Experiencing the Methodist Church Across South Africa

I just got back from a few days exploring other parts of South Africa, and what a joy to be received by Methodist Churches across the country! In Johannesburg, I met up with Shirley, who I became friends with during our first few days at Seth Mokitimi Methodist Seminary (see my first post for more about that.) Shirley was preaching on the Sunday I was in town, so, I got to hear her preach a wonderful sermon on Naboth’s vineyard in her home church of Pimville Methodist in Soweto. Preaching in English and Sesotho, with translation into Xhosa, she shared a message of the need for Christians to say “We are not for sale.” She reminded us not to give in to greed, but to remember we are made in God’s image. Shirley and Vuyikaso, another seminarian from SMMS, also showed us some of the historic places in Soweto, including a memorial museum to the 16 June 1976 youth protests. (me, Vuyikaso, Shirley and Ryan and I are pictured there at right) And Shirley’s mom cooked us one of the best meals I’ve had here in South Africa!

I also spent a couple days in Cape Town, where I visited Central Methodist Mission, where Alan Storey is pastor. Although he was away, I met Ivan Millwood (see picture above) who shared about the history and current mission projects of CMM as well as of Buitenkant Methodist. Buitenkant, just a few blocks away in the famous District 6 (whose museum it now houses), was the church for the people who were categorized as “coloured.” Ivan was a member there before moving to CMM when the two churches merged a few years ago and spoke about some of the tense times and various protests and demonstrations in which he and other church members had participated. Throughout both of these visits, it was a great privilege to hear about events I’ve read about from people who lived through them. I’ve also been re-reading With God in The Crucible (by Peter Storey) which has sermons that speak about each of these places, and it has been powerful to experience these places and to think of his powerful words of hope spoken during some of their more grim history. What a prophetic witness he offered—I am amazed at the truth of the Gospel that rang through and the way God’s kingdom is continuing to unfold, just as he said.

Forced Dependence

Kathy Randall: Lela, Kenya
For my entire life, I have been fiercely independent. I can do it all
by myself, thank you very much, if it's fixing something, finding
something, or going somewhere new. If I don't know it already, I can
learn it myself, and I can figure out how to find the answer. I am a
new American girl, and we can do it.
In Kenya, this independence will only kill you. As one who does not
understand the culture, and cannot possibly see all the subtleties of
a situation, if you try to do it your way all the time, it just will
not get done. Healthy, it is easy to think that there are some things
that I can do myself, especially since I have over a year and a half
experience in the country. But when I am sick, I am forced to depend
on those around me. I have to listen to those who have taken it upon
themselves to care for me. Twice now, I have been to the hospital,
eight days apart, because I was truly sick. My "light was gone" from
my eyes and my face. We had to go there to see a doctor, run labs, and
get prescriptions. Twice now, it has been the same man to drive me.
Charles, a member of the Kenyan Umoja board, has a car, and has been
kind enough to take me the hour drive into Kisumu.
In October, Peter Storey asked me where I saw Christ in others. I
didn't have a good answer then, more because I had been so stuck on
surviving independently in Kenya the first time, that I didn't have a
good way of approaching the way I was ministering. Here, blessedly, I
have not been so independent. As a perpetual guest for seven weeks
straight, it forces me to receive hospitality, when I am much more
used to giving it, rather than receiving it.
A dependence on others is the necessity in ministry, regardless of
which country it happens to occur in. Working in ministry, a pastor
can try to do things herself, and things may seem to work for a while,
but the spark in the fire will soon grow dim, and all energy will go
to keeping the embers lit, consuming the pastor, and then smothering
the flame.
In ministry, as we look for Christ in others, we can also be Christ
for them. Renée pointed out that so many times we are focused on the
giving portion of reaching the lonely, imprisoned, hungry, and sick;
being Christ to them as we serve. Sometimes, though, we have to
receive this care, as the lonely, imprisoned, hungry, and sick, and be
the one that are Christ for others to serve. This has been a very
difficult lesson to learn, and it has taken two rounds of getting laid
flat on my back sick for a couple of days to learn. I cannot do
everything myself. I couldn't before, the fact has just now been
emblazoned in my being.
One thing I noticed, as I have been communicating by text to my
friends and family, that my predictive text program on my phone
recognizes serving and resting as the same keystrokes. How perfect. Of
course, once I am well, I will continue to work and go out to learn
more about these fascinating and amazing people with whom I have the
privilege to live. But for now, as I rest, I will receive the gift of
depending on these who have been placed in my life at this time to
care for me, so I can learn from them.

Kenyan Roulette

Kathy Randall: Lela Station, Maseno Division, Kenya
Meals, served at a Kenyan table, are generally brought in heat keeping
thermos like bowls. You never know what is in the three to seven bowls
until the prayers are given and dinner is open. Generally the ugali
will be out, served on a plate like a huge cake of twice thick grits,
but sometimes even that is hidden. It is like a treasure hunt, seeing
what is on the table.
There is, however, an element of danger in each meal served. It could
be that what is under one of those innocent lids is something that you
don't want to eat. A rare occasion for me, but it still occurs. And
then there is the fact that the hidden things, the things that you can
never see with the naked eye might be hiding in any of these dishes,
or even on the serving utensils, or in the ubiquitous cups of chai.
In my time here, I am now in my second round of losing at Kenyan
Roulette. I don't know what it is this time, all I know is that I hurt
and feel weak. Again, I'm glad it is me, and not my teammates. I've
been sick in this country before, so I should be used to it, but I'm
not very good at being sick, I'm a horrible patient. So. We'll see.
Pray that maybe I won't lose at the next round.

Tentmakers in Kenya

Kathy Randall: Grail Centre, Daraja Mbili, Kenya
This past week I have lived in a community house of lay women who have
taken a vow to live in community and service. The week didn't begin so
well, because I was ill, but then I revived, and was able to learn
exactly where I was and how they do their work and service.
One of their services to the community is a community college,
basically a technical school. There they offer courses in basic
instruction in computer use, tailoring and dressmaking, and motorbike
maintenance. These courses are offered at a low cost to the
surrounding rural community, students who have found that they need
further skills before they can enter the workforce.
I met with the computer class yesterday. All the students have
completed secondary school, so they are fluent in English. We talked
about life skills, integrity, and what to do as an upright citizen in
a corrupt system. They were good to talk to, and once I had been
speaking for a while they really opened up to conversation.
The man who teaches tailoring is also an interesting person. I had
asked about getting a dress made, and he was the one recommended. So I
went to meet Simon.
Simon has been partnering with the Grail for 3 years, as a teacher to
those learning tailoring. He told me how much fabric I needed, and
where to get it in Kisumu. Then I brought the material in, and he
proceeded to make me my Kitenge. My traditional Kenyan dress. It looks
great.
After he had made it, I continued to speak to him. Simon is not only a
tailor and a teacher, but he also is a pastor in training. We spoke
about our calls to ministry, and were able to encourage each other in
our pursuit of our respective calls. As I was leaving, I told him he
was like Paul, a tentmaker, or tailor, who also spreads God's word.

Hospitality in the Hospital

Kathy Randall: Kisumu, Kenya
Friday a week ago was not my best day in Kenya. It began well, a phone
call for a birthday, but when I hung up I had to make a choo stop. And
I realized I was unwell. I was supposed to be preaching again, like
the previous day, but I quickly realized that I could not do that. I
could barely stand. I could not look at food. Not a good condition to
have anywhere, but especially on a day when you are supposed to be
moving. I had my things packed, living out of a suitcase facilitates
easy packing. And my host and organizer arrived, Ibrahim, a great
resource for Umoja, to bring me and my things to the pastor's house,
originally so my luggage could wait there while I was preaching at the
community group, now just so I could await the next plan. Thankfully,
the pastor had the wisdom to but me in a room away from the bustle of
the house, and I laid there, my temperature rising, strength leaving,
until Ibrahim arrived with a Sprite, and the drive to call our
director, Joseph, and say that I needed to go to the hospital.
I knew I didn't need to go. I never go to the hospital. But then he
began to tell me the symptoms of malaria, and my temperature was at
least two degrees above normal, and I thought that it would not be a
bad idea. Just in case.
First, though, I had to get to my new homestay. This involved Ibrahim
and a helper to carry my luggage. I may have packed relatively
lightly, but I could not have carried my things this day. We went to
the main road, intending to pick a Matatu, but luckily someone was
leaving the compound and going our direction, and had three seats
open. So we were able to be dropped at Daraja Mbili (literally: two
bridges. Only one remains, but the name hasn't changed). We then had
to walk up the hill and up to the grail centre. Only by force of drive
was I able to make this walk, it is either a quarter or a half of a
kilometer, the signs say both, but it was enough to wear me out
completely.
Finally, Charles, one of the pastors on our board, arrived, and
proceeded to take me into the hospital in Kisumu. The Aga Khan is the
private hospital run by the Islamic foundation in the area, and is the
best hospital in Kisumu. In two hours, I saw a doctor, had labs drawn,
was given a place to lie down because they didn't want me to faint on
them, my BP was 100/36, received the lab results from the doctor,
prescriptions, and had them filled. It was approximately from the
beginning to the end of the second USA world cup game. I left, $42
poorer, but in possession of drugs for my amoebas and bacteria
invading my body, and some pain pills to ease the back spasms I'd been
having for the past three days. Not bad, not bad. I drank water and
ate the next day. And now I am all better.

The 2010 FIFA World Cup is HERE!

Sunday, June 13; Pinetown Methodist Church, Durban, South Africa

What an exciting time to be in South Africa! Football Fridays reached their peak this Friday, with almost everyone I saw wearing a yellow Bafana Bafana shirt to support the South African national team. The church office and many businesses closed early so that everyone could be home to watch the 2010 FIFA World Cup Opening Ceremony at 2. People have been waiting for this moment for 6 years, since it was announced in May 2004 that South Africa would host the first World Cup on African soil. Friday’s ceremony was beautiful, featuring music from South Africa and other African nations, traditional and modern dancing, colorful fabrics arranged in to the shapes of Africa, the world, and the FIFA 2010 logo, and of course the loud sounds of the fans blowing their vuvuzelas.

(Vuvuzelas are plastic horns popular at soccer games, as seen in this picture showing the students and teachers cheering on the students playing in an inter-house “mini World Cup” at Pinetown’s John Wesley School on 4 June. The sound of vuvuzelas has been a constant here the last few weeks!)

After the opening ceremony, everyone rallied to support South Africa in the opening game against Mexico. When Tshabalala scored South Africa’s only goal, you could feel the excitement erupting across the country. The soccer fever has spread to everyone. Today, Pinetown Methodist kicked off a World Cup Soccer sermon series. Everyone was encouraged to wear soccer shirts to church. At the earlier services, Pastor Ulinda Pembrooke talked about the importance of goals, both on and off the field, in the world and in the our spiritual lives. I preached at the 11 o’clock service, which is conducted in isiZulu (although I was speaking in English!) A common theme was that this soccer event has truly served to unite us. Ulinda said she had a feeling on Friday similar to how she felt during the election in 1994. The World Cup has brought people together again, made them proud to be South African, and proud to welcome the world to this beautiful country. Nkosi sikelel' iAfrika (God bless Africa) and all the peoples of the world, especially during this time when all the world is focused on South Africa for this wonderful World Cup.

Keeping the Balance

Laura Beach, Pinetown Methodist Church, South Africa, 5 June 2010

What a good Wesleyan service we had last Sunday--the sermon series was on Luke, and we were looking at both the Good Samaritan and the Mary and Martha stories. The preacher then used this to speak about the necessary balance between service and worship. Our Christian lives are expressions of both mercy and devotion, works of charity and works of piety. Since I have been in Pinetown, I have been able to experience both of these aspects—worship and fellowship group Bible studies, as well as the amazing outreach ministries of Phakamisa, Sizanani, Vuleka Trust, Valley Trust, and many more. I can’t wait to be more involved in all of these!

On 4 June, I had the honor of being the guest speaker for Vuleka Trust’s “Courageous Conversations” at Koinonia Conference and Retreat Center (pictured). It was a perfect setting for talking about the covenantal relationship between God, land, and people. It was cool to be able to share some of what I’ve learned from Dr. Ellen Davis, knowing that she will be lecturing in Pietermaritzburg in November. For my part, I shared some of how I’ve come to understand these connections through my work with Cedar Grove UMC and its ministry at Anathoth Garden. I also talked about the need for realizing the balance between focusing on our relationships with God, people, and land, since they are all connected and hold us in the center in tension.

But the best part of the evening was the conversation that followed, as we gathered around the fire to share a simple meal of vegetable soup and bread. The people there came from widely varying backgrounds and this made the conversation very interesting. While some people were talking about simplifying their lives and reconnecting with nature, others were bold enough to say that they really could not find comfort in natural things, and sometimes even found it difficult to go to church, because of all the problems at home. This kept the discussion from being too idealistic, a problem that seems common when speaking in liberal, privileged circles. It made me realize how important the human community aspect is—we must take care of each other and the rest of creation—not just one or the other. I hope I continue to be challenged to stretch my thinking on these issues as I keep encountering and learning from people here who don’t see things the same way I do.

Redneck Shamba Worker

Kathy Randall: Lela, Maseno Division, Kenya
I am a redneck.
Literally.
I am now the proud displayer of a thoroughly bright burned red neck.
Proud? You might ask. Yes. Proud. Because I worked hard to earn this
red neck. I mean, yeah, it hurts, but it was worth it.
So, here's how it happened. We are staying at a very (very) generous
local woman's house. This fireball of a woman, Margaret, is a leader
in her community, organizing numerous programs such as caring for
orphans and the sick and guiding the area to a consensus to have
running water to every property. She is a brave woman. Her husband
travels and she invites various westerners to live in her house
(including some very strange divinity students).
On Monday she invited the three girls to come help her in her shamba.
"It is very far." [In Kenya, you never really know how far is far
exactly. It could be anywhere from a twenty minute walk to a
treacherous eight (or fourteen) hour drive.] We did not know quite
what we had gotten ourselves into. But we gathered our water bottles
and ventured out into the field.
A brief note: on Sunday evening and into the night, it rained heavily.
Stormed, actually. The roads, already packed red dirt, have the
amazing tendency to turn to slippery mud. But it drains amazingly well
here, considering the closest tarmac is at least a mile or two away.
We waited for the sun to come out and dry up most of the mud, and
amazingly, it did. Sure there were puddles, and sure I managed to dip
my toes inadvertently into the muck before we got out of sight of the
house, but it was not too bad of a start. As we walked on dirt paths
in single file, conversations caught and lost as we spread out and
came closer together on our journey through the Kenyan countryside.
These dirt paths are just wide enough for one person to walk, mostly
one foot in front of the other, narrower than paths on the AT, but
just as muddy in some places. At one point we came out to the
railroad, and walked along the metal crossties cast in 1962. We took
the long way around because the main road was "very bad."
At one point, we came to an outlet from the footpath to a road, but at
the entry to the road the path was eroded, swamped, and basically an
eight foot long puddle in a trench. But, industrious us gathered
stones, and Mama Margaret in her gumboots (rainboots for us) placed
them at step long distances so that we could cross over the expanse of
mud to reach the road. Then we climbed a rocky hill, jumped a few
ditches, passed schools and homes and trees, and came to the red roof
that Margaret had pointed out across the valley when we were on the
rails. After an hour, we had finally arrived at her shamba. Yes. It
was far. And we hadn't even started working yet!
Margaret had bought into a program introducing some new plants into
the area. Imagine my surprise when I saw that the delicious snow peas
and sugar snaps came from her garden! We received a basic primer on
how to pick the peas, and bent to our work, working up and down the
lines of the crop staked to the hill. Back bent to the work of moving
leaves aside to pick the peas that were the proper size, we continued
to fill the sack, and work on in our labors. One of Margaret's workers
found us later, and worked on beside us, together we gathered over
nine kgs of peas. Two hours work for five people. Every Monday and
Friday Margaret and her crew come to gather their crops, and then they
bring them to the collector who pays either fifty or eighty shillings
per kg (she's not sure). In US terms: that's sixty-six cents to a
dollar and six cents. At most, that is eight and a half dollars for
our two hours of work. These peas will be frozen immediately and
shipped to be sold in a supermarket in England. "Home Grown" indeed.
They are sweet, but I'm not so sure it is fair trade. (Margaret is not
suffering for it, but it is a lot of work.)
Then we had to carry it back. Laura placed the large bag (at least ten
pounds) on her head, and managed to walk Kenyan momma style all the
way back to the house, with only one half slip and usually not even
touching it with her hands. Famished, we ate our lunch, and then took
"showers" (cold bucket baths). That was when I found that I had missed
a spot or two when I put on sunscreen. Granted, I did not know that I
was going to be working or walking outside for four hours when I
started, but I should have known better. I am practically on the
equator anyway. I still have a vibrant red neck. But our peas tonight
were so fabulously scrumptious.

Into the Field

Kathy Randall: Lela, Maseno Division, Kenya
Growing up as a Preacher's Daughter, I have had the opportunity to go
to many funerals and interments. I became accustomed to the routine of
visitation, service, and driving out to the cemetery with the hearse
leading the way. My mother would have us stand at the edges of the
crowd, respectfully silent, even if we did not directly know the
deceased. Today, I was present at my first burial.
Our team arrived to our first homestay yesterday, knowing that today
would be our chance to observe (and participate) in a local burial
service. Last night we went to sleep listening to the amplified
recordings broadcast from the house behind our host's where the wake
was taking place. This morning, we watched our host and a score of
mamas preparing the meal that would be served after the service.
Around ten in the morning, we heard the beginning of the testimonies
of those who knew Susana.
Susana was a grandmother suffering from AIDS. Our director, Ellen
Daniels-Howell, had met her once before, and learned some of her
story. Susana and her daughter-in-law lived in their clay house with
the tin roof, working in their shamba (field), raising maize and peas
and other subsistence goods, struggling to survive. The
daughter-in-law (also sick, also a widow) will have to leave the
house, since the property is not traditionally hers. Unfortunately,
our team did not have the opportunity to meet Susana, but we did honor
her today by our presence at her burial.
We went out her backyard around noon, to go observe and listen to the
testimonies. This tradition of eulogy is continuous, with anyone who
desires to speak about the deceased approaches the microphone and
extemporizes for a unset period of time. When we arrived, we were
found seats in the shade, (with the ubiquitous KenPoly chairs), and we
settled down to see what we could see and hear what we might hear.
We listened to the Dhluo testimonies, with periodic spurts of singing
and clapping, watching the crowd grow and watch us. We estimate that
at least three hundred mourners showed up to show their respects for
Susana. After three hours of sitting and watching, we were told that
we should go take our offering up under the tent. We queued with our
shilling notes in hand, and entered the tent. Shuffling and humming
along to the a capella choir, we approached the place where we were to
deposit our offering. The black plastic bowl was placed on the lace
covering the coffin, directly next to the small plexiglass window
directly over Susana's face, allowing us to see her face, preserved in
death.
We returned briefly to our seats in the shade, but soon our guide told
us to come get behind the choir, again inside the tent. We gathered
again, not really knowing exactly what was about to happen (a common
occurrence here). Soon, we began to sing, and move forward in a long
train toward the shamba off to the side. The coffin followed us
closely as we came up to the grave already dug deep.
We continued to sing, and the preachers read from their service books,
and then four young men jumped into the hole, to receive the coffin,
to lower it down to the bottom of the hole. After they lowered it in,
and jumped back out, the preacher shoveled a spade of red clay onto
the lace covered coffin, with the appropriate words (presumably. I
don't know for sure since they, as the complete rest of the service,
were spoken in Dhluo). We prayed. As we continued to sing, the spade
and two hoes were taken up to completely fill in the grave as we
remained standing around the quickly shallowing grave.
Many hands make short work, the young men rotating between the tools
taking a five foot hill and a five foot hole to level ground in about
fifteen minutes. As they worked, periodically ringing the tools
together to shake off packed clay, spare stalks of the maize from the
field Susana is now buried in came in with the dirt. As the hill
vanished, the crowd closed in around the newly covered grave, and a
final chorus was sung. "Going home to Jerusalem" hope and expectation
gathering in as we closed the service with a final prayer.
In all of my experience of Interments, the burying part is the one
that is hidden from view, not part of our cultural experience. Here,
in Kenya, we waited to see the whole process, so that we could be
assured that each this was indeed a circumstance when we enter our
deceased into the fertile soil. To be buried in your own field, out of
necessity or poetry, seems fitting, especially here where their lives
are so closely linked with this land.

Behind the Screens

Kathy Randall: Kisumu, Kenya.
It seems so familiar here. It is as if I had never been gone, and
everything is just the same as I had remembered from my time before,
three years ago. But there are things, details small and large, that
show that this is a town, a city, a country which has changed, and the
scars are trying so hard to fade in to the background.
Up at the top of the hill on the main road leading out of Kisumu, just
above the roundabout encircling the statue which looks out over Lake
Victoria, is a huge screen banner for The Nation, one of the national
newspapers. A photograph of Nelson Mandela, and a flip clock showing
the year date of 1991. "We were there" is emblazoned in large letters
over the man who helped bring peace to South Africa. Peace indeed.
This piece of history is hiding evidence. Behind this screen is the
burned out husk of a supermarket store where I had shopped during my
last stay in Kenya.
During the violence following the presidential election of December
17, 2007, riots erupted across the country, mobs overtook the
previously peaceful country, and places like this supermarket were
looted and destroyed. Angry men carrying pieces of tarmac torn from
the already washboard roads stormed through the shops of tailors,
carpenters, and craftsmen.
I was not here to see it. But as I said, I can see the scars. Yes,
they are healing, and Kenya is making strides to a healthier nation.
But still there are pieces which have not returned to the way they
used to be. Perhaps they won't. Perhaps they shouldn't. I hope that we
can learn from the scars here, and learn how to live and make peace in
this place.
That is what Umjoa Project is working towards. Through helping orphans
and vulnerable children by feeding them and allowing for support for
them to attend school, Umoja is helping educate those who will lead
Kenya. The hope of Kenya lies in its children.

visit to Seth Mokitimi Methodist Seminary

Laura Beach, SMMS, Pietermaritzburg, SA 27 May, 2010

Photo caption: Some students from SMMS took us on a tour to see some important sites around Pietermaritzburg. This is the monument at the place near Howick were Nelson Mandela was arrested on 5 August, 1962. Pictured (L-R) are Laura Beach, Isidro Cutane, Bonnie Scott, Ryan Spurrier, Neil Vels, Gale Kganyape, Dewey Williams, Dylan, and Thuso Manamela.

What a joy to have our first experience of South Africa be with the Seth Mokitimi Methodist Seminary (SMMS), with whom Duke has a covenant relationship. We are staying on campus with the seminarians and it has been wonderful to hear their stories and receive their warm hospitality. I have been especially inspired by conversations with some of the women here at SMMS. One woman, Shirley, talked about doing her internship in East Cape (internships here are for a year, and as intern you are a full-time pastor). Being from Johannesburg and speaking Sesotho, it was quite an adjustment to go to a rural, Xhosa speaking community. Shirley, however, wanted to be able to preach without a translator, so she read the Xhosa Bible and worked very hard to practice and learn to speak, and by Easter (3 months later) she preached in Xhosa! Hearing this story, I thought, wow, this is exactly the kind of radical love that we are called to practice—this is what Dr. Jennings was talking about in BCS 125!

Worship has been a highlight of our time here—with beautiful singing in Zulu and Xhosa and English and some amazing preaching. We also have seen the sights of Pietermaritzburg and visited the seminary’s new campus, which is under construction. It quite impressive, with lots of open spaces, large classrooms, and plans for a vegetable garden, where seminarians can receive training that they can use in ministry. I wish we could set up an exchange semester through DDS =)