BISHOPS CAN BE DOLLS

The after party for my deaconing on December 1 2000, was a hoot. 

Hat's off to my family and the northern suburbs white friends who braved the journey from the Cathedral in the centre of the city to Soweto in the deep south. It was a  trip to no-man's land for most of them. Moreover, it was a Saturday evening. 

Their abiding image of Soweto was of death, carnage and violence. In fact it is a 'city', with a variety of neighbourhoods and various levels of safety. 

Diepkloof was a nice suburb. 

Some upmarket homes

and others not so posh.






Because I hired a bus to get them in and out everyone was pretty relaxed.

As I've mentioned before, my parish did me proud. The food was beautifully cooked and presented. The hall was decorated. The music and the singing was unforgettable. The St James folk had gone to inordinate lengths. (As I write this I am choked.)

A deacon's stole
Next day I wore my deacon's stole appropriately crossed in front and tucked into the girdle around my alb, which my domestic helper and I called 'that long white dress'.

(Cringe. I know. I know. I'd lost my money. We'd moved into a pretty crummy suburb and used the dog's bath for a while. But I was basically a kugel. My wonderful domestic helper travelled that long road with us. Today she manages a small business for me.) 

Back to being a deacon. 

At that time there was huge drive to push the concept of 'the ministry of all'. As lay ministers we'd visited the sick, conducted funerals (too many people were dying of AIDS related diseases). Many of us had also conducted Baptism and Confirmation classes. We'd even officiated at services with pre-consecrated wafers! Essentially we'd been doing 'deacony' stuff for quite a while before our ordination. 

I seriously wondered why one couldn't just be done and dusted straight into priesthood in one shot.  

Not by osmosis
By then I'd studied and passed 13 theological subjects but I have always been conscious of not having absorbed Anglicanism - the tradition, the vestments, the ritual - by osmosis.  

So I was delighted to discover the modern cassock alb which meant I could chuck the girdle. To this day I see nothing holy in a pall, especially for the extra chalices. It's only a useful cover to keep insects and dust out. My heart bleeds for lay folk who get themselves into a knot about these things when serving at the altar. There is such a danger of confusing ritual with worship.

Useful for keeping flies and dust out

My other world, which included working as speechwriter and media liaison officer for Archbishop  Njongo Ndungane, involved bishops, whose names I could never remember. 'Doll' did come in useful as most were very gracious.  (It's a strange fact - bishops are often less status conscious than their clergy.)

A horrific pandemic
There was also that 'AIDS' thread. Although Njongo's prime focus was development, by 2000 the HIV/AIDS pandemic was horrific. Africans were dropping dead at an alarming rate. Stigma reigned supreme. Our State President and our Health Minister were denialists. Refusing to acknowledge any connection between the HIV virus and AIDS she advocated garlic and sweet potatoes over anti-retrovirals.  They were dubbed 'a medicine from hell.'

Njongo declared the national AIDS policy "sinful" 
in 2000 led a protest march on parliament.

Meanwhile, his international advocacy role was growing apace and President Clinton invited him to a White House function on World Aids Day  on the first of December that year.

Always one to marshal expertise for his pet projects, the archbishop zoned in on Ted Karpf. The tall  Washington  priest with a Texan accent had written the liturgy for the AIDS Day service. But was better known for risking the loss of an entire congregation for insisting that a man with AIDS be allowed to attend the Eucharist and receive Communion using the chalice.   

The Rev Cannon Ted Karpf

                     
That first week the infected person was too ill to attend and nobody else pitched. In short, he experienced every priest's nightmare - an empty church.

Ted has a great turn of phrase so I'l let him share the next bit, "The night before the White House events, I learned an important life lesson: never drink scotch during a decision-making session with an Archbishop on an empty stomach. In the course of a long conversation, he suggested that I come to South Africa to help build an AIDS response.

"It was a major challenge as the province included 10 million people in seven countries, including the worst-affected in the world. Njongo argued that God had answered our prayers and it was clear what I was really called to do. I capitulated.

"The next morning at breakfast with the President, Sandy Thurman, and South African ambassador Sheila Sisulu, the President offered the Archbishop whatever support he wanted. The response was: “I want this priest, Ted Karpf, to come to South Africa to work with me.”

Ted was instructed to go to Africa where the archbishop steered him into strategic planning on how to meet the challenges of HIV/AIDS in 23 dioceses over half a dozen countries.

Above all, our new AIDS champion was to listen.

Never one to stay quiet for long, Ted soon had us all listening and responding. He and the archbishop quickly became a formidable force. Together they developed a programme, coining the notions: We are building a generation without AIDS, as well as No one dies alone and no one cares alone.

Funded by the British government (DFID), the Americans (PEPFAR) and many others, it was until recently, the largest funded programme for faith-based AIDS work in Africa. 

An added bonus for me was a very special friendship. The spare room in our home is still referred to as 'Ted's'. (Don't get too excited, he's gay.)

Part of what brought us together was the fact that we had both discovered Anglicanism in adulthood. And he, like me, had a strong Catholic connection. 

Do you see Jesus?
Ted tells the delightful story of a great aunt, an immigrant Irish nun, a Sister of Charity. "She saw it as her mission to convert her heathen nephews and nieces. We would go to see her at her convent, and she would take us, gravely and with great care, to the sacristy in the convent. 'Do you want to see Jesus?' she would ask. 

"Then she would solemnly take the key out of the sash in her robes, go to the tabernacle box, and open it slowly. 'Do you really want to see Jesus?' 'Yes', we would answer. 

"She would reach in, and pull out the host, (a large consecrated wafer.) By now I was convinced that Jesus must be tiny, a kind of Tom Thumb. She would carefully pull out her hand, then, before we saw anything, thrust the door closed. 'You can’t see,' she said, 'because you are not Catholic'. And that was that."

There's plenty more to tell of Ted. I have an abiding memory of  him teaching me how to celebrate the Eucharist the night before I was priested. We used an ironing board, dishcloths and an excellent red wine.

MILLIONS KILLED BY STIGMA

Coming from a non-religious family and ‘modern’ social circle I did find some aspects of the Anglican Church decidedly weird. Not least the incredibly bitter debate about LGBT (lesbian, gay, bi-sexual and trans gender) issues. But it was all rather arms-length and it worked for me that Archbishop Desmond Tutu was saying he would rather spend the afterlife in hell than go to a gay-hating heaven.



Looking back I am still amazed at the God-incidence that took me to that parish, several suburbs away from where I lived. A friend in my Wednesday morning Eucharist group where we bared our souls to each other ran HIV/AIDS workshops for an NGO and was the first activist I’d met (no he wasn’t infected, just deeply caring). When I asked advice on where I could do volunteer work he advised me to check with Jenny Marcus who led a volunteer group at the Charlotte Maxexe Hospital’s HIV clinic.



God's punishment
I’m not great at dates but it was about 1999. There were no anti-retrovirals in South Africa, the disease was largely viewed as God’s punishment for homosexuality and promiscuity. The stigma, nurtured in religious circles swirled and surged and would emerge as a major killer in Africa. As it still is today.

I was asked if I could help on Thursdays. It had for decades been the traditional day off for domestic helpers and infected men and women were using that precious little time off to visit the ward in secret. They would have been fired on the spot had their employers known about their status.

I allocated three hours each week, which was as much as I could manage while still keeping my clients content. Looking back it was also probably about as much as I could cope with emotionally. When I arrived and the ward sister realised that I was the chief executive of a major PR agency she felt I’d be most useful in an administrative capacity. But a God-incidence saved me in the nick of time. Jenny arrived.

She immediately steered me towards the folk in the packed waiting room. Although the clinic only officially opened at 8am, many had queued at the door from as early as 5am. My first and most important lesson, one that has stood me in great stead for many years, was to watch her hug those folk and kiss them on the lips. I watched faces light up. I saw holiness at work. I met good people living in a hell of secrecy and, in too many instances, shame. I got to know decent middle aged men. Grandmothers who had never been unfaithful. Young mothers anxious that their babies were infected.

The unbelievable joy, usually after two years, of finding that the HIV virus had not transmitted from a mother to her child.




The joy of knowing a child had not been infected at birth

There’s plenty more to tell about Jenny, heroic doctors and nurses and the hell of a pandemic in a country where the State President (Nelson Mandela’s successor) refused to believe that HIV is the precursor to AIDS. He was aided (pun intended) and abetted by a new Minister of Health who believed anti-retrovirals were poison. She was punting beetroot, sweet potatoes and garlic as alternatives.

Dropping like flies
South Africans were becoming infected and dying at a horrific rate.

Many Anglicans were opting to dip their Eucharist wafer in the chalice instead of sipping from the communal cup. Ignorance and fear ruled. Christians were fully into ‘love the sinner hate the sin’ mode. Church was the last place people who tested positive would turn to. To this day I have never had a person come to the altar rail to ask for public prayer because they have tested positive. Such is the power of religious bigotry surrounding what has become a manageable chronic disease.

Some of you may have noticed that I skipped a blog post last week. I’m tempted to say it was because I was frantically busy.

Superstition?
Fact is, I’d been asked to bless someone’s car and after years of doing this without question I found myself wondering where the sacred and superstition meet.



How holy is holy water?

I shared my concern on Facebook. To date there are 22 comments. They range from folk who tie the water to their baptism and view the blessing as giving thanks to God. Others say the practice is a hangover from Catholicism or that the people who use the car should be blessed instead.

There were jokes about the need for holy protection from our taxi drivers and, inevitably, the one about the rabbi who snips a bit off the end of the exhaust pipe.

I’d love your comments.

DIFFERENT STROKES FOR DIFFERENT FOLKS

There was a point when I acknowledged a need to worship God within a Christian context. It was the ‘how’ that challenged me.

Somewhere along the line I attended a ‘non-denominational’ service conducted by a dynamic pastor in a school hall.  I was used to the traditional Catholic and Anglican Churches of my youth so that hall just didn’t do it for me. (I later learned how traditional architecture, candles, vestments and icons are triggers for worship.) It also didn’t help that the sermon was on the need for women to obey their husbands.

The Anglican parish I was attending seemed to suit my basic needs. Designed by Sir Hebert Baker, the stone church had beautiful stain-glass windows. The services just bordered on the high and hazy. It felt like church.  

Importantly, the sermons were exceptional. (My rector became a bishop.)  And I’m still in awe of the God-incidence that took me past several other Anglican parishes between that one and my home.

Frankly the main reason I kept returning was the new social circle I was slipping into. I enjoyed the great conversations and the good red wine. My rector and his wife (my Spiritual Director) subscribed to the Benedictine principles of hospitality. They were generous hosts.  I, who’d become a real pleb as a single mother building up a major business, was drawn into company that enjoyed the arts and were creative. Most importantly, several of them understood the politics of our imminent democracy.

Never underestimate the power of planned fellowship!

I was also increasingly impressed by Jesus’ joie de vivre – the quality of wine he produced at the wedding, the dinner parties he attended, the friends he visited. His maverick approach to social taboos.

The Alpha Course wasn’t doing it for me.  Not enough reasoning for my personality type.  But I came from an era in which you finished your food (for the starving kids in Ethiopia) and anything else you started.

I did, however, draw the line at the residential week-end that most Alpha courses focus on. Over two days participants are encouraged to experience the Holy Spirit. For some this involves speaking in tongues. Others are zapped by the Holy Spirit and keel over.

No way Jose! When I was about 11 years old I’d fainted during Mass in Grahamstown’s Catholic Cathedral and wet my pants. There’d be no encore.  I bunked.

Nor did I have any desire to speak in tongues. Most of you will know that the gift of tongues is authenticated when, after a person has gabbled away, others are able to interpret. Invariably there’s a long and sometimes embarrassing pause before this follows. I often wonder if the interpreter isn’t just being kind.

Okay I accept it’s a special gift and that it can be a great way to lose oneself in God.  However, I’ve never seen it used publicly to really good effect. What’s your opinion or experience? 

SHOOTING OURSELVES IN THE FOOT?

If ever there was proof that God has a sense of humour it was  my participation in an Alpha Course. Moreover, I was allocated to a discussion group comprised of young people barely in their 20s. Someone had obviously misread my age on the submission form!  

That God-incidence would catapult me into fascinating territory. The lessons learned from those young people have stood me in good stead throughout my ministry.  (Remember, no church for me from the age of 17 to 50 and I hadn’t sent my two sons to church.)

In case you are wondering, Alpha is a 15-session introduction to the Christian faith and conducted all over the world. Developed by the Revd Nicky Gumbel, a former London barrister and vicar of Holy Trinity Brompton, it is arguably the most successful tool of evangelical Christianity in recent years. Today Nicky’s services attract a regular Sunday attendance of around 4,500 people – most aged between 18 and 35.  If you’re dying to speak in tongues and consider yourself conservative, then Alpha is for you.

The Alpha format at my parish was a fellowship supper in the hall, then off to the church for prayer and far too many hymns for my liking. This was followed by the Nicky Gumbel video for that week. Then we would have group discussions.

I was almost old enough to be my group’s honorary granny, a cynical seeker of truth to boot. They brimmed with unquestioning faith and were into gospel music, Christian movies and coffee shop gatherings. Fresh-faced and privileged they were a-political and blissfully unaware of life in the townships. I was into progressive jazz, art movies, political activism, good restaurants and sometimes hectic parties. They spoke about keeping themselves pure for their wedding night. I’d been divorced and had two live-in partners, one for 11 years, the other for five years.

Not that I discussed my personal life with them but the dynamic meant (small miracle) that I had to mind my tongue and tread gently. My age didn’t seem to matter and I was afforded a privileged in-depth view of what young people expect from church - how action speaks so much louder than pulpit eloquence.

Many years later I served a parish deep in Soweto for the six-weeks of Lent. On the first Sunday I noticed that the extra-large and very youthful music group was dominating the Eucharist Service. The oldies were sitting through praise and worship with folded arms and glum frowns. Thanks to my Alpha group I felt confident enough to approach the talented young musicians and singers and challenge them to plan a service that would serve their elders. The following week they wowed us all with a traditional Prayer Book format interspersed with well-loved choruses and even a few ancient hymns. There was a beautiful solo during Communion. For the remainder of Lent they alternated between youthful exuberance and worship that they understood to be an important ministry to older folk.

But back to my Alpha Course.

It was providing plenty of fodder for me to take to my Spiritual Director and her husband, the rector. Through them I came to understand the meaning of “broad church”. They taught me the importance of respecting other people’s religious views and how I was entitled to question.

Fact is, the Anglican Church accommodates a wide range of opinions and people. In the process we embrace the high and hazy, the low and even the ‘speaking-in-tongues’ evangelicals.  

This broad approach is said to be Anglicanism’s strength and its weakness.

As I’ve mentioned before, we rely on three pillars, Scripture, tradition and reason. It is what allows us to disagree on matters like the definition of family and same-sex marriage. We are even allowed to question whether the bread and wine at the Eucharist is miraculously transformed into Jesus’ body and blood or if those who take communion in faith receive the spiritual body and blood of Christ.

(If you want to impress your bishop at a cocktail party, the first is called ‘transubstantiation’ the second is ‘consubstantiation’.)

So what do you think? Is the Anglican Church shooting itself in the foot by being too broad?