SACRED LITURGY OR HOCUS POCUS?

There was no way our bunch of ordinands in the Diocese of Johannesburg could attend a residential seminary- most of us had jobs or families to look after. So our theological education was via distance learning underpinned by week-end classes hosted by various parishes. 

These ranged from the 'Little England' in the leafy suburbs to 'township vibrant' with not a tree or flower in sight. 

The suburban churches were invariably built of stone, or face brick. They boasted impressive bell towers, stained glass windows, organs, modern music groups and sound systems. Set in beautiful gardens, their dwindling congregations were predominantly white with a few black faces.  

The packed township churches were mostly large plain structures. Sans organs and sound systems, they had huge choirs. The youth music groups favoured drums, modern and African traditional, and they were as crazy about electronic keyboards as their suburban counterparts were. Nobody checked their watches during the sermon.

Everyone expressed 'New South Africa' love and 'PC speak' was the order of the day. But it wasn't easy going. 

The black families who were easing into the traditionally white suburbs missed the music, the dancing and the choruses they'd grown up with. Too many decided to return to the townships for their Sunday worship and then found it easier to lie in bed instead of travelling the distance. 

One friend shared how it irritated that over tea the white parishioners talked about their dogs as if they were human. 

My white friends were concerned that, as more black families moved into the suburbs, the ancient and modern hymns and Songs of Praise would be overtaken by African choruses. They shuddered at the thought of allowing the Holy Spirit to dictate when a service ended, in case it stretched to two or three hours. 


They complained that the black parishioners weren't prepared to assume leadership roles. The blacks said they were never given the change to express an opinion. 

For those readers in other countries this must all seem very weird. But we South Africans were, and still are, paying the price for legislated segregation. One general election and a democratic government wasn't going to fill the cultural abyss that separated us.  
In fact we ordinands were privileged to experience such diverse forms of Anglican worship. What always amused me was how much higher and hazier the township parishes were when in came to incense, ancient hymns and the size of the altar party. 

I was starting to understand how cocooned I was in my suburban parish so asked to be moved. At that stage it was unthinkable to send a white woman to the townships so I was relocated to a working class, predominantly 'coloured' parish. 

There I would learn about the angst of folk caught in the middle of the new political dispensation. One in which they felt neither white enough nor black enough.

That wasn't the only complication. They were also high and hazy and my Anglican ignorance was laid so bare I nearly got killed. Of course you folk all know that at the end of  the Maundy Thursday service the altar is stripped and the aumbry is left open. I didn't and the prayer book made no mention. So like any good housekeeper I shut the door after the service. 

I'd just reached home when my very tall and volatile rector was hammering on my front door - the epitome of a towering rage. It seemed to escape his notice that I was in a training process and that he was supposed to teach me. I've never seen a man work so hard at resisting the temptation to do physical harm. 

We both recovered but it took a while.

I've just Googled and checked my prayer book - still nada about an open aumbry. Then again so many rituals are absorbed by osmosis if you grow up in the environment. This begs the question: Do the people in the pews understand the significance of the symbolic aspects of our liturgies? Or is it just comforting hocus pocus? 

IS GOD WHITE?

I was doing Morning Prayer and found in incredibly boring (still do most times). The best part was the daily Scripture readings. I often went way past the allocated verses, simply because I’d never read the Bible and wondered what came next.  Trust me, the juiciest parts are seldom in the lectionary.

The Open Door Retreat had drawn me into the dual discipline of praying and meditating. Moreover, we’d formed such strong bonds that we decided to meet for a 6.30am Eucharist on Wednesday mornings and to continue our sharing.

There was also those Old Testament and New Testament classes. They turned out to be official modules for a theology degree so my journey into Anglicanism had assumed a new dimension.

What a relief to learn that the Bible was not a direct dictation by God to various obliging scribes. There was no way I was ever going to take Jonah and the Whale literally. 

I would also quickly learn two more words to drop at cocktail parties – exegesis and eisegesis. The first is what brought the Scriptures and, eventually, Jesus sharply into focus for me. The second is what I believe makes it so easy for us Christians to be judgemental, self-righteous and downright cruel.

Exegesis literally means ‘to lead out of”. It requires careful and objective analysis of the Scriptures.  Who was the author? Why did he feel compelled to write? Who was his audience? What was the writer’s agenda? What was the social and cultural context in which it was written?

In short, exegesis requires careful, objective analysis that leads to a conclusion.

Eisegesis literally means ‘to lead into’. It involves subjective non analytical reading. It’s what enables us to make the Scriptures mean whatever suits us. Frightening stuff!  It has been used to justify, among other things, homophobia, gender discrimination, apartheid and slavery.

As we learned to exegete texts there was a natural progression to liberation theology and black theology. That’s when I knew I’d hit a home run. This stuff was really working for me. It was also when I realised that no matter how weird Anglicanism seemed at times it was also wonderful.

I’d also been taught Lectio Divina. A Latin term for ‘divine reading’ it is a way of reading the Scriptures whereby we gradually let go of our own agenda and open ourselves to what God wants to say to us. It is a wonderful way of listening with the heart and can be very calming when life is hectic. 

But let’s get back to exegesis and eisegesis. I am still gobsmacked at how a Church that claims ‘reason’ as one of its main pillars has allowed itself to be so divided by varying degrees of the two conflicting approaches to Scripture.  

Part of the problem in Southern Africa anyway is that we Anglicans dropped the ball on theological education. This is now being taken very seriously and technology is playing an increasing role. But we did have a very dry spell and too many of our preachers resort to eisegesis to make their point.

I digress. Back to my journey.  

I was living in three worlds. My ANC comrades used the term ‘liberal’ like a swearword. My upmarket suburban parish was primarily white and feeling unappreciated in our new political dispensation. My clients were over eager to capitalise on what they perceived as my political connections.

On the religious front I was increasingly bothered by how ‘European’ the Anglican Church in Southern Africa was. Yes we’d had Desmond Tutu as archbishop. His successor, Njongonkulu Ndungane, was also black but it was still a very long way to meaningful transformation.  Worship in the suburbs was worlds apart from the vibrant township services. Black Anglicans who relocated to the formerly ‘white’ suburbs, felt like foreigners.

But even in the townships I found a very white God and a Jesus who looked as if he’d been born in England. Clearly our early Christian missionaries - convinced that white was right and superior – had branded their product accordingly and imposed it on Africa. For them conversion involved Westernisation.

Years later, when I was ministering in Soweto I would ask kids in Confirmation class to give me a word picture of the holy threesome. This was invariably an old white man with a long beard seated next to a younger version of himself.  The Holy Spirit ranged between a bird and a white angel.  

(I’ve just carried out the same test on my Xhosa builder, my Malawian gardener and a black friend who manages properties and all in their late twenties, early thirties. It yielded almost the same result.)

 

 But.......

The BBC commissioned a picture of what the historical Jesus probably looked like

Back to exegesis. 

It was in those classes that I had my first inkling of how liberation theologians had used it to reinterpret the sacred texts in order to give preference to the poor, the marginalised and the oppressed. They had brought new meaning to sacred texts that had for too long been used to justify slavery, apartheid and gender discrimination.

It is an ongoing challenge.

  

Congratulations! Vivian Boyack, age 91, and Alice “Nonie” Dubes, age 90, who have been together for 72 years. They tied the knot shortly after same sex marriage was legalised throughout America. How sad they had to wait so long.!  http://bit.ly/1pI0wvE

A JACK- IN-THE-BOX GOD

The Open Door Retreat was drawing to a close. The two-hour weekly sessions, the commitment to 15 minutes of personal reflective prayer each day and the sharing of what we had experienced was a mind blowing experience. Over nine weeks I had interacted with my parish leadership and effectively been drawn into robust Anglican life. (A polite way of saying we didn’t agree politically, theologically, on what was right, what was wrong or the creative value of Freddy Mercury’s music.) 

The two leaders - my Spiritual Director and my rector – and we seven participants had bonded in a profound way.   It involved absolute trust and was pretty miraculous because we were such different personalities. I remember one woman saying she’d been told as a small child that Jesus was always sitting on her shoulder and she still sensed him there. One of the men shared how inadequate he’d felt most of his life. Yet another, believed he had the gift of healing the sick.

None of them seemed perturbed that I really didn’t care whether Mary was a Virgin or that I really hoped Jesus and Mary Magdalene had had a relationship. (I wanted him to be fully human)   

 

The ‘homework’ for the last week was to bring something that reflected what we’d gained from the retreat.  Now, with all the balls I was juggling at home, at work and at church, I’d invariably left my ‘show and tell’ homework to the last minute. I knew from previous weeks how creative the others would be. They would use flowers from their gardens, favourite paintings, music, a candle-lit tableaux and icons.  But I was in a different space. Sandton City had been my Cathedral for decades.  Besides, I was born to shop.

So I gave myself a day off from the agency and set of for South Africa’s most famous mall. There had to be something in that consumer paradise that would reflect what I had gained and how momentous it had been. 

By 4pm I’d literally shopped ‘til I dropped but I’d found nothing I could take to the rectory that evening. A coffee break brought true meaning to the term ‘arrow prayers’ – the kind of praying you do as you drive through a speed trap. I then calmed down to a panic and decided to treat the project as strategically as I would any corporate communication campaign.

What had been the prime objective in attending the retreat? To better understand God. Against that backdrop how would I brand the Creator? It came in a flash. My understanding of God, which already included the Holy Spirit and was slowly assimilating Jesus, was that God couldn’t be packaged. Mine was consistently proving to be a God of surprises, revealed in unexpected ways.  

That was it! I needed, one of those toy boxes that a figure popped out of – a Jack-in-the-box.  Not so easy.

At a toy shop the assistant explained that the line had been discontinued. When I explained what I was wanting to illustrate she suggested a pop out children’s book rigged with elastic bands from which images tumbled when you opened the covers.  I was convinced.

That evening my presentation seemed to go well. Far more importantly I had come to understand that what I loved best was how God had tumbled, helter skelter, into my life. 

Far from packaging my spirituality into an Anglican box that retreat had set me free.

Two huge God-incidences in the early part of my spiritual journey were to give me an irreverent Spiritual Director with a sense of humour and a rector who was a superb teacher. In fact I’m pretty sure that if he hadn’t ended up as a bishop he would eventually have headed up a theological college.

Bearing in mind that I had never read the bible, I signed on for two evening classes he used to give in the church hall. One on the Old Testament and the other on the New Testament. 

I was on yet another fascinating journey. One that involved a great deal of scriptural unpacking.