There are some quaint customs around Cathedrals, and this morning in Lichfield we observed one of them: the Thomas Dole breakfast.
When I first encountered this strange community meal (I mean, this strange meal for this lovely community...) when we moved to the Close in 2006, I assumed it was a meal in honour of some ancient benefactor called Thomas Dole -- a distant relative, perhaps, of the former US senator Bob Dole. But no: it's a 'dole', as in 'a handout', which happens on St Thomas's Day (according to the old Book of Common Prayer calendar) on the 21st of December each year, when the Chapter of Lichfield Cathedral provide bread for the poor of the Cathedral Close.
So this morning, on the coldest, darkest morning of the year (on the shortest day), some of those who live in the Cathedral Close (all were invited), gathered for a service of Holy Communion at 8am, which was followed by a simple breakfast together in one of the community rooms adjacent to the Cathedral, called College Hall. There was fruit juice, tea and coffee and warm bread buns. It's an ancient tradition, dating back to the 13th century (though, as the Bishop of Lichfield remarked this morning, it was probably at some point discontinued, only to be revived again in the 20th century...).
The origins are clear: in 1265 the Rector of Wigan (Richard), together with his patron, Sir Robert Banestre, endowed the Cathedral here with an annual pension from the revenues of the benefice. Out of this sum, 'five marks' were to be 'expended annually in bread for the poor'. The document which records this bequest states that each new Rector of Wigan, immediately on his institution, should come to the Cathedral in Lichfield, and there before the Dean and Chapter, should swear to continue to make these annual payments -- and if he should ever cease, it should be lawful for the Bishop of Lichfield to compel him to pay it 'by suspension, excommunication and interdict'.
It's probably just as well that that practice ceased: Rectors of Wigan no longer visit our Cathedral and no longer make any such undertaking. As far as I'm aware, no annual sum is now paid from Wigan to the Chapter of the Cathedral here in Lichfield. But it seems good, somehow, as we prepare to celebrate the birth of Jesus, that the other practice continues, at least symbolically, to remind us that the Christian Gospel is good news especially for the poor.
Tuesday, December 21, 2010
Friday, September 3, 2010
Friday 3 September: Homeward Bound!
This will be the last blog in the series. I’ve arrived safely at O. Tambo International Airport in Johannesburg for my homeward flights, first to Dubai and then on to Birmingham, where I’m due to arrive at lunchtime tomorrow.
What a full and remarkable two weeks it’s been. Only two weeks ago, I was boarding my outward bound flight. The ‘International Congress on Calvin Research’ already seems a long time ago. Even Matlosane seems to be weeks rather than days in the past, because I’ve done so much and covered so many miles in the last three days. There are lots of photos on my phone, and even more memories in my head. The whole fortnight has been an experience to treasure and I’m grateful to all those who made it possible – family, colleagues at Lichfield Cathedral, funders and hosts. It would have been still lovelier to share the experience with Cathy and the boys. But if I'm going to be apart from them for a couple of weeks, these are the circumstances in which I'd choose to do it.
The B&B in Middelburg was a good call. The owners were thoroughly helpful and the accommodation exceptionally comfortable. I never eat breakfast at home. In the ordinary course of things my appetite doesn’t wake up until midday. But when cooked-breakfast smells are wafting in the air, I get hungry much earlier than usual – especially when it’s combined with the knowledge that breakfast is already paid for! So I tucked into a slap-up feast, before hitting the road at 8am.
It should have been a two-and-a-quarter hour drive to Maporeng, the Museum of the Cradle o
f Humanity. My host at the B&B persuaded me that Pretoria is hardly worth a half-day visit, and that it would be a shame to be so close to Jo’burg and not visit the place where the earliest humanids are believed to have lived. But – despite the investment of some time on Google maps – I got hopelessly lost in the motorway network near Pretoria. Out of town motorway driving in South Africa has been a pleasure. But the stretch around Jo’burg/Pretoria is like Spaghetti Junction outside Birmingham, or like the bits of the M25 around London which connect with the M40, M4 and M3 near Heathrow – with the added difficulty (for me) that I don’t have the basic geography to know whether a signposted place is in the right direction or utterly the wrong one. On top of that, its clear that South Africa embarked on a massive national infrastructure upgrade for the World Cup, and failed to finish it all. So these major highways are also major roadworks. Anyway, I turned north at one point at a motorway intersection, instead of south. And because I believed that was the right thing to do, I persisted in that direction much too long, and got deeper and deeper into the suburbs of Pretoria and further and further from where I was supposed to me.
No matter. Eventually I arrived at Maporeng. The museum is located close to the place where
‘Mrs Ples’ (the skull of one of the earliest and certainly the best example of one of the early humanids: the 'australopithecus africanus', if you must know) was found. The museum sets out to tell the story of the evolution of the planet, as well as of the human race, with a strong conservation message and an emphasis on the damage this generation of humans is doing to the Earth. I chuckled on arrival however: the first stretch of the museum takes the form of a lazy-river. There’s no alternative. It’s not an option for kiddies only. All visitors are expected to clamber into circular floats, which are then swept along a water course for 20 minutes or so, as you are taken back in time to the origins of the human race. I had a float all to myself, and sat there in a bewildered sort of humour, thinking that I really needed a couple of 5 year olds with me to get the most out of the ride.
Mostly, the museum is well conceived and delivers a powerful message. But I did also laugh at some of the overblown rhetoric. My favourite phrase was this one: ‘Africa is the birthplace o
f humankind. This is where our collective umbilical chord lies buried’. Birthplace yes. Collective umbilical chord? I don’t think so!
Happily the journey from the museum to the airport proved easy enough and I was able to return the hire car in good time. It served me well. I’ve covered over 1000 miles in the last four days, much of it on dirt tracks rather than tar roads. I’ve bumped over pot-holes and sped too fast on occasion. I’ve negotiated alarming motorway junctions and gunned the engine anxiously at ‘four way stops’ in isolated areas. I’ve passed road-signs which have said, ‘High Risk of Hijack’, and those which have said, ‘Stay in your vehicle. Wild Animals’. But I’ve stayed safe (despite the national strike, which has still not been resolved) and have felt the risks to be reasonable. Still, it was a relief to arrive at the rental returns srea without a breakdown or a prang.
Now I’m hoping for flights which are not seriously delayed. I won’t mind the hours in the air, or the three-hour stop-over in Dubai. I’m back to work on Sunday, and there’s a sermon to write for the Sung Eucharist in Lichfield Cathedral in the meantime. I don’t think I’ll be short of material.
PS: two of these pictures have been uploaded at Dubai International Airport, where I've now arrived safely, and from where I posted the first blog in this series two weeks ago.
What a full and remarkable two weeks it’s been. Only two weeks ago, I was boarding my outward bound flight. The ‘International Congress on Calvin Research’ already seems a long time ago. Even Matlosane seems to be weeks rather than days in the past, because I’ve done so much and covered so many miles in the last three days. There are lots of photos on my phone, and even more memories in my head. The whole fortnight has been an experience to treasure and I’m grateful to all those who made it possible – family, colleagues at Lichfield Cathedral, funders and hosts. It would have been still lovelier to share the experience with Cathy and the boys. But if I'm going to be apart from them for a couple of weeks, these are the circumstances in which I'd choose to do it.
The B&B in Middelburg was a good call. The owners were thoroughly helpful and the accommodation exceptionally comfortable. I never eat breakfast at home. In the ordinary course of things my appetite doesn’t wake up until midday. But when cooked-breakfast smells are wafting in the air, I get hungry much earlier than usual – especially when it’s combined with the knowledge that breakfast is already paid for! So I tucked into a slap-up feast, before hitting the road at 8am.
It should have been a two-and-a-quarter hour drive to Maporeng, the Museum of the Cradle o
f Humanity. My host at the B&B persuaded me that Pretoria is hardly worth a half-day visit, and that it would be a shame to be so close to Jo’burg and not visit the place where the earliest humanids are believed to have lived. But – despite the investment of some time on Google maps – I got hopelessly lost in the motorway network near Pretoria. Out of town motorway driving in South Africa has been a pleasure. But the stretch around Jo’burg/Pretoria is like Spaghetti Junction outside Birmingham, or like the bits of the M25 around London which connect with the M40, M4 and M3 near Heathrow – with the added difficulty (for me) that I don’t have the basic geography to know whether a signposted place is in the right direction or utterly the wrong one. On top of that, its clear that South Africa embarked on a massive national infrastructure upgrade for the World Cup, and failed to finish it all. So these major highways are also major roadworks. Anyway, I turned north at one point at a motorway intersection, instead of south. And because I believed that was the right thing to do, I persisted in that direction much too long, and got deeper and deeper into the suburbs of Pretoria and further and further from where I was supposed to me.No matter. Eventually I arrived at Maporeng. The museum is located close to the place where
‘Mrs Ples’ (the skull of one of the earliest and certainly the best example of one of the early humanids: the 'australopithecus africanus', if you must know) was found. The museum sets out to tell the story of the evolution of the planet, as well as of the human race, with a strong conservation message and an emphasis on the damage this generation of humans is doing to the Earth. I chuckled on arrival however: the first stretch of the museum takes the form of a lazy-river. There’s no alternative. It’s not an option for kiddies only. All visitors are expected to clamber into circular floats, which are then swept along a water course for 20 minutes or so, as you are taken back in time to the origins of the human race. I had a float all to myself, and sat there in a bewildered sort of humour, thinking that I really needed a couple of 5 year olds with me to get the most out of the ride.Mostly, the museum is well conceived and delivers a powerful message. But I did also laugh at some of the overblown rhetoric. My favourite phrase was this one: ‘Africa is the birthplace o
f humankind. This is where our collective umbilical chord lies buried’. Birthplace yes. Collective umbilical chord? I don’t think so!Happily the journey from the museum to the airport proved easy enough and I was able to return the hire car in good time. It served me well. I’ve covered over 1000 miles in the last four days, much of it on dirt tracks rather than tar roads. I’ve bumped over pot-holes and sped too fast on occasion. I’ve negotiated alarming motorway junctions and gunned the engine anxiously at ‘four way stops’ in isolated areas. I’ve passed road-signs which have said, ‘High Risk of Hijack’, and those which have said, ‘Stay in your vehicle. Wild Animals’. But I’ve stayed safe (despite the national strike, which has still not been resolved) and have felt the risks to be reasonable. Still, it was a relief to arrive at the rental returns srea without a breakdown or a prang.
Now I’m hoping for flights which are not seriously delayed. I won’t mind the hours in the air, or the three-hour stop-over in Dubai. I’m back to work on Sunday, and there’s a sermon to write for the Sung Eucharist in Lichfield Cathedral in the meantime. I don’t think I’ll be short of material.
PS: two of these pictures have been uploaded at Dubai International Airport, where I've now arrived safely, and from where I posted the first blog in this series two weeks ago.
Thursday, September 2, 2010
Thursday 2 September: 'Joyful' River?
Hmm… well, that sense of thankfulness with which yesterday ended lasted about an hour this morning. Then came an unpleasant incident, which spoilt the following hour or two, though I can see the funny side now.
At any point in the last four days I might have reported that in South Africa speed limits are advisory rather than mandatory. That was my clear impression. When I picked up the hire car on Tuesday, I spent the first few hours observing the limits scrupulously… but watching everything else whizz by. As I relaxed into the driving conditions, I conformed more and more to custom as I was seeing it, and became increasingly careless of the limits. Today I find that the limits are thoroughly, drastically enforceable…
It was entirely my own fault. I was speeding – no doubt about it. And I got pulled over by a traffic cop. Perhaps SA cops are all fierce, or perhaps it’s just him, or perhaps he just got out of bed the wrong side, or (and this is what I really think) perhaps he was playing a practised game. Having flagged me down as he was not just entitled but obliged to do, he shouted at me in broken English what I took to mean, ‘I have power to arrest you. You can be arrested!’. If his intention was to scare me, he succeeded. I admit to speeding, but I wasn’t driving that recklessly and I couldn’t see how it was an arrestable offence. He demanded my driving licence and walked off with it to talk to a colleague, leaving me feeling very little and heavy-hearted. When he came back, he said, ‘Don’t worry. Not arrested. You pay the fine. 750 rand. You pay this?’. £75 more or less was a bit more than I’d have expected, but it sure felt like a relief at that point. So I said, ‘Yes, I’ll pay. But I’m not carrying that much cash.’. ‘How much you have?’, he said. I fished out my wallet and took out all the notes – it amounted to about £40. Whereupon he said, ‘You give me that’; and when I did, he said, ‘No you go. Go’. So I did. As I drove away, of course, I became more and more aware of the irregularity. No paperwork. And since when is the size of the fine determined by the amount the offender is carrying? In the end I couldn’t decide whether I’d been conned, or had actually got off lightly. Maybe both. TIA... this is Africa.
You can imagine that my mood took a while to lift. But it’s been a good day really. It’s hard
to feel sorry for yourself or weighed down by regret for very long, when the sun is shining and you’re looking out on vistas like the ones I’ve enjoyed today. It’s been another longish day behind the wheel: I’ve covered about 430 kms. First I drove the ‘waterfall route’, and then the length of Blyde River Canyon. It wasn’t arduous driving: there was something to pull over and explore every 20 kms or so. And ‘Blyde’ is Afrikaaans for ‘Joyful’ (as in ‘blythe’ presumably). So it would have been a different sort of crime to let my earlier traffic offence undermine my capacity to enjoy the moment. 
One of the early treats was ‘God’s window’, a spectacular panorama across the canyon. I found the name quite thought-provoking. It implies God’s view, God’s outlook – but also a place where we might catch a glimpse of God. It put me in mind of the Bible in that respect: it conveys, mysteriously but truly, God’s view and outlook – but also affords me glimpses of God.
Bourke’s Potholes were fun: vast eroded pits in and around the river bed.
And the Three Roundevals were worth waiting for. I hope the pictures give an idea of how extraordinary they are. This may not be The Grand Canyon. But it is staggeringly pleasing one all the same. On the return leg of the journey, down a parellel set of roads, I visited Echo Caves – a 16 km stretch of interlocking underground limestone tunnels and caverns, of which visitors are able to walk 1.2km. It was a deserted place. I was the only visitor. But there were guides standing by and I got a personal tour. It was a comically surreal experience. My guide spoke only the English she had learned as a spiel. Questions were out of the question, so to speak. I’m pretty sure she’d learned her lines parrot fashion and without much understanding. She also had a strong accent, so we walked happily along, she declaiming as if to a group of 20 an interpretation of the caves of which I only really understood a tenth part, me nodding encouragingly and smiling to indicate interest. It finished well enough: the caves were 4 km down a dirt track, and at the end of the tour my guide asked if I could give her a lift as far as the ‘tar road’. I was delighted to do it, and had the feeling that was a prepared line too!
The last part of the drive reminded me of Scotland or New Zealand. It’s fly-fishing country and the landscape is dotted with trout pools and small lakes. As the sun grew lower in the sky these caught the light and shimmered.
This evening I’ve gone upmarket. You can only have so much Formula 1 motel. So I’m doing B&B. Actually it’s lovely. Just to give you an idea of the plushness: there were fresh flower petals floating in the toilet bowl. My room is spacious and well-appointed. The towels are soft, the bed is high – and what luxury: there’s a fridge. I might yet recover that sense of bliss!
Today has been my last day in this astonishing country. I hope to visit Pretoria tomorrow morning. But in the afternoon I have to return the car to the airport and check in for my homeward flight. It's been a wonderful fortnight, but I'm ready to see my people again and to resume routines. Nearly.
Wednesday, September 1, 2010
Wednesday 1 September: The Big Five!
In one sense, it doesn’t really matter. It’s just a hunters’ convention, after all, to single out the five most ferocious beasts in the African wild, and to declare them ‘the Big Five’: the elephant, the rhino, the lion, the leopard and the buffalo. Why the cheetah misses out, I’m not sure. Or the hippo. Or even the warthog, which looks pretty fearsome to me close up, I can tell you. Those upright tusks could do some serious damage. But the Big Five it is. And the answer is… yes I did see each and every one. Woo hoo! I was ludicrously and irrationally happy to sight the leopard to make up the set. Utterly irrational and hopelessly conditioned. But there we are.
It was another early start and another long day in the car. In fact, I’ve probably clocked up more hours behind the steering wheel in a single day today than ever before. I may only have covered 400 kms, but most of those I drove at slow speed inside the Kruger Park. I left the motel at
4.30am, got back at 4pm and spent much of the intervening 11.5 hours driving.
It took me an hour to reach the park gate. It should only have taken 45 mins, but in the dark I took a wrong turning. As it was, I got there just after dawn, and just a few minutes after opening time.
It took me all of two minutes to see a lion. Honestly. It was the first thing I saw. I’d barely got the car into 3rd gear inside the gates when I saw some congestion in the road ahead. I’ve become a reader of the signs in the last few days. The ideal situation is a clutch of about 4 cars: that means something of real interest is in sight. More than that becomes a scrum and means lines of sight get difficult. This was perfect: two safari vehicles (that’s the other hot tip: follow that safari driver – he knows what he’s doing!) and one other car. I drove up, followed the line of craning heads and camera lenses and kept on peering into the grass until I saw it: the head and shoulders of a stationary lion. For all I know there was a whole pack of them. The disadvantage of DIY safari, which is what I’ve been trying, is that an ordinary car sits low to the road. Purpose-built safari trucks have raised seating. All those who’d paid extra will at that moment have had their money’s worth: if there were 6 lions there, they’ll have seen them. I had to make do with that one head and shoulder view.
As you can imagine, at that moment I thought I’d be sighting lions all day. I hadn’t even seen a zebra at that point. I could be forgiven for thinking lions would be here there and everywhere. But as it happens, it was the only one I saw all day. I’ll put ‘see a pack of lions’ on the list of reasons to come back one day.
A few kms down the road, however, another treat: a great herd of buffalo (the other beast I had not seen in Pilanersberg) crossing the road. This, I think, is what you get if you arrive
at dawn: the animals are on the move. I was a good hour and a half earlier in Kruger Park than I had been at Pilanersberg and I think it made a difference. The buffalo were soon followed by elephants and black rhino (the ones in Pilanersberg had been white). The herd of elephants took about 10 minutes to cross the road: adults and young, they just kept on and 
on and on coming. So within an hour of my arrival I’d seen 4 of the Big Five. A leopard didn’t show itself until 10.30, and I’d begun to content myself that ‘4 out of 5 isn’t bad’. As with the lion, I’d doubtless have missed it if it wasn’t for the traffic jam. But there it was, sleeping on the branch of a tree by the roadside. I know it was a leopard (and not a cheetah) because one of the other drivers helpfully told me so. He was a South African, so it came out ‘Leepid’. Besides, when I got to one of the rest-stops, it was marked on the ‘Today’s Sightings’ board. A good deal later I think I saw another one. That’s to say, I certainly saw another big cat. This one I couldn’t miss seeing: it was just sauntering along the verge of the road. But I couldn’t swear it was a leopard not a cheetah, because there was no-one to advise me.
Kruger Park, you see, is – even by South African standards – huge. If Pilanersberg is the size of an English county, Kruger (at 20000 sq kms) is the size of a small country (Israel, for example). So you can drive for miles without seeing another car. At one point, in just such a situation, I found myself driving towards a rhino, standing head on to me about 100m up the road. That’s when you wish there were more cars around. It was fine, of course. I slowed, but kept approaching, and it soon moved off into the bush.
There were fewer giraffe and zebra than I’d seen on Monday, but lots of different kinds of de
er (or bok, I suppose). The bird life was also spectacular. I saw at least a couple of kinds of eagle, a colourful stork, some turkey-like creatures and no end of brightly coloured smaller birds. Beautiful.
But after 12noon things went quiet. I pottered about along a stretch of river for a while, sighting any number of hippo and a single croc, but eventually (when my bottled water wasn't just warm, but distinctly hot) had had enough of the unremitting heat and headed out.
It’s the herds I shall remember most, I think – more even than the pleasure of seeing those elusive cats. And I’d recommend it to anyone. For me, seeing these creatures in what really is to all intents and purposes ‘the wild’ (that's to say, seeing them behave as they would behave if you weren't there to watch them) ranks alongside snorkelling in tropical sea, whale-watching and swimming with dolphins. I realise I’m a bit of a glutton for these intensely sensory experiences of the natural world, but it truly does wow the soul. My heart will be uplifted with thanksgiving for days, I can tell. (Well, till my plane is delayed on Friday, I expect…). The Lord be praised.
That’s ‘game over’ for the time being. I shall do a different kind of sight-seeing tomorrow. There’s a fabulous canyon not far away and some waterfalls too, I believe. And they’ll take me at least a bit closer to Jo’burg, from where my plane flies back to the UK on Friday.
It was another early start and another long day in the car. In fact, I’ve probably clocked up more hours behind the steering wheel in a single day today than ever before. I may only have covered 400 kms, but most of those I drove at slow speed inside the Kruger Park. I left the motel at
4.30am, got back at 4pm and spent much of the intervening 11.5 hours driving. It took me an hour to reach the park gate. It should only have taken 45 mins, but in the dark I took a wrong turning. As it was, I got there just after dawn, and just a few minutes after opening time.
It took me all of two minutes to see a lion. Honestly. It was the first thing I saw. I’d barely got the car into 3rd gear inside the gates when I saw some congestion in the road ahead. I’ve become a reader of the signs in the last few days. The ideal situation is a clutch of about 4 cars: that means something of real interest is in sight. More than that becomes a scrum and means lines of sight get difficult. This was perfect: two safari vehicles (that’s the other hot tip: follow that safari driver – he knows what he’s doing!) and one other car. I drove up, followed the line of craning heads and camera lenses and kept on peering into the grass until I saw it: the head and shoulders of a stationary lion. For all I know there was a whole pack of them. The disadvantage of DIY safari, which is what I’ve been trying, is that an ordinary car sits low to the road. Purpose-built safari trucks have raised seating. All those who’d paid extra will at that moment have had their money’s worth: if there were 6 lions there, they’ll have seen them. I had to make do with that one head and shoulder view.
As you can imagine, at that moment I thought I’d be sighting lions all day. I hadn’t even seen a zebra at that point. I could be forgiven for thinking lions would be here there and everywhere. But as it happens, it was the only one I saw all day. I’ll put ‘see a pack of lions’ on the list of reasons to come back one day.
A few kms down the road, however, another treat: a great herd of buffalo (the other beast I had not seen in Pilanersberg) crossing the road. This, I think, is what you get if you arrive
at dawn: the animals are on the move. I was a good hour and a half earlier in Kruger Park than I had been at Pilanersberg and I think it made a difference. The buffalo were soon followed by elephants and black rhino (the ones in Pilanersberg had been white). The herd of elephants took about 10 minutes to cross the road: adults and young, they just kept on and 
on and on coming. So within an hour of my arrival I’d seen 4 of the Big Five. A leopard didn’t show itself until 10.30, and I’d begun to content myself that ‘4 out of 5 isn’t bad’. As with the lion, I’d doubtless have missed it if it wasn’t for the traffic jam. But there it was, sleeping on the branch of a tree by the roadside. I know it was a leopard (and not a cheetah) because one of the other drivers helpfully told me so. He was a South African, so it came out ‘Leepid’. Besides, when I got to one of the rest-stops, it was marked on the ‘Today’s Sightings’ board. A good deal later I think I saw another one. That’s to say, I certainly saw another big cat. This one I couldn’t miss seeing: it was just sauntering along the verge of the road. But I couldn’t swear it was a leopard not a cheetah, because there was no-one to advise me. Kruger Park, you see, is – even by South African standards – huge. If Pilanersberg is the size of an English county, Kruger (at 20000 sq kms) is the size of a small country (Israel, for example). So you can drive for miles without seeing another car. At one point, in just such a situation, I found myself driving towards a rhino, standing head on to me about 100m up the road. That’s when you wish there were more cars around. It was fine, of course. I slowed, but kept approaching, and it soon moved off into the bush.
There were fewer giraffe and zebra than I’d seen on Monday, but lots of different kinds of de
er (or bok, I suppose). The bird life was also spectacular. I saw at least a couple of kinds of eagle, a colourful stork, some turkey-like creatures and no end of brightly coloured smaller birds. Beautiful. But after 12noon things went quiet. I pottered about along a stretch of river for a while, sighting any number of hippo and a single croc, but eventually (when my bottled water wasn't just warm, but distinctly hot) had had enough of the unremitting heat and headed out.
It’s the herds I shall remember most, I think – more even than the pleasure of seeing those elusive cats. And I’d recommend it to anyone. For me, seeing these creatures in what really is to all intents and purposes ‘the wild’ (that's to say, seeing them behave as they would behave if you weren't there to watch them) ranks alongside snorkelling in tropical sea, whale-watching and swimming with dolphins. I realise I’m a bit of a glutton for these intensely sensory experiences of the natural world, but it truly does wow the soul. My heart will be uplifted with thanksgiving for days, I can tell. (Well, till my plane is delayed on Friday, I expect…). The Lord be praised.
That’s ‘game over’ for the time being. I shall do a different kind of sight-seeing tomorrow. There’s a fabulous canyon not far away and some waterfalls too, I believe. And they’ll take me at least a bit closer to Jo’burg, from where my plane flies back to the UK on Friday.
Tuesday, August 31, 2010
Tuesday 31 August: The High Veld
Well, I wasn’t on the road quite as long today as yesterday, and I didn’t cover quite as many miles. But like New Zealand and the US, this is a place where you have to be prepared for a long haul on the roads if you want to see stuff.
I’m now in Nelspruit, another World Cup host city. If you followed the tournament, it’s the place where the stantions of the new stadium are
designed and painted to look like giraffes. I’ve covered 530 kilometres, and have travelled north east (always a good direction to move in, I feel). I’m booked into a cheap and cheerful Formula 1 motel on the outskirts of the city. It’s not very glamorous, I know – but I like to think of it as a small act of homage to Lewis Hamilton, who won the Belgian Grand Prix yesterday. Frankly, it was convenient and inexpensive and I don’t expect to spend many hours cooped up in the tiny room.
I was up bright and early again today, to say goodbye to Brenda Diseko as she left for work, and then to the children as Bishop Stephen took them into school. Those who know me well are aware of the aversion I have, generally speaking, to being addressed as ‘Father’. It’s not entirely a reasonable reaction, I realise. A canonical colleague pointed out to me that although Jesus did indeed say, ‘Call no-one your father on earth, because you have one ‘Father’, the one who is in heaven’, he also said, ‘You are not to be called teacher, because you have one teacher and you are all students’, and yet I don’t at all mind if people call me ‘Doctor Wilcox’ (in fact, I rather like it) , when ‘doctor’ just means ‘teacher’. But somehow, the title ‘Father Wilcox’ or ‘Father Pete’ invokes a whole set of associations I just find ghastly. Anyway, all I was wanting to say is that here it has seemed much less grating, and certainly on the lips of the Diseko children. They’re so lovely, I can’t bring myself to correct them when they say, as they have been saying all weekend ‘Yes Father Pete’, ‘No Father Pete, ‘Thank you Father Pete’. It’s made me chuckle instead.
Bishop Stephen then drove me into Klerksdorp so that I could hire a car. We stopped by the Diocesan Office, where he recorded a message for our ‘Church on Fire’ event in November, when the Archbishop of Canterbury is visiting the Diocese of Lichfield and we’ll be holding a festival service on the afternoon of Saturday 6 November. The service will include a greeting from the bishops of each of our partner dioceses, and I’m now carrying Bishop Stephen’s message on my iphone.
I then set off from Klerksdorp at about 9.30, stopping in Potschefstroom at an internet café and a tourist info, to plan the day ahead. Actually I stopped before that, in Ikageng. Incredibly, on Sunday I had failed to take a single photo. And I did so want an image of the Cathedral from the outside. So on impulse I pulled off the motorway at the Ikageng junction and although I had no address or contact details for the Cathedral and only a hazy recollection of the route we’d taken on Sunday, I thought I’d make at least a brief effort to find it. At one point I took a wrong turning, and found myself at a dead end in a particularly forlorn section of housing, and it did occur to me that this might not have been my best idea ever. But retracing my steps, I saw where I’d gone astray and at once found the Cathedral, took my photos and was back on the motorway in a few minutes, with no trace of trouble.
By lunchtime, I was through the motorway madness which is Johannesburg and by 2pm I’d reached the High Veld. I might have lost my way in the labyrinth around Jo’burg, except that I’d heeded the warnings in the guidebooks and had invested some time on Google Maps ‘Get Directions’, mapping out my route.
The High Veld is a bit like the highlands of Scotland (or at times the Peak District), at the end of a particularly blistering summer: beautiful, in a brown, bare and dusty sort of a way – although every now and again a chemical works, or a mining operation or a power station blots the vista. There was one particularly ugly example at a place called Nankwe. The plant included what I can only assume was a weigh-station, but I was rather tickled by the potentially anti-Papist message of the sign which said, 'Mass Restrictions. Control Here'.
My plan, such as it is, is to get up bright and early again tomorrow (5am) in order to get into the Kruger Park as soon as it opens. I’ll spend at least the morning driving around looking for those lions. If I fail, I’ll book myself onto a guided tour on Thursday. But I’m ever hopeful.
I’m now in Nelspruit, another World Cup host city. If you followed the tournament, it’s the place where the stantions of the new stadium are
designed and painted to look like giraffes. I’ve covered 530 kilometres, and have travelled north east (always a good direction to move in, I feel). I’m booked into a cheap and cheerful Formula 1 motel on the outskirts of the city. It’s not very glamorous, I know – but I like to think of it as a small act of homage to Lewis Hamilton, who won the Belgian Grand Prix yesterday. Frankly, it was convenient and inexpensive and I don’t expect to spend many hours cooped up in the tiny room.I was up bright and early again today, to say goodbye to Brenda Diseko as she left for work, and then to the children as Bishop Stephen took them into school. Those who know me well are aware of the aversion I have, generally speaking, to being addressed as ‘Father’. It’s not entirely a reasonable reaction, I realise. A canonical colleague pointed out to me that although Jesus did indeed say, ‘Call no-one your father on earth, because you have one ‘Father’, the one who is in heaven’, he also said, ‘You are not to be called teacher, because you have one teacher and you are all students’, and yet I don’t at all mind if people call me ‘Doctor Wilcox’ (in fact, I rather like it) , when ‘doctor’ just means ‘teacher’. But somehow, the title ‘Father Wilcox’ or ‘Father Pete’ invokes a whole set of associations I just find ghastly. Anyway, all I was wanting to say is that here it has seemed much less grating, and certainly on the lips of the Diseko children. They’re so lovely, I can’t bring myself to correct them when they say, as they have been saying all weekend ‘Yes Father Pete’, ‘No Father Pete, ‘Thank you Father Pete’. It’s made me chuckle instead.
Bishop Stephen then drove me into Klerksdorp so that I could hire a car. We stopped by the Diocesan Office, where he recorded a message for our ‘Church on Fire’ event in November, when the Archbishop of Canterbury is visiting the Diocese of Lichfield and we’ll be holding a festival service on the afternoon of Saturday 6 November. The service will include a greeting from the bishops of each of our partner dioceses, and I’m now carrying Bishop Stephen’s message on my iphone.
I then set off from Klerksdorp at about 9.30, stopping in Potschefstroom at an internet café and a tourist info, to plan the day ahead. Actually I stopped before that, in Ikageng. Incredibly, on Sunday I had failed to take a single photo. And I did so want an image of the Cathedral from the outside. So on impulse I pulled off the motorway at the Ikageng junction and although I had no address or contact details for the Cathedral and only a hazy recollection of the route we’d taken on Sunday, I thought I’d make at least a brief effort to find it. At one point I took a wrong turning, and found myself at a dead end in a particularly forlorn section of housing, and it did occur to me that this might not have been my best idea ever. But retracing my steps, I saw where I’d gone astray and at once found the Cathedral, took my photos and was back on the motorway in a few minutes, with no trace of trouble.
By lunchtime, I was through the motorway madness which is Johannesburg and by 2pm I’d reached the High Veld. I might have lost my way in the labyrinth around Jo’burg, except that I’d heeded the warnings in the guidebooks and had invested some time on Google Maps ‘Get Directions’, mapping out my route.
The High Veld is a bit like the highlands of Scotland (or at times the Peak District), at the end of a particularly blistering summer: beautiful, in a brown, bare and dusty sort of a way – although every now and again a chemical works, or a mining operation or a power station blots the vista. There was one particularly ugly example at a place called Nankwe. The plant included what I can only assume was a weigh-station, but I was rather tickled by the potentially anti-Papist message of the sign which said, 'Mass Restrictions. Control Here'.
My plan, such as it is, is to get up bright and early again tomorrow (5am) in order to get into the Kruger Park as soon as it opens. I’ll spend at least the morning driving around looking for those lions. If I fail, I’ll book myself onto a guided tour on Thursday. But I’m ever hopeful.
Monday 30 August: Game for Anything!
That was a long day. We covered 570 kilometers (what’s that? 350+ miles) and sat in the same (non-air conditioned!) vehicle for close to 14 hours. It might not sound like a recipe for a great day, but it really was. 
We duly set off just before 4.30am on a 3-hour drive to the Game Reserve at Pilanersberg, about 180km to the north. The drive gave us plenty of time to chat, and took us past a couple of interesting sites. First came the farm and then the home town of Eugene Terreblanche (is that how to spell his name?) the scary leader of the Afrikaans extreme (ie neo-Nazi) Far Right, who was brutally murdered on his farm earlier this year. I was scandalised to hear from Bishop Stephen that when he had tried to make contact with the minister of the Dutch Reformed Church, to liaise with him over the participiation in the funeral service of the (black) Archbishop of Cape Town, the minister had refused to speak to him. I asked Bishop Stephen, 'Is that because you're an Anglican, or because you're black?' 'Oh, I think he would have spoken to a white Anglican' was the reply. How could a minister of the Gospel of Christ Jesus be so blind?
Later, we drove through Rustenberg, the ill-fated base of the England football team during the recent World Cup Finals. The road took us past not only their training camp, but also the stadium in which the team notoriously drew 1-1 with the USA in our opening game -- a result which, in retrospect, pretty much determined the outcome of our tournament. I didn’t bother to take pictures.
One of the topics of conversation on the journey was about the new African Churches (many based in Nigeria apparently -- which has, as a whole I think, a somewhat dubious reputation in black South Africa). These are predominantly ‘pentecostal’ in style and often preach what we call a ‘prosperity gospel’: come to Jesus and he will make you well and rich. It distresses Bishop Stephen immensely. ‘How can they lie to these people?’, he asks. ‘The only ones who get rich are the pastors’.
We also talked a bit more about the challenge the government faces in providing adequate housing in the townships. Bishop Stephen pointed out that it’s not straightforward. When a scheme gets underway in a new place, hordes of migrant communities descend on it so that demand utterly outstrips supply. Or a family of 16, say, occupying a single shack will be provided with a house. But only 8 will move into the house. A year or two later, the remaining 8 will clamour for a house. I was aware that while some shacks lack windows, electricy and running water, others do not… what I had not noticed until Bishop Stephen pointed it out to me, is that many have television aerials and some even have satellite dishes.
We got to the game park at about 7.30am. It’s vast, like so much else in this extraordinary country. Pilanersberg is one of the most compact reserves in South Africa, but it must be the size of an English county. It’s certainly big enough to mean there is no restriction in the animals natural habitat. They are utterly free to roam and to establish their ‘wild’ state. The reserve is served by a network of tracks, and we drove around these for 7 hours, stopping
at the roadside when there were spectacular sights to see, and at a penned facilities area for lunch (where this strange bird kept us company), as well as at a couple of penned hides. (Outside the penned areas, drivers are repeated warned not to get out of their vehicles. Each year there are stories about casualties, usually because the person who is savaged was desperate either to relieve themselves, or to get that perfect snapshot.) The big cats (cheetah, leopard and lion) are notoriously shy and we didn’t see them. But we saw plenty: elephants, rhinos, hippos, giraffes, zebras, wildebeest, jackals and a hyena. Sometimes, we found them right at th
e roadside. Drivers were very helpful to one another, tipping each other off about what could be seen where. It was exhilarating and the time sped by. I didn’t resent the hours in the car one little bit, and was still scanning the grass keenly looking for that elusive lion as we headed for the exit.
The journey back was almost without incident, which is just as well because I was behind the steering wheel. After 10 hours behind the wheel of the car, with almost no break, Bishop Stephen was ready for a breather and asked me to drive. I say almost without incident: there was one hairy moment. It was a diesel car, and at one point I misjudged an overtaking manoeuvre. The acceleration was more sluggish than I am used to and on one occasion when I pulled out to pass a truck, with a gap to an oncoming car which I was confident was sufficient, I couldn’t generate enough speed to get by and had to pull hurriedly back onto my own side of the road, behind the truck I’d been trying to pass. The adrenalin surge certainly ensured I stayed wide awake for the rest of the trip, even if Bishop Stephen felt safe enough to snooze!
When we got back, I was able to take the family out for a burger-meal as a thank you. Their hospitality has been an inspiration to me. The cheerful way in which the whole family, in the midst of very many challenges, has opened the home to me is a lovely reminder of what the Christian gospel is ultimately about: relationships restored to wholeness, through our shared participation in Christ Jesus. I shall miss them.
We were also encouraged by news coverage which suggests that the government may be about to make a new offer, to bring about a resolution to the general strike. That would be such a relief to the people I've met. And frankly, I'd feel a bit safer on the last leg of my trip if I knew there were police on active service!
This was my last day with Bishop Stephen, who has generously devoted pretty much the whole of the last three days to facilitating my visit personally. He’s an exceptional man and I pray his ministry will prosper.
Tomorrow I leave Matlosane at the end of the second leg of my visit. The remaining 3-4 days, before my evening flight on Friday, are leg 3: leisure time. My intention is to hire a car here in Klerksdorp and to drive north and east towards the Kruger National Park. I’m determined to see those shy lions!
We duly set off just before 4.30am on a 3-hour drive to the Game Reserve at Pilanersberg, about 180km to the north. The drive gave us plenty of time to chat, and took us past a couple of interesting sites. First came the farm and then the home town of Eugene Terreblanche (is that how to spell his name?) the scary leader of the Afrikaans extreme (ie neo-Nazi) Far Right, who was brutally murdered on his farm earlier this year. I was scandalised to hear from Bishop Stephen that when he had tried to make contact with the minister of the Dutch Reformed Church, to liaise with him over the participiation in the funeral service of the (black) Archbishop of Cape Town, the minister had refused to speak to him. I asked Bishop Stephen, 'Is that because you're an Anglican, or because you're black?' 'Oh, I think he would have spoken to a white Anglican' was the reply. How could a minister of the Gospel of Christ Jesus be so blind?
Later, we drove through Rustenberg, the ill-fated base of the England football team during the recent World Cup Finals. The road took us past not only their training camp, but also the stadium in which the team notoriously drew 1-1 with the USA in our opening game -- a result which, in retrospect, pretty much determined the outcome of our tournament. I didn’t bother to take pictures.
One of the topics of conversation on the journey was about the new African Churches (many based in Nigeria apparently -- which has, as a whole I think, a somewhat dubious reputation in black South Africa). These are predominantly ‘pentecostal’ in style and often preach what we call a ‘prosperity gospel’: come to Jesus and he will make you well and rich. It distresses Bishop Stephen immensely. ‘How can they lie to these people?’, he asks. ‘The only ones who get rich are the pastors’.
We also talked a bit more about the challenge the government faces in providing adequate housing in the townships. Bishop Stephen pointed out that it’s not straightforward. When a scheme gets underway in a new place, hordes of migrant communities descend on it so that demand utterly outstrips supply. Or a family of 16, say, occupying a single shack will be provided with a house. But only 8 will move into the house. A year or two later, the remaining 8 will clamour for a house. I was aware that while some shacks lack windows, electricy and running water, others do not… what I had not noticed until Bishop Stephen pointed it out to me, is that many have television aerials and some even have satellite dishes.
We got to the game park at about 7.30am. It’s vast, like so much else in this extraordinary country. Pilanersberg is one of the most compact reserves in South Africa, but it must be the size of an English county. It’s certainly big enough to mean there is no restriction in the animals natural habitat. They are utterly free to roam and to establish their ‘wild’ state. The reserve is served by a network of tracks, and we drove around these for 7 hours, stopping
at the roadside when there were spectacular sights to see, and at a penned facilities area for lunch (where this strange bird kept us company), as well as at a couple of penned hides. (Outside the penned areas, drivers are repeated warned not to get out of their vehicles. Each year there are stories about casualties, usually because the person who is savaged was desperate either to relieve themselves, or to get that perfect snapshot.) The big cats (cheetah, leopard and lion) are notoriously shy and we didn’t see them. But we saw plenty: elephants, rhinos, hippos, giraffes, zebras, wildebeest, jackals and a hyena. Sometimes, we found them right at th
e roadside. Drivers were very helpful to one another, tipping each other off about what could be seen where. It was exhilarating and the time sped by. I didn’t resent the hours in the car one little bit, and was still scanning the grass keenly looking for that elusive lion as we headed for the exit.The journey back was almost without incident, which is just as well because I was behind the steering wheel. After 10 hours behind the wheel of the car, with almost no break, Bishop Stephen was ready for a breather and asked me to drive. I say almost without incident: there was one hairy moment. It was a diesel car, and at one point I misjudged an overtaking manoeuvre. The acceleration was more sluggish than I am used to and on one occasion when I pulled out to pass a truck, with a gap to an oncoming car which I was confident was sufficient, I couldn’t generate enough speed to get by and had to pull hurriedly back onto my own side of the road, behind the truck I’d been trying to pass. The adrenalin surge certainly ensured I stayed wide awake for the rest of the trip, even if Bishop Stephen felt safe enough to snooze!
When we got back, I was able to take the family out for a burger-meal as a thank you. Their hospitality has been an inspiration to me. The cheerful way in which the whole family, in the midst of very many challenges, has opened the home to me is a lovely reminder of what the Christian gospel is ultimately about: relationships restored to wholeness, through our shared participation in Christ Jesus. I shall miss them.
We were also encouraged by news coverage which suggests that the government may be about to make a new offer, to bring about a resolution to the general strike. That would be such a relief to the people I've met. And frankly, I'd feel a bit safer on the last leg of my trip if I knew there were police on active service!
This was my last day with Bishop Stephen, who has generously devoted pretty much the whole of the last three days to facilitating my visit personally. He’s an exceptional man and I pray his ministry will prosper.
Tomorrow I leave Matlosane at the end of the second leg of my visit. The remaining 3-4 days, before my evening flight on Friday, are leg 3: leisure time. My intention is to hire a car here in Klerksdorp and to drive north and east towards the Kruger National Park. I’m determined to see those shy lions!
Sunday, August 29, 2010
Sunday 29 August: Anglican Worship African Style
The opportunity preach and preside at the Cathedral in Ikageng this morning was every bit as memorable as I’d hoped it might be.
I have never before, I think, been the only white face in a worshiping community, a
s I was this morning. Once, in the mid-1980s, Cathy and I attended the New Testament Chuch of God in Handsworth, Birmingham, as the only two white faces. But this morning I was alone. Yet I felt utterly embraced in warm affection. I do hope that a solitary black stranger at worship in Lichfield Cathedral would feel equally welcome. It was also, just by the way, the first time I've worn one of those headset style 'Madonna mics'. Never a good look on a preacher in my opinion, and certainly not designed for shaven-headed types, I feel.
The African sense of time is well known, and this morning was full of illustrations. Like a dutiful westerner, I was all set and good to go at about 6.50, for the half hour drive from Klerksdorp, where Bishop Stephen and his family live, to Ikageng. In fact it was 7.10 before we got away, and even then we had to make a detour to drop off one of the children at another church. We arrived at 7.50, for a service which was due to start at 8, but which of course did not. Some singing started then. But I was left to sit in the vestry until I was called, which was at almost 8.15. Nobody minded of course. The service began when everyone and everything was ready, and what’s 15 minutes here or there? I might try applying that view to Choral Evensong at home one day and see how it goes down…
Bishop Stephen had briefed me last night about what I could expect and he lent me a Prayer Book of the Anglican Church of South Africa so that I could prepare. I wrote my sermon in the evening last night, and was relieved that it seemed to come together well. The lectionary in use here is the same as the one we use at home, of course, which helped; and it meant something to me that the same bible readings would be used in the Cathedrals of both Ikageng and Lichfield today.
I had been forewarned that the Diocese of Matlosane is ‘high church’ Anglican. So I wasn’t at all surprised that the first thing I was asked to do was ‘cense’ (ie, waft incense around) the Holy Table. It was a service of Holy Communion (or a ‘Eucharist’). There is usually a choir, but its members were all away today at a festival somewhere. But you’d still have to call the service a ‘Sung Eucharist’, given the prominence and exuberance of the congregational singing. I suppose there were about 400 people in church. It was a hybrid occasion: when I spoke it was (with the exception of two carefully rehearsed phrases) in English; when anybody else spoke it was in the local indigenous language of Setswana. So at the start of the service, for example, I greeted the congregation with the words ‘The Lord be with you’, and they replied ‘And also with you’ – in Setswana. Or a little later, the people said their confession in Setswana and I pronounced the absolution in English!
By the grace of God, I think I pitched the sermon about right. I wanted to convey greetings from Lichfield and to say something about Chad (the saint, I mean, rather than the African country) and our history, and something about my impressions of my visit. But I was determined also to try to say something about our Gospel reading. I had the impression people were engaged – they even laughed at the places where I intended that they might! I was speaking with an interpreter, which is a bit of an art. It wasn’t quite a new experience – when I visited the Dioceses of West Malaysia, Kuching and Sabah in 2008 I spoke to Malay, Iban and Chinese congregations in that way. But I’m not very used to it, and once or twice the interpreter and I stumbled over each other as it were: either I spoke on while he was still translating, or we both fell silent. But it was fine.
Presiding was a bit dicey. I wasn’t always sure what was coming next and what was expected of me, and how far the slight sense of chaos at one or two points was my doing, or was perfectly normal. I had a helpful server to keep me straight, but once or twice he dug me in the ribs as if to remind me what to do next, and I couldn’t see what that next thing might be! But we got there without too much unwanted drama, carried along by an enthusiasm in singing that I’d gladly bottle and take home with me if I could. The idea that the service might last 3 hours proved to be an exaggeration. We were done in two and a half hours. Though, of course, if the choir had been absent not only would the administration of communion have taken longer, but the singing would no doubt have done so too…
Afterwards there was much talk about the general strike. Things seem to be developing in ways that are extremely serious. Teachers and hospital workers have been on strike for two weeks now, which has resulted in school closures at just the time when high school students are approaching the equivalents of GCSEs and A levels – their ‘mocks’ were cancelled last week. And in hospitals, even emergency services have been cut and patients are dying. Now it emerges that the police are joining the strike next week, as well as local government workers. From Monday there will be no refuse collection either. The largest union in the country has threatened to make the nation ungovernable, and people in church (including a police officer I spoke to) seemed certain that they would implement their threat. It’s already a national crisis and there’s a growing sense that South Africa could descend into chaos in the coming days. Certainly among the township congregation, it was clear that sympathy is entirely with the strikers and not with the government. Promises were made in 2005, which should have been implemented apparently in 2007, but were put off until after the World Cup. Now the government is saying it can’t afford to keep the promises it made and the unions are saying, ‘We waited three years in good faith. Now its time for you to deliver’. The mood was pretty dark over coffee, but there was also a sense that the government will have to bend in the next two or three days. I do hope a resolution can quickly be reached… it’s the sort of country in which I could imagine that order might be hard to restore if it is lost.
Bishop Stephen is out in the garden at present, making the South African equivalent of a BBQ (a braai). Then we’re due for an early night. We going to get up at 3am tomorrow (yes, 3am) to drive to a game reserve at Pilanersberg. I’m looking forward to it.
I have never before, I think, been the only white face in a worshiping community, a
s I was this morning. Once, in the mid-1980s, Cathy and I attended the New Testament Chuch of God in Handsworth, Birmingham, as the only two white faces. But this morning I was alone. Yet I felt utterly embraced in warm affection. I do hope that a solitary black stranger at worship in Lichfield Cathedral would feel equally welcome. It was also, just by the way, the first time I've worn one of those headset style 'Madonna mics'. Never a good look on a preacher in my opinion, and certainly not designed for shaven-headed types, I feel. The African sense of time is well known, and this morning was full of illustrations. Like a dutiful westerner, I was all set and good to go at about 6.50, for the half hour drive from Klerksdorp, where Bishop Stephen and his family live, to Ikageng. In fact it was 7.10 before we got away, and even then we had to make a detour to drop off one of the children at another church. We arrived at 7.50, for a service which was due to start at 8, but which of course did not. Some singing started then. But I was left to sit in the vestry until I was called, which was at almost 8.15. Nobody minded of course. The service began when everyone and everything was ready, and what’s 15 minutes here or there? I might try applying that view to Choral Evensong at home one day and see how it goes down…
Bishop Stephen had briefed me last night about what I could expect and he lent me a Prayer Book of the Anglican Church of South Africa so that I could prepare. I wrote my sermon in the evening last night, and was relieved that it seemed to come together well. The lectionary in use here is the same as the one we use at home, of course, which helped; and it meant something to me that the same bible readings would be used in the Cathedrals of both Ikageng and Lichfield today.
I had been forewarned that the Diocese of Matlosane is ‘high church’ Anglican. So I wasn’t at all surprised that the first thing I was asked to do was ‘cense’ (ie, waft incense around) the Holy Table. It was a service of Holy Communion (or a ‘Eucharist’). There is usually a choir, but its members were all away today at a festival somewhere. But you’d still have to call the service a ‘Sung Eucharist’, given the prominence and exuberance of the congregational singing. I suppose there were about 400 people in church. It was a hybrid occasion: when I spoke it was (with the exception of two carefully rehearsed phrases) in English; when anybody else spoke it was in the local indigenous language of Setswana. So at the start of the service, for example, I greeted the congregation with the words ‘The Lord be with you’, and they replied ‘And also with you’ – in Setswana. Or a little later, the people said their confession in Setswana and I pronounced the absolution in English!
By the grace of God, I think I pitched the sermon about right. I wanted to convey greetings from Lichfield and to say something about Chad (the saint, I mean, rather than the African country) and our history, and something about my impressions of my visit. But I was determined also to try to say something about our Gospel reading. I had the impression people were engaged – they even laughed at the places where I intended that they might! I was speaking with an interpreter, which is a bit of an art. It wasn’t quite a new experience – when I visited the Dioceses of West Malaysia, Kuching and Sabah in 2008 I spoke to Malay, Iban and Chinese congregations in that way. But I’m not very used to it, and once or twice the interpreter and I stumbled over each other as it were: either I spoke on while he was still translating, or we both fell silent. But it was fine.
Presiding was a bit dicey. I wasn’t always sure what was coming next and what was expected of me, and how far the slight sense of chaos at one or two points was my doing, or was perfectly normal. I had a helpful server to keep me straight, but once or twice he dug me in the ribs as if to remind me what to do next, and I couldn’t see what that next thing might be! But we got there without too much unwanted drama, carried along by an enthusiasm in singing that I’d gladly bottle and take home with me if I could. The idea that the service might last 3 hours proved to be an exaggeration. We were done in two and a half hours. Though, of course, if the choir had been absent not only would the administration of communion have taken longer, but the singing would no doubt have done so too…
Afterwards there was much talk about the general strike. Things seem to be developing in ways that are extremely serious. Teachers and hospital workers have been on strike for two weeks now, which has resulted in school closures at just the time when high school students are approaching the equivalents of GCSEs and A levels – their ‘mocks’ were cancelled last week. And in hospitals, even emergency services have been cut and patients are dying. Now it emerges that the police are joining the strike next week, as well as local government workers. From Monday there will be no refuse collection either. The largest union in the country has threatened to make the nation ungovernable, and people in church (including a police officer I spoke to) seemed certain that they would implement their threat. It’s already a national crisis and there’s a growing sense that South Africa could descend into chaos in the coming days. Certainly among the township congregation, it was clear that sympathy is entirely with the strikers and not with the government. Promises were made in 2005, which should have been implemented apparently in 2007, but were put off until after the World Cup. Now the government is saying it can’t afford to keep the promises it made and the unions are saying, ‘We waited three years in good faith. Now its time for you to deliver’. The mood was pretty dark over coffee, but there was also a sense that the government will have to bend in the next two or three days. I do hope a resolution can quickly be reached… it’s the sort of country in which I could imagine that order might be hard to restore if it is lost.
Bishop Stephen is out in the garden at present, making the South African equivalent of a BBQ (a braai). Then we’re due for an early night. We going to get up at 3am tomorrow (yes, 3am) to drive to a game reserve at Pilanersberg. I’m looking forward to it.
Saturday 28 August: The Diocese of Matlosane
Now, let’s get the cricket out of the way first of all. The last news I had of England’s first innings in the final test against Pakistan came at lunchtime yesterday, when they were 92-5. It transpires that they lost two further quick wickets after lunch and were at one stage 102-7. Then Stuart Broad and Jonathan Trott apparently put together the highest 8th wicket stand in the history of the game, so that England ended on a barely credible 446 all out. Pakistan were then bowled out for 74 in their first innings. Talk about a turn around.
Anyway… where to start… Bishop Stephen gave up the whole day to take me on a whistle stop tour of his Diocese. It’s vast. We covered over 400 kms in 8 hours, with frequent stops, visiting 6 churches in only 2 parishes of the 20 that make up the Diocese. Admittedly, there is a concentration of parishes in the more urban (township) parts of the Diocese. But all the same it makes for some odd comparisons with the Diocese of Lichfield, which (though it is only one fifth as extensive in area) has over 400 parishes. Bishop Stephen can call on the assistance of only 36 clergy, many of them ‘self-supporting’ (ie, volunteers). Bishop Jonathan in Lichfield oversees about 500 clergy, more than half of whom are stipendiary. Yikes. The distances that some of these self-supporting priests have to travel (outside the hours they give to their paid work) in order to reach the most far-flung of their outstations is daunting. For about two hours of the day today, we were not on tarmac roads, but rutted tracks. It must be almost impossible for these volunteer priests to develop good pastoral relationships with their most isolated congregations, let alone with the neighbourhoods these serve.
From Klerksdorp, we drove north and west. The drive gave us plenty of time to talk. Bishop Stephen is an excellent conversationalist – not afraid of silence, but quick with helpful observations and a good listener. He pointed out to me one of the great differences between driving in England and driving in South Africa: on the whole, in England, the combination of rolling countryside and tall hedges/fences/ dry-stone walls limits the vista; in South Africa the roadsides are unobstructed and the flat plains means that you can usually see for miles. He also pointed out that whereas in England, the driver who weaves to and fro may be under the influence of alcohol, whereas the one simply follows the line of the road is probably sober in South Africa, the driver who weaves his way down the road is soberly navigating the potholes, whereas the driver who keeps to a straightline is invariably drunk.
We visited a number of towns (Ottosdat, Delareyville, Sannieshof, Wolmaransstad), their townships and outlying villages. Three things struck me: the first was that the townships are not indicated on the road signs, which always show only the names of the towns themselves. Almost invariably, town names are Afrikaans and township names are African – so that it’s hard to avoid the impression that the townships are being deliberately rendered invisible. It’s telling that the map I’
m using has jogged my memory about the names of the towns, but is giving me no clues about the names of the townships. The second was that communinities are not simply ‘black’ or ‘white’: even so-called ‘coloured’ people tend to live in clearly demarcated neighbourhoods. One of the challenges faced by Bishop Stephen is how far to work with the grain of this continued segregation. Should he appoint a white pastor to an overwhelmingly white congregation, for instance? And the third thing that struck me was the prominence of death. We passed three funerals in the course of the day, maybe four. We also passed an astonishing number of funeral parlours – one of which refered to itself as a leader in the funeral industry. The funeral industry… there’s a thought. It is, of course, a terrible indication of the seriousness of the HIV/AIDS epidemic.
There was disappointment for Bishop Steve at the first place we visited. One of his initiatives has been to promote, on church grounds, the cultivation of vegetable plots. He had been enthusing to me about the project in the car: it encourages the poorest and most deprived communities to eat healthily and cheaply; it allows church people to give the produce away in their neighbourhoods, expressing love of neighbour in the process; and any excess can be sold off to produce a modest but much needed income for the parishioners. He was deliberately taking me to see one of the places where the project had, the last time he visited, seemed to be flourishing. But when we got to the place, we found the garden neglected. He pulled a carrot from the ground: the crop had grown but had not even been harvested. I could sense his distress. ‘I’ve brought my horse to the river’, he said.
He was more encouraged later in the day when we visited the community in which he himself had grown up. He pointed out to me the primary and secondary schools where he had studied, and the church where he’d worshipped as a boy, and where, as a member of the youth fellowship, he’d helped to build a vestry onto the side of the church building, which still stands. The garden there was obviously still being tended carefully, and gave grounds for hope. In one place we visited, we found a team of church members busily polishing the stone floor by hand in readiness for Sun
day worship. They do it every week. In another place, the church was a simple shack. The Diocese owns the plot, but cannot at present afford to build a more permanent structure. The Cathedral, through it’s Traidcraft stall at congregational refreshments after the Sung Eucharist on Sundays, has raised enough money to have charged me with passing £1000 to Bishop Steve. I plan to talk further with our own Diocesan World Mission Officer, but one option broached by Steve was that we might use at least some of this money to help start a building fund.
We got back at 6-ish (5pm in the UK) in time to catch the Premier League football scores. I’m planning on an early night: we leave the house tomorrow at 7am, as I’ve been given the wonderful opportunity to preach and preside in the Cathedral of the Resurrection at Ikageng. The service starts at 8-ish, I’m told, and will end at 11-ish, and the congregation will consist of 300-500 people. It sounds great!
Anyway… where to start… Bishop Stephen gave up the whole day to take me on a whistle stop tour of his Diocese. It’s vast. We covered over 400 kms in 8 hours, with frequent stops, visiting 6 churches in only 2 parishes of the 20 that make up the Diocese. Admittedly, there is a concentration of parishes in the more urban (township) parts of the Diocese. But all the same it makes for some odd comparisons with the Diocese of Lichfield, which (though it is only one fifth as extensive in area) has over 400 parishes. Bishop Stephen can call on the assistance of only 36 clergy, many of them ‘self-supporting’ (ie, volunteers). Bishop Jonathan in Lichfield oversees about 500 clergy, more than half of whom are stipendiary. Yikes. The distances that some of these self-supporting priests have to travel (outside the hours they give to their paid work) in order to reach the most far-flung of their outstations is daunting. For about two hours of the day today, we were not on tarmac roads, but rutted tracks. It must be almost impossible for these volunteer priests to develop good pastoral relationships with their most isolated congregations, let alone with the neighbourhoods these serve.
From Klerksdorp, we drove north and west. The drive gave us plenty of time to talk. Bishop Stephen is an excellent conversationalist – not afraid of silence, but quick with helpful observations and a good listener. He pointed out to me one of the great differences between driving in England and driving in South Africa: on the whole, in England, the combination of rolling countryside and tall hedges/fences/ dry-stone walls limits the vista; in South Africa the roadsides are unobstructed and the flat plains means that you can usually see for miles. He also pointed out that whereas in England, the driver who weaves to and fro may be under the influence of alcohol, whereas the one simply follows the line of the road is probably sober in South Africa, the driver who weaves his way down the road is soberly navigating the potholes, whereas the driver who keeps to a straightline is invariably drunk.
We visited a number of towns (Ottosdat, Delareyville, Sannieshof, Wolmaransstad), their townships and outlying villages. Three things struck me: the first was that the townships are not indicated on the road signs, which always show only the names of the towns themselves. Almost invariably, town names are Afrikaans and township names are African – so that it’s hard to avoid the impression that the townships are being deliberately rendered invisible. It’s telling that the map I’
m using has jogged my memory about the names of the towns, but is giving me no clues about the names of the townships. The second was that communinities are not simply ‘black’ or ‘white’: even so-called ‘coloured’ people tend to live in clearly demarcated neighbourhoods. One of the challenges faced by Bishop Stephen is how far to work with the grain of this continued segregation. Should he appoint a white pastor to an overwhelmingly white congregation, for instance? And the third thing that struck me was the prominence of death. We passed three funerals in the course of the day, maybe four. We also passed an astonishing number of funeral parlours – one of which refered to itself as a leader in the funeral industry. The funeral industry… there’s a thought. It is, of course, a terrible indication of the seriousness of the HIV/AIDS epidemic.There was disappointment for Bishop Steve at the first place we visited. One of his initiatives has been to promote, on church grounds, the cultivation of vegetable plots. He had been enthusing to me about the project in the car: it encourages the poorest and most deprived communities to eat healthily and cheaply; it allows church people to give the produce away in their neighbourhoods, expressing love of neighbour in the process; and any excess can be sold off to produce a modest but much needed income for the parishioners. He was deliberately taking me to see one of the places where the project had, the last time he visited, seemed to be flourishing. But when we got to the place, we found the garden neglected. He pulled a carrot from the ground: the crop had grown but had not even been harvested. I could sense his distress. ‘I’ve brought my horse to the river’, he said.
He was more encouraged later in the day when we visited the community in which he himself had grown up. He pointed out to me the primary and secondary schools where he had studied, and the church where he’d worshipped as a boy, and where, as a member of the youth fellowship, he’d helped to build a vestry onto the side of the church building, which still stands. The garden there was obviously still being tended carefully, and gave grounds for hope. In one place we visited, we found a team of church members busily polishing the stone floor by hand in readiness for Sun
day worship. They do it every week. In another place, the church was a simple shack. The Diocese owns the plot, but cannot at present afford to build a more permanent structure. The Cathedral, through it’s Traidcraft stall at congregational refreshments after the Sung Eucharist on Sundays, has raised enough money to have charged me with passing £1000 to Bishop Steve. I plan to talk further with our own Diocesan World Mission Officer, but one option broached by Steve was that we might use at least some of this money to help start a building fund.We got back at 6-ish (5pm in the UK) in time to catch the Premier League football scores. I’m planning on an early night: we leave the house tomorrow at 7am, as I’ve been given the wonderful opportunity to preach and preside in the Cathedral of the Resurrection at Ikageng. The service starts at 8-ish, I’m told, and will end at 11-ish, and the congregation will consist of 300-500 people. It sounds great!
Friday 27 August: Transition Day
Today began with the conclusion of the Tenth International Congress on Calvin and ended with my arrival in the Diocese of Matlosane. It began, for me, in Bloemfontein and ended in Klerksdorp. So it saw the end of the first leg of my trip to South Africa and the beginning of the second.
The Calvin Congress ended at lunchtime. It had been a packed conference schedule and the days have sped past. Inevitably, the last hours had a slightly ‘de-mob’ feel to them. Some participants had to leave early to catch planes; and the rest of us were beginning to look ahead. But the final morning was not without highlights. One of the two presentations was on the subject of ‘Reconciliation in Calvin’s Sermons’ – given, interestingly enough, by a scholar from South Korea – so that there was again a huge political subtext). The lecture included this gem from Calvin about the care of the poor: ‘Our Lord requires of us that we should pay him his tribute, that is to say, the homage money that we owe him in acknowledgement that the things which we possess come from him, and from his sheer liberality. He does not send us either bailiffs or iron-fisted men, but the poor, and that ought to suffice us, for they are his true receivers’. I like that.
The Congress ended with some announcements about future plans (and the intriguing possibility – and it’s no more than that at present), that the 11th Congress in 2014 might be in India…). After that it took on the feel of the end of a Youth Camp – people swapping contact details and making almost tearful good-byes. Friendship are made and renewed at these events, and I’m especially glad at the chance I’ve had to meet or meet again some lovely people – among others from the Netherlands, Germany and Switzerland, the USA and of course South Africa.
I had a three hour interval between the end of the Congress and my departure for the airport, some of which I spent lying out in the sunshine, soaking up some rays. It was only the second opportunity I’d had to do that all week. For me, to sit out in the sunshine, feeling the warmth on my face, is bliss – and an intimation of heaven. The gloss was slightly taken off the experience, however, when I got online and discovered that England had slumped to 47 for 5 in the first innings of the final test against Pakistan. 92-5 at lunch was barely a recovery worth celebrating.
The flight from Bloemfontein back to Johannesburg was straightforward. Although it was slightly delayed, we made up the time in the air and arrived on schedule. Then a minor miracle: my bag was first off the luggage carousel. That never happens! I’d no sooner texted Bishop Steve, the bishop of our partner diocese of Matlosane, to say I was in baggage reclaim, than I was walking out into the airport concourse to meet him.
Bishop Stephen had kindly driven two hours from Klerksdorp, with Mekla (he’s the Rector – and Dean-designate of the Cathedral in Ikageng), to collect me. I first met Bishop Stephen at a conference I helped to organise for all our partner-Dioceses in 2008: CrossTalk. It’s lovely to see him again. He’s a wonderful example of Christian leadership: shouldering heavy burdens with humility and a ready and infectious laugh.
We drove first to Potchefstroom (which is where Mika lives, and where Ikageng Cathedral is). As we drove, we talked about the terrible public sector strikes which are paralysing some spheres of life here at present. The teachers are on strike, so children are not at school. And most horribly, hospital workers are on strike as a result of which some very old people and some very tiny babies have died. There is no sign of an imminent end to the chaos, after 12 days. It’s just one indication that the honeymoon is over for the new South Africa, which remains in some ways a troubled and divided place. To the outsider, its amazing that the country has come so far in the last 20 years without civil war… but much remains to be done.
Bishop Stephen's wife Brenda met up with us in Potchefstroom. She and he are both studying for Masters’ degrees at the university there – in their ‘spare’ time. We ate at a restaurant on the campus: the clientele was very white (the only black people I could see were my hosts) and very young.
Then Bishop Stephen drove Mika home, and I travelled the remainder of the journey with Brenda, and we all met up at their home in Klerksdorp, where we arrived soon after 10pm. Tomorrow will be a full working day: Bishop Stephen is going to take me to three churches in the Diocese, to see something of the challenges the church here is facing.
The Calvin Congress ended at lunchtime. It had been a packed conference schedule and the days have sped past. Inevitably, the last hours had a slightly ‘de-mob’ feel to them. Some participants had to leave early to catch planes; and the rest of us were beginning to look ahead. But the final morning was not without highlights. One of the two presentations was on the subject of ‘Reconciliation in Calvin’s Sermons’ – given, interestingly enough, by a scholar from South Korea – so that there was again a huge political subtext). The lecture included this gem from Calvin about the care of the poor: ‘Our Lord requires of us that we should pay him his tribute, that is to say, the homage money that we owe him in acknowledgement that the things which we possess come from him, and from his sheer liberality. He does not send us either bailiffs or iron-fisted men, but the poor, and that ought to suffice us, for they are his true receivers’. I like that.
The Congress ended with some announcements about future plans (and the intriguing possibility – and it’s no more than that at present), that the 11th Congress in 2014 might be in India…). After that it took on the feel of the end of a Youth Camp – people swapping contact details and making almost tearful good-byes. Friendship are made and renewed at these events, and I’m especially glad at the chance I’ve had to meet or meet again some lovely people – among others from the Netherlands, Germany and Switzerland, the USA and of course South Africa.
I had a three hour interval between the end of the Congress and my departure for the airport, some of which I spent lying out in the sunshine, soaking up some rays. It was only the second opportunity I’d had to do that all week. For me, to sit out in the sunshine, feeling the warmth on my face, is bliss – and an intimation of heaven. The gloss was slightly taken off the experience, however, when I got online and discovered that England had slumped to 47 for 5 in the first innings of the final test against Pakistan. 92-5 at lunch was barely a recovery worth celebrating.
The flight from Bloemfontein back to Johannesburg was straightforward. Although it was slightly delayed, we made up the time in the air and arrived on schedule. Then a minor miracle: my bag was first off the luggage carousel. That never happens! I’d no sooner texted Bishop Steve, the bishop of our partner diocese of Matlosane, to say I was in baggage reclaim, than I was walking out into the airport concourse to meet him.
Bishop Stephen had kindly driven two hours from Klerksdorp, with Mekla (he’s the Rector – and Dean-designate of the Cathedral in Ikageng), to collect me. I first met Bishop Stephen at a conference I helped to organise for all our partner-Dioceses in 2008: CrossTalk. It’s lovely to see him again. He’s a wonderful example of Christian leadership: shouldering heavy burdens with humility and a ready and infectious laugh.
We drove first to Potchefstroom (which is where Mika lives, and where Ikageng Cathedral is). As we drove, we talked about the terrible public sector strikes which are paralysing some spheres of life here at present. The teachers are on strike, so children are not at school. And most horribly, hospital workers are on strike as a result of which some very old people and some very tiny babies have died. There is no sign of an imminent end to the chaos, after 12 days. It’s just one indication that the honeymoon is over for the new South Africa, which remains in some ways a troubled and divided place. To the outsider, its amazing that the country has come so far in the last 20 years without civil war… but much remains to be done.
Bishop Stephen's wife Brenda met up with us in Potchefstroom. She and he are both studying for Masters’ degrees at the university there – in their ‘spare’ time. We ate at a restaurant on the campus: the clientele was very white (the only black people I could see were my hosts) and very young.
Then Bishop Stephen drove Mika home, and I travelled the remainder of the journey with Brenda, and we all met up at their home in Klerksdorp, where we arrived soon after 10pm. Tomorrow will be a full working day: Bishop Stephen is going to take me to three churches in the Diocese, to see something of the challenges the church here is facing.
Friday, August 27, 2010
Thursday 26 September: Starry, Starry Night
Wow – the best was pretty much saved to last. We were graced with an inspiring contribution to the conference in the morning, and with an awesome evening at the Observatory in the evening.
The lecture in the morning was without doubt one of the highlights of this Congress. The context, of course, made the topic (‘Calvin against slavery’) particularly loaded: for many years the Dutch Reformed Church in South Africa (a Calvinist church) was one of the mainstays of the apartheid regime, and provided theological justification for the oppression. Our lecturer left little doubt that Calvin himself regarded slavery as an appalling evil – why? Simply because all human beings are created in the image of God. ‘You and your fellow human being are the same’, he wrote. ‘Treat them like a beast and you become a beast yourself, because you renounce the image of God which is imprinted in us all’. It’s really for insights like this that I have grown to love Calvin’s theology and writings. Especially if you allow for the fact that he lived 500 years ago, these sentiments are extraordinarily adventurous and spring directly from his grasp of the nature of God as love and grace. ‘In some lands’, he says in one sermon, ‘such as the countries of the East, Greece and North Africa, this type of servitude still exists. However it is for the best that its usage be altogether abolished, as it has been among us’. Equally moving was the applause with which this paper was received, by a thoroughly international and multi-cultural audience, including of course black and white South Africans. Wonderful.
There were other good contributions to enjoy during the day, but many of us were reaching that point in the week where you just feel as if your brain is full to capacity. The periods of discussion after various presentations (including one in the late afternoon which I was privileged to chair) were getting shorter and less creative, and there was a general sense of tiredness around the place.
But we perked up at the Boyden Observatory, that’s for sure. It’s about a half hour’s drive out of Bloemfontein, which is far enough to leave behind the light pollution of the city. It’s also set high up on a hill, and we arrived in the late afternoon, in time to enjoy panoramic views over a river
valley, bathed in a pink sunlight, with the plains apparently extending endlessly in the direction away from Bloemfontein. Within a short time we were blessed with a dramatic sunset, as we tu
cked into a picnic meal, with copious amounts of South African wine provided by our hosts. As you can imagine, the atmosphere became very relaxed indeed. Not that Calvin would have disapproved. One of my favourite of his sayings comes in his commentary on Psalm 104: ‘It is lawful to use wine not only in cases of necessity, but also in order to make us merry’. It was pretty merry, by the time we were called to order by a Professor from the University Physics Department, who gave us a lecture on the progress of the search, in which he is involved, to find planets in the universe whose conditions might most approximate to those on earth. He was humorous and judged the occasion well. He reminded us that our galaxy is a tiny part of a Local Group of galaxies, which is a small part of a Local Supergroup of galaxies, which is an infinitesimally small part of the universe. He quoted a famous astronomer (I didn’t catch the name) who said, ‘The universe is a big place… perhaps the biggest there is’. And then we were divided into three groups, and each group in turn was taken first for a brief ‘live’ introduction to the night-sky in the southern hemisphere, then to see the observatory’s 1.5m telescope (the third biggest on the continent) and then to look through a slightly smaller telescope at what appeared to the naked eye to be a star-less stretch of sky, but which proved to be filled with thousands of stars. The operator of the larger telescope described it as a digital camera which an unusual large lens on the front.
The professor used a lazer to point out the stars in the sky. I don’t ever remember seeing Mars or Saturn before. We saw the Southern Cross and its two out-lying pointer stars, as well as Alpha Centauri, the Scorpion, a red dwarf (I think!) and lots of other features (including our nearest star, which is still, I think…, four light years away). I’m afraid I’ve forgotten most of the specifics -- except that there was also an iridium flare from a satellite… and then, wonderfully, a meteor shot past as if scripted. We almost burst into applause, as if it was a firework display!
‘Awe-some’ is an overused word these days, but this really was.
That was yesterday. Today the congress has finished, and I’m about to head off for the airport, to fly to Johannesburg, and then (I hope by car) to our (I mean Lichfield’s) partner Diocese of Matlosane, where I should be by tonight. I’m not at all sure what the internet facilities will be like though, when I’m there… so there may not be further blog postings until Tuesday of next week. Silence in the next few days will just mean I’m out of web-reach. Probably just as well, given England's current cricket score (68-5; ugh).
The lecture in the morning was without doubt one of the highlights of this Congress. The context, of course, made the topic (‘Calvin against slavery’) particularly loaded: for many years the Dutch Reformed Church in South Africa (a Calvinist church) was one of the mainstays of the apartheid regime, and provided theological justification for the oppression. Our lecturer left little doubt that Calvin himself regarded slavery as an appalling evil – why? Simply because all human beings are created in the image of God. ‘You and your fellow human being are the same’, he wrote. ‘Treat them like a beast and you become a beast yourself, because you renounce the image of God which is imprinted in us all’. It’s really for insights like this that I have grown to love Calvin’s theology and writings. Especially if you allow for the fact that he lived 500 years ago, these sentiments are extraordinarily adventurous and spring directly from his grasp of the nature of God as love and grace. ‘In some lands’, he says in one sermon, ‘such as the countries of the East, Greece and North Africa, this type of servitude still exists. However it is for the best that its usage be altogether abolished, as it has been among us’. Equally moving was the applause with which this paper was received, by a thoroughly international and multi-cultural audience, including of course black and white South Africans. Wonderful.
There were other good contributions to enjoy during the day, but many of us were reaching that point in the week where you just feel as if your brain is full to capacity. The periods of discussion after various presentations (including one in the late afternoon which I was privileged to chair) were getting shorter and less creative, and there was a general sense of tiredness around the place.
But we perked up at the Boyden Observatory, that’s for sure. It’s about a half hour’s drive out of Bloemfontein, which is far enough to leave behind the light pollution of the city. It’s also set high up on a hill, and we arrived in the late afternoon, in time to enjoy panoramic views over a river
valley, bathed in a pink sunlight, with the plains apparently extending endlessly in the direction away from Bloemfontein. Within a short time we were blessed with a dramatic sunset, as we tu
cked into a picnic meal, with copious amounts of South African wine provided by our hosts. As you can imagine, the atmosphere became very relaxed indeed. Not that Calvin would have disapproved. One of my favourite of his sayings comes in his commentary on Psalm 104: ‘It is lawful to use wine not only in cases of necessity, but also in order to make us merry’. It was pretty merry, by the time we were called to order by a Professor from the University Physics Department, who gave us a lecture on the progress of the search, in which he is involved, to find planets in the universe whose conditions might most approximate to those on earth. He was humorous and judged the occasion well. He reminded us that our galaxy is a tiny part of a Local Group of galaxies, which is a small part of a Local Supergroup of galaxies, which is an infinitesimally small part of the universe. He quoted a famous astronomer (I didn’t catch the name) who said, ‘The universe is a big place… perhaps the biggest there is’. And then we were divided into three groups, and each group in turn was taken first for a brief ‘live’ introduction to the night-sky in the southern hemisphere, then to see the observatory’s 1.5m telescope (the third biggest on the continent) and then to look through a slightly smaller telescope at what appeared to the naked eye to be a star-less stretch of sky, but which proved to be filled with thousands of stars. The operator of the larger telescope described it as a digital camera which an unusual large lens on the front.The professor used a lazer to point out the stars in the sky. I don’t ever remember seeing Mars or Saturn before. We saw the Southern Cross and its two out-lying pointer stars, as well as Alpha Centauri, the Scorpion, a red dwarf (I think!) and lots of other features (including our nearest star, which is still, I think…, four light years away). I’m afraid I’ve forgotten most of the specifics -- except that there was also an iridium flare from a satellite… and then, wonderfully, a meteor shot past as if scripted. We almost burst into applause, as if it was a firework display!
‘Awe-some’ is an overused word these days, but this really was.
That was yesterday. Today the congress has finished, and I’m about to head off for the airport, to fly to Johannesburg, and then (I hope by car) to our (I mean Lichfield’s) partner Diocese of Matlosane, where I should be by tonight. I’m not at all sure what the internet facilities will be like though, when I’m there… so there may not be further blog postings until Tuesday of next week. Silence in the next few days will just mean I’m out of web-reach. Probably just as well, given England's current cricket score (68-5; ugh).
Thursday, August 26, 2010
Wednesday 25 August: The Mountain Kingdom
Well. That was memorable. We’ve had an ‘excursion’ today, to the independent Kingdom of Lesotho – an experience not to be quickly forgotten.
We set out early this morning. We were on the road by 7.30. The journey took us past some still poorer townships than those we visited last Sunday morning… vast, sprawling (sorry, it’s the only adjective I can come up with at this time of night) expanses of corrugated iron dwellings, without either electricity or running water. Scary.
When we got to the border, it was like being back in the 1970s: we all had to get off our fleet of three coaches, file on foot through the SA emigration customs, across the border to queue again to get through the Lesotho immigration. Then it was back onto the buses.
On the Lesotho side of the border one of our number noticed that a 
roadside café had ‘VR’ daubed on its wall. Victoria Regina. She’s the reason Lesotho was never subsumed, like other African kingdoms, into the republic of South Africa. At a certain point in the mid 19th Century, soon after the first (French) missionaries arrived in the area, the Afrikaaners appropriated parts of Chief Mushoeshoe’s territory. He appealed, successfully, to Queen Victoria for protection – and the British Crown then, as it were, underwrote Lesotho’s independence for the next one hundred years or more.
roadside café had ‘VR’ daubed on its wall. Victoria Regina. She’s the reason Lesotho was never subsumed, like other African kingdoms, into the republic of South Africa. At a certain point in the mid 19th Century, soon after the first (French) missionaries arrived in the area, the Afrikaaners appropriated parts of Chief Mushoeshoe’s territory. He appealed, successfully, to Queen Victoria for protection – and the British Crown then, as it were, underwrote Lesotho’s independence for the next one hundred years or more. When I was working in the Diocese of Durham in the mid 1990s, the Diocese of Lesotho was our partner. So I was hearing about, and indeed praying for, this part of the world years ago. But this was my first visit. (It’s not strictly my first visit to South Africa in general though. I was briefly in Durban and Cape Town -- as a nine year old in 1970!) The journey took us across flat, dusty, grassy plains on the South African side of the border, and then at once up into the mounta
ins which define this country. From time to time we passed the round, thatched mudstone houses that I associate more with Zulu settlements. Inevitably, the poverty in Lesotho eclipsed even the most severe we have encountered in South Africa. We were seeing it at the driest time of the year: everything looked brown or sandy or ochre. But apparenty, in another two months, when the rains have come, Lesotho is as verdant as England. I was struck when, at once point in the day, our Lesotho host gave us a traditional blessing: ‘Peace, Rain, Prosperity’. I felt a long way from home at that point… We’d say, ‘Peace, Sunshine, Prosperity’!
ins which define this country. From time to time we passed the round, thatched mudstone houses that I associate more with Zulu settlements. Inevitably, the poverty in Lesotho eclipsed even the most severe we have encountered in South Africa. We were seeing it at the driest time of the year: everything looked brown or sandy or ochre. But apparenty, in another two months, when the rains have come, Lesotho is as verdant as England. I was struck when, at once point in the day, our Lesotho host gave us a traditional blessing: ‘Peace, Rain, Prosperity’. I felt a long way from home at that point… We’d say, ‘Peace, Sunshine, Prosperity’!Our destination today was the headquarters of the Evangelical Church of Lesotho – which is the oldest church community in this country, founded by those French missionaries in 1833. The name of the place is the name given to it by those two intrepid pioneers. They called it ‘Morija’, after Mount Moriah, where Abraham met with God. It’s where the LEC now has its seminary, archives and printing press.
We’ve become used to a saying, when things at the Congress haven’t gone precisely to plan: TIA. This is Africa. It was TIA all day today. Mostly on account of the chaos at customs, we arrived at our destination an hour late. We were greeted with tea and cake, and then to a longer-than-expected presentation on the history of the LEC. Either side of this, however, were some unscheduled ‘extras’: an opening prayer which included some congregational singing by our hosts, an then extended introductions and welcomes, with several local dignitaries, including one local chief (without whose blessing we could not feel safe nor at home, according to cultural tradition), each invited ‘to say a few words’. By the time the first session began (an elegant study of what ‘Theology’ looked like in Calvin’s Geneva – in short: immensely practical and, unusually for that period, inclusive of lay people) we were running almost two hours behind schedule. It was a neat cameo of the culture clash between the westerners and the Africans. Many of us were twitchy about 
the departure from the schedule. It was clear our African friends were not in the least bit bothered. It was fun, though, to see two of our number officially presented with the conical hat and decorated blankets which constitute the principal items of national dress. We pressed on with a paper given by a scholar from Lesotho on Calvin’s influence on the preaching of the pioneer missionaries, and sat down to a late, late lunch at about 3pm. We were then given a swift tour of the community: the earliest church to be founded in the kingdom, the seminary, the archives and museum and so on.
the departure from the schedule. It was clear our African friends were not in the least bit bothered. It was fun, though, to see two of our number officially presented with the conical hat and decorated blankets which constitute the principal items of national dress. We pressed on with a paper given by a scholar from Lesotho on Calvin’s influence on the preaching of the pioneer missionaries, and sat down to a late, late lunch at about 3pm. We were then given a swift tour of the community: the earliest church to be founded in the kingdom, the seminary, the archives and museum and so on. We left at about 5.00pm for the capital city, Maseru. There had been hopes of some time to shop there for souvenirs – like the trademark blankets that local people wear to protect themselves from the cold. But the time had run out on us. So it was quickly into a hotel for yet another extravagant banquet of meat (pork, chicken, fish and lamb all at one meal!), rice and salad, with naughty deserts, before we set off to return to base, only to be required to go through an even more elaborate exercise at the border: we dismounted from our coaches to pass through customs at the Lesotho side, re-mounted to cross no-man’s land, dismounted again to pass through customs at the South Africa side, to re-mount for the rest of our journey. I was pleasantly surprised when we got back a few minutes before 10pm At one point in the day, I was sure it would be midnight.
If you’ll excuse the pun, the Mountain Kingdom will definitely be a congress highlight. We know we're in Africa now.
Tuesday, August 24, 2010
Tuesday 24 August: Unexpected Day!
Hmmm… despite a highly organised programme, today didn’t turn out for me at all the way I was expecting.
At breakfast time, a senior colleague of mine, with whom I’ve worked closely at previous congresses came over to explain that overnight he’d lost the sight in one eye. He had had a cataract operation in the Netherlands a few weeks ago, and although everything had been pronounced well, a complication had obviously developed. He needed now to find a doctor and perhaps to get some treatment. His difficulty was, that he was due to deliver a paper to the conference this afternoon – would I please cover for him by reading his text in his stead. ‘Actually, Franz, no’, just didn’t seem like an option. So of course I said it would be a privilege. Whereupon he handed over his text and some supplementary papers.
So I checked out the morning programme and decided that I would skip the first session in order to have a read through of his paper. Or two. The first session was, in any case, a rather dense looking theological study to be delivered in German. The second session looked more interesting – an account of ‘Calvin’s Catholicity’. But I figured 90 minutes of preparation would be enough.
Unfortunately, there had been some delay on the photocopying of the English translation of the first paper. So unknown to me, the first two sessions were switched around and while I was in a sideroom reading through Franz’s work, I was missing the session I had hoped to attend. Heigh ho.
In the event, for one thing I was waiting a bit anxiously for GCSE news from hom
e (which came through by text and was fine!), and for another the preparation took a bit longer than I expected, and for another I was feeling a bit peeved at missing the ‘Catholicity’ paper, and for another the sun was shining outside… so the upshot was that I skipped the second session too and spent a relaxing hour in the gardens instead, soaking up some rays.
Then, after lunch, I read Franz’s paper. It was an odd experience, but I was glad to do it. He’s a fine scholar and he had put together a strong argument for the case he was making – but he’s a Dutchman whose English (while stacks better than my Dutch!) is a bit Germanic… so I was trying to ensure it was his voice that people were hearing, while tidying up the grammar and syntax at least a bit! In the event his doctor’s appointments went well in the morning, and he was not only able to be there (albeit with a huge patch over one eye), but was able to field questions after I’d delivered his talk. And he’s been reassured that the eye will right itself in a few days.
I did attend one of the afternoon sessions, but I’m afraid by 5.15 I’d had enough for the day. My brain was full. So, now into the swing of bunking off, I took myself off for a walk round the University Campus during the last session.
Now we’re back at the accommodation, as early as we’ve managed it so far (8.15pm local time). We’re all intending to have an early night, since we’re departing by coach tomorrow at 7.00am for the kingdom of Lesotho, for a day’s excursion. Should be great.
Except of course, that it may turn out as unexpectedly as today.
Monday 23 August: Long Day!
Ok. I have to admit that was more like work. But I did get to see the site crocodile. 
Oh, and the crocodile was a disappointment. He looks very sorry for himself, like any wild animal in captivity. He lies in his pool, which is heavily fenced in, and barely moves. Why should he? His food is tossed to him daily, and in any case, there’s nowhere to go. Must be a parable of something.
Our coach from the accommodation to the conference venue left at 8.10am for opening worship at 8.30, leading directly into a first session. We had a coffee break of half an hour at 10.30, lunch at 1.00 (for an hour… but in my case involving a meeting ), and another coffee break of half an hour at 3.30… but we’ve only just got back to the Lodge now (admittedly after a formal dinner at a prestigous local restaurant) at 10.00pm oui time. We certainly know that the Congress has begun.
The first main session was an overview of what was an important year last year in the world of Calvin scholarship. 2009 was the 500th anniversary of Calvin’s birth, and all kinds of events (conferences, exhibitions etc) and publications (about twenty new biographies alone!) were arranged to mark the occasion. The speaker gave us a summary of what had happened, laced with humour and salted with some wise reflections on what it all might or might not amount to. It was good to hear her emphasise that, just like all the prominent figures in the Bible, Calvin should always be remembered warts and all – he was, after all, the most vigorous preacher of the grace of God, and was fully aware of his own weaknesses and shortcomings. Among anniversary conference venues in 2009, many were predictable: Geneva, Belfast, Pretoria, Dordrecht. But others were less so: St Petersburg, Seville – and Beirut, even! We laughed at the news that a piece of public sculpture (a bust, in fact) has even been erected to mark Calvin’s cutlural contribution in… Havana, Cuba; and at the news that the American Postal Service issued commemorative stamps last year, to acknowledge the legacy of Abraham Lincoln, Gary Cooper and Bob Hope… but not John Calvin.
There was a substantial paper on Calvin’s understanding of reconciliation (a loaded subject in this part of the world). The paper was given in German, and I’m afraid that in common with some others I was unduly distracted by the poverty of the English translation which had been prepared for those who did not wish to rely on their German. It was comical – some splendid typos like ‘tree positions’ instead of ‘three’ and ‘dump symbols’ instead of dumb; as well as some very clumsy, clunky English sentences: ‘Like this were to clarify, how itself that the holiness of the Christian Church in the life of reflecting their mutuality and were to do’. Even given the tortuous nature of theological German, it’s gobbledegook!
Not wishing to gloss over a very competent introduction to Calvin’s early formulations of a doctrine of the Lord’s Supper, a highlight of the day for me was a paper looking at Calvin’s whole work as standing in continuity with the medieval and patristic monastic tradition. It’s a counter intuitive idea, because Calvin had some trenchant criticisms to make of the monastic orders of his own day. But the speaker made a good case that Calvin was attempting to take the monastic life out of the monastery (or at least to plunder the monastic treasury) and make it accessible to ordinary Christian believers – he coined the nice phrase ‘the Monkhood of All Believers’. He pointed out Calvin’s commitment to Psalm singing by lectionary calendar (we had done some of that, lustily, in our opening worship, in the Genevan style), and to a daily pattern of prayer at set times (or at least set occasions, rather like the monastic office). He emphasised Calvin’s view that all Christians have a high vocation and, given the degree of accountability of citizens in Geneva to the authorities for their behaviour, posed the idea that Calvin functioned as a bit of a secular abbot. I found it thought provoking, I must say.
This evening we’ve enjoyed an official conference dinner, hosted by the Rector of the University (the Vice Chancellor). He is a remarkable man… Prof Jonathan Jansen. (He told us his father is Abraham, and his mother is Sarah and that all his brothers and sisters, like himself, have biblical forenames… except one, ‘and he’s the only decent one among us’.) He told us how he had abandoned a Christian faith as a teenager to join the struggle to end apartheid (because the church, classically, kept telling him not to engage in politics but to remember his ‘citizenship is in heaven’), only to find that the anger he developed became a liability to him in later years. ‘I’m ashamed to tell you this today’, he said, ‘but I came to hate white people’. But he subsequently came (through a journey that introduced him to Liberation Theology and Black Theology) to realise that he himself stood in need of forgiveness and of the presence of God in his life, that it was only in being forgiven that he found a capacity to forgive. It was an inspiring speech from a man with a touch of Mandela about him.
The only drawback was that the venue was c-c-c-c-cold. It’s the end of winter here. The climate is very predictable and all three days we’ve had clear blue skies, lots of sunshine and temperatures in the middle of the day in the early 20s. But in the early mornings and in the evenings and overnight, it is cold. It dips to freezing point in fact. And most of us had dressed for the conference day, not for the dinner – or had assumed that the dinner would be in a well-heated venue. But we were in an usual place out in the countryside outside Bloemfontein, in a wooden structure with thin walls. It was pretty, but not warm… and even the large open fire in the downstairs courtyard only thawed out our feet before we got on the coach to return to our lodging. My heating is on full blast tonight and I can gradually feel the blood in my feet unfreezing!
Oh, and the crocodile was a disappointment. He looks very sorry for himself, like any wild animal in captivity. He lies in his pool, which is heavily fenced in, and barely moves. Why should he? His food is tossed to him daily, and in any case, there’s nowhere to go. Must be a parable of something.
Monday, August 23, 2010
Sunday 22 August: Surprised by Joy...
With apologies to the author of the biography of C S Lewis by that name, today has been a day of joyful suprises.
I had been telling people over the last couple of weeks that I was expecting to find some of the contrasts in South Africa disturbing – between white and black, rich and poor in particular – and that I expected to be exposed mostly to white wealth in the first half of my stay here and mostly to black poverty in the second half. Actually, the reality of black poverty has been opened to us by our wealthy white hosts from the outset.
Bloemfontein is part of South Africa’s Afrikaans heartland. It’s in what was, after all, the Orange Free State. This is hardcore Boer country – the part that gave Kitchener and his colleagues such a hard time 120 years ago. And our conference is being held on a University Campus (in fact, still called the University of the Free State). Most of the students and staff (but not all) are white, as you would expect; and the University plant is every bit as privileged and posh.
But first thing this morning one of the options presented to us before the official start of the Congress programme was to visit a Sutu-congregation: a church in a local township, whose services are held in the local indigenous language. About a dozen of us went first to a recent church plant, w
here we were applauded one by one as we conference delegates introduced ourselves. We were asked to do so in our own native language. So I was the boring one, relative to colleagues from, say, Taiwan or South Korea. The Dutch and German delegates could make themselves understood, at least a bit, because of the proximity of those languages to Afrikaans – which at least some of the Sutu speakers seemed to know. The biggest cheer was reserved for an American who had served for some years as a missionary in the Congo, when she greeted them in what was obviously an African language.
The poverty in the township was startling. No doubt things are better now than 30 years ago, and no doubt there are parts of the world where the poverty is still more extreme. But we have nothing like this in England. Many buildings are still made only of corrugated iron. Most dwellings, packed tightly together, are simple single-storey boxes of breeze-block or brick, maybe 5m by 5m, with a corrugated iron roof, often weighted in place only by more breeze blocks and brick-piles. Inside there may be one room, or two or possibly three; no more. Many homes still have outdoor toilets. Most of the township roads are not metalled, but are still just dusty, rutted tracks.
We went on to a full-scale church service. It was a bit odd to sit through a 25 minute sermon of which I didn’t understand a word… it was an exposition of Jeremiah 23.1-9, all very impassioned, but all incomprehsensible because it was all in Sutu. Somehow the language barrier mattered much less when it came to the hymn-singing. Not only could I sway gently to the music (I was probably among the less inhibited of those present, but it felt a bit like sharing the dance-floor with a bunch of teenagers at a disco: if you can’t compete, and imitation will look phoney, you’d best just do your own thing in a relatively inconspicuous way!), but I could also clap to the rhythm (which seemed like the most natural thing in the world in this context, which I don’t often feel at church in England). Even for a person as cerebral and verbal as I am, the meaning of the words didn’t matter too much – the joy in the church was contagious.
Then, after lunch, another joyful surprise… I found that my beloved Newcastle United’s first home game of the season was live on terrestrial TV. So I spent a delicious 45 minutes watching us go 3-0 up against Aston Villa. (I relied on a text from home, however, to tell me the final score was as the Congress began at half time. It was 6-0 – I’ll put that again since I won't often have opportunity – it was 6-0.) This was to be surprised by joy a second time in the day.
The Congress opened with two sessions: a brief act of worship, with the sermon (again, contrary to my apparently prejudiced expectations) delivered by a black pastor, and again with a black gospel choir singing before and after; and then an opening lecture, delivered by Dr Dolf Britz, a member of the theology faculty here and our principal host. He spoke movingly about his conversion to the evil of apartheid and about his painful recognition of his part in bolstering an oppressive structure. This was the third and biggest surprise of the day: ‘I didn’t just steal the land of the indigenous people’, he said, ‘I stole their lives’. He was exploring this against the context of Calvin’s treatment of Isaiah 61.1, and his understanding of Jesus as the fulfilment of the prophecy: ‘the Spirit of the Lord is upon me, because he has anointed me to bring good news to the oppressed, to bind up the broken-hearted, to proclaim liberty to the captives and release to the prisoners’. It was hard not to think of Nelson Mandela in connection with the final clause, and about Archbishop Desmond Tutu in connection with much of the rest.
And did I mention that Newcastle won?
I had been telling people over the last couple of weeks that I was expecting to find some of the contrasts in South Africa disturbing – between white and black, rich and poor in particular – and that I expected to be exposed mostly to white wealth in the first half of my stay here and mostly to black poverty in the second half. Actually, the reality of black poverty has been opened to us by our wealthy white hosts from the outset.
Bloemfontein is part of South Africa’s Afrikaans heartland. It’s in what was, after all, the Orange Free State. This is hardcore Boer country – the part that gave Kitchener and his colleagues such a hard time 120 years ago. And our conference is being held on a University Campus (in fact, still called the University of the Free State). Most of the students and staff (but not all) are white, as you would expect; and the University plant is every bit as privileged and posh.
But first thing this morning one of the options presented to us before the official start of the Congress programme was to visit a Sutu-congregation: a church in a local township, whose services are held in the local indigenous language. About a dozen of us went first to a recent church plant, w
here we were applauded one by one as we conference delegates introduced ourselves. We were asked to do so in our own native language. So I was the boring one, relative to colleagues from, say, Taiwan or South Korea. The Dutch and German delegates could make themselves understood, at least a bit, because of the proximity of those languages to Afrikaans – which at least some of the Sutu speakers seemed to know. The biggest cheer was reserved for an American who had served for some years as a missionary in the Congo, when she greeted them in what was obviously an African language.The poverty in the township was startling. No doubt things are better now than 30 years ago, and no doubt there are parts of the world where the poverty is still more extreme. But we have nothing like this in England. Many buildings are still made only of corrugated iron. Most dwellings, packed tightly together, are simple single-storey boxes of breeze-block or brick, maybe 5m by 5m, with a corrugated iron roof, often weighted in place only by more breeze blocks and brick-piles. Inside there may be one room, or two or possibly three; no more. Many homes still have outdoor toilets. Most of the township roads are not metalled, but are still just dusty, rutted tracks.
We went on to a full-scale church service. It was a bit odd to sit through a 25 minute sermon of which I didn’t understand a word… it was an exposition of Jeremiah 23.1-9, all very impassioned, but all incomprehsensible because it was all in Sutu. Somehow the language barrier mattered much less when it came to the hymn-singing. Not only could I sway gently to the music (I was probably among the less inhibited of those present, but it felt a bit like sharing the dance-floor with a bunch of teenagers at a disco: if you can’t compete, and imitation will look phoney, you’d best just do your own thing in a relatively inconspicuous way!), but I could also clap to the rhythm (which seemed like the most natural thing in the world in this context, which I don’t often feel at church in England). Even for a person as cerebral and verbal as I am, the meaning of the words didn’t matter too much – the joy in the church was contagious.
Then, after lunch, another joyful surprise… I found that my beloved Newcastle United’s first home game of the season was live on terrestrial TV. So I spent a delicious 45 minutes watching us go 3-0 up against Aston Villa. (I relied on a text from home, however, to tell me the final score was as the Congress began at half time. It was 6-0 – I’ll put that again since I won't often have opportunity – it was 6-0.) This was to be surprised by joy a second time in the day.
The Congress opened with two sessions: a brief act of worship, with the sermon (again, contrary to my apparently prejudiced expectations) delivered by a black pastor, and again with a black gospel choir singing before and after; and then an opening lecture, delivered by Dr Dolf Britz, a member of the theology faculty here and our principal host. He spoke movingly about his conversion to the evil of apartheid and about his painful recognition of his part in bolstering an oppressive structure. This was the third and biggest surprise of the day: ‘I didn’t just steal the land of the indigenous people’, he said, ‘I stole their lives’. He was exploring this against the context of Calvin’s treatment of Isaiah 61.1, and his understanding of Jesus as the fulfilment of the prophecy: ‘the Spirit of the Lord is upon me, because he has anointed me to bring good news to the oppressed, to bind up the broken-hearted, to proclaim liberty to the captives and release to the prisoners’. It was hard not to think of Nelson Mandela in connection with the final clause, and about Archbishop Desmond Tutu in connection with much of the rest.
And did I mention that Newcastle won?
Sunday, August 22, 2010
Saturday 21 August: Bains Game Lodge, Bloemfontein
This is work. Honest.
But I confess it's as much pleasure as business ever gets. I arrived safely in Bloemfontein this afternoon and am now settled in the conference accommodation at the Bains Game Lodge (www.bainsgamelodge.co.za -- take a look, you know you’re curious). So here I am, sitting in the late afternoon sunshine under a clear blue sky beside an open air pool, with giraffes and zebras and various other game just out of sight.
The conference begins tomorrow. This is the 10th International Calvin Congress. It meets every four years and brings together scholars with an interest in either the theology of the French reformer, or the history of his time, to review research progress in the interval. A long time ago (it really does begin to feel like a long time), this is the area in which I completed my doctorate – but I’ve had difficulty staying up to date with the subject and I’m expecting to do a lot of catching up in the next six days.
Calvin was born in Noyon, France, in 1509; he left that country as a religious exile in the early 1530s and spent most of the rest of his life acting as a sort of Chief Pastor and City Theologian in Geneva, where he died in 1509. He was probably the first ‘protestant’ (though he would not have known the word) to articulate a coherent theological account of the Christian Faith for non- (or anti-!) Papal churches. For various reasons (most having to do, in my view, with developments in later ‘Calvinism’), he has unfairly become a bigoted and tyrannical figure in the popular imagination. In fact his writings are passionately rooted in the grace of God, giving them (especially if you make allowances for the bloody age in which he lived) an extraordinarily world-affirming and life-affirming flavour. I’ll be attempting to drip-feed into this blog some of the gems in Calvin’s thought over the next week or so.
The journey on from Dubai was pretty uneventful. I slept some of it, or snoozed anyway in half hour bursts. We left at 4.40am local time (1.40am UK time) and arrived in Johannesburg at 10.00am local time (9.00am local time). The flight path basically took us down the east coast of Africa… over the Gulf States and then Ethiopia, Uganda and Tanzania, before moving inland over Zimbabwe. We flew, so the computer consoles at our seats told us, right over Dar es Salaam, and Harare, among other places.
I had a three hour stopover in Jo’burg – during which I think I was probably conned (though not too expensively), over some excess baggage charges. A porter had attached himself assiduously to me in baggage reclaim, and (genuinely helpfully) had guided me through the labyrinthine halls to the right check-in for my onward flight to Bloemfontein. But there he’d had a conspiratorial chat with the check-in staff, and had apologetically explained that my bags were too heavy and that she wanted to charge me an excess fee. I duly handed over a credit card, which was swiped (I mean, through a card reader; I don’t mean it was nicked!). I asked what the charges would be and he (not she) explained that it would be one figure if applied to the card and a second figure if paid in cash. Like a lemon, I opted for the lower figure and paid cash. It was only as I walked away that I realised that i) I had no receipt; ii) I had no proof that any charge was due; and iii) I may yet discover that I paid both by credit card and in cash. Not to worry. Haviing already had a glimpse from the plane of the poverty in which many black South Africans are still living – the townships are visible from the air – it’s hard to escape a feeling that a little appropriate redistribution of the worlds wealth was taking place, that’s all.
The good people of the University of the Free State met me on arrival, and delivered me to the Bains Game Lodge, where I arrived soon after Pakistan had sealed their Test victory over England – and in time to follow the afternoons Premier League football. The Chelsea-Wigan game (6-0) was on terrestrial TV here, when it will not have been in England.
This trip is work, though, I repeat – honest.
But I confess it's as much pleasure as business ever gets. I arrived safely in Bloemfontein this afternoon and am now settled in the conference accommodation at the Bains Game Lodge (www.bainsgamelodge.co.za -- take a look, you know you’re curious). So here I am, sitting in the late afternoon sunshine under a clear blue sky beside an open air pool, with giraffes and zebras and various other game just out of sight.
The conference begins tomorrow. This is the 10th International Calvin Congress. It meets every four years and brings together scholars with an interest in either the theology of the French reformer, or the history of his time, to review research progress in the interval. A long time ago (it really does begin to feel like a long time), this is the area in which I completed my doctorate – but I’ve had difficulty staying up to date with the subject and I’m expecting to do a lot of catching up in the next six days.
Calvin was born in Noyon, France, in 1509; he left that country as a religious exile in the early 1530s and spent most of the rest of his life acting as a sort of Chief Pastor and City Theologian in Geneva, where he died in 1509. He was probably the first ‘protestant’ (though he would not have known the word) to articulate a coherent theological account of the Christian Faith for non- (or anti-!) Papal churches. For various reasons (most having to do, in my view, with developments in later ‘Calvinism’), he has unfairly become a bigoted and tyrannical figure in the popular imagination. In fact his writings are passionately rooted in the grace of God, giving them (especially if you make allowances for the bloody age in which he lived) an extraordinarily world-affirming and life-affirming flavour. I’ll be attempting to drip-feed into this blog some of the gems in Calvin’s thought over the next week or so.
The journey on from Dubai was pretty uneventful. I slept some of it, or snoozed anyway in half hour bursts. We left at 4.40am local time (1.40am UK time) and arrived in Johannesburg at 10.00am local time (9.00am local time). The flight path basically took us down the east coast of Africa… over the Gulf States and then Ethiopia, Uganda and Tanzania, before moving inland over Zimbabwe. We flew, so the computer consoles at our seats told us, right over Dar es Salaam, and Harare, among other places.
I had a three hour stopover in Jo’burg – during which I think I was probably conned (though not too expensively), over some excess baggage charges. A porter had attached himself assiduously to me in baggage reclaim, and (genuinely helpfully) had guided me through the labyrinthine halls to the right check-in for my onward flight to Bloemfontein. But there he’d had a conspiratorial chat with the check-in staff, and had apologetically explained that my bags were too heavy and that she wanted to charge me an excess fee. I duly handed over a credit card, which was swiped (I mean, through a card reader; I don’t mean it was nicked!). I asked what the charges would be and he (not she) explained that it would be one figure if applied to the card and a second figure if paid in cash. Like a lemon, I opted for the lower figure and paid cash. It was only as I walked away that I realised that i) I had no receipt; ii) I had no proof that any charge was due; and iii) I may yet discover that I paid both by credit card and in cash. Not to worry. Haviing already had a glimpse from the plane of the poverty in which many black South Africans are still living – the townships are visible from the air – it’s hard to escape a feeling that a little appropriate redistribution of the worlds wealth was taking place, that’s all.
The good people of the University of the Free State met me on arrival, and delivered me to the Bains Game Lodge, where I arrived soon after Pakistan had sealed their Test victory over England – and in time to follow the afternoons Premier League football. The Chelsea-Wigan game (6-0) was on terrestrial TV here, when it will not have been in England.
This trip is work, though, I repeat – honest.
Friday, August 20, 2010
Bloemfontein-bound
I’m an hour into a four-hour stopover at Dubai International Airport, after a six hour flight from Birmingham, en route to South Africa. When I set off, England were comfortably placed at 130 for 2 on the third day of the third cricket Test against Pakistan. By the time I landed we'd collapsed to 221 for 9. Hmmm.... From here it’s another seven hours to Johannesburg and then an hour’s hop to my initial destination at the University of the Free State in Bloemfontein. I'll find lots more to say about that in the next few days, I guess - but basically I'm combining a conference on the legacy of the reformer John Calvin (on whom see my blog to celebrate his 500th birthday last year, at http://petewilcoxblogspot.blogspot.com/2009/07/calvins-500th-anniversary.html) with a visit to the Diocese of Matlosane, which is partnered with our own Diocese of Lichfield.
This is my third visit to Dubai, but I’ve yet to get out of the airport. But then, the airport is vast: a city in itself. It must surely have taken over from Singapore as the air-gateway to the southern hemisphere and the east. When I was last here, in 2008, it was a building site. Planes had to land about a mile from the main terminal, and everything depended on shuttle-buses.
This is my third visit to Dubai, but I’ve yet to get out of the airport. But then, the airport is vast: a city in itself. It must surely have taken over from Singapore as the air-gateway to the southern hemisphere and the east. When I was last here, in 2008, it was a building site. Planes had to land about a mile from the main terminal, and everything depended on shuttle-buses.
Now it’s state of the art and huge – 200+ departure gates, to all kinds of exotic des
tinations in China and the Far East, Australia and New Zealand, all parts of Africa and the Indian sub-continent… all those cities we’ve heard of, but wil almost certainly never go to… Hyderabad, Dar es Salaam, Osaka, Jakarta. As a result, the aiport is just a great place to people-watch. Every skin colour and ethnic group passes by and every imaginable language can be heard. The facilities are terrific – not least, laptop charging points here there and everywhere, with free wifi (or weefee as I discovered recently it is pronounced in France).
I’m flying with Emirates. Very comfy for a long haul. The journey today took us east from Birmingham over the North Sea, across the Baltic and over Poland, then turning south over Hungary and then Turkey, Iraq and Iran, to the Arabian Peninsula… Abu Dhabi, Bahrain and Dubai.
Flying over Iraq felt odd – not just because of the recent history (and the withdrawal of the last US combat troops just this week), but because of all the ancient (and for me, especially the biblical background). We flew over the River Tigris, which gets a mention in Genesis 2. Modern day Iraq is ancient Ur of the Chaldees, and Babylon – and of course Babel, which brings us back to this amazing multi-cultural, multi-lingual airport!
tinations in China and the Far East, Australia and New Zealand, all parts of Africa and the Indian sub-continent… all those cities we’ve heard of, but wil almost certainly never go to… Hyderabad, Dar es Salaam, Osaka, Jakarta. As a result, the aiport is just a great place to people-watch. Every skin colour and ethnic group passes by and every imaginable language can be heard. The facilities are terrific – not least, laptop charging points here there and everywhere, with free wifi (or weefee as I discovered recently it is pronounced in France).I’m flying with Emirates. Very comfy for a long haul. The journey today took us east from Birmingham over the North Sea, across the Baltic and over Poland, then turning south over Hungary and then Turkey, Iraq and Iran, to the Arabian Peninsula… Abu Dhabi, Bahrain and Dubai.
Flying over Iraq felt odd – not just because of the recent history (and the withdrawal of the last US combat troops just this week), but because of all the ancient (and for me, especially the biblical background). We flew over the River Tigris, which gets a mention in Genesis 2. Modern day Iraq is ancient Ur of the Chaldees, and Babylon – and of course Babel, which brings us back to this amazing multi-cultural, multi-lingual airport!
Monday, June 14, 2010
A sermon preached at Lichfield Cathedral on Sunday 13th June 2010
A meditation on the story of the sinful woman who anointed Jesus (Luke 7.36-8.3)
Anyone who has anything to do with Jesus of Nazareth ends up asking, ‘Who is this?’. So here’s how that question came into focus for me.
My name is Miriam. Like half the women in Galilee, I’m named after the sister of Moses. I’m also a sinner. A public one, I mean: shut out of the synagogue on account of my lifestyle. You don’t need to know the details. Let’s just say that all my adult life I’ve got used to men treating me as an object and women regarding me as a threat. I’ve got used to living without much intimacy or friendship in my life. I’m not asking for pity though. I’ve made choices knowing the consequences – and financially, anyway, I’ve done alright. But always to be an outcast, never to belong, that was hard. It’s different now. I could never have imagined doing what I’ve been doing these last six months, living the way I’m now living, or belonging the way I now belong. Now the men I’m with treat me with respect and the women have embraced me as a friend, as a sister even. I can’t tell you what that means to me. But I’m getting ahead of myself.
I’d heard of Jesus weeks before he turned up in our city. He’s been preaching and teaching in the region for a year or so and he’s widely thought to be… well what exactly? That’s disputed. A rabbi obviously; no-one argues about that, because he teaches with such authority. Most people also regard him as a prophet because he’s not afraid to challenge authority or defy convention. That’s not normal for rabbis, at least round here. But to me, he’s more than a prophet. And here’s why.
The day Jesus came to our city, there was great excitement. People flocked to hear him in the synagogue, to which I of course couldn’t go. To be honest, I don’t usually have any desire to go where I’m not wanted; but that day I felt left out. You see, Jesus has a nickname. He’s called ‘the Friend of Sinners’. He eats with tax collectors and touches lepers, which most religious leaders won’t do. That intrigued me and I did want to see him.
Then I heard he was eating that night at the house of Simon the Pharisee. Simon more or less runs the synagogue. He’s the most devout religious leader in the city. And he’s rich enough to lay on a feast. Plus his house is big enough to hold a crowd -- and loads of people would be there. The great and the good would be invited; but in our culture, at big banquets, the door is left open so neighbours can just turn up and sit around the edge of the room, listening to the chatter and soaking up the atmosphere. So I decided to go. I knew I’d not be very welcome. But I also knew it wouldn’t be easy for them to throw me out. This way, I’d at least get to see Jesus and maybe hear him too.
Then I had a mad idea. I was thinking about that nickname, ‘Friend of Sinners’, and how weird it is for a holy man. There has to be some danger, surely, that Jesus will be misunderstood and that because of the company he keeps, he will be dismissed as a sinner himself. I’m not a religious person and I don’t claim to know about these things, but to take that sort of risk seems like the mark of a true prophet. So I got this urge to do something for Jesus, to thank him, to let him know that his stance matters. But what do you do for a prophet? Well, in our tradition, you anoint him. Sometimes an idea hits you which leaves you no real choice: as soon as you think of it, you know you have to do it.
I had some perfumed oil. In my line of work, I needed it. I laughed out loud when I realised I was planning to anoint a holy man with oil I’d bought with um… immoral earnings. It seemed fitting somehow for a 'Friend of Sinners'.
I waited until I knew the meal would be in full swing. I could hear the noise of the dinner two streets away. Once or twice I nearly turned back. But then there I was, at the door of the house: on the outside, looking in, as ever. I waited a second to get my bearings, scanning the room as I leaned against the doorframe. It wasn’t hard to work out which was Jesus: he was immediately on Simon’s right hand side, and he was speaking.
It would have been so easy just to stand there and listen, but I knew that if I didn’t act at once I wouldn’t act at all; so I crossed the room. The murmuring, as people caught sight of me, was predictable. The hubbub grew as they realised I was approaching Jesus; that was predictable too. What I hadn’t anticipated was how hard it would be to get to Jesus’ head. I knew the guests would be reclining, heads towards the table, feet stretched out behind. But the dinner guests were packed together so tightly that short of climbing over a forest of legs, I couldn’t get near Jesus’ head. I ended up stranded a bit helplessly at his feet. I was feeling a bit foolish about that, and in my embarrassment, I couldn’t even get the stopper out of the perfume bottle. And I panicked. I’d so wanted to do this. It’d seemed important to do it. But now I felt I’d made a mess of it, like I’d made a mess of my life. So I burst into tears. Floods of tears. Great rivers of tears streaming down my face, and falling on his feet. At which point I lost all my inhibitions. If I had a reputation as a loose woman before that moment, I had it twice over afterwards. On impulse, I let down my hair (at which there was an audible gasp, which I can still hear in my head, because we don’t do that in our culture, not outside the bedroom). Simon actually flinched. I saw him draw back and wince, as if my actions were physically hurting him. I fell to my knees and – I know this sounds silly – started trying to dry Jesus’ feet with my hair and then I was kissing his feet, which I probably shouldn’t have done, but I did, and then I remembered the oil, and I poured that on his feet as well. And the most wonderful thing was: Jesus didn’t flinch.
As you can imagine, by then all conversation had stopped. Everyone else was in complete silence. They were all waiting, I was waiting, for what Jesus would say. I remember thinking, now we’ll find out if he’s a 'Friend of Sinners' or not. If I’ve got this wrong, I’ll have to leave the city for good. Jesus must have rumbled my reputation. He’ll have read it in the faces of the other guests the moment I entered the room. I had meant to anoint him with dignity but now I’ve gone and acted with such abandon. If Jesus rejects me, I was thinking, I’ll never live it down.
But he didn’t reject me. He told off Simon. It took a moment or two for me to realise that’s what was going on, but by the end it was dead clear. Jesus compared me with Simon, and applauded me.
In all, Jesus spoke five times. I can remember every word. First, he turned to his host and said, ‘Simon, I want to say something to you’. That was odd in itself. There we were, waiting for Jesus to pass judgment on me, and he just got our attention by telling us he had something to say. By then my hopes were already rising. My gut instinct was that if Jesus was going to condemn me, he’d have done it at once. So when he said he wanted to speak to Simon, my heart began to pound in expectation.
In all, Jesus spoke five times. I can remember every word. First, he turned to his host and said, ‘Simon, I want to say something to you’. That was odd in itself. There we were, waiting for Jesus to pass judgment on me, and he just got our attention by telling us he had something to say. By then my hopes were already rising. My gut instinct was that if Jesus was going to condemn me, he’d have done it at once. So when he said he wanted to speak to Simon, my heart began to pound in expectation.
The second thing he did was tell a story. I think I knew where the story was going before Simon. It was a story about two debtors. No; really it was about an unlikely debt collector who freely forgave two debtors, simply because they couldn’t pay. One owed about two months’ wages and the other nearly two years’. I knew at once which one was me. ‘When the creditor cancelled the two debts’, Jesus asked Simon, ‘which one loved him more?’. Simon didn’t answer very confidently; but we all knew it must be the one with the greater debt.
When Jesus spoke a third time, you could have heard a pin drop. He started to compare Simon’s behaviour with mine. I was still kneeling there, not daring to look up, still clinging onto his feet. Three times, Jesus pointed out the meanness of Simon’s welcome, and each time he drew attention to something I had done. ‘You gave me no water for a footbath, but she has washed my feet with her tears and dried them with her hair; you gave me no kiss of greeting, but she’s not stopped smothering my feet with her kisses; you gave me no olive oil for my head and face, but she has anointed my feet with her perfume. Why?’, he asked, ‘In her case, it’s because she senses her sins are forgiven: this great outpouring of hers is an outpouring of love and thankfulness. This is an act which is only possible for those who have felt the touch of God’s forgiveness. But someone who has never known that forgiveness (or thinks they have no need of forgiveness), shows little love and still less thankfulness’. You could have cut the atmosphere with a knife.
And then Jesus spoke to me. Twice actually. Until then he’d been speaking about me, gesturing at me. Usually I resent being treated as an object. But this was already different, and then, as I say, he did speak to me. He addressed me personally, tenderly. First, he said the thing I most needed to hear in all the world, and he said it for all the world to hear: ‘Your sins are forgiven’. That startled everyone; me included. That’s when they began asking ‘Who is this?’. A few meant, ‘Who is this, who seems so at ease even declaring God’s forgiveness?’, but others meant ‘Who does he think he is, claiming to forgive sins? That's God's job’.
Now here’s a funny thing. I looked up at this point. I was pretty sure I’d see Simon grabbing the opportunity to reassert himself by ridiculing Jesus’ right to declare forgiveness. But he wasn’t. He wasn’t looking outraged at all – just thoughtful.
And then Jesus spoke again. To me, a second time. ‘Your faith’, he said, ‘has saved you. Go in peace’. I don’t know much about faith. But I do know this: Jesus has set me free to become the person I was created to be – by accepting my tears and my kisses, by reading my heart and blessing what he read there, by telling me I was forgiven, he set me free. He said my faith saved me. I say, he saved me. Is he a rabbi? No question. A prophet? Surely. But to me, he’s now my Saviour.
One last thing. My story doesn’t end there. You see, I’ve joined his community. There are about twenty of us on the road with him. I was right in a way that anointing Jesus would require me to leave my city. But I was wrong to think I’d leave because I could never again belong. In fact I’ve left because I’ve now found a community where I fully belong and am completely accepted.
The extraordinary thing is, it’s a mixed group, men and women. On the road, travelling together. And the contribution of the women is valued. A few of us are actually using our wealth (me now included) to provide for Jesus and the Twelve. He calls us (the women) his partners, co-workers with him in the mission to proclaim the good news of God’s kingdom. He says we minister to him. After what I’ve been used to, it’s a bit of a shock to be in a community where women are taken seriously and treated as equals. Following Jesus is going to be like that, I reckon: pretty much constantly a bit of a shock. I’m not naïve. I know there will be dark days in times to come; but the vision of the coming kingdom of God, of a day when love will finally drive out fear, when women and men, rich and poor, Jew and Gentile will feast together at God’s eternal banquet, well that’s a cause to live and die for. For that, I’ll follow my Saviour come what may. I wouldn’t do it for a rabbi. I wouldn’t even do it for a prophet. But for a Saviour… Well, wouldn’t you?
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