Note the date--this is a reflection from last Wednesday, the day after the experience on which my last reflection was based.

June 15, 2005

Luke 19:1-10 He entered Jericho and was passing through it. A man was there named Zacchaeus; he was a chief tax collector and was rich. He was trying to see who Jesus was, but on account of the crowd he could not, because he was short in stature. So he ran ahead and climbed a sycamore tree to see him, because he was going to pass that way.  When Jesus came to the place, he looked up and said to him, "Zacchaeus, hurry and come down; for I must stay at your house today." So he hurried down and was happy to welcome him.  All who saw it began to grumble and said, "He has gone to be the guest of one who is a sinner." Zacchaeus stood there and said to the Lord, "Look, half of my possessions, Lord, I will give to the poor; and if I have defrauded anyone of anything, I will pay back four times as much." Then Jesus said to him, "Today salvation has come to this house, because he too is a son of Abraham.  For the Son of Man came to seek out and to save the lost."

      I met Glenda this morning as the Phakamisa ladies processed out of devotion.  I had intended to go back today, but got caught up and did not make it.  I was to go with Glenda around to visit some of the centers (Educare Centers) where Phakamisa trainees were teaching the preschool aged kids, and to visit the Gogos who were caring for the orphans, as well as, in many ways, the whole communities where they lived.  We got in the car, and made our way toward the townships.  Glenda told us about the morning’s devotion.  Today’s topic seemed to be mostly about rape.  One woman told the story of a 3 year old who had been orphaned first by her mother and father, then her aunt, and was now left with a grandfather, who was raping her.  There is an urban legend that raping a virgin is a cure for AIDS, so rape is common among the children here.  The women from the community report on it at Phakamisa, but in most cases there is no way to stop it.  Another told of a taxi driver (Taxis are the primary mode of transport here for those in the townships.  Taxis here are mini-buses that seat maybe 12-15 and are quite hazardous to ride in or encounter as a driver on the road) who has been raping a class of mentally challenged children who take his taxi to school every morning.  The women were dropping their children off in the morning at the taxi stop--then the taxi driver proceeded to drive them into the bush, have his way, and drop them back off, threatening them so the mothers were none the wiser.  Each story, told second hand, was like someone punching me in the stomach.  Glenda told us of a 5 year old who had been orphaned by his mother, then father, then aunt, and finally grandmother.  He had cared for all of them, hauling water back and forth and scrounging for food when they were in their last days (take a look a few lines above and recall his age).  The Educare teacher from Phakamisa went to look for him when he didn’t show up at her class, and found him digging furiously at his grandmother’s grave.  When asked what he was doing, he replied, “My granny has to get up now.  Who will take care of me?”

      We got to a corner in the townships, where we picked up Jabu.  She was a large lady with a very distinctive laugh, which she blessed us with often.  Her name, Glenda explained, means literally “happiness” (from Jabulani) and it fit her demeanor.  We drove first to one of the centers, where we found a room of grannies waiting for us.  They’d set up a nice display of the things they’d sewn and brought out juice and biscuits (cookies) for us.  Some stood and talked about what they needed and the different situations they were dealing with as caregivers.  They were very happy to have us and it was easy to see that it was a big deal for us to be there to visit them.  Glenda made a lot over the things they’d sewn, and with good reason.  It’s remarkable what they’re able to do with so little.  They also had huge radishes and tomatoes they’d grown in their gardens, which they insisted on Glenda taking with her, despite the fact that they themselves were in such great need.  We left clothes and cakes with them.  We went down and visited the Educare Center, where there were two small classes of children doing some sort of activity, though there was literally nothing for them to use as toys or games.  Teachers are forced to use improvised games and puzzles made of paper or old soda bottles or egg cartons.  The children were precious.  They are so beautiful, and their smiles are so bright.  The teachers brought us several who were orphans, with no one to look after them or take them in.  We stood there and hugged them and smiled at them and spoke happily to them, and they responded with smiles.  The smiles faded in just a moment though, as they returned their gaze to the floor and their eyes returned to pleading for a minute’s peace or shelter, relief from what the world has been all too content to dump on them in their short lives.

      We left there and went to another meeting of grannies.  This time we stopped in an informal section, with houses made of tin and sometimes mud, with no electricity and no running water.  We parked and walked between the homes till we got to a round house with a tin roof and a dirt floor, large for the area, where the grannies had gathered.  Inside they were seated around the wall, with a couch and chair and small table in the center for its only furniture.  They too had their crafts on display.  Glenda introduced Julia (a teacher visiting from Mississippi), and then me.  She introduced me as Umfundisi, which is Zulu for “minister, preacher.”  The ladies all made much fuss when she introduced me as such, and I was honored to bear the title.  We then made time for them to stand and tell us their needs.  The host stood and welcomed us, and in part Zulu, part English began to speak about the significance of our visit.  She recalled the story of Zaccheus, and how Jesus had told him to come down out of the tree in order to meet him, and she thanked me for coming to be in her home. She spoke of how Jesus had fellowshipped with Zaccheus in his home, and that if they buried her today she could die happy because I had been there to visit.  Those of you who know me might know also that I am not often speechless.  I have no words for the effect her words had on me.  The ladies went around and talked about their problems, and Glenda took notes to take back with her.  We stayed only a short while, but the lady who hosted us asked us to step into a house of another woman in the community who wasn’t home.  It was a small hut, with a bed and a shelf with a little food, another shelf with nothing on it, and a small spot where a fire had been, there was no door and the walls were made of thin sheets of tin.  It might have been 8’ x 15’.  Seven are living there.

      The three of us moved on to another of the sites where the traveling teachers meet, and found a class.  They were meeting on a blanket under a tree.  When we got there the children came running up and grabbed our legs and gave us hugs.  The wind was blowing and the cold cut through to the bone.  Some of the children had on track suits (like pajamas) that had been made at the trackathon (a clothing drive were churches gather to sew them for the township kids), and some were in shorts and t-shirts, freezing in the cold wind.  All of them had snotty, crusty noses, pitiful and beautiful all at once.  This was their preschool, on a dusty blanket with no shade and no shelter from the wind.  We dropped off some clothes and a bag of bread and listened to them sing us a few songs.  The teacher again pointed out two orphans and once again, the kids bore it on their faces, the pain of being passed from person to person and being hungry most of the time.  To look into their eyes is like looking into the sun--so bright, but so painful it hurts you to look.  And likewise, you find yourself looking at them, but not directly, so you can avoid the full force of their suffering.  I had to force myself to see beyond how cute they were.  Behind their smiles one can easily uncover suffering and pain for which there are not words.  It takes only a moment, only a lingering look into their eyes to see it and to change you forever.  Still, to be such a short time, simply looking at them and really taking them in is one of the most painful things I have endured.

      Glenda left the supplies (bread and clothes) there and we made our way back to Emmaus (see the second to last entry).  There were Gogos there who were waiting with their handmade items and vegetables, which Glenda hadn’t realized.  We went inside to find two classes of children not much different from the ones we’d just left.  They had a bit more to work with than the other two.  Glenda realized that she should leave the supplies she left at the other class with the Gogos that were at Emmaus, so she drove back up the road to pick them up.  By the time she got there, they were gone.  It could not have been more than 10 minutes—the kids were all chomping on the bread, probably all some of them would get to eat today or for a few days.  We talked to the grannies for a few minutes, but we were pressed for time.  We left and made our way to the local monastery for lunch.

            I spent the afternoon with another local pastor, accompanying her to all of her various visits and appointments, a confirmation class and a Bible study.  My mind wasn’t in it.  I could not get the morning’s images or stories out of my head, and I felt like I was walking around in a fog.  Mercifully, we got finished at about 8 (12 hours after I’d originally gotten to the church this morning) and we headed home.

            I cannot put into words for you what I have seen today, though I have tried.  I believe the human race has a unique ability to deeply feel the suffering of our brothers and sisters, and that we have sufficiently numbed ourselves to that ability, because the intense suffering of others is so difficult to bear.  I have seen people who were poor before, I have been among them, and spoken with them . . .or so I thought.  Today was different.  It is beyond the commercials you have seen, the images on your television that send you scrambling for the remote or bring about a fleeting minute of sadness until you are distracted by some happier thought.  I am not talking about being a spectator, driving past or looking at—I am speaking of an encounter with suffering that is deeper than surface emotion.  This is the kind of suffering that, once you have borne witness to it, will not leave you, will not be chased away by sentimentality or the comforts of home.  This is God, forcing your eyes open and forcing the inner most walls of your heart open, behind which are the most vulnerable and deeply human aspects of your being.  God peels the layers back till you’re exposed, that person you were who has always been an agent of this suffering because of your silence and your blindness to it.  This is Jesus Christ, confronting you in Biblical fashion on a dusty hillside, challenging you with the call to discipleship, one so demanding and convicting it takes your breath and leaves you stammering at what you will have to give up to follow Him.  You end up like those poor saps on the road, like the rich young ruler, who dared ask Jesus what it would cost to follow Him into the Kingdom, only to be crushed by his answer: “All of it.”  This is the Holy Spirit, fixing your eyes on the one child in the corner whose eyes are dark and round and look ready to explode with tears at any moment, until you become a mirror of his restrained tears and pent up sorrow.  There, with your heart now exposed, God leaves the deep pain behind the eyes, the sad irony in the smiles, and the desperation of people who long for healing, for relief, for the peace of Christ.  With any luck the images agitate you and eat at you until their suffering becomes your own, that you might bear their burdens with them and in the end be molded into the likeness of Christ.  It might, and has for me, made the way we do “church” incomprehensible and foreign, maybe even irrelevant.  What is a ‘church’, who is a ‘Christian’, who has not at least the will to see these who suffer so deeply, who refuses to make themselves vulnerable enough to have their hearts broken in the name of Christ and His people?  What are they? They are a dusty hillside encounter short of a life worth living.

Tonight we drove back down the road into Pinetown, and the twists and the turns coming down the hill gave us a view over the valleys on either side of us.  There were lights all around, but one huge black area in the midst of the light.  It was a township, where there was no electricity.  I thought again of the lady who’d made me Umfundisi (these titles are given, not earned), who had been so thrilled at my presence in her home as to bestow such an honor on me.  She had shared her suffering and her faith with me in a way that left me fumbling for a way to think and feel, or a way to begin to process the magnitude of her statement.  “If they bury me today, I will be happy because you have been in my home.” My eyes were fixed on the darkness below, where the candescence of the world cannot be found, but where the light of Christ burns brightly.  She had not known it, but she had relayed the perfect Scriptural story.  Today Zaccheus came down out of his tree—I gave up my bird’s eye view of Jesus and looked Him in the eye, came down to meet Him, to spend time with Him, to be in His home.  May salvation come to all our houses.  May the Son of Man come again to seek out and save the lost.  Zaccheus—Church—hurry, come down, and meet Christ Jesus.