Gloria and Petra

The first time I listened to Igor Stravinsky’s Le Sacré du Printemps at the Bartlesville Symphony Orchestra I remember thinking, “I have never experienced anything like I just heard.” The screeching dissonance of the violins, the erratic rhythms of the tympanis, and the blasting cacophony of trumpets created a violence and unrest inside of me that I could not articulate. The demure Midwestern audience was more accustomed to classical ballet than to fertility scenes of pagan Russia. The unresolved chords of Stravinsky’s music better expresses my experience in South Africa than anything I could possibly write. Nevertheless, it is necessary for me to distill my thoughts into words.

The story of Gloria provides a salient example of my ongoing anxiety about this summer. Gloria arrived at our children’s camp last week full of anger and rage. Although she would laugh or smile occasionally, she would quickly return to her timid, scared corner of the room. The first couple days of the camp, Gloria remained attentive yet alone. When her frightened eyes looked up at me, I felt her hurt and pain seep into my body, yet I could not fathom what I later learned that week – a story of abuse, rape, and neglect that was shared by the majority of the children.
On Thursday morning I was preaching from Exodus 16 about God providing manna for the Israelites in the Sinai Dessert. As I continued to preach, I found myself leaving the pulpit and my notes behind and speaking to the individual brown eyes staring back at me. As I continued through my examples and message that God gives us life, God sustains us, and God provides for us, I realized that I must begin preaching a new message, “Abuse is never from God.” “If someone uses the gift of life to hurt you or love you wrongly, the gift is not being used as God intended.” And then I stopped for the translator, whom I had forgotten about, to catch up with me – composed myself, realizing the stories of my audience, and affirmed each of them that “abuse is never your fault.” You are all “fearfully and wonderfully made” by God and you are beautiful to me, to these adults, and to God who formed you in your mother’s womb.

As I was talking with kids, I noticed tears falling from Gloria’s cheek. Then Moussa translated the message into French for the Congolese girls who spoke no English. Like the two-part healings in Mark’s gospel, Petra’s eyes then glossed over with tears as well. Twice, I was so moved I could hardly continue. It was like all of the pain they had built up during the week of reflection and education was pouring out of their eyes. I experienced Christ through a girl with whom I could only speak three words: “bonjour,” “auto,” and "merci."
Later that day, we led a session called, “Telling our Stories.” At the end we asked the children to colour a picture and write a story entitled: “My Happy Story” or “My Sad Story.” Only four of the 23 children wrote about “My Happy Story”; one of those stories consisted of a black and red picture of his mom with nothing written on the inside. When we asked Benny why he wasn’t writing his story he told us quietly, “I can’t think of a happy story.”
Then I walked over to Gloria, sitting alone and asked her who woman was that made her sad. She then opened her folded paper and handed it to me. It read:

“My mom makes me sad when she hits all my body. I wish she would stop to my hed. I fel sore. I feel like hitting my mom.”

While I was reading, she crawled onto my lap and said, “I don’t want to go home tomorrow.” I asked here, “How often does it happen Gloria?” She responded in a barely audible voice, “Not every day.” Then their was a long pause, and she said, “Do I have to go home uncle Ryan?”

I didn’t answer her. I just held her. The Philomene, a wonderful counselor what was happening and attended to her so I could go chase the little boys out of the surrounding swamp lands and vineyards and stop the ongoing sword-fighting that never ends well with hyper-active six-year-old boys.

I later found out the entire story of abuse for both and Gloria and Petra and several other children that made it even harder to pry their fingers from my hands and put them in the car to go home. Last night I awoke in the middle of the night crying; the pictures of children who could not yet write have been indelibly imprinted onto my heart. Might I take this pain back home with me. Might I tell their stories. Might I pray with a transformed heart that calls out for the hurting and the “little ones.” Surely, “theirs is the kingdom”; it was a blessing to be allowed into their kingdom this summer.

The Blessing of Wadham

Blessings intrigue me - it strikes me that blessings are a universal desire. To be blessed by our fathers and mothers, by our God, and siblings, by our co-workers, pastors, parishioners, teachers, children is longed after by most. Yet, it seems that being "blessed" by money and comfort and power are more coveted much more in the modern era.

It scares me that we would rather chase after the ephemeral, fleeting "blessings" of life in exchange for the fulfilling, ethereal blessings that hope and wholeness. How is it that we race after the "blessings" of emptiness and forsake the blessings of meaning -- the blessings that require work or sacrifice barely even qualify as blessings at all e.g. rich and meaningful relationships. We all want to be blessed, but do we truly yearn for meaningful blessings - the blessings that require sacrifice and gratitude and patience and self control?

The infamous hymn lyrics "Count your many blessings/ name them one by one" echo these sentiments. These warped words are a reflection of our maligned desire to be blessed from our Lazy-Boys. Our pursuit of the blessed is often nothing more "than a chasing after the wind." (Ecclesiastes' theme). Modern day Christianity seems to be spell-bound by this sickening, yet growing prosperity gospel that encourages Christians to enter into some kind of quid quo pro relationship with their Creator. When did we relegate "blessings" to something that can be counted up and hoarded by humans? It saddens me grealy that we can purchase blessings in some kind of divine market economy? What possible reason is there to stop and count your blessings? I mean, how presumptuous it is to think one could possibly count their blessings?

Instead of passively receiving and even purchasing quasi-blessings we should be blessing others. Who cares how many blessings you have? In our pursuit of the attractive we lose sight of the meaningful.

Ultimately, we devalue The blessing of life, The blessing of Christ, The blessing of (eschatological) hope for some cheap, materialistic possession masquerading as a blessing that contains substance. Furthermore, it is incredibly improbable in the race to acquire more blessings that one is truly going to be blessed. What good is a blessing that is purchased anyways? We see humans trying to purchase love and acceptance and fulfillment all over the place...yet,

those who have the least seem to be experience the blessing of life most.

Living in Africa has impressed upon me the need to question basic practices in America. Today, I have been thinking about how we spend our holidays and vacations.

(I must pause to tell a story about why these thoughts have arisen). These thoughts have been prompted by a surprise this week -- and a true blessing. This blessing came in the form of new life. The blessing breathed new life into me when I was on the verge on breaking under the pressure of simply having too much to do (preaching 5 times in 8 days) - all wonderful things - but just more than I was capable of alone. My blessing was the entrance of a curly haired British girl from Wadham College that is volunteering her time and effort (and sleep) to help us at the inner-city ministry in any and every way we ask her to. And since Greg is on holiday, she gets to help me virtually every minute of day. And what a coincidence that she is from Wadham College - the Oxford college that is practically the neighbour to Keble College (where I studied for a while). It has been great fun to talk and relive those fun times.

And Lydia has been doing it all during her 2 month holiday. While she downplays the sacrifice and cost and safety concerns - I have been touched at her generosity and graciousness.

Which leads me to the thought that vacations in America are horrible waste. We have the opportunity to be renewed and to experience new life, yet we perpetually come tired, broke, and more sinful than we left.

WHAT IF...we replaced the glamour and sin and sloth of Vegas with the grace and solace and glory of Mepkin Abbey. Instead of being served up blessings on a silver platter we would bless one another through a common meal. We would pray together seven times each day, go to bed early, rise early, work healthily, speak kindly, and love bountifully.

WHAT IF ... we replaced the cacophony of horns and swearing and screeching tires of Paris with the symphony of song and nature and silence of the Taize Community?

WHAT IF.... we used the money not squandered on hotels, casinos, and extravagant spaghetti to house the homeless, feed the poor, clothe the naked, and fund ministries and NGO's that truly fight for justice and cradle the hurting in their arms?

Surely, a vacation spent in fellowship with the saints of the faith rivals the holiday wasted on a location known world-wide as “Sin City.”

Be blessed by the saints and be the saint that blesses.

One Faith, One Baptism

Tonight I had the opportunity to help preach at a truly remarkable baptismal service. People were forced to put aside their prejudices for one evening and worship God with those much different than themselves. It is safe to say that not one thoughtful Christian was entirely "happy" with the service; but it is equally fair to say, not one thoughtful Christian left without expereincing the Grace, goodness, and glory of God.

There were 4 ministers from 3 denominations and 3 coutnries that led a service of baptism for 5 children of God: 1 adult, 4 babies; 2 colored, 1 white, 1 black; 1 british, 1 congolese, 3 south africans; and a sermon full grace, challenge, and hope -- this is one of the closest moments we have to expereincing what Christ might have had in mind by us "maintaining the unity of one spirit...one faith, one Lord, one baptism." A sacrament is so much more than a "remembrance;" it's a re-enactment and a foretaste of the kingdom among the one body of Christ.

Unity is more about welcoming new life than it is about resisting than those different than ourself. Unity welcomes, unity chastens, unity forces us to be honest about our faith in God and our love of one another.

Lately, I have experienced the consequences of not being able to say no to anyone - but it is truly amazing what we can accomplish when we just go for it -- and, it seems, that which is worthy of our time often turns out better than we could have ever hoped or imagined. I think that's just what keeps tugging and yanking my heart into ministry -- it's the only way that 17 hour work days make sense - there not really work -- they're a way of living life -- i honestly have no idea how someone in corporate America does it -- when our sacrifice has value beyond ourselves there emerges reason to lose our lives (this was a postcript to my sermon during my sunday run...but a line of thought that has captured my interest this week).

Augustine becomes smarter the longer I live: "our hearts are restless until we find peace in God" -- and they will return to their pathetic, restless state if we fail in our relentless pursuit of this 'peace.' I'm slowly learning this peace is a continuum that we move along as we approach peace instead of some kind of finish line that we cross, collect our peace medal, and go back to our apathetic lives of discontent.

I hope that makes some sense. I wish what went through my head could go onto paper -- but its about like trying to articulate the joy of a child who has just discovered ice cream, or snow, for the first time.

Where have all the Prophets Gone?

This morning I preached for three congregations at two separate services. I was touched today. The first service was the typical homogeneic crowd of all one race - well except for me - as I'm not coloured - to point out the audience. The second service was incredible. As I climbed into the 5 story tower they called a pulpit and peered out over the congregation assembled I had one of those moments where I knew I was in the presence of God. My heart was strangely warmed and I was strangely calmed. I had prepared, prayed, thought, and slept for 4 hours -- I felt confident that for this day I was being used as the Lord's instrument to reach people who were very different than myself. The congregation this day consisted of black, white, and coloreds; parishioners from Zambia, Congo, South Africa, Malawi, Britian, and America; young and old; all with eyes to see and ears to hear. Rarely do I feel the peace of these moments when the Lord seems to speak to each of our hearts saying, "Come, dear children, everyone of you, come and follow after me." Today, God brought the body of Christ more into his image. I am grateful to have been a part of it.

Below I will post the opening of the sermon. If anyone wants to read all of it, just let me know and I'll send it your way. Thank you all for your prayers.

Lectionary Texts: OT Reading: Gen. 22:1-14; Gospel Reading: Matt. 10:38-42
Sermon: "Where have all the prohpets Gone?"

Our text this morning invites us to give up our own lives and follow the way of the cross instead of the way of the world. We are not promised prosperity or riches or a comfortable lifestyle in exchange for our lives; in fact, we can rest assured that the closer our lives move towards the teachings of Christ the more difficult our earthly lives will be. But, it is worth it. Every struggle and every sacrifice is worth it. Every time someone stands up and says apartheid is wrong, racism is a sin, and the hoarding of resources is contrary to the gospel – it is worth it. When we fail to surrender our lives to the cross we are no longer living as faithful disciples of Jesus Christ.

If one is to truly pick up his cross and follow after Christ, there is simply no room for the excesses of materialism or racism on this journey – the weight of the cross is supreme – it is not more than we can bear – but it is the limit to what we can bear. Our Old Testament text demonstrates this quite clearly as Abraham’s complete and unqualified obedience unto God, His faithfulness even to sacrifice his son Isaac, shows us that when we are fully faithful to God, “he will provide” (Gen 22:13-14). When we pile on the possessions and prejudices of this world we cease carrying the cross and begin propagating the culture.

What makes the church different from the world? How are our lives any different than people who reject the way of the cross? If there is no obvious difference between Christ’s church and the world’s culture, we have a serious problem.

I have been richly blessed by the South African church – my childhood minister was a gracious South African who taught me to show compassion and forgive unconditionally, the South African church has blessed me with Peter Storer, who is now my lecturer at university, the South African church has blessed the world through the TRC and your ability live out the grace of the gospel like few others.

Yet, I have two fears for the South African church that continue to haunt me: My first fear is that it will become like the church in Europe and represent nothing more than a hollow, storied museum. Your great battle is over. Apartheid has ended. But racial reconciliation has only begun.

Desmund Tutu recently wrote, “Reconciliation (in South Africa) is liable to be a long drawn-out process with ups and downs, not something accomplished overnight. The TRC has only been able to make a small contribution. To work for reconciliation is to want to realise God’s dream for humanity – when we will know that we are indeed members of one family, bound together in a delicate network of interdependence.” Tutu reminds us that, “no one is ultimately self sufficient.” I would like to suggest that no single church is or should ever try to be self-sufficient – no one part of the body of Christ constitutes the church – the church can only be the church when it welcomes all into its doors.
These are not words during apartheid. No. These are words from today for today, words for right now. The end of Apartheid drew a starting line in the sand – the marathon race for reconciliation has only begun.”

The fight to defeat apartheid represents a powerful moment in the history of the modern church to end systemic injustice – But, it also marked an end to the prophetic voice. The South African church contains a great history of leaders: Desmund Tutu, Denis Hurley, Allan Boesak, and Peter Storey – these prophets spoke the truth about sin and demanded that people sacrifice everything of this world for the sake of the gospel, for the sake of what’s right. But, where are these prophets now?

Either the leaders have softened their voices or we have muted their trumpets of truth.....

My second fear worries me much more than the first. I think it is far more likely that the South African church will become like the church in America instead of the church of Europe....

My fear is this: that 141 years from now, the South African church is going to be so segregated and so racially divided that people will not even think to talk about race. This has happened in America and it can happen here. Since the American Civil War, there has been little genuine effort to desegregate the Sabbath and now we have a church so racially divided that black and white Christians rarely even talk to one another. This is not the body of Christ God had in mind when he created the church. Do everything you can to talk to each other, to eat with one another, to sacrifice for each other…to be a beacon of hope to the rest of the world instead of just another example of division in the church.

Tour de Force

My foray into Saturday morning runs with the local Craig running group was a tour de force in two ways – it was a feat of strength and a tour of Cape Town from the peaks high above city life. We battled against the forces of weather, storms, rain, heat, slippery boulders, and our will at times -- but it was all worth it. All said and done, it was a lot like ministry in inner city Cape Town -- a battle against the forces of apathy, bad government, and lack of resources that requires me to look inside myself, stop asking questions and complaining about the uncontrollable circumstances and fight through it with all the strength I have inside of me -- becuase at the end of the day -- it is indeed all worth it. For one child to smile or one family to gain hope about the future is worht every bit of it.

When I enquired about the loop we would take, I received an email description that follows: (with the assumption that this would make perfect sense to an America!):

"Around the Mountain Route: from Constantia Nek up thePUFfeR route to the old Wynberg overseer's cottage, now refurbished andserving as an overnight stop on the new Hoerikwaggo Trail; via theconcrete road (or Ash Valley, or even Nursery) to the Woodhead andHely-Hutchinson dams, across the Woodhead dam wall and along the oldrailway bed towards the Apostle's Path, where we turn south again andhead for Corridor Ravine; down Corridor, around the buttress intoSlangolie Ravine, where we encounter the very beginning (or end) of thePipe Track, which we follow all the way to Kloof Nek; now we make ourway along Tafelberg Road a short distance, then up the steep zig-zagsand steps to the Upper Contour Path, across the face of Table Mountain,through Platteklip Gorge, around Devil's Peak, and arrive at the King'sBlockhouse on Mowbray Ridge; the last leg of the route now follows theContour Path through Groote Schuur Estate above Rhodes Memorial and UCT, into Newlands Forest, Kirstenbosch and Cecilia Forest, then finally home to Constantia Nek."

So, I got slight off-course a few times -- but never lost -- somehow.

I just can't describe the beauty of creation. The granite faces of mountains are carpeted in lush emerald greens of algae and shrubbery. The cascading waterfalls crescendo through the smallest of crevices and the rock formations create a runner's wonderland -- I felt like a mountain goat on steroids for nearly 5 hours this morning. We watched the fluorescent sun break over the horizon just as we ran out of the clouds about half way up the first long climb. Below us we saw a city of 3 million covered by fog as we were basking in the beaming sunlight. On the sides of the mountains we drank water coming from the rocks. And on the way down we completed the cycle of mother nature with a torrential down pour and tempestuous rains off the oceans.

Afterwards, we ate oranges, huge sausages and drank hot tea (an undesirable mélange of foods for anyone interested!) as the entire nation paused to watch South Africa defeat France in a brilliantly played game of rugby.

In the evening I finished my sermon preparation and bulletins for three different congregations I would preach to on Sunday morning. A long and fulfilling tour of Cape Town came to an end with a very sound night of rest.

Joy is Deeper than Suffering

A prodigious Polynesian friend recently wrote about her experiences as a newly wed: “Growing my mind is growing our marriage.” Elissa, thank you.

While personal time in prayer and exercise are crucial to healthy living, growing our minds is sometimes overlooked. Between semesters I have momentary lapses in the exercise of growing my mind. But a minister is no different than a wife – if we want the garden to grow we must continually water the plants. More and more I am convinced of an adage I read during middle school quiet times, “We are what we think about all day long.” This is true.

Today, I grew. First, cinematographically then, sermonically. After the frustrations of the previous days, Olga suggested that in the afternoon I pick her up at work and we walk the 2 miles along the ocean to the cinema. We watched Hotel Rwanda. I’m not going to retell the movie – but watch it please – be moved. I cried during it and after it. I just can’t get the carnage out my mind. As we were leaving the theatre, Olga, who grew up on the Rwandan/Congolese border was barely moved at all – she couldn’t believe how “clean” they made the movie. Then she said something unprompted that I won’t soon forget: “There’s nothing more horrible than going to sleep at night not knowing what will happen to you.” A tear then navigated her cheek as she attempted to tell me a story – the words never came out. (The Tutsis who were slaughtered by Hutus were pushed across the border into Congo – where similar crimes of gang rape and machete killings are still happening on a daily basis).

That night I was reading some sermons of Paul Tillich when I was moved by two quotations. About the paradoxical nature of Christianity, Tillich writes, “the command to sacrifice one’s intellect is more daemonic than divine… this is stupidity, superstition, and fanaticism;” this is not the call of Christ (cf: Elissa’s remark). For a million unarmed people to be slaughtered by pitch forks and machetes takes the sacrifice of one’s mind – the sacrifice of an entire mind, body, and spirit. Evil is real but transitory – this is our greatest Christian hope.

Tillich seems to agree: “The end of the way is joy. And joy is deeper than suffering. It is ultimate. Let me express this in the words of a man who, in passionate striving for the depth, was caught by destructive forces and did not know the word to conquer them. Nietzsche writes: ‘The world is deep, and deeper than day could read. Deep is its woe. Joy deeper still than grief can be. Woe says: Hence, go! But joy wants all eternity, wants deep, profound eternity.’” (From “The Depth of Existence”)

Suffering produces tears - but I am learning these tears are quite shallow. Instead, it is the deep tears of joy that water our souls and make God present in the midst of suffering. Our hearts catch the tears that drop from our cheeks and grow us more into the image of God.

We don’t truly know what it means to pray until our prayers produce these tears.

Do you care so deeply for God’s children that your tears become your prayers and your prayers become your tears? Our lives should make this chiasm a reality.

A Battle with an Elephant

Following my Betties Bay anecdotes, my mother responded, “Be Careful Ryan.” I assure you mom, I was exceedingly careful while battling this elephant. No, I wasn’t poaching or chasing the elephant; instead, I talked very calmly to her. My exterior tranquility was really just a big fat lie – I was frustrated beyond words during the entire battle.

In Swahili, Tembo means “elephant,” which seems to be a self-fulfilling prophesy, as my supervisor Tembo is one of the largest women I have ever met - which, to an African woman is almost a compliment - they have much different ideas of feminity and body image than Americans do. Most days here feel like a battle, I get beat up but I get back up again because I know these battles are the best fights of my life – they challenge all of me – my patience, my perceptionos, my premonitions, sometimes every pore on my body aches – when I listen to stories or look at scars on peoples faces or backs. So, here is a recap of the battle.

[Background info: a huge part of my workhere is for SHADE – a ministry ran by the Woodstock church that seeks to educate and encourage African women about sexual and social health issues. African women are routinely beaten, raped, and dehumanized by men – and few people, if any, in these villages see any problems with this. The Jamboree and Mini-Jamboree bring together an assembly of women from 18 different African countries and trains them to go back and educate other women about AIDS, nutrition, rape, and women’s health issues. While I am here, I am trying to edit and re-write parts of the literature in English – which is an incredibly difficult task. The second part of my job is to organize, direct, and run a one week mini-jamboree for 7-10 year olds about AIDS and sexual education. The main focus is the education, but with God’s help, I can incorporate large elements of spirituality and hope into the programme. The first two days are completely focused on self-esteem and believing we are all “fearfully and wonderfully made.” The following should make more sense now.]

Sunday night about 7:30 pm Tembo calls me as I’m about to the leave the church and says, “Ryan, I need the programme outline for the Mini-Jamboree with a cover letter and in brochure form by tomorrow morning.” I respond, “Umm… okay is there anything else?” “Yeah, it needs to look very nice because we’re presenting it to the mayor tomorrow to get the funding for this year around 400,000 rand (80,000 USD – big time money in church work here).” And she hangs up.

I had read several educational books on the topics and such and taken notes, but I had nothing really planned out – thankfully Olga was around to help keep me encouraged and fight with the printer during the night.

Somehow, I managed to get the 22 sessions planned, with presenters, activities, and topic titles. Then I worked up the cover page, fought incessantly with the printer, and got the thing finished – only to realize July 10 – July 16 is not 5 days – so I got to do it all again!

Monday morning, Tembo gets here at 10. And I can’t figure out why she’s 2 hours late. So I ask timidly, “Did you need this brochure this morning?” With a chuckle, she replies, “Oh, the meeting isn’t until tomorrow afternoon.” Ughhh…

Tuesday morning, Tembo decides she wants the thing reformatted. So, I do it.

Tuesday afternoon Tembo returns to the office, sits down with a placid demeanor, and just starts working. She seems about like normal although quieter. Meanwhile, three of us staff members are all looking at her like, “So, did we get the funding.” We continue staring at the back of her head. Eventually Greg ask her. She then tells us she was so late for the meeting that the mayor had left. Wow. All that work for nothing. I was so mad -- I got my shoes and shorts and ran up the mountain to the fourth waterfall – 7 minutes faster than I had done it all summer (an hour and 20 minutes I was calmer on account of pure lactic acid taking over most body functions.)

Turns out, my erratic and disgusted emotions inside were for nothing as well. Because, she managed to get a new meeting for Thursday. In my mind, the second meeting was nothing more than a phyrric victory unless the mayor was extremely gracious.

As a happy addendum to the story: on Thursday afternoon we found at that the mayor is sponsoring the Jamborees with 389,000 rand. God is gracious – I must learn to be more so.