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Sabbatical Writings
Letters from the Rambling Rector
Sunday, 19 November 2006
My Dear St. Mark’s Community,
The South African leg of our sabbatical comes to a close. Tomorrow evening, Pontheolla and I fly from Johannesburg to Amsterdam. From Amsterdam, we
Eurail to Munich (where we’ll see Dorothee Hahn, one of our former seminarians and now associate priest at Ascension Anglican Church), Prague, and
Salzburg, before ending up outside of Florence for six weeks. While in Florence, we plan to rest and recreate and do no sabbatical study (well, if
we do, it shall be only by human accident or cosmic serendipity!).
This overview of our South African journey is lengthier than our previous “from the road” missives, for so much of what we have experienced, we feel,
is unforgettably and deeply informative regarding the sabbatical theme.
Johannesburg
We flew into Johannesburg on Tuesday, 24 October, in a deluge. (This is the rainy season in South Africa. Rains are common and heavy, with lightening
displays the likes of which I’ve not seen. On a couple of occasions, I could have sworn that I heard the banging of Noah’s hammer!) We disembarked via
stairs to the tarmac. Armed soldiers stood about in varying postures of readiness, for what, we weren’t sure. However, given the warnings, indeed,
reality of the high incidence of crime, this was but a prelude to the pervasive evidences of and attention to security that we would encounter.
We reconnected with old friends, Earl Neil, a retired Episcopal priest who served for many years in the DC area, his wife, Angela, a native South
African, and their daughter, LaToya. It is grand thing, when traveling, to have friends in various places who truly ably can share the sense and
spirit of life in the land.
Our visit to the Apartheid Museum made for an equally inspiring and dispiriting afternoon. Inspiring, for we were reminded of the resiliency of the
human spirit in the face of grievous oppression. Dispiriting given the reminders of the seemingly fathomless depths of human cruelty and the nonpareil
human capacity to justify the cruelty. An arresting museum feature confronts you immediately. Upon paying the admission fee, you are given (irrespective
of your race or ethnicity) a card identifying you as a white or non-white person, each directing you to enter the museum by the designated door. The
idea is to give you a sense of what apartheid was like. The museum’s exhibits – photographic, textual, visual, audio-visual (much of it, archival film),
and actual (e.g., bales of concertina wire piled high, a massive state police armored vehicle used in the suppression of anti-apartheid rallies,
replicas of the tiny prison cells in which the incarcerated were held) arrayed in chronological order from the conception and development of the
apartheid system through its dismantlement to Nelson Mandela’s emancipation and the pathway toward democracy – are extensive and elaborate. I cannot
do justice by describing them, so I won’t try. Again, we spent an afternoon and, easily, could have spent thrice the time.
We also spent an afternoon in Soweto (Southwestern Township), perhaps the most well known South African township – a vast conglomeration of several
black communities with a population of about 3.5 million people. George, our guide and driver (a necessity, we’re told), a Sowetan, took us wherever
we wanted to go. Siphiwe, another guide, took us part way down a street in one of oldest parts of Soweto, a shanty settlement. (He assured us, upon
entering, that it was completely safe, but added, cautiously, “Let us go in peace, so that we don’t come back in pieces.” A sobering advisement.)
One water spigot, called a standpipe, and one port-a-potty serve a neighborhood of 16 families. The streets are dirt paths. The homes made mostly
of tin, mud, clay, or whatever materials are available. Most homes are girded about with fencing of whatever sort, yet, all are topped with concertina
wire, the latter being a status symbol, Siphiwe said, signaling that the owner has something valuable and worth protecting. (Incidentally, almost all
Johannesburg homes have gates, fencing, and barbed wire. In the wealthier neighborhoods, the fencing sometimes is electrified. Additionally, it is
not uncommon to see 24-hour guards stationed at sentry posts. The South African security industry is pervasive and prosperous. Fear, apparently, is
a successful marketing and sales tool.) We visited a school, where 15 children, newborn to age 3, were crammed into a room the size of St. Mark’s
sacristy. It was the lunch hour. The meal consisted of ground meal and mixed vegetables, which the caregiver/teacher provided as most parents could
not afford to do so. We were so affected by the poverty and by the power and pride of the people to persevere that we offered a contribution, small
by our standards, to cover the cost of a 2-week supply of food. We visited the Regina Mundi Roman Catholic Church, the largest Catholic parish in
Soweto, with seating for about 2,000 and a congregation about twice that number, and a designated national landmark for its role as a gathering and
meeting site for anti-apartheid activism. (As a stark symbol of that activism, the church retains the several ceiling and window panels with holes,
made by bullets fired both from within and without, left by the state police in the effort to break up an anti-apartheid rally during the 1976
uprising.) We visited the memorial and museum of Hector Pietersen, the first child murdered by the state police during the 16 June 1976 Soweto
student uprising against the government’s imposition of Afrikaans as the language of all education – an uprising that gave new vitality to the
anti-apartheid movement. Across the street from the museum stands Holy Cross Anglican Church. We met the rector, Steve Moreo, a most genuine person,
who exudes equal measures of gentleness and strength. We visited the home that Nelson Mandela lived in before his 27-year incarceration on Robben
Island near Cape Town and the home to which he immediately returned upon his release. He now lives in the Houghton Estate area, two blocks from the
B&B where we stayed. (By the way, “Nelson” is the name given to Mandela by a teacher during the early years of his formative education, who could
not pronounce his given name, Rolihlahla, which, prophetically, means, “disturber”!) We also passed by the homes of Desmond Tutu and Winnie Mandela.
As we prepared to leave Soweto, George said, earnestly, “I hope you enjoyed your visit.” I replied, “Enjoyed? No, we can’t say that. Moved and inspired?
Yes, that we can say.” He answered, very quietly, “Thank you for saying that.”
Hillcrest
After a week in Johannesburg, on 30 October, we drove southeast to Hillcrest, a town between Pietermaritzburg and Durban in the Land of a 1000 Hills.
(For me, driving a manual transmission car on the left side of the road with the steering wheel on the right was somewhat stressful. I had to think more
about what I was doing, but, I suppose, being a natural “lefty” helped. One other thing, South African drivers are, in three words, speedy and daring!)
This two-week leg of our journey was arranged by our own Eliza Getman. (We thank Maureen Shea, who, many months ago, got in touch with Eliza on our
behalf. Here, we’d like to thank Greg Gay, too, for his good assistance regarding the South Africa portion of our sabbatical.) Through Eliza, we were
“in residence” at her parish, Holy Trinity Anglican Church. Jenny Sistig is the rector. With her husband, Andreas, also a priest, they serve Holy
Trinity and the four valley congregations of the Zulu community (Christ the King in Molweni, Ekukhanyeni kukaKrestu [EKK, for short] in Nyuswa, Holy
Spirit, and Kwamsindisi in Nqeto). They are young, energetic, committed, and compassionate people and priests. Their dedication left me, as a priest
of 28 years, hopeful for the state of ordained ministry in the current and next generations.
Andreas took us on an afternoon’s journey to and around the valley – a land of exquisite, indescribable geographical beauty and excruciating human
poverty. We also joined him on a “bereavement call”. A woman, a member of one of the valley churches, had died after suffering prolonged physical
abuse from her husband of whom she was the second of three wives. Upon entering the home, we observed the mourning customs. The son busied himself
with preparing the house for guests and the feast the family was obligated to provide. The women of the family, the daughter, sisters, and the third
wife, who is considered a sister of the deceased, sat on a mattress on the floor where they would remain until the day of the funeral. The mother’s
clothes were stretched out on the floor beside the mattress. A candle was lit nearby. (This last detail brought to mind the Lazarus story in John’s
gospel, particularly the ancient notion that the spirit [or flame] of the dead lingers near the body for four days, then, departs.) Andreas led us
in praying with the family and offering words of condolence.
On another day, I went with Andreas to the home of Christina Gasa, an 80-something year old grandmother, who suffers from cataracts and other
disabilities of aging. As many of her children have died from AIDS, she cares for 9 grandchildren. Her home, in the valley, about half-way down a
steep, half-kilometer hill, has two rooms, all of which could fit within the space of our Penniman Room at Baxter House. We were there to assess
her needs and to offer help. This, for me, was a proverbial unforgettable, perhaps, life-changing experience. Christina offered a selfless hospitality
in welcoming us into her home, a gracious humility in accepting whatever help we offered (which, truth to tell, was far short of her needs), and an
admirable faith and fortitude in coping with her daily cares. (I discovered later that she also climbs that hill each Sunday and walks 2+ kilometers
to church!) Christina, in the two hour’s time of our visit, taught or re-taught me a number of things: that physical poverty does not mean that one
lacks wealth, for her spirit was abundant in its capacity to give; that an abiding, unassailable faith in God is honorable and is to be respected,
even, perhaps especially from the standpoint of a skeptical believer like me; that when I complain about my “various worries and woes” I must try to
do so in fair relation to their severity, for the daily burden of some others is far weightier than anything I endure; and that graciousness and
hospitality have much to do with a true welcome and acceptance of “the other”. On this last point, I was “the other” in Christina’s home, yet, she
received me as if she had known me for a lifetime. (Upon entering a Zulu home, it is customary to sit immediately without being asked. To do otherwise
would be an insult. Yet, before I could sit down on the floor, Christina rushed to bring me a mat upon which I could sit. She did this, not because I
was a priest, an “uZwe” or “carer”, but because I, simply, was who I am, a person who had come to her home. In the spirit of the Zulu greeting or word
of hello, “sawubonya”, meaning, “I see you”, she, simply and profoundly, had seen me.)
That same afternoon, we visited the home of Edie Zondi, whose granddaughter, Slindiwe, had served as our translator during our visit with Christina
(although Andreas has an admirably and enviably good working knowledge of the isiZulu language). Edie was so pleased that we had come into her home.
Here, as with Christina, I felt the presence of a sacred spirit of hospitality. Over tea and biscuits, Edie spoke of her daughter’s death, some years
before, due to AIDS. In recounting her experience, she repeated the question that she had asked many times, “God, why did you let AIDS come to my
house?” She, then, spoke of reaching some resolution in hearing the voice of God, saying, “I stand at the door and knock. To those who open the door,
I will enter and dwell with them.” I recognized the words as a paraphrase of Jesus’ words in a passage from the Book of Revelation. Yet, Edie shared
it, I believe, as a word of solace and strength that had found a home in her heart. Edie’s loss remained great, yet, with assurance, she could say,
“I know that Man” (meaning God). There was a time when I might have described such faith in God as sincere and simple. However, here, I sensed a
profundity in Edie’s ever holding in tension her anguish and her assurance – not one alone or one without the other, but rather, the latter in spite
or, indeed, because of the former. There is nothing simple about maintaining such a daily, delicate spiritual balance.
On Sunday, 5 November, we attended worship at Holy Spirit Anglican Church, one of the Zulu congregations. Although we didn’t understand most of what
was said and sung, because it was an Anglican liturgy of Holy Eucharist, we could follow easily. (I am reminded of Ed Kneedler’s comment during a 28
June post-General Convention meeting at St. Mark’s. Ed expressed his desire that the Anglican Communion remain intact and, particularly, that the
Episcopal Church not desert the Communion, for there is immeasurable value in being and feeling welcomed throughout the world in the familiar liturgies
of the Anglican Church.) The pews, fashioned in the shape of a semi-circle, were filled with women, men, and many children. The singing was rapturous –
a capella, richly musical and harmonious, and vigorous, with much clapping and dancing. The preaching of the Rev. Doris Sithole, a 76-year old community
priest (a member of the Holy Spirit church community; much like our adjunct clergy in relation to St. Mark’s) was impassioned. Doris invited me to say
a word, which I did (well, actually, it was a JAFT, just a few thoughts, one of which was my sharing your greetings, as the St. Mark’s community,
to the people of Holy Spirit), with one of the wardens serving as my translator.
At Holy Trinity, I presided and preached at a Thursday midweek service, during which we used the Eucharistic rite from the “old” South African prayer
book (think 1928 Book of Common Prayer or the Rite I service in our current BCP). On Sunday, 12 November, I co-presided with Jenny and shared a JOT
(just one thought) as an appendage to her sermon. (Prior to the service, Jenny generously invited me to participate in these ways, graciously apologizing
for belatedly confirming her requests, and thanking me for being so flexible. I replied, “Jenny, no need to apologize. I’m the rector of St. Mark’s,
Capitol Hill, where flexibility is a requirement.”)
We also were treated to an enjoyable evening of dinner and fellowship with Eliza and her family, Jonny, her husband, their children, Noah, Aidan, and
Luke, and Sara, her mother-in-law. Other dinner guests, along with Jenny and Andreas, were Michael and Dorrie Nuttall, the former Bishop of the Diocese
of Natal and his wife. Conversation was lively – mostly about the politics of the Anglican Church and America. Regarding the latter, everywhere
we’ve gone both in England and South Africa, as soon as we open our mouths, someone will say, nearly always in the following order, three things:
(1) “You’re American, aren’t you? I can tell by your accents,” (2) “Where are you from?” and (3) “Let me tell you what I think (largely unfavorable)
about your government.”
Additionally, through Eliza’s good offices, I was invited to present my paper, “Reflections on Pluralism”, at the Theological Café – a weekly gathering
of the faculty and student body of the religion and theology department of the University of KwaZulu-Natal, Pietermaritzburg Campus. After my opening
brief (really!) remarks, the floor was opened for comments and questions. The response, both from Christian and Muslim participants, was lively and
engaged. I have treasured each and every moment when I’ve been challenged to rethink and amend or embellish what I have written.
Finally, we attended two meetings, each different, one from another, and each significant in its own way.
One was a gathering of the Anglican clergy of the region. The rector of the parish where the meeting was held warmly welcomed and introduced us as
visitors from Washington, DC. He, then, apologized for not knowing how to pronounce Pontheolla’s name, asking her to say it. He, having misheard her,
thinking that she had said Pantheolla, replied, “Does your name come from ‘pantheon’ as in ‘pantheon of the gods’?” To which I replied, humorously,
“No, she is God!” He laughed, nervously. (Immediately, I wish that I hadn’t been so flippant. As a guest, especially in light of the sabbatical theme,
I had a sense that I, as “the other”, might have offended “the other.”) The meeting’s focus was evangelical in nature; evangelism understood
traditionally as winning souls for Jesus Christ, particularly through the means of Christians “invading secular space” so to meet people where
they are. At the end of the meeting, the rector asked us to divide into prayer teams of 3-4. Some of the teams prayed in what I would term a
“charismatic” fashion – that is, in recognition of and reliance on charisms or gifts of the Spirit – with audible exhortations and the laying on
of hands, in one case, resulting in the person for whom prayer was offered being “slain in the Spirit” (that is, spiritually “struck down” and
physically falling to the floor as a sign of the Spirit’s having killed some inner defect of sin, so to raise one to renewed and strengthened life
in Christ). It had been a long while since we encountered such acts of what we would call hyperspirituality or what some refer to as “happy, clappy
Christianity.” For Pontheolla, it brought to her mind many childhood scenes growing up in the Church of God in South Carolina. Under the banner of
our theme, “conversation with the other,” as much as we would have liked to have said, “If it works for you, then, blessed are you,” we, nevertheless,
were left not knowing what to think, but remaining rather skeptical.
The second meeting was the Growth Group – a cross section of people from the Holy Trinity and valley congregations who prayerfully and thoughtfully
are focused on how to “grow the community”. Pontheolla and I attended. A fair portion of the 2-hour meeting was devoted to members of the group
directing questions to us about St. Mark’s. We had an open opportunity to share something of our rich communal life with them – what works and what
doesn’t work. By all appearances, given the avid interest of the growth group members, we’re an interesting bunch! However, what impressed me most
was the Growth Group’s focus or, I should say, foci, for congregational growth was addressed in a number (pun intended) of ways – not merely
numerically, but also spiritually, and, even more and as importantly, in terms of mission and service. There already is much about the Holy Trinity
and valley congregational communities with which I would like us, as a parish, to explore and consider engaging. (Recall that I expressed a similar
interest in our developing a relationship with St. James’s Church, Piccadilly. Suffice it to say, this sabbatical has opened my mind, heart, and
spirit to an array of possibilities for us as a community for developing and deepening our connections with others around the world.)
Johannesburg, again
We returned to Johannesburg on Monday, 13 November. With the exception of one hour, it rained unbelievably hard for the duration of the 5-hour drive.
(By the way, the N-3 highway between Jo’burg and Durban passes through some of the most gorgeous countryside imaginable, much of it known as
Drakensberg – rolling hills, verdant pastures, lofty and majestic mesas, and distant and shadowy mountains. Around each bend of the highway lay one
more breathtaking sight. Think of driving through the Smokey Mountains, only on a steeper and more serpentine road.)
Penultimate Words – For Now
Under the heading of sabbatical “findings,” a few, but not all of the things I’ve discovered or, perhaps, rediscovered while traveling around the world…
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“The other,” whoever she or he may be, even when it is one’s self, has inherent dignity simply by virtue of having been created. Our conversation,
indeed, all conversation, even inward conversation must be carried out with common, perhaps uncommon human respect, both for the other and
for one’s self.
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The idea of “the other” must be expanded beyond those who differ in faith and religion, even race and culture to include those who occupy different
economic strata. The poor have much to tell us and teach us about human authenticity, dignity, and hospitality.
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We, Americans, are passionate and profligate consumers. So much of the world lives on far less, indeed, needs far less in order to live. I
recall a news report while we were in London. The New Economic Foundation, a British think-tank, marked 9 October 2006 as the day when humankind had
reached the point of consuming the earth’s resources beyond their renewable sustainability. We shouldn’t be surprised that America was designated
the chief national offender. Moreover, during the flight to Johannesburg, I watched Al Gore’s An Inconvenient Truth – twice! All of this stirs
up in me a hope that Pontheolla and I and we, St. Mark’s, as individuals and as a community, can become and will be repentant consumers, that is, that
we continue to learn to be more conscious environmentally. In this regard, I am gratified to read on our egroups of the ongoing efforts of Jane Osborne
and others at St. Mark’s concerning our deepening involvement with the Greater Washington Interfaith Power and Light as we learn to be greater stewards
of God’s resources.
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The South African “experiment in democracy” is less than generation old, yet, there is much that we, Americans, in the 231st year of our experiment in
democracy, can learn. There is much violence in this land. One is reminded daily through even a cursory glance at the news. However, I find something
deeply inspiring and empowering about the fact that our South African sisters and brothers were able to bring about an internal regime change with the
committed help of a global consortium of nations and without the massive, nationwide bloodshed that long had been predicted and feared. If I were to
venture a political comment, I find many lessons to be learned from the South African experience in regard to what we as an American nation have wrought
in Iraq.
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At the same time, there is much that America can teach South Africa. Apartheid was so brutally, relentlessly divisive, separating people, one from
another, in every way – physically, socially, culturally, spiritually, economically, and politically. Hence, in this new day, peoples have to learn
about “the other” in daily social, public, and, certainly, political exchanges previously unknown. As continually and deeply flawed, in some respects,
as I believe our American race relations are, we do have an historical track record of racial assimilation and acclimation to share.
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More personally… South Africa has 11 official languages. Most South Africans of whatever racial or tribal group are bilingual, trilingual, or, even,
quadralingual, speaking some combination of Afrikaans, English, Ndebele, Xhosa, Zulu, and other native languages. I am reminded of the Apostle Paul’s
1st Corinthians reference to language facility in relation to love: “If I can speak in every human tongue and that of angels…” Paul makes clear that
without love, being able to communicate with others is only making noise. Nevertheless, the capacity to speak with others in their languages is a
gift. Although I have a great fondness for words, I am fluent only in English. I have read Bill Flanders’ 12 November sermon at St. Mark’s, based on
Jesus’ story of the widow’s mite. On reflection, while in South Africa, I, on many occasions, either by accident or intentional search, have
discovered my deep poverty. I have found myself, when in conversation with others, incapable of listening clearly, understanding deeply, and
expressing myself meaningfully. I was poor. I am poor. I wonder. When I return to the comfort of my familiar surroundings in my country, my city,
my neighborhood, and my parish community, will I relax and forget again my poverty?
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More locally… Concerning us, St. Mark’s, as I mention above, I see possibilities of our engaging in and with the mission and ministries, the life and
witness of both St. James’s, Piccadilly, and Holy Spirit and the valley congregations in South Africa. St. James’s because of the multiple similarities
with St. Mark’s and the Hillcrest church communities because of the many differences. Even more, the sabbatical has helped me to reach a greater sense
of vision for St. Mark’s, of course, as I see it. If I were to attempt at this stage to articulate it in a few words, it would be: Faithfully grounded
locally, St. Mark’s engages in mission and ministry globally. I relish talking more with you about our parish vision upon my return.
A Final Word…
Dear friends, please know of Pontheolla’s and my love for you and our community. We miss you greatly and look forward to returning and sharing life
anew with you.
Love, always and in all ways,
Paul
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