a doctorate, he was offered a permanent senior post at Oxford’s Institute of Social Anthropology. But he chose to return to South Africa to work as a researcher for Hendrik Verwoerd. And from this point on we see the struggle between what he knew to be morally right, and the lure of being powerful and important.

Koornhof had spent 10 months living in a kraal in rural Kwazulu-Natal as part of his doctoral research. Here he discovered the deep anguish suffered by black South Africans – an experience that led to a doctoral thesis that argued in favour of a united South Africa. But he chose not to publish it. “I knew that they would cut off my neck if I published it” he said in an interview with journalist John Scott. Instead he became secretary to the Afrikaner Broerderbond, was elected to Parliament for the Primrose constituency in Germiston, and went on hold the Cabinet portfolios of mines, sport, and co-operation and development - the portfolio formerly known as Bantu Affairs. He was known as “Piet Promises” because he was forever promising that things would get better for Black people, only for things to get worse.

At his memorial service today people paid tribute to his struggle to achieve change in South Africa. While in some very limited way he may have been a dissenting voice in the Cabinet, the reality is that he allowed himself to be part of the system that perpetrated immense suffering on the same black people who had welcomed him into their kraals in the early 1950s.

It is so easy to put personal moral scruples into one’s back pocket when tempted by power and privilege. I know. I have been there. And it is very hard to relinquish one’s creature comforts for the sake of moral principles. I constantly struggle with the authority and influence offered by my position in the religious organization I work for – and the integrity of action that is demanded by conscience and moral integrity. Pray that I might be more honest and less powerful.

Postscript:
At the end of his political life Koornhof left his wife and lived with his 36 yr old lover, Marcelle Adams and her children in Cape Town. 12 years later Marcelle left a sick and elderly Koornhof for a 56 year old German. Amazingly Koornhof’s wife Lulu (who had refused to divorce him) fetched him and cared for him as he suffered a number of incapacitating strokes "I have sworn an oath before God. I feel sorry for Piet. He is a sick man”. Perhaps Lulu understood the difference between satisfying personal desires, and doing what is morally courageous.

Old Rockers never Die

I had a great time leading worship tonight.
The worship bands that normally lead on a Sunday night were not available: some had exam fever and others an Emmaus gathering. So I agreed to lead worship....something I have not done for some time. I have begun to suspect that my children’s contemporaries do not need this old geezer in front acting like he is a rock-star with his guitar.

I asked Brendan (the father of one of the worship leaders) to join me: so the two old rockers got out in front and led worship. We both play acoustic guitar. This means clean sound, with guitar fingering, and complementary picking. Most of the stuff that the next generation plays is muddy distortion, or a guitar used as a percussion instrument with amazing rythm but little musical thoughtfulness. My daughter Amy played drum kit, so there was enough percussion, and the two old guys had fun exploring riffs, and adding overtones in some of the quieter moments. But of course the best was when we attacked some songs with traditional rock, ending up with enough arrogance to try our hand at “Be Thou my Vision” as a rock adaption.

And I do not really care that there were not many people in church. I care even less that we are twice the age of those who did come. Because we had a great time.

Long Way Home

Check out this amazing couple at http://www.buyaikhaya.blogspot.com/

Charlie and Rensche are returning home from London to Cape Town on motorcycles. Apart from the adventure they hope that their stories from the road will raise money towards their chosen charity Beautifulgate, who are a Christian organisation helping Aids orphans in Southern Africa.

Career?

There are moments when I want to resign.
I work in a small corner of a large religious institution that is run inefficiently, by people who have very little integrity. The things that drive this national institution are political correctness (ensuring that every committee has enough black people/women/...no not gay people), naked ambition for power, greed , and old boy’s (male) networks.

And I mostly live with the junk because I believe that God has called me to be here.
But recent experiences have demoralized me:
- bureaucratic inattention closed down a training programme I loved and which gave my life meaning and purpose.
- I have been given administrative supervision that I really hate.
- My work load has been increased, with a reduction of staff to do it.

But I came across this cartoon which both challenged me, and got me over my self-pity.
So I look in the mirror and ask myself: “Whose career path do you think you are following?”
And I realise that I love the local church where I work. It is a community of caring people who often affirm me and thank me for the things I do. I work alongside local church leaders who are all that the national leaders are not. And I am reminded that the authentic church is local.

And I sense that my capacity to rise to new challenges in life is beginning to reassert itself.
Watch this space! (and keep praying for me).

Pancakes

I enjoy a pancake.
Hot and crispy on the edges.
Add a bit of cinnamon and brown sugar. A dash of lemon juice, and viola....mmmm.
And to share this love of pancakes with others gives me great pleasure. To see people enjoying that which I enjoy enriches my life immeasurably. So it was logical that I should offer to run the pancake stall at our church fete today.

I have done this for the past 5 years.
Each year I have learned something more about the production.
My mother in law is the mixture-maker. She uses an ancient recipe handed down through many generations. The ingredients are passed on at the death-bed of the matriarch to the youngest daughter. My mother-in-law is one of five sisters and she got the recipe. And mutters magic into the bowl as she mixes the batter....magic that sounds like “blast” and “bother”.
My daughter Amy takes the money. Not only is she about to take Matric maths, but because this does not stretch her enough she also takes a (seventh subject ) additional mathematics class. So she does the money. And made sure that we gave R1350 to the bean counters at the end of the morning.
I command the production line like a general presiding over his troops...taking orders from my wife as every prudent general usually does. I wield the pans over the gas cookers, triumphantly producing golden pancakes for the rest of the team to sugar and fold in wax paper.

I enjoy being a team with my family. I also enjoy being a team with my community. We raise funds so that we can continue to care for old people, and for street people, and for those who are tired and wearied by life.
But much, much more: old people laughed with young people over a shared cooldrink; poor people had tea served to them by those who had more than enough in life; citizens from different sides of our political spectrum vied for a tombola prize; gay and straight worked alongside each other; grey and dyed, and naturally blond all enjoyed a moment of equality; and a community was formed because people paused for a moment to enjoy one another’s company.

And I made pancakes.....at R4:00 a pancake.

My Blood is Green

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

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

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

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

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

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

Revenge

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A Beautiful Day

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

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

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

Let Me Die!

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

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

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

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

World Champions

Rugby Etiquette

Eish*

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

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

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

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

Railroad Songs

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Be Blessed

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

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

Civil Religion*

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

"One and Undivided"

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

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

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

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

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

Our division undermines our Christian witness.

Back Home

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

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

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

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

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

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

Not a Sex Shop

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

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

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

Not a Dried Fruit Shop

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

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

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

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

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

The Storm

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

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

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

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

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

And us on a motorcycle.
It was awesome!

People of my Country

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

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

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

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

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

Heritage

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

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

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

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

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

The Travelling Helmet

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

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

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

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

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

I am an African

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

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

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

मोटरसाईकिल Diaries

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

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

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

And I am content.

I Know My Status

Today I was tested at an HIV centre.

I took a group of student ministers to visit Yabonga, a centre that supports people living with Aids. Here we were privileged to meet three HIV positive women. All are of Xhosa background. They had absolutely no way of telling their parents that they had tested positive, because this admitted to sexual activity in a culture that traditionally does not speak of human sexuality at all.

But more sobering was the knowledge that the majority of young women in their circle had very little choice in becoming sexually active. Many were raped, or sexually molested. Many of the young men in their world take sexual gratification from girls as a right. And so young women discover themselves to be infected with this sexually transmitted illness – and bound to a code of silence and ignorance.

The worst of it is that they cannot even go to their religious leaders for help. Churches have traditionally preached sexual abstinence for people before marriage, so a young person who is infected with a sexually transmitted virus is unable to go to their church for help. This is made even more difficult by the fact that most churches are run by men, and Xhosa women cannot speak of their sexuality to men. They agreed that churches are generally perceived as unwelcoming and disapproving.

Then they asked us if we knew our status.
And I admitted that I do not.
I have never bothered because I have no reason to think that I am infected.
But I as the teacher could not expect my students to be tested if I was not willing to do so myself.
So I lined up to be tested.......

I was interviewed in preparation for the test. And asked if I have unprotected sex. Which I do. But I believe that my partner and I are sexually safe with each other. Which the counsellor said was an enormous leap of faith. I was asked what I would do if I discovered I was HIV positive. I replied that I would be shocked because I am confident that there is no reason for this.
I then had the test.
And I discovered that I was not as relaxed as my nonchalance implied.
Even thought I believed that I had nothing to worry about, I sat on the edge of my chair while waiting for the result. I felt the tension of all those who had sat in this chair before me. And felt their fear of the forgotten sexual encounters that so easily return to haunt the present. And counted the six minutes it took for the test to show.

And so I am asking those of you who read this: have you been tested?
I do not want to know your status – but you owe it to your sexual partners to know your own status.

I now know my status.

Getting over it....

I have been pissed off for the past few weeks.

I have wished for more from my students: having taught York students who are enthusiastic, keen to learn, and willing to sacrifice in order to gain knowledge and experience, I then I returned home to my Cape Town students…who I experience as expecting entitlement because of a disadvantaged history, and needing to be coaxed into learning. But I am slowly recovering my vision to help build a new South Africa through my work with these students. I know this is what I am called to do. And I know that their brokenness is rooted in our Apartheid history.

I have wished for more from my church denomination: I have given large portions of my life/time/passion to this institution…and am discovering that this counts for nothing when it comes to getting support for the things I really believe I am called to do. But I have found this to be a good lesson in humility. Because all I can really claim of my life is that I follow one who modelled the way of a servant. And I smile wryly at the way I want to be more than a servant.

I have wished for more from my life: I am being asked to be a Superintendent Minister, which is about meeting budgets, paying salaries / water accounts / building maintenance, and solving squabbles between various local congregations…all of which I hate. But I am seeing how being Superintendent gives me space to welcome foreign student ministers into this circuit for pastoral exposures. So perhaps there is an up-side to this.

I have experienced deep disappointment in the closure of a programme I have nurtured into vibrant life over the past six years. But I have discovered that the closing of this door will make space for another to open. I plan to use this time to complete long-neglected academic studies.

So?
I have got over it….and am willing to believe that there is life after 50.

Sad

11 September
Today is a sad day.... Sad because it marks the death of so many people.
Some died in the terrible act of terror on the World Trade Centre in New York. And I will never forget the images of the twin towers on fire. And of people trapped helplessly inside the building. And I wept on September 11.
Many more people have died as a consequence of the revenge taken by the people of the United States of America. The angry frustration of the American people boiled over in Afghanistan, and in Iraq. And now there are noisy threats against Iran. And uncounted thousands have died at the hands of modern American warriors.
And I weep at the senselessness of it all.
I cannot see how killing more people is the way to making us all feel secure. I do understand that it might grant some sort of temporary relief for those who want to hit back. And I do see how it can be some sort of outlet for those who want to be seen to be doing something.
But I do not feel safer after the blood-letting. I choose instead to follow the teachings of one who said “..do not take revenge on someone who wrongs you” (Matthew 5:39)...because “I will pay back says the Lord” (Deuteronomy 32:35). When I take revenge I presume to play God in other people’s lives. And there are way too many cruel people who claim to act on behalf of God already.
Cry with me today.

Pink

Affirmative Action

I live in a country that has recognised that black people were discriminated against because of the colour of their skin. Black people were given inferior education, inferior housing, and lower paid jobs. They are at a complete disadvantage in life when competing with white people…people like me. I have had all the advantages in education, social confidence (some would say arrogance), and capacity to live life.
I believe that this is unjust. And that Black people must be given space to catch up. Redressing the injustices of the past must make space to assist previously disempowered people to get onto the ladder of life.

But understanding this does not make my life as a white South African any easier. My recent stay in the United Kingdom has allowed me a glimpse of a society where race is not the primary factor in assessing the worth of a person. It was liberating to be amongst people who valued my contribution – without first asking why a white male was leading the workshop. It was rewarding to have people thank me for what I bring, without asking why the church was not promoting black leadership instead.

And I am forced to admit that I am tired of feeling apologetic for being a white male. I am tired of being constantly scrutinised by committees who ask what a white male is doing in leadership. And I am tired of defending black incompetence in the name of Affirmative Action. Make no mistake - I completely support the policy of affirmative action. But I am struggling to know how to offer leadership. Because life in my country, my community, and my church is no longer about gifts, abilities or vision. Neither is it about the call of God on the life of an individual. It is about the colour of skin. And this makes me an endangered species.

Pray that I may have the wisdom to differentiate between that which I can change, and that which I cannot.

(and feel free to offer comment and advice)

Sad

Diana, Princess of Wales.

I loved her.
From the first photograph of her I was entranced.
I saw her as beautiful, graceful, and everything a princess should be.

I remember her wedding day.
I was working in Ermelo – a small, conservative, rural town.
And the whole town came to a standstill. I took the day off and sat in front of the television, eating chips and drinking coke…in those days I could do this without it making any difference to my weight.
And this fairy princess glided down the avenue in her gilded coach. And her prince charming was waiting at the cathedral. And the crowds cheered. And I was supremely satisfied.

But Diana was more: she really cared for marginalised people; she hugged HIV/Aids victims; she sat with landmine victims in Mozambique and Angola; she saw the poor on the streets in Calcutta. This was clearly more than photo opportunities. Diana had a way of connecting with people of no significance.

Diana was also very, very human. She danced, and laughed, and enjoyed beautiful things. She was troubled, and angry, and depressed. She loved her children, fought with her in-laws, cried from loneliness, and was unfaithful to her marriage...All the things you and I know only too well in our own lives.

Diana was not hypocritical. She owned her life, mistakes and triumphs together.

Ten years ago she died. And I was sad.
Today (ten years later) I am again sad.

Using Violence

Can violence ever be a necessary tool to achieve a desired consequence?

Yesterday a would-be robber was shot four times by a security guard during an attempted cash-in-transit robbery. A witness phoned a radio talk show and described how the security guards then kicked and pushed the wounded robber, who was lying on the ground screaming in pain. Now this witness may, or may not be right. The thing that I found disturbing was the reaction inside of myself.

Because I know the ethical theory: that even the crooks have civil rights; and that when we treat a person inhumanely we lose our humanity; and that abusing the abuser makes me abusive. I am, after all, a convinced pacifist

But my first reaction was “Serves him right”. And the multitude of SMS messages and phone-in callers agreed. Some went as far as wishing that he had been shot more times, or that he had been shot in the head, or that the ‘bleeding-heart’ witness should get in touch with reality. And I understood all of this.

Because I am afraid of being the next victim.
And this has changed my behaviour:
I no longer walk on Table Mountain, because people are being mugged on the mountain
I look carefully in the car’s mirrors when I approach my home, because people in my area are being attacked in their driveways.
I do not like entering public toilets on my own, because it is a place where people are robbed.
And so I found a place in my pacifist heart that understood exactly why those security guards, and all those radio listeners, wanted to use violence on the robber.

Pray for our country – that we can find ways of retaining our humanity without being tempted to rejoice in violence.

A Big Man

So what makes a big man?
Today George Bush, the big man of the United States of America, raged against Iran. He blamed Iran for being the source of evil, and for supporting acts of terror. And seemed to be threatening war against Iran. This is in keeping with the tradition of big men: wave your fist, gun. economy (name your weapon) in the face of the enemy and threaten to wipe them off the face of the earth. Many big men have done this – from the Caesars of Rome to the Presidents and Kings of nations. Come to think of it – the church is good at this too: Popes, Presiding Bishops, and Senior Pastors act like big men and wave the Bible, the Church Rules, or the threat of excommunication at people.

Today there was also another big man who spoke from a public platform. Nelson Mandela unveiled a statue in London, and spoke of this being a sign to all who struggle for human rights. He noted that while the statue may look like him, he accepted it on behalf of all who had suffered for what is just. Here is a big man who is received by Presidents and Popes – yet who is able to identify with those who have been made to feel little by “big men”.


And I am reminded of a Big Man who chose to set aside his glory in order to live amongst the poor; a Big Man who chose to strip off his status to wash feet; a Big Man who allowed himself to be mocked and whipped and killed – so that little people may live. And I choose to follow big men who seek the way of humble service.

A Familiar Voice

I have often heard her voice.
I dial Telkom for a phone number and she is produced by the computer to recite the required number to me. A crisp, well modulated voice that inflects authority, and inspires confidence in her answer. And then today I met her. Not face to fact, but on the radio.

She is Helen Naude. And she was phoned by a radio jock, who pulled a stunt with her. And I learned that she is a poppie from Radiokragbron in Witbank. And she got rattled by his stunt, and was irritated, and lost her familiar voice, and hung up on him. And I laughed. Because I discovered the gap between that which was familiar and comforting, and the new things I was now learning about her. Here is my choice: I can return to dialling the safe number to find that familiar voice, or I can pay attention to new perspectives on the voice.

And I was reminded of how I read the Bible: a familiar voice that inspires confidence – until someone points out a perspective in the Bible that I have not seen. And my familiar voice takes on an unfamiliar note. I believe that when we move beyond the familiar Scriptural voice, we hear new overtones that will lead us into new spiritual growth. And the only way we can discover this is when we are willing to allow the jokers/outsiders/ little people of life to prod us in uncomfortable ways.

May God send many people my way who move me beyond the familiar voice.

My Bed

I have slept in many different beds in the last month...ranging from single beds to wonderful double beds. And of course Emirates Airlines offered me a number of different plane seats for overnight accommodation. However, despite all this amazing hospitality, I know that my own bed is best.

My bed has contours that fit my body – mainly because I have been lying on “my” side of the bed I share with Jenny for many years. I know exactly where the light is if I need to turn it on at night. I know exactly how the blankets fit if I am cold, and how to position the pillows to get maximum comfort.

Which is perhaps a good analogy for the past month.
Because while I have thoroughly appreciated the hospitality of the many people I have met, I am glad to be home. I am back in the place where I “fit”. I know the networks that help to make me more efficient. I know the feel of the community. And I know that right now God’s call on my life is to work here in Plumstead. So I will be taking the many experiences and learnings of the past month and using them here.
And I am grateful to all those who have been my teachers.

Taking Leave

Tomorrow I climb on a plane back to Cape Town.
And have learned much while in the United Kingdom.
I am grateful for the generous hospitality of the people I met... people such as Rory and Linda Dalgliesh, Sue and John Culver, and Debbie Dargan. Thank you too to Ronnie Millar, Des vd Water, and Paul Howes for friendship and colleagueship.

I take leave of my daughter Jessica, who has spent the first seven months of this year as a music assistant at a school. I have spend the last 10 days with her and am amazed at how she has matured into a confident and capable young lady. She now leaves for Scotland, where she will spend the next three months at the Iona Community as a volunteer (She begins in the kitchen!)

And I head back to Cape Town to discover the next chapter in my life.

In the Footsteps of my Grandfather

About 80 years ago my Grandfather studied at Clare College, Cambridge. He was young, far from his home in Cape Town, and in love with a ‘wee Scottish lassie’. This left an indelible mark on his life. He never married the lassie, he lived the rest of his life in Cape Town, and never spoke much of his college life. I remember the Clare College crest next to ‘his’ chair in their lounge, the Cambridge tie, and his love of anything linked to Scotland.

And here I was, walking the lawns of Clare College. I felt a connection with him. And offered a prayer of thanks for the things I learned from him: a love for the mountains, a respect for the sea, and a curiosity for people. Through him I have inherited an ability to speak to people and an interest in their lives. And I am enriched for being his grandson.

Henry Kennan Beard.

A Community's Parade

Today was the Clacton Community Carnival.
This seaside resort hosted a parade through the town in aid of community charity funding. The theme was Pirates and the Caribbean. This morning I joined the members of Trinity Methodist Church in building their float. This involved decorating a flatbed trailer with a ship, complete with sails, and a beach with Palm trees. We finally set out for the start, calypso music belting out from the large speakers on the back. After the floats were judged (and our float won awards for best creativity) we all set off along the beachfront: horses, bands, floats, drums, and princesses. The people of the town lined the road. And here was my great surprise.

I had been given a bucket labelled “Claxton Community Carnival”, and offered it in the direction of the spectators, expecting to be ignored or rebuffed. But the community came armed for the occasion: the little children were clutching packets of coins, and as each bucket passed they would drop some coins in successive buckets. I was overwhelmed with the generosity of the people, and at the joy they had in giving. The obvious pleasure they took in giving to charity was an inspiration.

How I long for a world like this.
Where we are all willing to give to charity – without expecting something in return.
Thank you Clacton for a happy day..

Sex in the Abbey Garden

Sue Culver is a deacon in the Methodist Church in York. And was worried about Dora, whose hormones were working overtime in just plain sexual frustration. So after some thought Sue decided to take Dora to Reivaux Abbey. Sue also took the rest of the family – including Me and my daughter Jessica.


The Abbey is out in the country, along a typical twisty, winding English country road (the English used horses to design their roads). Dorah was very excited about this visit, and when we arrived at the Abbey we were relieved to see how Dorah was the first out of the car. Sue had pre-arranged to meet Sam at 7pm. So there we were in the shadow of the Abbey, as Dora and Sam made their introductions.

They were both very inexperienced at this sort of stuff. Sue tried offering helpful hints. Sue’s husband John then lent a hand. And the rest of us offered prayers for a successful union as they eyed each other. Dora made the first move, much to Sam’s bewilderment. Dora had him in a clinch, which made the rest of us giggle with disbelief. So Sue and John got had to show them how it was done. John later confessed to “not knowing enough of this stuff”.

Finally it was decided that they were acquainted sufficiently to spend the night together. So we will fetch Dora tonight. And hopefully in 63 days there will be some Patterdale Terrier puppys. For lessons, or puppies, contact Sue at susan.culver@btopenworld.com

WWJD

Got this from my friend Wessel (see my link).
Wessel is a very bright Doctor of Theology and so I believe this to be the truth:








There were 3 good arguments that Jesus was Black:
1. He called everyone brother.
2. He liked Gospel.
3. He didn't get a fair trial.

But then there were 3 equally good arguments that Jesus was Jewish:
1. He went into His Father's business.
2. He lived at home until he was 33.
3. He was sure his Mother was a virgin and his Mother was sure He was God.

But then there were 3 equally good arguments that Jesus was Italian:
1. He talked with His hands.
2. He had wine with His meals.
3. He used olive oil

But then there were 3 equally good arguments that Jesus was a Californian:
1. He never cut His hair.
2. He walked around barefoot all the time.
3. He started a new religion.

But then there were 3 equally good arguments that Jesus was an American Indian :
1. He was at peace with nature.
2. He ate a lot of fish.
3. He talked about the Great Spirit.

But then there were 3 equally good arguments that Jesus was Irish:
1. He never got married.
2. He was always telling stories.
3. He loved green pastures.

But the most compelling evidence of all - 3 proofs that Jesus was a woman:
1. He fed a crowd at a moment's notice when there was virtually no food.
2. He kept trying to get a message across to a bunch of men who just didn't get it.
3. And even when He was dead, He had to get up because there was still work to do.


Truth be told - Jesus has been dragged into every cause on earth. On the one hand it does mean that many people have appropriated Jesus to their point of view. On the other hand it is a timely reminder that Jesus identifies with all people, and is as close to the Muslim as he is to the Christian. It is we who have difficulty with understanding the love Jesus has for all people. Shame on those Christians who want to keep Jesus for ourselves.

A Moment of Silence

Today – 62 years ago....August 6, 1945, a B-29 bomber named Enola Gay dropped a bomb on the city of Hiroshima, Japan. 70,000 people probably died as a result of the initial blast. By the end of 1945, because of the lingering effects of radioactive fallout and other after effects, the Hiroshima death toll was probably over 100 000. The five-year death toll from cancer and other long-term effects was in the region of 200 000.

For hours after the attack the Japanese government did not even know what had happened. Radio and telegraph communications with Hiroshima had suddenly ended at 8:16 a.m., and vague reports of some sort of large explosion had begun to filter in, but the Japanese high command knew that no large-scale air raid had taken place over the city and that there were no large stores of explosives there. Eventually a Japanese staff officer was dispatched by plane to survey the city from overhead, and while he was still nearly 100 miles away from the city he began to report on a huge cloud of smoke that hung over it. The first confirmation of exactly what had happened came only sixteen hours later with the announcement of the bombing by the United States.

President Truman’s first public announcement noted that the Japanese had been "repaid many fold" for their attack on Pearl Harbor. Revenge (and racism) may well have played a subtle part in Truman’s willingness to go ahead with the atomic bombing of Japan. As Truman explained, "When you have to deal with a beast you have to treat him as a beast." Throughout the war, many Americans viewed the Japanese as an inferior and barbarous race, deserving of annihilation.

Pray with me for all who suffered the consequences of that bomb.
And for all who continue to suffer the consequences of the stupidity of war.

Students

I have just spent a week with 30 student ministers/priests who are training with the North East Institute for Theological Education. They are second-career people who have discovered a call to pastoral ministry later in life. These are people who have faced divorce, children, cancer, the loss of loved ones, financial worry, aging, and the many other difficult life experiences that we all encounter. And I am convinced that they are better ministers for this.

They are also people who know how to laugh, to exploit Yorkshire humour to the full, to sink a Guiness, and to sing Rugby songs on the bus on the way home from the pub. They are not snobs, and do not have time for intellectual pretentiousness. They are people who care passionately about serving God, and who are willing to work for a world of justice and love.

I am privileged to have been let into their world. I enjoyed the time spent with them - except for them singing “Swing Low Sweet Chariot” over my head. Their earthy humour, and ability to grasp life with enthusiasm has been an inspiration.

I shall pray for them as they prepare for their ordination.

Painting for Peace

We visited Derry - or Londonderry. They way you say this discloses your political loyalties. Add 'London' to Derry if you are a Unionist, or drop the 'London' if you are a Republican.


The Bogside is in Derry. It is Republican. And it has murals that depict social feelings. And the political boundaries were clearly demarcated by the murals.
During the troubles the faces of those who had died were also painted on the walls. And these murals are constantly being touched up.


But one painting in particular moved me. It depicts the first girl to die in the conflict. And was constantly retouched to keep her memory alive. But the changed political circumstances have introduced a change to the painting. The rifle is broken. And a butterfly has been introduced. This butterfly began as black and white, but as peace grows, so the artists are adding colour. Their hope is that the butterfly will be fully colourful.

Pray that this be so.

Dis-Arming

The Irish Republican Army has decommissioned its arms?
And I raise my eyebrows in disbelief and mutter “Who says?”
But this morning I met Harold Good who was one of the people who verified this process.

Harold is a former President of the Methodist Conference, a leader in the Corrymeela community, and a leading peace activist in Northern Ireland. He was a Protestant Minister in Shankhill Road, Belfast. And during the terrible time of conflict kept his church doors open and the lights burning day and night – so that people could find a place of refuge. He has committed his life to making peace in Northern Ireland. And as such was invited to be on the team who supervised the destruction of IRA weapons. Harold noted that of even more importance than the destruction of weapons is the change of heart. He can vouch for a softening of previously heard hearts. He speaks of his immense hope for a renewed society. And of his confidence that the IRA are absolutely committed to peaceful co-leadership.

The destruction of IRA weapons is an enormous act of good faith, of nation building. The Ulster Defence Force/Army and all the other off shoots of the Unionist cause have not had any independent verification of their weapons. They assure us that they are safely locked up. But have not allowed anyone to verify this. As an outsider it seems glaringly obvious that the UDF needs to match the faithful self disclosure of the IRA.

Pray for this process of peacemaking in Northern Ireland.

The Army Withdraws

The British Army's emergency operation in Northern Ireland came to an end at midnight on Tuesday 31st July after 38 years. British troops were sent to Northern Ireland in 1969 after violent clashes between Catholics and Protestants. Operation Banner was the Army's longest continuous campaign in its history with more than 300,000 personnel serving and 763 directly killed by paramilitaries. A garrison of 5,000 troops will remain but security will be entirely the responsibility of the police.

.

Give me the Good News

Today we study the effect of the media on public perceptions. And how bad news sells and good news is “not in the media interest”. And so I am choosing to tell some good news stories: the stories of how people of Belfast are actively crossing the walls that divide their society.


Fr Gerry Reynolds inspired the Clonard Reconciliation Project. This is run from the Clonard Monastery in the heart of troubled Shankhill/Falls roads neighbourhood. Here is a Roman Catholic initiative that reaches out to the other churches in their neighbourhood. They invite their congregation members to “become a unity pilgrim in your parish for the sake of Jesus and the Gospel. …join in a Sunday morning pilgrimage to a Protestant congregation which is willing to welcome us.”. They go in small groups to visit the morning services of Shankhill Methodist/St Matthew’s Shankill Road/Woodvale Presbyterian, and another 37 different congregations.

We met Robbie, who is one of those who has made this pilgrimage. Who wondered why people found the divisions so important. Who was able to say that when a person has met Jesus they can see beyond the divisions. And who is completely perplexed at the theological differences that become a stumbling block to Christian unity. “Get rid of all this rubbish that keeps us apart. We belong together”.

Peace Walls

Yesterday I went to Belfast. And found huge walls/fences separating the city. They are called "Peace Walls".





The community divides into Protestant/Catholic, Loyalist/Republican, Rangers/Celtic, Sinn Fein/DUP. These ancient divisions are traced to economic, religious and political roots – and are loosely referred to as “the troubles”.

Somewhere in the dim and distant past, people of Celtic and Roman religious roots had to live on the same land. People who owed loyalty to Great Britain, and people who wanted independence had to live side by side. And people who were indigenous to the land and people who were brought in from Scotland had to live side by side. And people who were traders and people who were workers had to live side by side. And they all slowly coalesced into two competing groups of people. And for generations the only way they have lived together was in conflict. Northern Ireland divided their communities, and their religious observances, and their political perspectives, and their football teams.

And then the glimmerings of a miracle: the elected leaders of these groupings have shaken hands and taken up seats side by side in governing Northern Ireland. But this is only the beginning. Because there is so much work to be done on the ground. There are “Peace Walls” separating people from one another. What an abuse of the English language! The lesson of South Africa’s history is that walls never bring peace. Walls keep people apart. And at some point the walls need to come down and people will have to find each other as neighbours.

So pray that these security separations may come down, and that spaces between people may be filled with peace.