Ripples in the Street

The street outside my church is home to a community of street people.

Miela, her sister, her mother, Bennie and Prevan all live behind the flower sellers against the Seven Eleven wall. They store their things in a trolley across the road from my office. And each evening they pull out the double bed mattress and make a fire in a tin can to cook a can of baked beans, or some chicken off cuts. And their days are committed to gathering money to buy the alcohol that got them onto the street in the first place.

Peter looks after cars on the corner across from the bank. He is a qualified machine fitter, but has allowed alcohol to deprive him of this work, so now works as a car-guard. He comes to the 9:30 service on a Sunday with Beverley his girlfriend. Beverley has a job, and collects Peter at 5 each evening to take him home - before the allure of the pub across the road get too much for him.

Barry sits in the main road outside the print shop. He makes leather key rings and other trinkets which he displays on a plastic milk carton. He also gets occasional work inside the print shop when they are under pressure, where he collates paper, or cleans machines.

Dave was with me in the SA Airforce in 1976. He is qualified to work on aircraft, but too many evenings spent in an Airforce pub has robbed him of that ability. He resigned with the rank of a Sergeant-Major, and has spent his pension payout. Now he sits on the corner watching Peter watch cars, and sometimes paints aircraft on squares of hardboard.

And Joe. Right now Joe guards our church property at night...mostly with great diligence and responsibility. He worked with Peter on Rustenburg Platinum Mine, and they gravitated to Cape Town together. And Like Peter, he has alcoholic lapses.

But right now the street is not well. Because Patricia has arrived. She used to live in a caravan behind the Seven-Eleven, until it caught alight. Most street people think that the owner of the block of flats had a hand in this, as he had wanted the caravan moved. Patricia has taken up residence next to Barry. The complicating factor is that she has recently inherited money: sufficient to invest, with enough interest to buy a bottle of whiskey per day. She denies that she is in need of help: “I can stop drinking anytime I want to”.

And that one bottle on the street is like a stone dropped into a still pond.

Because Barry cannot ignore the bottle on the pavement between them. And neither can Peter pretend that there is not this bottle just around the corner. And Beverly seems to have given up fetching Peter at 5 and instead joins him on the block. And Joe sees the bottle too. And Clive, a long-gone resident boyfriend of Miela, has reappeared on the corner.

And Peter is no longer sober. And Dave is far too friendly. And Beverley had a papsak under her arm yesterday. And long-gone street resident, Clive, has made Benny jealous that he will take Miela away from him. And Joe has locked himself into our property: he has cleaned our toilets, and painted walls, and gardened in an attempt not to be distracted by Patricia’s bottle.

Pray for our streets.

In the Wilderness

I have found a section of the Old Testament that has helped me to understand my country. The book of Exodus tells the story of a newly-born nation.

• This is a nation that emerges from slavery and struggles to become free. The ex-slaves complain about the food, and the living conditions, and their leadership; and so develop a culture of entitlement that expects God/the authorities to supply their every need.
• This is the story of slaves who struggle to behave like free people. They want to get wealthy by hoarding their possessions; and they want to become very important people by dominating people who do not think like them (the Amorites, the Hittites, and the Canaanites).

And so God sends this nation to “Wilderness School”…. a place where life is not easy. This is a place where their common struggle for life welds them into a nation that trusts God. It is a place where their hardships force them to learn to share God’s blessings. It is God’s dream that they might become an example to the other nations of the earth: Isaiah urges them to become a “light to the nations” (Isaiah 61).

And as I read this it was familiar: because South Africa is in transition from the old to the new. And we have ex-slaves who believe in hoarding personal riches, and who practice a culture of entitlement, and who want to become Very Important People. This is not the stuff of a new nation. We are in the wilderness between the old and the new. And there are many lessons we need to learn before we become a new nation.

Sadly there are many people of faith who are unable to discover the call of God. Many, many God-followers have fled this challenge. Some spend their energy in complaining about our wilderness life; some avoid the wilderness by withdrawing into gated communities; and some have fled the wilderness by emigrating to other countries.

But South Africa is on a journey with God. This is a journey that asks us to become “a light to the nations”. And we are not alone: God is shaping us into something useful.

Pray for us to follow God faithfully through this wilderness.

Beautiful day

My friend Dion, his son Liam and Mertyl the monster. Dion is passionate about life, his family, his scooter and following the way of Jesus. i am en-couraged by him

Funerially Tired

I have averaged a funeral a week for the last 4 weeks.
But today I have two. And as I walked into the office between the two funerals I discovered that I have another on Thursday.

It is hard doing this.
Because I meet with the grieving family and offer comfort and support. I help them plan an appropriate celebration of the life for the person they have loved. And I think of ways of providing pastoral follow-up after the service
But at the same time I too am saying farewell to people I have loved.
 Audrey Smith: a petite 88 year young lady with a will of iron. She walked two km from her flat on arthritic legs to help us feed street people every Tuesday morning. And if we sold boerewors rolls on a Saturday morning she came especially to buy one. And every Sunday she always sat third row from the front…and her place is empty.
 Mercy Ricketts lost her Australian son very suddenly. Mercy turns 90 this year and he was to have come for her birthday. And she is grieving the unfairness of it all: because mothers ought not to bury their sons.
 And others: a family shattered by the suicide of one they loved. And a son having to bury his father. And a man of 96 who has spent a year grieving the loss of a wife of 66 married years.

So far I have had 19 funerals this year…number 20 on Thursday.
And I am emotionally tired…..
Tired of saying goodbye.
Tired of seeing empty places.
Tired of grieving the loss of really good people.

I will get over it.

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?

fuel price rises ... again

Cheers Ben

Ben came to us last Sunday evening.
He is a Zimbabwean who had run from a crowd of township youths intent on beating him up. And had landed up with us, having heard via the grapevine that there were displaced people with us. He is articulate, funny, and deeply religious. He led the Thursday evening prayers, and offered to preach on Sunday.

His trauma was deep – having first run away from political persecution in Zimbabwe, and now having run from Xenophobic hatred in Cape Town. Each of our “guests” fills in a registration form, which asks them to tell their story. He needed two full pages to get it all out of his system.

From this form we discovered that he is a diabetic, and requires a special diet and medication. So we sent him to the clinic around the corner to check his insulin levels. The clinic nurse kept him for the day, as stress was causing his levels to fluctuate dangerously. Finally, the contacts of my circuit treasurer got him into hospital: this allowed him to jump the queue and receive emergency treatment. Having spent the night on a drip, he was discharged from hospital – with the well-meant admonition not to allow himself to get so stressed again.

He came to me yesterday to say goodbye. One of his work colleaguea has invited him to say in his home. And he shared a prayer with me, thanking God for the blessings of the past week. Truth be told – I am blessed for his brief encounter with us.

For Reflection

Nothing is so important as human life, as the human person. Above all, the person of the poor and the oppressed... Jesus says that whatever is done to them he takes as done to him. That bloodshed, those deaths are beyond all politics: They touch the very heart of God.
- Oscar Romero
March 16, 1980


Did not your father eat and drink
and do justice and righteousness?
Then it was well with him.
He judged the cause of the poor and needy;
then it was well.
Is not this to know me?
says the Lord.
But your eyes and heart
are only on your dishonest gain,
for shedding innocent blood,
and for practicing oppression and violence.
- Jeremiah 22:15-17

A Day in a Life

I love my life.
And I have very interesting days. Such as today:
It began with a visit to the Women’s Auxiliary. They meet every week... 50-70 of them. Average age of 75. This is a place where old ladies can find friendship and support as they face the frightening prospect of getting older, often alone. Today I wanted to thank them for their wonderful support with the displaced people living in my church hall.

Then I met with the team who are continuing to care for the Zimbabwean people in the hall. We need more blankets, and toothbrushes, and toothpaste, and deodorant, and soap, and one of the refugees’ sugar diabetes is out of control and needs to go to the clinic... and so it goes on. I am grateful to Lynn for her organisational skill.

I left for Cavendish to have coffee with other colleagues facing the same crisis. Which was a moment of respite in the midst of the unrelenting pressure. I have been going since last week, first with our annual Synod, then with preparations for Sunday services, and then just as I was looking forward to a break came the crisis of displaced people – and there is no end in sight. I normally take a Friday off, but the husband of a member of the church has died and wants the funeral on Friday Morning. And it sounds totally lame to say “Sorry for your loss – but not on Friday”

Then off to hospital to visit the sick father of one of my church leaders. I really enjoyed the ride, because it was a hospital right outside of my pastoral jurisdiction. So I got on the bike and had 30 minutes of 120 kmph to clear my head. Outside the hospital a white couple with a baby tried to persuade me to part with some money because “black people have taken all the work”. And having opted out of this one, I got to see a man who is desperately afraid that he might be very ill, but covering his fear with gracious thanks for me coming to see him. I stopped off with his son and daughter in law on my way home – to reassure them of God’s love for them.

Lunch with my three daughters, who are all at home on study leave. I enjoy their company, and their discovering of life as young women. And this is time to catch up.

At 3pm I visited a lady of 91 who has recently lost her husband, and is recovering from a back operation. She does not want to move out of her home to a complex for the aged, and is now worrying that she will not be able to cope on her own. I prayed for her... and will link her with a member of the congregation who is of a similar age and has also recently lost her husband.

Then back to the church to have supper with the Zimbabwean community. I had invited my senior leadership to join me, and we tried to show some love and support for people who have been severely traumatised. I sat next to a young man whose father works for CokeaCola in Zimbabwe, and whose older sister is a student minister in the Methodist Church in Harare. He was a driver in his father’s company, but was sent by the family to South Africa to earn more money so that his sister can complete her studies. And now he lives in my church hall.

After supper I met with my leadership to deal with financial issues. Times are tough – petrol, food and interest rates all combine to reduce the income of our churches. And I do not always know how to keep solvent. I refuse to preach guilt-inducing sermons about money and God’s tithes.

I got a lift home with my colleague David, to find his wife’s vehicle parked outside of the house. She was meant to have fetched their children from my home, where my daughters were caring for them until she finished work. As we got out of the car we saw why she was still there – the front tyre of her car was flat.

And it began to rain.
So David and I changed the tyre in the rain. And when they had left, I sat down with the family, who were finishing the end of a TV programme.
Now to bed.... amazed at the privilege of living such a rich and varied life.

The story continues...

We continue to care for people...
The School teacher returned to his school classroom yesterday – and left when a pupil pulled a gun on him. So he returned to us with another Zimbabwean teacher from the school. When I asked in amazement why he returned to the school, he answered that he was anxious to receive his month’s salary.

We now discover that the group of four men we had housed all have families. So another 13 people have just arrived – wives and children who had been in hiding. When asked who they had not come with the men, they answer that they were too afraid. “We did not know what the people in the city would do to us”.

And I am deeply moved by the compassion and care of my congregation: one 84 year old lady arrived last night with four lamb chops and some rice. She explained that she had planned this as her lunch for the next few meals, but decided that the displaced people needed them more than she did. Another arrived with her children’s toys – even a beloved Thomas the Tank Engine – because there are children who need to know that they are loved. And then there is the amazing time and care from Lynn and Lorna who work in the church office: sourcing everything from nappies to cell phone chargers (because people had fled without taking their electrical chargers with them).

Pray that the Province and the City might set aside their petty political squabbling. They must come up with a joint plan that will help us all find a way forward. Because all we can be is a temporary emergency shelter. The macro re-integration of people, or repatriation of people is beyond us.

Internal Refugees

And so they roll in…
People seeking refuge from the violence.
Violence against them because they are not like us. My church (along with many, many other churches throughout Cape Town, and South Africa), has opened its doors to provide shelter. We took an initial 4 young Zimbabwean men. They had been trapped on Cape Town station on Friday afternoon, being warned not to return home to Khayetlisha. Eventually there were hundreds like them who spent the night on the station platforms. They are now asleep in a room upstairs in my church hall.

Then they began to trickle in… word of mouth telling people that we have shelter. The church halls further up the road are all full to capacity. And in desperation the people are moving further down the Peninsula. They come, desperately tired, carrying their worldly possessions in a plastic bag. They have only the clothes they stand in. No toiletries, no possessions, no nothing. One tells how he was told by his (South African) neighbour: “Go. You came with nothing. Now leave with nothing”.

One is a school teacher, registered at a school in Khayaletsha. His pupils chased him out of his classroom – along with eight other “foreign” teachers. Another drove into Khayelitsha to fetch his family and was stoned. So he fled, and asked me to allow him to phone his family to see if they are safe. They are for the moment.

A touching moment – when Dave and Joe, the resident street people, offer to keep guard on the main door to the hall. They are making sandwiches, carrying tea, and putting out the bedding. “Welcome to my home” says Joe.

Pray for us.

Weeping

Along with most of my fellow South Africans I am deeply disturbed by the xenophobic attacks currently sweeping our nation. The responses I have read and heard over the last few days have expressed anger, disbelief, fear, outrage, despair and deep concern. Perhaps what confuses and hurts me the most is that something like 70% of South Africans are reputed to be Christians. I don't understand how something like this can happen in a country where faith is so prevalent. Although, historically the people who call themselves by the name of Jesus have done things like this far too often. All I can pray is: 'God forgive us, and teach us what it means to love the world - including the stranger, the different and even those we fear - as you do. And may your Spirit of peace flood this nation'. Please join with the people of this beautiful country as we pray for God's intervention

I lifted this from the blog of my colleague John at sacredise who says what I want to say - only better

“GET THE FOREIGNERS OUT OF OUR COUNTRY?”

The numbers of organized attacks against foreign nationals in South Africa are increasing. Media reports tell how residents of Alexandria and of Diepsloot went on a rampage against foreigners, who were forced to flee after they were assaulted, robbed and their houses torched. A few months back in the Eastern and Western Cape, Ethiopians and Somalis were being chased out of their homes and their spaza shops.

Xenophobia is of course not new. Ever since the beginning of time people have banded together in clans and cultures. We do this for mutual support and protection, and we clothe this in communal terminology such as English manners, or Afrikaner culture, or Xhosa traditional ways. While this is useful for social cohesion, it becomes evil when used as a tool to harm people who are outside of the cultural grouping.

The children of Israel were often tempted to exclude people who were not Jewish – but they were reprimanded: “If an alien who resides among you wants to celebrate the Passover…he may draw near to celebrate it” (Exodus 12:48). In fact they were expressly told that aliens had equal rights before the law: “There shall be one law for the native and for the alien who resides among you” (Exodus 12: 49).

Jesus insists that hospitality to the foreigner is an essential part of being his follower: “I was a stranger and you welcomed me…just as you did it for one of the least of these who are members of my family, you did it to me” (Matthew 25: 38-40). It is the Christian way to welcome the aliens/refugees/strangers into our midst. And when we are unwilling to do so we demonstrate that we have not understood Jesus who changed us from being strangers and aliens, into citizens of the household of God (Ep 2:19).

Those people who want to throw foreign national out of our country are sinning against God. And they will be held to account for their selfish disregard towards the sanctity of human life. Let us hear the instruction of Romans 12:13 to “extend hospitality to strangers” and show the love of Jesus to all who are aliens and foreigners.

The Price of a life?

Yesterday a father and his four year old daughter died under the wheels of a bus in India – because of two rupees. Sanischar Tapto (40), a tribal labourer, and his four-year-old daughter Sunita wanted to travel home from Orissa's Jharsuguda district to their home in Sundergarh. But he only had Rs 8 instead of Rs 10 required for the bus tickets The angry conductor pushed both father and daughter out of the moving bus. They landed under the wheels of the bus and were crushed to death.

Sahadev Nayak a passenger of the bus said, “When the man said he has no more money, some fellow passengers also offered to pay two rupees on his behalf to the conductor. But the conductor did not listen and pushed them."

These lives need to be treasured: pray for Sanischar and Sunita to be with God – and pray for that conductor, whose moment of madness will irrevocable change many lives.

Nature's Pain

It has been a bad month for our planet:
• Cyclone Nargis struck Burma in Southeast Asia and has claimed 32,000 lives, with an additional 30,000 missing and perhaps as many as one million homeless.
• An earthquake struck south-west China and killed more than 12 000 people (some guess up to 50 000), leaving many others trapped in the rubble. People are living out in the open without shelter and food.

And we are tempted to say: “but where was God?” or “Why did God allow this to happen?” As if there are easy, simple answers!

The scientists tell us that earthquakes, and storms are occurring all the time at sea, but they only occasionally emerge from the sea onto the land. It is this that drove the people of the Old Testament to admit our human frailty:
Psalm 8:3 When I look at the sky, which you have made, at the moon and the stars, which you set in their places--- what are human beings, that you think of them; mere mortals, that you care for them?
Perhaps we need to accept that we live on a fragile planet where storms and earthquakes are just part of the natural cycle... a cycle that we do not control.

But at the same time Psalm 8 speaks of a God who chooses to entrust this planet into human care. Psa 8:6 You appointed them rulers over everything you made; you placed them over all creation. This does not answer the questions of why bad things happen – but it does point out that when things go wrong, we are given the task of helping to care and to clean up.

So let us pray for those who suffer from the storms of nature; and offer help where we can; and commit ourselves to caring for this fragile planet.

Getting out of the Ghetto

Pentecost Sunday is celebrated by Christians throughout the world - but Pentecost did not begin as a Christian festival.

Pentecost was originally an Old Testament festival called the Feast of Weeks or Shavuot. This was a Spring festival that took place 50 days after Passover – therefore the Greek Pente for 50. This was a thanksgiving for the "first fruits" of the early harvest. It was a moment when the community affirmed their trust in God as the provider of Life. And this was done in two ways:
1. People brought the first fruits of the harvest to the Temple. This was an act of trust: you brought the first of the harvest – as an act of trust that there would be a completed harvest.
2. You did not harvest the whole field: the edges were left for the widows and orphans. These signs of generosity spoke about a generous God who gives the harvest.

By the time of Jesus, Pentecost had gradually lost its association with agriculture - and became a celebration of Jewish religious history and the gift of the Torah (the "Law") on Mount Sinai. This was the moment when God gave Moses the 10 Commandments – and the people became a nation under God.

With time the people of God had forgotten to use Pentecost as a witness to the generosity of God – and had instead allowed this to become a time of religious pride: which sometimes led to poor people (like the widows and the orphans) being excluded, because they did not have the education or the money for the religious rituals. So here was a festival that should have spoken about God’s generosity, being subverted to become a time of pride in the achievement of a nation.

I do not believe that it was accidental that the Holy Spirit’s blessing should come on the festival of Shavuot. Here we see a renewal of the festival of Pentecost... this is a moment when God comes to this festival and reminds people of things that they have forgotten.

Acts Chapter 2 uses very specific language to describe this event: The Spirit of God brings renewal in a number of different ways:
1. A wind: this is an ancient sign called Ruach in the Old Testament: which can be translated as “Wind” – and also as “Breath” and as “Spirit”. So we see God deciding to breathe new breath into Pentecost / blow a fresh wind through the cobwebs of a stale religious ritual and bring fresh air.
2. A fire: again this is an ancient sign of the presence of God: Moses knew that he stood in God’s presence because he saw a fire burning a bush, or saw a pillar of fire leading the people. So we see God sending his fire - perhaps a fire that could melt cold, hardened hearts that have forgotten Pentecost as a time of generosity to the poor.
3. Many tongues spoken: this is a reminder that God is not the exclusive property of one culture: here is the reminder that God comes for people of all the languages of the earth.

So we celebrate Pentecost.... along with millions of other Christian people .... and along with millions of God’s people from before the time of Jesus.
I am inviting us to discover the wind, and the fire and the tongues of the Pentecostal renewal as it is described in the book of Acts:

1. Wind
Hear the invitation to allow the Spirit of God to blow the religious cobwebs away:
It is so easy to become like the people of God in the time of Jesus – easy to take on the form of religion that has lost the life renewing joy of religion.... where our beliefs have become religious habits.
We can become religious experts that are not open to the promptings of a God who takes us into new places.

Use today to ask: “I wonder where God is prompting me to change?”

2. Fire
Hear the invitation to allow the Spirit of God to soften our hearts.
Again it is so easy to become like the people of God in the time of Jesus – easy for us to be religious people without loving hearts.

Use today to ask “I wonder where the Spirit of God needs to soften my hard heart”

3. Tongue
Hear the invitation to allow the Spirit of God to gather together a variety of tongues. We live in a suburb that speaks many different languages: and the Spirit of God calls us to reach out to all who live here – English, Afrikaans, Xhosa, Portugese, Shona......

Use today to ask: “I wonder what language the Spirit asks me to encounter”

In Conclusion
In north Yorkshire in England is a place called Robin Hood’s Bay:
An ancient church lies on the brow of the hill above the village.
It was built at a time that smugglers wrecked ships on the coast.
It was built at a time when the church owned the whole hill.
And I wondered if the smugglers ever got into church?

If they did I know exactly where they sat: because
Inside the church the wealthy people bought boxes of seats for their families:
And right at the back are two rows marked as “sinner’s seats”.

Today the church stands empty....
Except that right at the back hangs a cobweb laden object from the roof: it is a funeral wreath from the funeral of a virgin.
Symbolic of the need for the wind of the holy spirit to blow away the cobwebs and bring new life...
- to bring a church that welcomes all people – even those who do not have the money to pay pew rent
- to bring a church that does not need a funeral wreath to remember a time when there were young people.

Hear in this our own warning:
• Beware the moment when we fret about who sits in what pew on a Sunday, or who has use of what hall in the week – the wind of God’s Spirit might just blow us out of our seats and put other people here.
• Beware the day that our church organisations and our church rituals are more important than the people who are to be found in and around our buildings: the fire of the Spirit might just melt our cold hearts.... and send us to people we do not yet know.
• Beware the day we think that we are a one language, one culture church... the power of the Spirit might just give us many other tongues instead.

So let me invite us to be open to the moving of the Spirit in our lives, in the life of our church, and in the world where the church has died.

Pofadder is N!gha

On the way home we spent a night at Pofadder – a town South Africans use to typify a sleepy backwater. It is certainly small: two tar roads, a kaffee, a church, and a hotel. But this is a town with a big history of resistance to the European colonial invaders.

This fresh water spring was home of the Koranna people, who emerged from fragments of various Khoi-Khoi groupings who had found safety along the Orange River. While they were held in low esteem by the European colonisers of the Cape - Rev Edward Terry described them as “beasts in the skin of men” while J. Campbell described the Koranna as lazy beings who only hunted, slept and danced.....(which could describe most university students today) - they put up a spirited resistence to those who invaded their traditional lands.*

In 1875 a mission station was established amongst the Koranna by the Reverend Christiaan Schroder, who named it Pofadder, after their local chief. In 1918 a town was laid out at the Koranna springs and called Theronsville. But local memory prevailed, the name Pofadder stuck, and it was later officially changed back to the name of the old mission. The mission is now a Roman Catholic Church that runs a blockmaking enterprise, a chicken farm and a dairy, giving employment to the poor

Today it is a great place to stop over. The hotel has self catering cottages that provide a welcome break from the endlessly straight roads through the Kalahari/Bushmanland plains. And the people are warm and welcoming – even when we arrived in the middle of a crucial rugby match (Stormers vs Brumbies) . And I am told that in the flower season this is a great place from which to explore the beauty of the Namaqualand flowers. So a return visit in August is definitely on the cards.

And if you asre wondering what the logo on the cap means: n!gha is a khoi-khoi word for “great/wonderful/cool – as in “this is n!gha food” or “that is a n!gha car” – and contrary to the South African perception, Pofadder is n!gha.




Footnote * (The escalating conflict between the colonising white farmers and the Koranna led to a commando of about 300 mounted burghers attacking the Koranna entrenched on one of the Orange River islands. Cupido Pofadder negotiated a treaty that agreed that he would protect his part of the river which bordered on the district of Calvinia in exchange for ammunition to enable him to do so. He would also be recognised as chief of all the Koranna living in the region. But this treaty was short lived, as drought forced the Koranna to attempt to regain their traditional land from white farmers. Klaas Pofadder succeeded his brother Cupido as chief and thought to arm his people by pretending to distance himself from the rebels. The terms of the treaty 1870 were still being met and in January of 1879 Pofadder was given 20 lbs lead, 5 lbs gunpowder and 4 guns. Unfortunately for the colonial authorities, two days later Pofadder returned to the rebel side. The inevitability of superior fire power led to Pofadder being gunned down by a commando of farmers).

backhome

Our family went camping in the Kalahari desert. This involved
- sitting around a fire at night, under a warm star-filled sky, listening to the sounds of animals calling just outside of the firelight.
- grinding our slow way over day-lighted corrugated gravel roads in search of those animals
- tents and 4x4 vehicles
- stories told amidst laughter, friendships deepened, and family bonds treasured.

And I return home content to be part of God's world.

Kgalagadi Transfrontier Park

We are going away for 10 days to the Kgalagadi Park, Northern Cape, South Africa





This is one of Africa's great parks. The Kalahari Gemsbok National Park (South Africa) and Gemsbok National Park (Botswana) have been formed into a transfrontier park of over 3,6 million ha. This is a rugged wildlife sanctuary with 3 rest camps & abundance of game.

The Empress has no Clothes

She suspended him from practicing medicine for a month for daring to throw her photograph in a dustbin. She is a political flunky, while he is a medical doctor. To add insult to injury she called the police to arrest him for damaging government property.

While this might sound like some banana republic, it raises issues about respect for a superior, personal dignity, and the place of ego…….
Dr Mark Baylock, the chief medical officer of Manguzi Hospital, trashed the official photograph of the provincial Minister of Health, Peggy Nkonyeni, when she told a meeting at his hospital that rural doctors “do not care about people. It is all about profit”. She was responding to the news that he had raised donor funding to supply rural women with free AZT to prevent them passing on the HIV virus to their babies. Nkonyeni, of course, was only following the official line of her national health minister, who does not believe that HIV/AIDS is a virus, and advocates the use of garlic, beetroot and the African potato as effective ways of preventing the illness. (The only thing she needs to add to this is banana - to truly become a banana republic Minister!).

The difficult issue at stake is how to manage grievance processes. Dr Baylock showed clear disrespect for his superior – and probably from her perspective she might have been tempted to colour this in racial and gender terms. From the point of view of Dr Baylock, his frustration is understandable: he could choose to work much more comfortably in private practice without the political interference. But he has chosen to commit himself to the rural poor, and probably finds it hard to be criticised for his dedication.

So is her picture more important than a month’s worth of health for rural people?
I doubt it. I believe that more sensible ways of resolving the issue could be found. But then, powerful people are often less than sensible. It is often the practice of political leadership to have their pictures placed prominently in public. And it is not long before these pictures take on an aura that is larger than the person. And suddenly I begin to understand the motivation for the commandment that speaks about “Worship no god but me … Do not make for yourselves images of anything in heaven or on earth or in the water under the earth”

Pray for all those dedicated doctors who choose to honour their patients with self-sacrificing service.

The way the truth the life...

This past Sunday’s Gospel reading included the following text:
Joh 14:6 Jesus answered him, "I am the way, the truth, and the life; no one goes to the Father except by me”.

So what do I do with this verse?







1. Did Jesus mean to say that all other religious beliefs are false and that only Christians get to God? Some Christians think this is so, and have been known to say things like “Christians are saved and all other beliefs / lack of beliefs are not” or “Christians need to get the world saved because otherwise you will not know God, and then you go to hell”.
2. Did Jesus mean that while all people have some kind of understanding of God, Christian people have a unique understanding of God as Father.
3. Did Jesus ever say this at all? Is it not perhaps words attributed to Jesus by the writer of John’s Gospel at a time of vigorous religious debate and search for a Christian identity between Hellenistic Christians, Jewish Christians, Gnostics and other competing religious positions? These words are thus used to reassure the Johannine readers that they are on the right track.

Personally I believe that Jesus would never have said something that sounds like people can be “shut out” of God’s presence if they do not know the right formulas or observe the correct form of religion (in fact Jesus criticised the spiritual leaders of his day for doing such a thing). It is far more likely that this is a reminder of Jesus’ teaching that it is possible to discover a personal/ intimate relationship with our creator akin to a father-child relationship.

Sadly – many Christian people have not understood this and have used this text as a way of suggesting that only Christians are the beloved of God. I recently discovered a preacher by the name of Angus Buchan who gathered 40 000 Christian men on his farm this past weekend to reinforce the idea that they were right. In the words of Buchan : “I believe in the resurrection of both the saved and the lost: they that are saved - unto resurrection of life – and they that are lost - unto resurrection of damnation”. Pity about the homosexuals, and the Buddhists, the alternately religious.... and whoever else does not fit this White Anglo-Saxon Protestant brand of faith.

The loving Grace of God is not constrained to a particular brand or format. Let God be God. And let us be open to be led by God’s Spirit wherever the journey takes us.

On Being a Pastor

Last night I had an appointment for a marriage counselling session ... but the couple never arrived.

So I dropped in on the meeting of the Women’s Auxiliary.
It is a pastoral thing: go to see the ladies once in a while, keep them happy, and they will not complain too much when I do or say things they might not find comfortable – like the stuff we do with street people, or my support for gay and lesbian people.

So I dropped in and discovered my friend Peter showing pictures of his epic motorcycle trips: one across America on Route 66, and his adventure from Cape Town to Lusaka on an old BMW, and his recent trip from Holland to Czechoslovakia. And I thoroughly enjoyed Peter’s narrative – which can only be described as eclectic. He showed photographs of small town gaols alongside diners and pubs. He juxtaposed WW Two Concentration camps with cheerful beer full bikers’ gatherings. And I realised that this is really the nature of life: an unplanned adventure, where we try our best to survive each day without falling off, and we attempt to grasp a moment of happiness amidst the struggle to keep going.

Like Audrey Bell. Who came to the meeting tonight to say farewell to her friends. She has been attending this monthly meeting for more than forty years. These are the women who accompanied her through the years of child-rearing. These are the women who got her through the unexpected death of her husband. And these are the friends who filled the loneliness of the years since then. But now she is old, and can no longer live on her own. So she has sold her home...as has her older brother, and a cousin. And they are moving together to a gated complex further than is possible for her to drive herself to this church.

She explained it all to me like this: “I never wanted to go to an old age home. But now we have created our own” And she chuckled. And we drank tea together. And I kissed her goodbye.

A Reflection on God and Government

We all have watched the elections of Zimbabwe with amazement and disbelief. The people of Zimbabwe have clearly rejected ZanuPF as a vehicle for their political wishes. But President Robert Mugabe and the generals of the military and police are finding it very difficult to let go of power.

This is nothing new. Throughout history people have tried to keep political power. We read in the Bible of Saul who would not give up being King of Israel when David was anointed by God’s prophet; and of many succeeding kings of Judah and Israel who tried to hang onto political power. The words of Jeremiah are pertinent to political leaders of every age: “The Lord spoke to you when you were prosperous, but you refused to listen. This is what you have done all your life;(therefore) your leaders will be blown away by the wind…because of all the evil you have done.” (Jeremiah 22:21)

Robert Mugabe take note. And also all others who seek to cling to power.

The New Bike

Yesterday morning I rode my bike out to Tulbach for a wedding. Approximately 180km into the countryside to a pretty farm chapel set amidst vineyards and rose bushes.

The couple were “friends of a friend” and I had agreed to officiate at their wedding. They came to the marriage preparation classes I run and I enjoyed getting to know them, and knew that I would enjoy the morning. The guests had booked in to local accommodation for the weekend, and had already spent Friday night getting acquainted. So they arrived in a relaxed mood – with all day to spend in celebration and laughter.

And I thoroughly enjoyed the wedding, with really good voices singing a duet, a wonderful silver trumpet for the Trumpet Voluntary, and a lovely couple getting married. All of which contributed towards my mood as I left Tulbach to return home.

So there I was: riding my BMW GS1150 from Tulbach towards Bain’s Kloof at an easy 120kmph, with “Stairway to Heaven” ringing in my headphones. It was a sunny midday sky, with the prospect of a tight twisty pass over to the sleepy Boland town of Wellington... this was definitely as good as it gets.

Farewell to the Tiger

Here is a photograph of my Triumph Tiger.

We spent many, many happy hours together in and around Cape Town, transporting children to and from school, visiting congregation members, and riding with the Iron John Bike Club.

We also had some epic trips further afield:

• We visited Port Elizabeth, winding up the beautiful garden route – choosing to do the Grootrivier and Blaaukraans River passes instead of the bridge overpasses. I spent a wonderful week with my dear friend Charmaine, and then rode back down Route 62, enjoying the hospitality of Cherrill on the way.

• We spent one mad winter’s day riding 1000km from Cape Town to Kimberly. My friend Alex and I took our respective Tigers to his family farm. We left Cape Town in the dark and braved the misty cold of the Hex River Valley and the chilly Karroo wind. When we returned a week later we decided to accept the warm Beaufort West hospitality of my colleague Rod. The following morning we rode a consistent 160kmph to Cape Town with the rising sun at our backs.

• We visited two Buffalo Rallies, joining thousands of other roaring, swearing, drinking, posturing bikers. And amidst the thousands of Japanese and German bikes there were a few unique British bikes: my Tiger proudly strutting its stuff.

So I bid farewell. And this is all that is left of the bike. This will make my bank manager very happy, because my credit card has suffered a painful financial hole since I have purchased my BMW GS 1150.



And a new biking chapter begins for me.

.... the Enemy

Steven is an old Xhosa man who lives on the streets.
He used to live and work as a well respected member of the community. But alcohol has taken its toll on his life. His wrecked body carries the odors of hard drinking and vagrant living. He is without many of his teeth, has rheumy eyes, and a gaunt skeletal frame.

I sat down next to Steven after praying a general prayer for those gathered for the weekly Tuesday morning coffee and bread gathering. “Thank you for the prayer” he said, “it gets me through the week. When I do not come, I am unlucky in the week.” And so we struck up a conversation, and I learned about his family. His daughter is married and living in comfort in Gauteng. His extended family own land in the Eastern Cape. They are all involved in the Methodist Church - which is the brand that I belong to+.

“But Christians are the enemy” he continues. “They do not like drinking, and will not speak to me because I drink. And their pastor has banned me from their church”. And so Steven has abandoned his family and his roots, and lives in Cape Town.

And comes to my church every Tuesday for a prayer.