A QUARTER COW AND MOTHER'S PEARLS

Ever shopped for a cow? I hadn't and didn't know where to start. But if I wanted to celebrate my ordination to the diaconate properly I needed a mountain of meat. 

In Soweto egg mayonnaise sandwiches were not going to crack it.

We had this amazing butcher shop a few doors away from the church where you could braai (barbecue) your meat at a fire in the yard. 

A typical buy and braai set up in Soweto

Because services in the township end when the Holy Spirit decides I would emerge ravenous after as long as three hours.  Across the road from St James was a small supply store where I'd pick up a couple of lovely fresh buns. Next door was a tavern that stocked my favourite red wine. They'd sell it to me by the glass which I'd carry with my buns to the butcher where I could buy fillet steak for a song.  

My mouth waters as I write this. Those lunches were to die for dolls! 

I learned later that all the surrounding shops knew when I had preached because the congregation would emerge at least half an hour earlier.

Who needs a mic?
Speaking of preaching, I am always amused when wealthier parishes panic if the sound system packs up. We had a huge congregation but no microphone. So the norm was to trot up and down the aisle as you preached at the top of your voice. 

If you don't have a mic you trot up and down the aisle to preach

It's a wonderful way of connecting. One thing I never had the courage to do was to start a chorus while I was expounding on the readings of the day. My rector, another who has since become a bishop, would do this with such aplomb. 

What I did learn to do was worship with my whole body. I didn't have a singing voice but oh the joy of dancing to those choruses! Many year later when I was serving a traditionally white parish I was touched when a parishioner shared  that she had prayed for me before the service - until she added, "that you will stand still during the hymns."

Numbers don't count But, back to my ordination and the after party.  I still couldn't pin my rector down on the number of people I needed to cater for. Silly me. The system is to do the best you can. If the food runs out that's life. 

There was no way I could afford a whole cow even though my favourite butcher gave me a good 'clergy' price. So we settled on a quarter cow and several boxes of whole chickens. The Mother's Union, who volunteered to do the cooking, also gave me a shopping list for side dishes like rice and three bean salad. 

Wonderful township food

The feast they produced was memorable. 

More importantly the township approach to catering taught me an invaluable lesson. So three extra people pitch for Christmas dinner. Bring in extra chairs from the garden and share. It's the company that counts. There were times during those years when  I felt as if I was witnessing the miracle of the feeding of the 5000. 

You can imagine how I cringed on one of our ordinands' training week-ends. Held at another Soweto parish, the deal was that we would all bring lunch and share. We whiteys duly arrived with our cooler boxes, serviettes and cutlery but there was huge resentment when the rector invited his Mothers Union to join us. Horrors they hadn't brought any food!! Several indignant ordinands shunned the hall and took their cooler boxes to a spot where they could eat without sharing.  

I was so ashamed but the miracle was that we all had ample lunch that day and the fellowship made the event special. 

In these circumstances it would have been easy to romanticise the whole Soweto thing but God had given me Archbishop Ndungane to work for. Among the gems of his sage advice was to insist on punctuality "there's no such thing as African time". Another was to always stay on the right side of the Mothers Union in the parish. Often a good translation for "It's not in our culture" was "I don't want to do that."

Spectacular on a small  budget
Another practical lesson was how even a relatively poor parish (60 percent unemployment) could stage a spectacular event. Typically, when the archbishop visited our parish for an AIDS service the huge parking lot was carpeted with our congregants' finest rugs. Everybody, including pensioner grannies caring for their orphaned grandchildren, contributed. It was a feast of note.

In that congregation there was no discussion about whether tithing should be calculated before or after tax and I often witnessed the power of the widow's mite. My years in that wonderful community underscored what the archbishop was telling the world as he campaigned for the cancellation of the debt owed by the by the most impoverished African countries to the World Bank.  

He also argued that South Africa’s foreign and domestic debt, since it was incurred under the apartheid regime, “should be declared odious and written off”. 

An interest treadmill

Although I had been a political journalist I was surprised to learn that Africa was on an interest treadmill. Original loans had been repaid several times over. In an era when international handouts to our continent were the norm, more money was streaming out to the developed world than was coming in.

At a grass roots level I was learning that people aren't poor because they are lazy and choose to be.

Ordination
My ordination date galloped closer, there were stoles and to be designed and clerical shirts to be tailored. Invitations to print and distribute (Okay, I'll admit I was still a bit of a kugel.) 

St Mary's Cathedral

Buses were hired to take my congregants to St Mary's Cathedral in Johannesburg's city centre. Another was hired to transport my rather nervous white friends and family to the after party. They had to be convinced that they would emerge  from the township alive, their jewellery and handbags intact. (The effects of segregation were insidious and still are.)

Thank goodness those of us who were to be deaconed were placed in a conducted silent retreat at St Benedict's. I stepped off the merry-go-round into the oasis where I had first received my calling, where I was now a tertiary. It was a profound experience. 

I felt loved by God, loved by the nuns who I had grown close to, loved by my parish, my friends and my family. 

So often people who know I only really became a Christian at the age of 50 will comment on how I must have experienced happiness for the first time. Do they really think I was miserable until then? In fact I've been happy for most of my life. 

What I did experience at my ordination was unprecedented joy. Except for one small problem, I wore my mother's pearls for the service and, as we prostrated ourselves for the long litany, those damn beads really hurt - a touch of reality. 

Advice: Don't do this wearing a string of pearls!

PS: See my guest blog on TheologyMix 
http://theologymix.com/biblical-interpretation/its-time-for-christian-women-to-lean-in/

DON'T CALL THE ARCHBISHOP DOLL

The day of my interview loomed. 

Would the rector at St James in Diepkloof have me ? Was having a white, middle aged woman ordinand who needed a lot of training in keeping with his plans for the busy parish?

We set a time and he gave me directions. Along the way I took a wrong turn. No problem. Ask a policeman. 'Sure,' he said. 'Follow me.'  Which is exactly what a I did - through several suburbs. 

Sure enough we pulled up at St James but it was a Catholic Church. I explained that I was worried about being late for my important interview. 'Don't worry,' he assured. 'I'll ask another policeman.' 
Soon we were travelling through more suburbs in a convoy of two police vans and my Merc.


It proved to be third time unlucky. But, you've guessed it, we met another policeman and he had the the good sense to call my potential rector for directions. 

By now there was total buy-in to my future in the Anglican Church. I was going to be embarrassingly late so the lead van used its blue emergency lights.  I arrived at St James with three cop cars in attendance feeling like the Queen of England.

It was my first taste of what it would be like to work in Soweto. Those guys really cared.

You may recall that I had permission to only spend six months in the township but I knew there was no way I'd learn enough in that period.  Confession time. I didn't give the rector the bishop's letter which meant he could honestly say he'd never read it.

That afternoon marked the beginning of some of the best years of my life.

Another interview

There was another game changer.  

A friend in my original parish knew that I had counted among my PR clients the government of Lesotho. I'd conducted communications campaigns for two of the Mountain Kingdom's leaders besides various government departments. 

Archbishop Njongonkulu Ndungane had succeeded Desmond Tutu and needed a speech writer and media consultant. My friend recommended me.

This interview was at a classy hotel in one of Joburg's better suburbs. 

When Archbishop Ndungane was installed as archbishop one of our Sunday papers  ran a cartoon in which an extra large mitre (That high pointed headgear bishop's wear) was half way down his face. The implication being that he had a very large one to fill.  

As a huge fan of 'The Arch', as we still call the beloved Tutu, I must admit to wondering if there wasn't a great deal of truth in the cartoon. 

Archbishop Ndungane was very serious, quite shy and went to a lot of trouble explaining how the  Anglican Province of Southern Africa worked. 

While Desmond Tutu's focus had been on apartheid. His successor was deeply involved in a campaign to abolish the debt of developing countries and combating HIV/AIDS. 

He'd spent three years on Robben Island, was big on theological education and had formerly served as Bishop of Kimberly.


At one point in the interview I asked what I should call him. 'Your Grace or Archbishop.' was the reply. 

Now you have to understand that I'd been calling my chief executive clients 'doll' for years. I opted for 'Your Grace'. Initially it didn't roll off my tongue easily but growing respect helped.  

This was no Tutu. He was his own man

A hint to all ordinands, don't call your archbishop doll. It won't advance your career.

Understood by God

I got both jobs but looking back I see yet another God-incidence. 

As mentioned in my previous blog, ordinands sit at the bottom of the clerical pile. It was tough for someone who'd dealt with leaders of countries and major corporates. Archbishop Ndungane drew me into a world that included Bono, Jeffrey Sacks the world renowned economist and even (at arms length) the White House.

Bono

Prof Jeffrey Sacks

Writing speeches for him to make at the White House

                            
There was another great turnaround. 

PR practitioners have to stroke the media to get coverage for clients. I now had journalists clamouring for interviews with the Archbishop on every conceivable subject. 

Mind you, I did turn down a plea by one TV station wanting him to comment on a tagged penguin that had swum from Cape Town to Robben Island.


Indeed, working for Jongo, (which I didn't call him to his face) made my internship much easier.  Largely because I was experiencing Church in action.

I'd given up my HIV/AIDS work at the Joburg General Hospital in order to cope but  the infected and affected would remain part of my ministry. 

I cannot tell you what it meant to write speeches in which the archbishop declared 'We must shout from the roof tops that AIDS is not a sin.'  Or to be with him when the medical staff at a major AIDS research centre gave him a standing ovation.

It was the height of the AIDS pandemic and people were, as they are now, being destroyed by the stigma surrounding the immune deficiency.

A tattered spirituality

There was study, ordinand training, looking after my existing clients, working for the archbishop, serving in a new parish and finishing my house.  God was becoming a pinpoint on a distant horizon. Every now and again I'd collapse in a heap at St Benedict's, my favourite retreat house run by the Sisters of the Order of the Holy Paraclete (OHP). Filled with new resolve I'd emerge and jump straight back on my hamster wheel.

My Spiritual Director suggested that I  become an OHP tertiary. I needed the gentle, sensible, spiritual discipline. A thread to run through my perpetual busy-ness.

She knew that St Benedict, father of western monasticism, would appeal to me. He was the guy who broke ranks with the self-flagellants. Instead he embraced humanism, art and thought. His spirituality is all about balance between prayer, work and play. Hospitality is important. (Thank heavens I didn't have to give up my dinner parties.)

As a tertiary I would develop my own vows and my journey towards priesthood assumed a new rhythm and perspective. I learned to say, 'sorry I can't do that, I'm too busy.'  I knew that if God wanted me to be a priest  I would be one. 

Despite a new prayer discipline  (not too hectic but in place) my work diary worked better.

When I went through my formal discernment conference for priesthood the first question was: 'What will you do if you are rejected today?' 

The answer I once would have given (with downcast eyes) was:  'I'll accept God's will.'  Instead I was able to joke: 'I'll probably have a nervous breakdown.'  

The committee considering my physical well-being asked about my exercise regimen. I assured them that if ever I did feel that energetic, I lay down 'til the feeling passed.   

I hope St Benedict smiled when the conference voted to allow me to be ordained.  I had a permanent grin for at least a week. The ordination to the diaconate was barely two months away and I had an after party to organise. 

By then I'd learned that a genteel tea and cakes was not going to crack the nod in my new parish. Meat was essential. But I did make the awful mistake of trying to pin my darling rector down on how many to cater for. 

He kept avoiding the issue. Silly me. In Soweto you don't send invitations for an ordination party everyone is welcome (the parish roll must have had over a 1000 names). 

I had some serious shopping to do!
  

PRIDE DOES COME BEFORE A FALL

Why, you should be asking, did this arrogant self centered woman with so much to criticize stick with the Anglican Church? Back in the day I'd have called it self-confidence and a questioning mind. 

Be consoled, pride does come before a fall. 

And I'll speed up the story because if I'm getting bored with it you must be too.

To sum up. I'd discovered Gerard Hughes and the God incidence factor. I was also reading a lot of Henry Nouwen. He probably appealed to me initially because I have a partially disabled son but the professor of Divinity, priest and author would greatly deepen my understanding of communion, community and ministry.  

It was an element I was enjoying during my more frequent visits to the Benedictine retreat house. (A couple of days with the sisters, no cell phone and just my navel to contemplate was a lot more regenerative than my expensive trips to  the health farm used to be.) 

Throw in a generous dose each of Benedictine and Ignatian Spirituality  and you've got the picture. A bit of a dog's breakfast but I was loving it. 

The,  during a visit to the convent, I had one of those inexplicable lightening bolt moments. Not wanted. Not expected. 

As usual Fr Andrew, the Community of the Resurrection monk who'd introduced Open Door Retreats to South Africa, was directing my retreat. He asked me to meditate on John 21:1-17. 
I don't think I'd read it before.

If you're one of those folk who can quote the bible chapter and verse, this is your aha moment but please don't get too excited. 

For those of you who don't have retentive memories, it tells of how one night several of the disciples go fishing with Peter. Early next morning they head for the shore with empty nets.  Jesus who has made a fire on the beach, calls out and encourages them to cast their net just one more time. The net was so filled with fish they couldn't haul it into the boat so they towed it.

It's the third time Jesus appears to them after his resurrection. Peter who had denied Jesus three times before the crucifixion is now asked three time if he loves Jesus. Of course we all know the answer to that. Yes, yes and yes.  

Effectively Peter is reinstated as head of the Church and told to get on with the job. 

I had, however, read the Matthew version of this story in which Jesus tells Peter and Andrew "I will make you fishers of men." 

So I put two and two together and got five. My imagination went into overdrive.

I had this urge to walk. Which I did, round and round the garden where the butterfly had helped me believe in God. I was filled with a deep driving sense that I was being called to priesthood.  Me  of all people!!  

When I shared this with Fr Andrew he gently brought me back to reality. I'd need to discern whether I'd had my Damascus moment or if it was just wishful thinking.

If you're not Anglican, I need to explain that we believe one is called by God into a vocation. It's not just something you decide to do. 

Well, being me, I very quickly 'discerned' that God was telling me to have one last glorious go at my successful business. I'd make enough money to be a full time self-supporting priest and probably be the first woman bishop in southern Africa. I'd fill his emptying churches.

What an idiot!

MADIBA ON THE LINE

One of several Twitter responses to my previous post was a suggestion from the blogger of ‘Afropomorphism’ http://t.co/C3wLGbjp7B that my deep sense of God as I watched a butterfly emerge from a cocoon had been triggered by my own bias.



That brought me up short. Here I was sharing my Damascus moment and the suggestion was that the experience was about wishful thinking! The again, my post had been how we shape God to our own purposes. I began to respond to my challenger with ‘possibly’ but changed that to ‘probably’.

The ultimate bias
Any atheist worth her salt will tell you that personal experience is the ultimate bias. As such it is the hardest to overcome. If something is real to you, and you feel you’ve experienced it directly, it can be more persuasive than a million scientific studies. Of course there’s always Gerard Hughes’ sage comment that God is not explainable, an enigma. That we find God through experience not Church dogma.

His theory was that, instead of God asking us why we had committed certain sins, the first question when we arrived at heaven would be; ‘Did you enjoy my creation?’



Fr Gerry also said too many spiritual books were destructive and an easy way to make money: ‘There are lots of beautiful words. God is here ......., so all will be well. Just trust, they [readers] are told. Trust in what? Just trust in what I am telling you is the message. There is very little attempt to encourage people to listen to their own experience, to discover things for themselves.’

Whatever it was, that experience in my garden meditation triggered a deep awe. In an inexplicable way I had sensed a Creator with a capital C as opposed to ‘a greater impersonal force’, ‘the super being’. Architects will tell you God is in the details. I agree.

There I was, more attuned to shopping malls than nature. One who chose to stay at the holiday cottage and read a book while others walked along the beach.



I identified birds as brown, white or black jobs and confused Egyptian Geese with ducks.



My bias in those days would have leaned towards an epiphany with more drama. At the very least a lightning bolt.

Ah well, I’ve since learned to take my miracles, my God incidences, where I find them.

Yin and yang
That retreat was all about taking time out to allow my yin and my yang to connect, slowly edging towards a semblance of spiritual balance. No. I wasn’t ‘reborn’ or filled with mystical joy. But I left the convent in the beginnings of a relationship with my Creator.

Even if you are not all that keen on God I can recommend a couple of days in a monastery or a convent to busy executives. It’s a lot cheaper than a health spa. Besides, there’s no TV, cell phones, no one to impress. You’ll be left to your own devices if that’s what you want. It’s a little like being on a desert island.

The convent I visited is in Rosettenville, Johannesburg, an oasis in a not very posh suburb. The nuns have since either died or returned to their mother House in Whitby, England, but it is still an Anglican retreat house.

Back in my day, as grandmother used to say, it was much favoured by bishops and archbishops for their retreats, including our beloved Desmond Tutu. 

There’s a lovely story about one of his stays. The nuns had gone out to dinner and Jackie, a tiny ferociously Anglican housekeeper, saw no need to answer the phone. After all, the guests, including The Arch, were all on silent retreat and not taking calls.

When a monk from the monastery across the road came across to tell her that State President Nelson Mandela was desperately trying to get hold of the archbishop Jackie was adamant. “No. He is in silence.” Eventually the monk persuaded her to leave the decision to The Arch and to ask him to be close to the phone when Madiba’s office called.



The phone was just off the kitchen and as The Arch waited Jackie showed her disapproval, as was her wont, by scrubbing the floor around his feet.

The following day the monk gently suggested that the Sister in Charge should explain to Jackie that the State President was very important. This she duly did but wasn’t sure if Jackie fully understood. So she asked, “Do you understand how important Mr Mandela is?’’

“No he’s not,” Jackie retorted, "he’s just a Methodist!”

Speaking of The Arch, he is in hospital for a persistent infection but the family assures that he is improving. You may want to pray for him and them.

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?

SORRY HELL’S ANGELS BUT….

 Okay, so Alpha ended with me barely noticing. I was hurtling towards a destination I wasn’t sure I wanted to arrive at. After all, I was happy, successful and single. Why rock the boat?

But curiosity killed the cat. It can also change your life.

By the time Alpha ended I’d recovered from the shock of turning 50. The crematorium was fading into the distance. The urgency for taking out a heavenly insurance policy was fading.

At least at this stage I knew what I didn’t want. Topping the list was a chocolate-box Jesus looking like an Englishman in a nativity play. The model for soap powder ads. The ultra-white version who still holds sway in many township churches. (Tell some folk the historic Jesus had an olive skin as well as a prominent nose and they cringeJ.)

Fortunately my avid reading revealed a Jesus I was warming to.  I liked the man who knew the difference between quality and lousy wine. (Remember I was in PR, that first miracle was invaluable branding.) I was impressed by a guy who spoke truth to power, got seriously irritated, wept and attended dinner parties. I loved that he ignored class and cultural differences. 

Mind you, I wasn’t ready to go the ‘Jesus on a Harley’ route – it was only when I became chaplain to a bike club many years later that that image could work.

With Alpha behind me I finally hit the main road to Damascus.

At that time my spiritual director and her husband launched the first Open Door Retreat at the parish and invited me to participate. I’d got used to giving up one evening a week for Alpha so I reasoned ‘what the hell’ and signed on. 

Introduced to South Africa by Father Andrew, a CR monk, the retreats were designed for people too busy to actually take time out at a retreat house or with a religious community. They are based  on the spiritual exercises of St Ignatius  and  the format is very much about finding God in the hurly burly and realities of your own life. Praying as one can, not as one can’t.

For me it turned out to be much praying in the bath and not worrying about what Jesus could see.

Open Door groups range between 12 and seven and the retreat runs for nine consecutive weeks. You are given 15 minute daily spiritual exercise. For example, in the first week we were asked to take special notice of God’s loving creation. While the others took walks, gardened and made trips out of town, I invested in a pair of binoculars and checked out the large tree at the bottom of my garden – wine glass on hand. 

It worked for me. As did experiencing religion/spirituality within a real life context. It says something that of our group of seven 3 became  priests (including me!)

This brings me to something I come across quite a lot. The perception that God needs to be approached like an eastern potentate - crawling on our knees, beating our breasts. An extrovert bishop once shared with me how he felt far holier at a school assembly of 1000 boys than in solitude. I can identify. Felt it at a U2 concert in Cape Town.

Of course it’s imperative to make space and time for prayer and self-audits. As Dag Hammerskjold, former UN Secretary-General, pointed out, ‘an un-reflected life is a wasted life.’  But time is a precious commodity which makes the gym, the loo and your local coffee shop all okay. Whatever rocks your boat.

I’d love your comments. I notice most readers respond on my Facebook page and that’s also very welcome. Some, I suspect don’t respond because you are asked to ‘sign on’. That’s just to filter out weirdos, your information is not passed to marketers.