OF SCAPEGOATS, MEL GIBSON AND THE DONALD

We Christians have a knack for giving biblical personalities a bad press, or, at best, distorting their bios to suite our own agendas. We brand God as loving and forgiving while wielding the Scriptures much like the Pharisees who Jesus consistently exhorted us not to emulate. We peg our scapegoats and never let them go. It feeds our smugness.

For example, at this time of the year we contemplate the crucifixion– all too often like voyeurs at a motor accident. Soon after that we focus on Jesus’ re-appearance to his apostles. Pivotal to those narratives are Judas Iscariot (think greedy traitor) and Thomas (think doubter).



Judas has had a particularly bad press but it can be argued that there was much more to that infamous kiss than 30 pieces of silver.



Firstly, as the Jews suffered under Roman oppression their vision of a Messiah had little to do with heaven. The afterlife didn’t feature as powerfully as their worldly hardships and they were anxiously waiting for their very own ‘Che’ Guevara to overthrow their rulers.




Enter Judas who, it seems, was a passionate revolutionary probably growing impatient with Jesus’ dis-inclination to lead a political uprising. Well aware of Jesus’ miraculous powers (as in sticking an ear back after it had been chopped off by a sword), it was highly unlikely that he believed he was sending his leader to his death. His intention was simply to nudge Jesus into action. The man he had watched raise the dead and heal the sick could surely dethrone Herod and zap the Romans?

That kiss was a classic case of a plan gone wrong. Was Judas’ suicide akin to falling on one’s sword in other honour cultures?

There’s yet another factor. By classifying Mr Iscariot as the arch betrayer we paint Jesus as a victim. It’s the ultimate insult or do we find a gentle Jesus, meek and mild, easier to manipulate for our own purposes?

Yet, John’s gospel presents Jesus as being in full control of the situation from the Judas kiss to his last breath on the cross. The reasoning is that Jesus allowed those awful events to flow in order to live out the Messianic prophesy. The proof sits with the resurrection.



I suspect even Donald Trump would agree that power over death far outweighs political power.

On that basis Judas simply served Jesus’ purpose. But do we give him an iota of sympathy? No ways!

We’ve done such a good job of making him synonymous with betrayal that he is linked to one of the most famous rock and roll heckles of all time. It was 1966 at a concert in England that, as Bob Dylan switched to an electronic guitar an outraged member of the audience yelled “Judas!”


Dylan’s love for his new electric instrument was viewed a blasphemous.

That story would not have gone down in the annals of music history if we Christians had been less condemning of  Judas. When he planted a kiss on his rabbi’s cheek after three years of faithful following, he was branded for ever. One can just imagine how quick the other disciples were to condemn, despite their own failings.

No one really knows what drove Judas. But, for sure, we Christians have judged and sentenced him mercilessly to our lectionary of derogatory terms.



Thomas is also much maligned. We’ve made him a synonym for doubt, particularly doubt in God, lack of faith. 

For starters nobody seems to notice that Jesus doesn’t reprimand him for doubting the resurrection. He simply seeks to reassures the disciple by inviting him to check out the crucifixion wounds. (No fuss, no rant. Just as nobody ever seems to notice that Jesus doesn’t criticise the woman at the well for the men in her life. He doesn’t even instruct her to leave the man she is living with.) But we Christians have an awful tendency to look askance at folk who have difficulty believing in God.

For heaven’s sake! Justin Welby, the Archbishop of Canterbury, has shared that sometimes he doubts. I know I do. Many of my Anglican friends grew up confident that God exists, they have absolute confidence that their guardian angel hovers and Jesus loves them. It’s not that easy for me. I have to work at my faith.

Sometimes I have to work extra hard but I do take comfort from Mother Theresa who wrote in her private journals that she lived much of her life not feeling God’s presence.


In fact, I was only ready to place my chips on the roulette wheel of faith when reading Gerard Hughes God of Surprises at the grand age of 50. He helped me understand that I could not intelectualise God, God wouldn’t be God and my best bet was to get on with the game.

My spiritual journey will always involve potholes of doubt. But that’s okay. It’s part of my human condition and its never boring.

Another incredibly valuable lesson I learned for Father Gerry is not to confuse God-incidences with coincidences. As I prepare to launch the first in my Archbishop Shakes mystery series, I’m experiencing a major one. Besides a lot of grind, the book has inched forward against a backdrop of many arrow prayers for help.

In the short cul de sac I live in there is a friend on the opposite side of the road who edits non-fiction books and was an excellent beta reader for the novel. My neighbour on one side is an IT specialist who has helped me set up social media platforms, websites, blogs and all the other stuff one has to do when self-publishing. On the other side is a couple of graphic artists who are designing my cover. A stone’s through down the road is a friend who is a professional editor. Add to that all the other friends who have read the book to check for errors and know that there is one big God-incidence happening.



But, back to Good Friday for a moment. Do you remember the Mel Gibson movie called The Passion of the Christ? It grossed millions of dollars. Christians across the globe packed cinemas. Gibson, a conservative Catholic, brought home the sheer brutality of what Jesus went through.

Even now, 12 years later, if I meditate on the gruesome events, scenes from the movie spring to mind. The blood, the cruelty, the suffering. It worries me that too many of our Good Friday services assume a morbid overtone that isn’t healthy. I think we work too hard at blocking out the joy and promise of the resurrection. It’s too much like self-flagellation. I don’t think Jesus went through that ordeal for us to beat ourselves up about it, surely the whole point was to draw us into a joyous mystery?




Another lasting impression I got from the movie was of the fine donkeys. (Not sure if they were Hollywood manicured and blow dried or the genuine Jerusalem breed.)

I’d always imagined Jesus riding into the Holy City on the kind of asses we see in the rural areas of South Africa. But the animals that starred in The Passion, especially around Herod’s court, were truly impressive. 

I tried to source photos from Google by typing in ‘donkeys, Mel Gibson movie’ nothing came up so I tried ‘asses, Mel Gibson movie.’ Guess what it gave me? On second thoughts, let’s not go there.

IS GOD A FACEBOOK HOAX?

If there is one thing we Christians excel at it’s shaping God to our own purposes. 

We did it in the Crusades as we pillaged Asian cities, massacred Jews and Muslims and appropriated foreign property. We did it when we colonised ‘heathen’ lands, carrying a bible in one hand and a gun in the other. We did it when we kept quiet as our Jewish friends were sent to concentration camps and we did it when racial discrimination was legalised in South Africa.  

We manufacture a God who sees it all from our point of view and, when everything goes pear-shaped, we remould him, assuming our right to redemption and forgiveness. But we seldom make amends. 

I suspect that the worst shaping of God is not in cataclysmic historical events but in the daily detail of our lives. In what the nuns used to call our “besetting sins.”  It is also in the way we use religion.

Looking back on my previous blogs I realise I seem to have hurtled down the Anglican path at a great and fairly uncomplicated pace. Alpha, a spiritual director, an Open Door Retreat, Eucharist on Wednesdays and Sundays, two modules towards a theology degree, new Christian friends. (There must be a Brownie badge for all this). 

They should have put me on a TV so I could declare “I’ve found Jesus.” 

Fact is, I hadn’t really.

As an A type personality I am very competitive and self-critical. I’m always setting goals, my life lacks balance and I have to watch my blood pressure. Besides, you may remember, I’d emerged as an ENTJ on the Enneagram scale – a not so likeable ‘Commander’.

What I was doing, to a large extent, was jumping though the hoops and revelling in the spiritual and intellectual exercises - striving for A’s in my assignments.  I was also finding comfort in the close to Catholic ritual – my childhood comfort blanket and the God I was shaping was a mirror image of me and my opinions.

There was also my other life: my clients as well as a social and family circle that just wasn’t into religion.

There must have been a whole choir of angels groaning on my behalf.

Yes, I’d incorporated a spiritual dimension into my life. Much as I would have had I taken yoga seriously but I kid you and myself if I lay claim to a personal relationship with God at that stage. I was far more tuned into the adage “God helps those who help themselves”, than to total submission.

I still thank God for my exceptional Spiritual Director.  Trained by Fr Gerard Hughes, author of God of Surprises, she, never criticised, always gently questioned and very wisely suggested a three day retreat at a local Anglican Convent.  

My retreat director was a wonderful monk, Father Andrew Norton. He belonged to the Community of the Resurrection monastery across the road. 

Besides being wise and practical, he was a diabetic who loved to gobble the fluffy jam scones the sisters served for tea.

Deeply committed to the training and the supervision of Spiritual Directors, he was also responsible for introducing the Open Door Retreat in South African Anglican circles.  He was just what I needed at that stage.  Instead of gentle encouraging pats on the back he got me to take a long hard look at myself and at the Church. Fr Andrew was a realist not a romantic.  It was he who warned how deeply Church can hurt. He was right.

One of the exercises he gave me is one I still value and slip into today. I was directed to slowly walk around the beautiful convent garden five times. Each time focusing on one of my five senses – sight, hearing, smell, touch, taste.  Thanking God for what they had meant to me since birth and using them to appreciate the garden. It is a great way to meditate on the Creator and Creation.

The gateway to the beautiful convent garden

My Damascus Road moment was my meditation on my sense of sight – what it had meant to me since birth. On the walk I inspected an old tree, its shape, its leaves rustling in the breeze. Becoming aware of birds among its top branches, the sunlight peeping through. The bark was rough. I moved closer, the tiniest insects came into focus. And then it happened. As I peeped behind a fairly loose piece of bark I spotted a cocoon and watched spell-bound as a butterfly slowly emerged.

Now decades later, I can still draw on that wondrous image when I’m stressed or distressed. It draws me into the mystery of God the power of faith. That moment when you choose red or black and place your bet on a roulette table. You don’t have all the answers but you are willing to take a chance. It was the day I met the ‘God of Surprises’.

I wish I could tell you that I’ve never had a moments doubt since that meditation in the convent garden. But it is a compass point for me when I feel lost, in those moments when I wonder if God isn’t on a par with those awful Facebook hoaxes.

Have you had a defining moment in your faith journey?

NEVER CONFUSE CHURCH WITH GOD

So there I was, hurtling along my somewhat unusual spiritual journey. As I wrestled with concepts like unconditional grace and a Hollywood heaven (I’m still pondering that one) I was also learning not to romanticise the Church.

                                                     I'm still not certain what heaven is

Time was an issue. I was juggling a busy PR practice, participating in a nine-week Open Door Retreat, seeing my Spiritual Director, attending political meetings and keeping half an eye out for a decent man in my life. (It didn’t help that the sexiest guy in the choir was gay.)

Meanwhile, it was beginning to dawn on my caring friends that my ‘passing phase’ wasn’t as fleeting as they’d expected it to be. Their warnings not to give the church all my money were becoming more forceful. A reasonable concern since their only information about religion tended to be news items about TV evangelists with feet of clay. 

They were just being protective because my business was doing pretty well – 20 employees and clients that included the Lesotho Government. I was driving my fourth Merc and holidaying overseas every year. Those were what I now refer to as the ‘RODs’ (rich old days). 

Looking back, one of the biggest God-incidences was that retreat.

Probably because it was the first to be conducted at my parish the other six participants were all part of its leadership – lay ministers and council members.

A key element of any Open Door retreat is that each week you share your thoughts, angsts and experiences in absolute trust – a bit like a spiritual alcoholics anonymous. 

The level of honesty and self-appraisal was impressive. Surprise, surprise, those church heavies also had crises of faith. They were, by their own admission, imperfect at best. 

It was a wake-up call. Church wasn’t an exclusive club for saints, mostly just people trying their best.

At another level, Carl Jung’s theory of a human collective unconscious was working for me. It made belief in God a lot easier and helped me understand the importance of traditions and how symbols can trigger worship.

I was beginning to appreciate that seeking God is a never ending journey, that religion is not the destination. It’s a vehicle. And, just as some people are into Mercs and others give their Toyota’s names, so there are different religious strokes for different folks. 

Anglicanism was beginning to work for me. A nice mix of the high and hazy and less formal worship. Instead of being asked to shelve my brain I was encouraged to approach the bible with a healthy dose of suspicion.

Of course by then reality was kicking in. I was learning how people are hurt by the Church and how very human priests are. There was more. During the retreat coffee break I listened to in-house concerns about issues that ranged from rampant male chauvinism, particularly among priests, to whether tithing should come before or after tax. 

It was the beginnings of my understanding that one should never confuse the people-driven Church with God. 

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? 

RELIGION JUST A SUGAR PILL?

Looking back, the books I read in my run up to the Alpha Course were a wonderfully unfettered way to learn about Jesus and quite a lot of biblical stuff. Remember, I’d never attended Sunday School. My convent school religious education was based on a well-thumbed Catechism book that told me what to believe. My confirmation course in the Anglican Church was really an escape hatch to stroll through Boksburg, buy ice-cream and have toast for breakfast in the rectory.

Now 50, I was on an incredibly exciting journey of discovery – no epiphany, no lightning bolts but sensing a new beginning. It was also a welcome diversion from my hectic work and social diary, brain exercise. I hadn’t studied since my twenties. It was also long before The Tudors series was broadcast which would have put me off Anglicanism, despite that sexy Irish actor Jonathan Rhys Meyers.

Besides the off-the-wall books about Jesus, there were a variety of others.  These included fascinating archaeological finds (remember I wasn’t born with faith in my back pocket I needed proof), Judaic history and Greek history. Admittedly the Crusades and all their barbarity took a lot of shine off Christianity but then I wasn’t all that interested in following Jesus or killing people in his name. As the founder of a large PR agency I had long been used to dealing at chief executive level so the Son was interesting but if I was going to leap into a faith abyss I expected the ‘Main Man’ to do the catching. (In my PR life I was teaching chief executives ‘management by walkabout’ and the importance of an open door policy).

Running parallel to this was another development. In the second week after I’d attended my first Eucharist in about 35 years I called the parish to ask if they ‘did meditation’ in the Anglican Church. The rector’s response was “hang on I’ll call my wife, she’s into it”.  She was quick to share, “I’ve just finished a meditation and realised I think I’m God.”  We made an appointment for the next day.

I didn’t understand then but she was my first Spiritual Director.  The weekly psychology sessions were replaced by visits to the rectory. The coffee was excellent, the session were free and there was no reining either me or my reading in. Nor was there any proselytizing or effort to argue theological points. There was just lots of encouragement to continue my journey of discovery. And, because the rector had worked in the ad industry, a great understanding of my work life. There was also quiet amusement when I enquired if the best looking guy in the choir was single. (I’d find out later that he was gay.)

Today I count the three of them among my dearest friends and I fully agree with that marvellous Catholic priest Gerard Hughes who authored the best-selling God of Surprises. He argued that there is no such thing as coincidences, they are all God-incidences.

I’d spent a fortune on books but that little book would be that real beginning of my faith journey. Never one to subscribe to dogma Fr Gerry brought Church into different focus. Most importantly, he declared that God could never be fully understood because if this was so God simply wouldn’t be God. It made imminent sense and I stopped trying to prove God existed. Instead I stepped tentatively into the realm of mystery. But it was still a game of chance.

Those of you who were born with faith will probably have no concept how high those stakes were. So often when I share that I only really became a Christian at the age of 50 the response is “You must have been really happy for the first time in your life!” It wasn’t happiness I needed, I’d had huge doses of that throughout my privileged life. What I wanted was a spiritual dimension, balance. BUT with me still in full control.  

But I get ahead of myself! There was still the Alpha Course. It began with the traditional introductory dinner. I’d had a day from hell so had a long hot bath to unwind before heading for the parish hall.  I also poured an extra-large glass of wine to sip while I soaked, knowing full well that I’d be drinking fruit juice with supper. I was wrong.

As I walked through the door, I was offered a choice of “red or white wine?” An auspicious beginning. But as I watched the slick Nicky Gumble video, I couldn’t help spotting the production tricks. I could smell PR a mile off. But I enjoyed the company at my table and the following day my Spiritual Director assured me the course would “improve”. More of that later.

Writing this has reminded me how many of my Christians seems to enjoy unwavering faith. They never seem to doubt our religious rituals or question the Church’s teachings.  I now understand that it will never be as easy for me. Faith eludes me at the most inconvenient times. Sometimes I struggle to believe in unconditional grace. Or I just plain wonder if religion isn’t one big panacea. Yet I have acquired a relationship with God that permeates every aspect of my life – sometimes very inconvenient, invariably humbling but always dynamic.  I now accept that like most relationships this one will always have it ups and downs.  Of course I don’t play fair, I assume God will always be constant.

Do you also have faith wobbles? I’ve decided to give Archbishop Shakes, the main protagonist in my novel, a crisis of faith so your input would be very welcome.

May the Force be with you!

AAAARGH! A MERE MORTAL

There are a couple of things that focus the mind on our mortality. Taxes, other people’s funerals, illness and turning 50 are some I can think of. 

For me, despite the likes of Joan Collins and Madonna, my 50th was a turning point. Despite taking comfort from the fact that I was biologically and mentally as much as 15 years younger than my grand-mother at the same age (so are you), there was a sense of crisis. 

This in itself was strange. An only child, I’d been raised to believe I had an eccentric genius IQ. I’d been a high achiever all my life. I loved myself (too much at times) and loved others easily because they didn’t make me feel threatened. I was making money and having fun. What on earth could the matter be?

You’ve guessed right: I’d sensed my mortality.

No I didn’t rush off to the nearest Church and find God. I did what many middle aged women in the leafy suburbs do, I found a psychologist who I paid to listen to me.  (How money gives one a sense of control!) She very quickly informed me that she wasn’t like those American shrinks that people visit endlessly. She did however, eventually agree that with only my dogs to confide in she was my best bet.

Over the next two years, once a week, I’d examine: my values; how my readiness to help others included a mix of control; how kindness could also be a form of passive aggression; my non-existent spirituality; and the repeat cycles of my relationships.

She had a Jewish surname and a statue of Buddha on her coffee table and I never discovered what, if any, religion she belonged to. But she did encourage me to seek spiritual balance in my life. Over several months I examined my belief in God/the higher force/ the Greater Being. I was an atheist. I was an agnostic. I was a humanist.

Whatever, it was always very much an intellectual exercise. 

Eventually I would understand that for me the greatest challenge would be to submit to God if he/she really existed. I, who had always been in control of my life and of many others – family dependants, my staff, students I was mentoring etc. – couldn’t let go.  There was a meditation I used to do in those sessions. It involved jumping off a cliff into a huge black abyss and having the confidence that I would be caught by the ‘higher force’. It never worked, I preferred my own parachute!

Somewhere along the line I did come to appreciate the need for a spiritual focus to balance my incredibly busy, materialistic and responsibility-laden life.

Those of you who grew up knowing Jesus was on your one shoulder and your archangel on the other, please don’t get too excited at this point. The only spirituality I was interested in would be on my terms with me in charge.

I tried yoga (too passive), meditative running (too energetic) and then, prompted by the Buddha statue on the coffee table, borrowed the Dalai Lama’s Tibetan Book on Living and Dying.  I paraphrase, but very early in the book he advises those who are seeking spirituality not to turn to the esoteric but to seek within our own worldview and culture.

This made imminent sense. So, I decided to attend an Anglican Eucharist service. I did and wasn’t impressed. I’d chosen a seat at the back not realising it was an area allocated to families with toddlers. But the rector announced the parish’s first Alpha Course – it was very new in those days. It was an invitation to “learn more about Jesus and Christianity” so I gave the parish another chance.

In the weeks before the course got underway I read everything I could find in Exclusive Books that featured Jesus. These included the historical Jesus, the Jesus who conned the world by pretending to die on the cross, his lover Mary Magdalene and Jesus in India. Fascinating stuff and I was well armed to handle Alpha.

Little did I know.  But that’s another blog or two.

As I continue to research the Anglican Church for my novel, I am increasingly aware of how our denomination must confuse those who prefer a dogmatic approach: Don’t think, just believe; this is the way it is, to argue is to show lack of faith etc; it must be because the Bible says so.  Instead Anglicanism rests on the three pillars of Scripture, Tradition and Reason.

That’s right. You don’t have to throw your brains in a dustbin.  You can take into consideration the context in which a gospel was written, its agenda and how it was fiddled with by others. How sacred texts, like those referring to slavery (apartheid)  and wearing hats in church, need to be read with an open mind.

No wonder we Anglicans have lived on the cusp of schism for so long!  

JUST IN CASE THE CATHOLICS WERE RIGHT

Okay, confession time again.

Once I left school I really stopped worrying about whether the Catholic nuns or my Anglican priest had been correct about unbaptised babies being shut out of heaven. (See previous blog). I had life to live, a career to start and, most importantly, a husband to find.  We married young those days, which wasn't all bad. Biologically we were at our best for producing healthy babies, despite the fact that we smoked and drank in blissful ignorance. But the battle zone of gender inequality in the work place - having to work twice as hard and twice as smart - left a trail of broken marriages in those days.  Mine included.

Church was strictly a 'school thing'. Because I didn't move in overtly Christian circles Church was what one did for our colonialist traditions. Besides, there was an heirloom Christening gown on my husband's side that had to be used.

Yes, I was married in an Anglican Church, chosen for its delightful architecture and garden - so important for the photos. And, yes, I did have my boys baptised - at St Martins in the Veld Rosebank, such a fashionable venue and just in case the Catholics were right.  I vaguely recall some parent prep but it didn't even make enough impact to persuade us to send the boys to Sunday school.

Did I believe in God? Of course I did!  The greater force, the Higher Being who had given me free choice and control over my destiny. The God who created me to care about justice issues, people who were less fortunate, the one who expected me to be honest, not to murder anyone etc. Not a God one loved but certainly one to be respected.

Did I believe in Church? No ways!  Between the paedophile priests, the TV evangelists, the thieving ministers and all those preachers justifying apartheid. I was cured.

Did I pray? Only when my younger son nearly died in an accident and then it was prefaced with “If you really exist.”

At this stage you are probably wondering how on earth I became and Anglican priest. That’s a whole ‘nother blog but I’d like to pause here and take closer look at both marriage and baptism preparation which are rather like ambush advertising.

We Anglicans, at least here in Southern Africa, say if you want either of these sacraments you have to serve the time and understanding that it’s not just hocus pocus or family tradition.  But how many couples and god-parents get real value and inspiration from their prep session. How creative is Church in generating real interest in joining a parish?  I’d love some input on this. Or you may have questions.

One of the weird and wonderful things I discovered about the Anglican Church was the readiness to marry couples who had lived together for several years – virginal dress and all. And it was Prince Charles’ marriage to Camilla that alerted me to the ‘federal’ system our global Church operates under. Whereas that royal couple had to marry in a registry office without mummy in tow because she is the head of the Anglican Church in England. Divorcees in Southern Africa have, for several decades been allowed to remarry. There’s only one proviso, if you’re the one who caused the breakup of the original marriage the local bishop will not give the go ahead for your nuptials. (Not sure everyone tells the truth on this score but we Anglicans are supposed to be all about forgiveness and new beginningsJ

PS I’m still wading through the research on how to defrock an Anglican archbishop. 

WEIRD AND WONDERFUL ANGLICANISM

I am fascinated by Anglicanism. So much so that it is the backdrop to the novel I am writing and it is in doing research for it that I decided, with much encouragement, to start blogging about the sometimes weird and mostly wonderful Anglican Church.

Here goes!

I’d never attended church until my newly married mother sent me to a Catholic convent boarding school. I’m still not sure whether she hoped the nuns would cure me of my tomboy habits and turn me into a ‘young lady’ or whether she and her new husband wanted breathing space. Whatever. For the next seven years, except for school holidays I would attend Mass every school morning, pray the Hail Mary between lessons, recite the Angelus at noon and intone the rosary at 5pm on week-days. Except on Wednesdays when we had a Benediction service instead.

If you don’t know what all these are relax. It translates into a lot of praying. I am still of the opinion that you can tell a former convent boarding schoolgirl by the dents in her knees.

Sundays were the exception.

I’d declared myself Anglican because it meant a glorious walk from one side of Boksburg to the other where St Michaels served the mining town.  After the Eucharist service the rector would host our gaggle of St Dominic’s girls to tea and marmite toast because we would have missed breakfast at school.  Yet another hedonistic layer of joy was provided by a verboten rendezvous with an ice cream vendor on our way back.

All this in one morning! No wonder I signed on for Confirmation classes, which for nearly a year got me out of school on Saturday mornings as well. Bishop Ambrose Reeves, the great anti-apartheid activists who was eventually deported, did the laying on of hands. I wish I could tell that I was swept up by the Holy Spirit on the start of a spiritual journey into adulthood. But, time to confess, I was already a bogus Anglican simply marking time until I matriculated.

It was in one of our Confirmation classes that one of the candidates had asked if an unbaptised baby could go to heaven. (We all harboured the hope of performing an emergency baptism on a dying infant.) The priest replied that having recently lost a day old daughter he could not believe a loving God would keep her out of heaven.

With teen-age arrogance we argued the point all the way back to school. The consensus was that he was kidding himself. There was no way that baby had slipped past the pearly gates. Its best bet would have been Limbo, a most interesting place. Back in the 5th century good old St Augustine had decided that unbaptized children were condemned to hell because they had not had their “original” sin washed away.  Mind you, he did add that they wouldn’t burn as fiercely as everyone else in hell because they were not really responsible. In effect they were in a quasi-hell. By the Middle Ages theologians tried to soften the harshness of his position by positing the existence of Limbo, a quasi-heaven. Either way unbaptised folk would never see God.

How, you may ask, were we so sure that the Anglican priest was wrong and the Catholics were right? Fact is we were taught pre-Vatican II catechism nearly every day. We, like most teens were reassured by dogmatic certainty. As it turns out even the Catholics now see the grieving Anglican’s point of view.

It is also a reminder that Anglicanism rest on three pillars: Scripture, Reason and Tradition. Which is probably why we are always hammering at each other and have such difficulty coming out of our corners of diversity. But I find solace in the fact that for as long as I can remember the doomsayers have been predicting schism and we consistently prove them wrong.

One of the matters I have had to research for the book is how to defrock an Archbishop. Well dolls, you can’t believe how difficult that is I’ll update you when I have finished ploughing through Canon 37.

But speaking of Confirmation, a couple of Sundays ago I attended my son’s church where the minister, a youth pastor for 15 years, spoke of how teenagers needed boundaries to feels safe. How they want to see Church in action. It set me wondering whether we Anglicans take Confirmation classes seriously enough. Why do so many confirmands stop coming to church once the bishop as done her or his thing?

Are they bogus young Anglicans simply going through a social ritual, a family tradition?

I’d love your comments….