Hey Gang,
I just returned from a chilly stint in the Bulwer Circuit of the Methodist Church of South Africa. I stayed in the small rural village of Impendle serving over 35 small congregations as a circuit minister. Below is a reflection on my experiences.
Silent Shout
Interesting how the insight gained from one reflection sets the table for fresh experiences. Last time I recounted my struggles to accept the space of silence as a means to properly align my service. I spent a considerable time listening and watching without much hands on family fun ministry experience. This came to be a blessing as I realized that in my quiet posture God was speaking to me of what it takes to be Christian community. One must have a willingness to serve in any capacity without expectation or run the risk as I did to feel undervalued and misplaced. This is of course pride blurring the reality of God's grand design, yet, I recognize in the moment it can be a hard thing to grasp. I am thankful for that illumination in my life and renewed perspective on what it means to be called servant. So, just as I was settling into that role, of course I would find myself in the deep end of the Bulwer Circuit leading services and assisting with communion. Truly the Lord works in mysterious ways.
The transition was not a complete 180, however, with me at the forefront of revolutionary tent revivals or establishing state of the art ecclesial structures. The Bulwer Circuit is a rural Zulu community stretching for kilometers into the foothills of the Drakensberg Mountains. Essentially, my culture experience revolved around a predominately black community that spoke Zulu or Xhosa. English was not a guaranteed at any location and for most of my visitations the only language spoken was not my own. I resided for just over two weeks in the tiny village of Impendle, where the only white individuals in the area were my fellow Duke students. I represented less than 1/2% of the population. I cannot describe the sensation of walking by myself early in the morning to meet Reverend Victor, senior pastor on the circuit, and see no other white faces. I was not frightened or alarmed, fearing that my next skip over a dusty road pothole might be my last. I bring this to the forefront of conversation for the simple fact that this had never been the case before. I had never been a minority in any real sense of the word. I grew up in the United States where whites are still the majority, yet here, for the first time, I found myself the extreme outsider in a sea of normality. I encountered mothers walking their children to school and elderly women carrying logs on their heads back to their huts in order to stoke a fire for warmth all stopping to look at the tall white American in a preaching collar and jacket. I was asked many questions in Zulu, requiring me to politely indicate I did not speak the native tongue. All that was left were hearty handshakes and smiles, hospitality extended without words.
The emotions I experienced due to a complete detachment form recognizable American cultural comforts feel to me like a reflection genesis point for understanding how apartheid affected South Africans. I say this delicately and carefully so as to not over sensationalize my experience. I encountered nothing close to the political and economical isolation forced on blacks by the ruling white regime. I was surrounded by warmth and greetings welcoming me into a society not my own. I speak of this as a genesis point because in many ways the experience does take some getting used too. I was in more than favorable circumstances and still found myself adrift in a foreign culture desperate to get my legs under for fear of being swept away. How much more the apartheid forced relocation must have affected so many South Africans. I imagine it to be a magnification of my small irritation to find the bathroom to entire communities desperate to hold onto cultural identities amid geographic relocation. As I walked the streets of Impendle, apartheid became less of a historical event to write term papers on in history class and become more a multifaceted reality affecting all senses. I still have much to learn and experience before I can claim to be close to understanding what South Africans endured during apartheid, but I take heart in the small revelation given to me by God in the clear morning air of Bulwer's rolling hills.
From all my experiences listed above the primary emotion that lingers after my time in Bulwer is hope that our societies may once again be reunited. This process depends on the place and circumstances. This process will be challenging and difficult. This process cannot be completed by human agency but will only find resolution in the direct involvement of a sovereign God. When I speak of hope, I speak of the hope found in the atoning sacrifice of Jesus Christ and the bleeding heart of our Savior desiring communities to reconcile, beating the weapons of hate into plowshares ready to harvest the fruit of the kingdom. I saw this in Pastor Victor who visited aging church members too feeble to make it for services, delivering communion and the gift of presence. I saw it in the eyes of shrunken wrinkled faces startled by the presence of white ministers, yet soundly appreciative of our presence. I offered many prayers in English and only two families could understand my words. Most we visited got nothing from eloquent prose or our seminarian tongues. The gratitude came from the simple fact that we entered their huts and broke bread with them. In essence, gratitude sprung from the formation of Christian community.
The longer I spent in Impendle, the less awkward and out of place I felt. My initial feelings of discomfort and temporary isolation gave way to genuine love for my neighbors. Discomfort became joy and hesitation became renewed strength. The answer to hate will always be love. In order to love we must embrace our concurrent human condition and remember that Christian community must include all communities. Hate prevails when we fail to remember that the forms we pass by on the roadside unheeded, have beautiful souls yet undiscovered. I had no voice these last two weeks. I was not readily understand, but I was readily accepted. Truly such relationships cannot be far from the kingdom of God.
Until we blog again,
Jamison
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