Getting Old

I have just visited a nearby home for senior citizens.
It is always a privilege to go there, because I receive more than I get. These are people who often have words of encouragement for me; who know how to make light of their problems; and who have a wicked sense of humour.

These are also lonely people who have children living in other countries and whose world has shrunk to the size of “what are we eating for lunch?” and “who is the nurse on duty?” Today was especially lonely for one of the ‘saints’ of the group, because her son in Australia died suddenly over the weekend. She had been eagerly anticipating his visit in October, when he was coming to celebrate her birthday. And now she tells me that she does “not feel like having another birthday”.

So I led a service, where we: sang a hymn (mostly me and one tone deaf lady), prayed for their families, and shared Holy Communion. While I distributed the sacrament two geese wandered in from the garden and carried on a loud conversation at the glass door. I was enjoying the reminder of the beauty of the world I live in, but one of the ladies did not approve – so she grabbed her crutches and shooed them away. They huffed off hissing disapproval while she held her hands out for the bread and wine as if nothing had happened. I wished there was a better connection between the exterior beauty of life, and the interior need for the sacraments.

I leave through the dining room, usually at about 11h30. Lunch is at 12h00 midday, and it is sad to see people sitting at the table in anticipation of the highlight of their day. I grieve a world where people are forgotten because of their frailty and age. But I also salute the courage of those who rise above their circumstances to tell me naughty jokes and ask me how my family are doing. I long for a world where all ages can live together in mutual encouragement

Grace

She walked into my office already on the defensive.
Expecting to have to justify herself she launched into an explanation…that she and her husband were married in my church but had not come back because her husband was not able to sit still for long and so could not have managed to sit through a church service / and that her daughter was married in this church but that they were very busy people and Sunday was the only time that the family was together / and that….

I stopped her and asked what had happened.
She explained that her husband had died very suddenly two days ago. And she did not know where to turn for funeral arrangements. So I helped her with advice on undertakers, and agreed to take the service – which I have just completed, with reverence for the gift of life and compassion for people who have lost someone they loved.

Isn’t it sad that people think that they need a good attendance record before the church will show some kindness. This is probably because we church officials so often act like a religious club: demanding fees and attendance and participation as a condition of receiving benefits.

I am grateful that she came back to us for help: grateful for predecessors who agreed to conduct her wedding, and the wedding of her daughter. And that we could help her family and friends grieve with dignity and love. We do this without asking for anything – no commitments, no money, no bums on seats. This is God’s Grace in action.

The Beautiful Game

I went to a football game this afternoon: Manchester United vs Kaizer Chiefs.
The hallowed turf of Newlands Rugby Stadium was transformed into a football pitch.
And the game was fantastic.... for many reasons.

So often our sporting spectatorship is divided along racial lines – white and coloured guys watch rugby and black guys watch soccer. But not today: The spectators came from every section of our country’s population. They wore the red of Man United or the yellow of Amakhosi....joined together by their love for this beautiful game.

The South African national anthem was enthusiastically sung by every person in the stadium. I often go to rugby matches where the Xhosa and Sotho section of the anthem is ignored and then the spectators sing the Afrikaans and English bits. But today the stadium knew all the words and sang every word with joy and passion.

The Chiefs supporters blew their Vuvuzelas (plastic trumpets) when the Man United team ran onto the field. We were all excited to see these international superstars “live”, instead of on a television screen. The Man United supporters (many, many thousands of them live in Cape Town) cheered themselves hoarse when the Chiefs played good football because we were all proud together of our local players.

For just a moment I was able to forget the divisions of my country’s history and feel like I belonged to a South African crowd. It was great. The score? A win for both football and South Africa.

PS: Chiefs held Man United to a one-all draw.

Congratulations

FIFO

The ANC has decided to “fire” Ebrahim Rasool, the Premier of my province. He has not been accused of corruption / incompetence / deception, or any of the other things that politicians do. But he has not been publically supportive of Jacob Zuma. So he is to be removed.


And ordinarily I would shrug and say to myself – so it goes with politics. But I fought for a country where freedom of speech and freedom of association is built into the constitution. I welcome a variety of opinions and political views, and shudder to think that political allegiance to a “great leader” becomes the mark of acceptability. I hold no brief for Ebrahim Rasool. But I do object to his dismissal because he happened not to brown nose the right political leader.

But then I live within a religious structure that feels like it is going in the same direction. I have seen people promoted into positions of influence and visibility because they are properly connected – and seen people left out because they do not conform to the party line….. Kevin Light, Mbuyiselo Stemela, Deon Forster, Brian Wilkinson are a few who come to mind.

Pray for us – that we might nurture a society where independent thought is encouraged, and creative people are given space to explore new ideas.

Thank you for the music

On Friday night Jenny and I went to listen to the best acoustic guitar band ever.
MAGNA CARTA was founded by Chris Simpson, a Yorkshire Dalesman, in London in 1969 and is numbered amongst the longest running bands in the world today. Over the years they have performed in over 60 countries and sold over 8,000,000 albums worldwide. My all-time favourite song is Lord of the Ages, and although Chris must have sung it a million times – he was as fresh and unbelievable innovative as ever. His mastery of the art of guitar frets and overtones is wonderful, and his passion for the guitar is phenomenal.

The band has seen a number of personnel changes, but the common factor has always been Chris Simpson. Song writer, poet, accoustic guitar player and vocalist, he has been largely responsible for the band's unique sound. The essence of Magna Carta for the last twenty years has been Chris Simpson and Linda Simpson. Sadly Chris and Linda’s marriage has dissolved, and so Chris has decided to close the band next year.... after 40 years of writing and performing.

Thank you Chris for many years of good music. Your albums are played often – and with great pleasure.

Wimbledon Tennis

Rodger Federer and Rafael Nadal:
Thank you for a fantastic game of tennis.
And for the example you set of how to play a game with such passion and such good sportsmanship.
Would that we could live our lives like this too.

Dear Mr President

Dear Mr President

You are reported to have said the following:
THE attacks on foreigners in the “dark days” of May were not xenophobia, but “naked criminal activity. What happened during those days was not inspired by possessed nationalism, or extreme chauvinism, resulting in our communities violently expressing the hitherto unknown sentiments of mass and mindless hatred of foreigners – xenophobia.”
“I heard it said insistently that my people have turned or become xenophobic … I wondered what the accusers knew about my people which I did not know. And this I must also say: None in our society has any right to encourage or incite xenophobia by trying to explain naked criminal activity by cloaking it in the garb of xenophobia.”

Mr President – you are wrong. I have housed 30 Zimbabwean people who fled from their attackers. And every one of them told the same story: that they were attacked for being foreigners. They experienced this as a “mass and mindless hatred” .

Mr President, you “wonder what the accusers knew about my people which I did not know”. But then, Mr President, had you taken the trouble to personally visit these people you might have reached a different conclusion. You might have learned that your people (my people) are capable of racism, chauvinism, sexism.... and xenophobia. It is extremely difficult to know what our people are thinking and doing when your only contact with your country is through the darkened windscreen of a luxury car in a speeding convoy.

Mr President: You used to live amongst the people. But your speech shows that you have left us for another world. I pray that you might return to us.

Pete Grassow

Free....

I lifted this from Ms Betancourts website - and celebrate her freedom:

17 years ago Ingrid Betancourt put aside her quiet life as an expatriated mother to return to her country and fight. Her country, Colombia, is on the verge of collapse, drained by years of civil war. Stuck between the marxist guerillas, the paramilitaries, the drug cartels and corrupted politicians, few people dare to stand up and offer another vision to the Colombian people. Ingrid Betancourt does!
She condems corruption, violence, fights for remote economic areas and for the poor. She first worked for the Finance Minister trying to change things from the inside. Faced with the lack of results, she decided to run for office. She was first elected to the House of Representatives in 1994 then to the Senate in 1998. She then created the "Oxygen" party and decided to run for President in the May 2002 elections.

But, then, on Feb 23 2002 en route to San Vincente, Ingrid and Clara Rojas, her campaign manager, were abducted by FARC (The Revolutionary Armed Forces of Colombia).
Ingrid and her campaign against corruption are the nightmare of those who are ruining Colombia on the back of Colombians. She fights with desperation. Let's face it: her abduction serves the interests of many people who benefit from her being silenced.

On 2 July 2008, Ms Betancourt was finally freed from her jungle prison along with 14 other hostages in a daring rescue by Colombian forces.
After being reunited with her family at an air base in Bogota, she thanked President Uribe, against whom she was running when she was kidnapped.
She also showed her ordeal had done little to diminish her political ambition as she revealed: "I continue to aspire to serve Colombia as president."

Bad Driving

The traffic light changed to green, and I accelerated my bike to the left into an open road - and was cut off by an approaching car that thought to go around the corner quicker than I did.

So I braked and let him cut me off.
He then accelerated towards the next traffic light and managed to cross it just after it turned red. I waited for the light, then followed him up the Ou Kaapse Weg pass, catching him just as he was passing a truck on a blind rise, forcing an approaching car to pull over onto the verge to avoid him. He then worked his way past a string of cars by driving down the barrier line. Approaching the traffic light on the other side of the Pass he pulled over to the lane that turned right, and then swung back into my lane at the last moment, ensuring that he was in the front of the queue. I filtered through the line of cars to the front. We then entered the Blue Route Highway, with me doing 120kph, and him flying past me as if I was standing still.

I feel two things:
• I am proud of myself for not “taking him on”. I wanted to. I wanted to kick his door. I wanted to slow my bike down in front of him. I wanted to ride on his rear with my lights on bright. But I did not. I stayed out of his way.
• For the first time while riding a motorcycle - I wished to see a traffic officer.

And writing this got the steam out of my system

Off to the Festival

It is freaking early in the morning and I stumble out of bed to say goodbye to Lisa, my eldest daughter.

She is one her way to the Grahamstown Festival. Which means that she and three friends will squeeze themselves into a ridiculously small (old) car and drive all day to go to a student city...well it is called a city because it has a Cathedral, but in terms of comparison it is really a University with a town attached to it. A town for the students of Rhodes University that hosts this annual event that consists of very little sleep, lots of street theatre, some amazing performers, and a haze of places to socialize.

I remember my days as a student at Rhodes University. I find it hard to believe that my little girl is going to Grahamstown...... and hope that she will not be a stupid as I was.

Prooovince

Western Province dramatically overturned a 14-3 half-time deficit to run out thrilling 26-17 winners over the Blue Bulls in today's Currie Cup derby at Newlands.

I write to thank friends for their caring.

Joe Lightowler and Steven Richardson are colleagues who, with their spouses, visited Cape Town earlier this year. They have just completed their studies at the York Insititute of Theology and spent time with my church and circuit as a field work assignment. They were great in April – and have been wonderful now: they sent us a financial donation towards the cost of housing the refugees. This generosity has meant that we could pay our water and electricity bills for the past four weeks. This might sound trivial, but our church runs on very limited income, derived from what old people on pension can afford. We cannot afford extra expenses, and the arrival of the refugees was financially stressful.... until Joe and friends stepped in with unsolicited generosity.

Dinsy has often visited my blog, but I did not have a clue who she was until this past week. I discovered that she lives in Scotland with her husband when she placed a donation into our church account. As a consequence of this I have been able to do the following:
• We helped Chris buy a welding machine and a grinder to replace the machinery that was stolen from his workshop when he was chased out of his home at Philippi. He is now able to support himself again.
• We paid a deposit on a month’s accommodation for Tonderai, and also for the family of baby Blessing.
• We gave Simba a donation towards a Tefel course he wants to do so that he can qualify as a teacher for 2nd language English students.
Dinsy – your unexpected gift has given a second chance at life to some very needy people.

And I am grateful for people who live generously without any expectation of reward or personal gain.

Praying for the End to Unjust Rule

I remember June 16, 1986. I joined thousands of other Christians in prayer for the end to an unjust rule in South Africa. (This was strongly opposed by most white people – we were reluctant to relinquish our white privilege).
It is time for us to pray for the end to unjust Zimbabwean rule.

Zimbabwe's President Mugabe has dared to challenge God.
Mugabe said on Friday that "only God" could remove him from office. "The MDC will never be allowed to rule this country -- never, ever," Mugabe told local business people in Zimbabwe's second city, Bulawayo, referring to the opposition Movement for Democratic Change. "Only God who appointed me will remove me -- not the MDC, not the British." He later added: "We will never allow an event like an election reverse our independence, our sovereignty, our sweat and all that we fought for ... all that our comrades died fighting for."

I am praying that God will remove Robert Mugabe from power.... permanently.

People behaving Badly - and a God who never gives up on Them

This Sunday’s Old Testament reading is the story of Hagar and Ishmael. And it is a tragic, awful, embarrassing story to own as my faith history:
Sarah, the wife of Abraham, chases Abraham’s first-born son out of the house so that he does not inherit anything from his father.
This is more than just jealousy – it is an effective death penalty: They live in a desert, and without a family to protect them, they will die of exposure. And the worst of it all is that Abraham gives in to his wife’s jealousy. (Go read it in Genesis 21)

And it is quite possible that if this family had placed more trust in the promise of God, then both Abraham’s sons could have grown up together. And together become the leaders of the people of God.... and the rift between Jew and Muslim might never have happened.

But it was not to be.
Sarah’s jealousy of Hagar, and her desire for her son to be the only son of Abraham, caused her to drive the two into the desert.
And so Hagar and Ishmael became outcasts.

It shouldn’t have happened,
it didn’t need to happen,
but it did.
And we have it in the Bible, staring us in the face, bearing witness to the failure of our ancestors to treat each other with the most basic level of human decency.

But I wonder how many of you have ever heard a sermon on Hagar an Ishmael?
I wouldn’t expect many of us, because this is not just a dark story, it is not just a story of our Abraham and our Sarah behaving so badly, it is also the story of the beginnings of Islam. And we have evidence right here before us as Christians and as Jews that Ishmael and his descendants were under God’s care from the very beginning and part of God’s plan.

I think we haven’t really known what we should do with that information and so we’ve just not talked about it very much. Because so much of the prevailing wisdom of Western society makes Muslim people out to be evil. The way stories and Movies are told have shifted ground: The bad guys used to be the Germans; then they were the Russian Communists; now – they are Muslim fundamentalists. But the children of Ishmael are the people of God.

As are every other kind of people who have been chased out into the wilderness. The aliens, and the orphans, and the gays, and the street people, and the refugees from Zimbabwe/Congo/Somalia are all loved by God: The story of Hagar and Ishmael is a story that warns us against our jealous rejection of other people.

In fact, the more I read the Bible the more I think that the Bible should come with a longer title, something like, “The Holy Bible: the story of people behaving badly and the God who never gives up on them.”

I am indebted the Rev. Sara Buteux, First Congregational Church of Hadley, for her rendition of the story of Hagar. She got me going.

Charity is not Romantic

This is the fourth week that we are hosting displaced people in our church hall.
And that which began with chaotic good humour has now become a more considered act of charity. We have invented systems for feeding people, clothing them, and housing them. We have learned how to estimate the food requirements, and how much soap and toilet paper will get used each day. But the congregation is getting tired – what some call “donor fatigue”.

The refugees have also adapted. They began as a disorientated collection of individuals. The only thing that they had in common was an experience of rejection and loss of both property and dignity. Four weeks later they have begun to recover some independence. Many leave our premises during the day to go to work. And the women report each morning to the office to discuss catering arrangements and other housekeeping needs. But the newly forming community is showing rifts.

The family units provide leadership in terms of cooking the food, and organizing community life. But there is a large group of young men who go out in the late afternoon and do not return until late at night. They often show signs of having been drinking – and on their arrival they demand food. This has caused tensions, and I suspect has led to some of our guests choosing to move out.

Today two family units moved out.
And tomorrow there will be unhappiness, because the cooks have now gone, as has Baba Abel, who acted as the glue to hold the community together.

So pray for us tomorrow.

Blessing

He is two. Big eyes set into a broad forehead, framed with short curly black hair. And for almost two weeks he has burst into tears every time he sees me. I do not pretend to know why. Other than the knowledge that his mother fled a mob of people intent on burning her home down. And he was traumatised by her fear, and the screams of the people, and the sudden insertion into the strange world of a church hall.

His name is Blessing. After a few days of living with us he cheered up, and began to play with a car given to him by Kyle, another two year old from my congregation. Kyle is from the same Nguni ancestry as Blessing, but with parents who did not flee from Zimbabwe.

Over the weekend Blessing managed to get his fingers caught between a closing door and the door jamb. A visit to the clinic across the road put two stitches into the wound and a white bandage around the painful fingers.
So tonight I went to see how he is doing – and for the first time he smiled at me without tears.

Perhaps he is cried out of tears for now.

The Teacher

He is a teacher in Khayelitsha. This is a contract post, renewed each term, employed by the school’s governing body. But now he is uncertain of his post – because he is a Zimbabwean.

He is uncertain: not because he is teaching illegally. He has a work permit from the South African government. The uncertainty is not because he is unqualified, because he has a teacher’s diploma, and many years of experience. The uncertainty is because he knows that he is not welcome.

He lives in my church hall with his wife and son. And he gets up early to catch two trains and a taxi to school. But as he travels he wonders who is going to accost him and ask him to say something. It is in speaking that he reveals his nationality. He bears the same colour skin, and the same Nguni features as those who travel with him. But his inadequate Xhosa language skills reveal his nationality.

He failed the test yesterday: and was robbed of his cellphone and wallet. Many passers by saw him being robbed, but did nothing. He is convinced that people see foreigners as “fair game” for robbery. The township will protect its own against theft, but will not rally to protect the alien.

He left for work in the pouring rain this morning. “I am glad for the rain” he said. “There will be less people walking on the road”.

Leadership

Barack Hussein Obama, born August 4, 1961, is the junior United States Senator from Illinois and the nominee of the Democratic Party in the 2008 presidential election. He is a graduate of Columbia University and Harvard Law School. Obama worked as a community organizer, served as a law school professor, and practiced as a civil rights attorney before serving in the Illinois Senate and the U.S. Senate.

This is a long way from the time when black people in America had to drink from separate drinking fountains, eat at separate lunch counters, ride at the back of buses, watch movies only from the balconies of theatres, and could not vote This is familiar territory for our own country but unfamiliar to the most powerful nation on earth: one American commentator has noted that “Race is the issue that changed us, shaped us, determined our path, and even defined the meaning of our faith. Now a black man is running for president of the United States. Amazing grace.”

Let us pray for a world where race, nationality, or gender is not the method used to determine the value of a person. And let us pray for leaders who have the courage to stand for the truth, irrespective of the cost to their popularity or personal enrichment.

Moral courage is a rarer commodity than bravery in battle or great intelligence. Yet it is the one essential, vital quality of those who seek to change a world which yields most painfully to change. - Robert F. Kennedy, in a speech in Cape Town, South Africa, June 6, 1966

George Herbert

Love bade me welcome, yet my soul drew back,
Guilty of dust and sin.
But quick-ey'd Love, observing me grow slack
From my first entrance in,
Drew nearer to me, sweetly questioning
If I lack'd anything.

"A guest," I answer'd, "worthy to be here";
Love said, "You shall be he."
"I, the unkind, the ungrateful? ah my dear,
I cannot look on thee."
Love took my hand and smiling did reply,
"Who made the eyes but I?"

"Truth, Lord, but I have marr'd them; let my shame
Go where it doth deserve."
"And know you not," says Love, "who bore the blame?"
"My dear, then I will serve."
"You must sit down," says Love, "and taste my meat."
So I did sit and eat.

George Herbert (April 3, 1593 – March 1, 1633) was a Welsh poet, orator and a priest. As a student at Trinity College, Cambridge, England, George Herbert excelled in languages and music. In 1618 he was appointed Reader in Rhetoric at Cambridge and in 1620 he was elected to the post of "public orator", whose duties would be served by poetic skill. He held this position until 1628. He went to college with the intention of becoming a priest, but his scholarship attracted the attention of King James I. Herbert served in parliament for two years. In 1630, in his late thirties he gave up his secular ambitions and took holy orders in the Church of England, spending the rest of his life as a rector of the little parish of St. Andrew Bemerton, near Salisbury. He was noted for unfailing care for his parishioners, bringing the sacraments to them when they were ill, and providing food and clothing for those in need. Throughout his life he wrote religious poems characterized by a precision of language, a metrical versatility, and an ingenious use of imagery or conceits that was favored by the metaphysical school of poets.
Suffering from poor health, Herbert died of tuberculosis only three years after taking holy orders. On his deathbed, he gave the manuscript of The Temple to Nicholas Ferrar, the founder of a semi-monastic Anglican religious community at Little Gidding - telling him to publish the poems if he thought they might "turn to the advantage of any dejected poor soul", and otherwise, to burn them. In less than 50 years, The Temple: Sacred Poems and Private Ejaculations had gone through thirteen printings.

There is another, contemporary, George Herbert. I wonder how history will remember him – deeply considered religious scruples......spirit moving poetry.... compassion for the poor....giving up secular ambitions to serve God......hmmm?