a little apartheid background

Ezekiel Mphahelele wrote Down Second Avenue in 1959, describing growing up under the white supremacist policy, "apartheid." He describes it thus:

It is unfair to ask me to subsist on mission school sermons about Christian conduct and passive resistance in circumstances where it is considered a crime to be decent; where a policeman will run me out of my house at the point of a sten gun when I try to withhold my labor. For years I have been told by white and Black preachers to love my neighbor; love him when there's a bunch of whites who reckon they are Israelites come out of Egypt in obedience to God's order to come and civilize heathens; a bunch of whites who feed on the symbolism of God's race venturing into the desert among the ungodly. For years now I have been thinking it was all right for me to feel spiritually strong after a church service. And now I find it is not the kind of strength that answers the demand of suffering humanity around me. It doesn't even seem to answer the longings of my own heart."

It broke my heart to read Ezekiel's book, his autobiography, written in exile. My only comfort was that that era was past. Apartheid has been broken and replaced with the New South Africa. The horrendous laws and police oppression are over. The rainbow nation is winning over the centuries of bigotry and fear. 

But we haven't won yet. It isn't the end of the story and the fat lady has not sung.

South Africa is still in the midst of violent struggles around economic discrepancies, residual color issues, and opportunists capitalizing on the pain, poverty and shame of others. You name a problem, we have it: human trafficking, sex trafficking, drugs, assaults, rapes, murder, poaching animals to extinction, blood mining . . . and it all seems so much worse in contrast with the beauty of this land.

So it is a huge privilege to be here. I'm reading as much as I can to understand the backgrounds and the stories of the people that I meet. But I am saddened. I am a missionary, the child of missionaries, and I've grown up in the conviction that missionaries are committed to changing the world, advancing the Kingdom, bringing Light. 

But here in South Africa, missionaries did not exercise that freedom. The fear of expulsion from the godless state convinced them it was wiser to "go underground." And they did not preach the good news and release to the captives. Instead, in Mphahlele's words:

. . . before Father Trevor Huddleston came on the scene--and that's only 1943--missionaries had let politics alone and consequently the forces of evil have had a start of about 300 years. During which time missionaries have abetted, connived at or stood aloof from, the white man's total disregard of justice and other human values. Even so, Trevor Huddleston was a lone fighter. The rest of the church in South Africa didn't speak his language.

And that is the setting into which we have now come. Missionaries were the silent partner. The "accomplice after the fact". 

No wonder we don't tell folks we are missionaries here, we call ourselves "charitable volunteers." There is a cargo hold of baggage associated with what the church and missions  have done in the past, either from fear or a desire to be comfortable.

As the scales have fallen from my eyes on this issue, I see even more clearly what a privilege it is to be here. What an opportunity we have to change what has been done: to redefine the Family God and the Kingdom of Heaven for people who have been victimized by the so-called Church. 

Coming in out of the Wind

"Let me be wise to draw from every dispensation of Thy providence the lesson Thou are minded to teach me." --John Baillie

Moving to Stellenbosch has been one of the more pleasant experiences of my life. Through the window I see a sun-baked mountain behind fluttering palm trees, tiny toy vineyards lined immaculately on the slopes. Clay tile roofs complete the picture.

I've stopped asking, "How did we get here?" I don't bother to pinch myself anymore, I'll just get a bruise, and we are still here. Ever wonder what God's got up His sleeve?

The past four years were the most tumultuous and painful in our ministry. Now we are washed up on the shore of a paradise. From this perspective I can see how God used so much in our lives to get us here. Circumstances. Circumstances which brought me to my knees and lower, circumstances which made me long for heaven and escape from earth.

As those circumstances tore my heart apart, I was not seeing in them the compost of a life which would one day produce fruit. I just smelled its acrid stench and felt the burn of its acid. In fact, I am convinced that compost is perhaps the best metaphor for circumstances that a life of faith can understand. We are to use the circumstances of our lives to bring forth the fruit of holiness.

Fruit production is lengthy business, we see a lot of it here in Stellenbosch. Sometimes its smelly and there isn't much to show for the effort right away. Now I can see where I have come from. At the time I saw nothing of the fertilizing effect. My point of view was fragmented; I saw neither the past context nor the future hope, just the present pain. 

I have a new friend, Cecile. Cecile has a radiant face, sparkling eyes, and a great sense of humor. She also has 4% vision in one eye, and a limited area vision in the other which she describes as looking through a gauzy curtain. She has one hand, her left, and her right leg cannot bend at the knee. Twenty-four years ago she was in a horrific accident, her survival was a miracle. She carries the scars of that circumstance throughout her body. But it was the circumstance that brought her to know her Lord Jesus. And while she jokes about her limitations, she says she would not trade her mobility or vision for her friendship with Jesus. 

(Here I am with Cecile and her artist husband, Hannes, in front of the Drakenstein mts.)


Jesus is in the process of making Cecile and me and all of us into a perfect gift to present to His father. We are an organic gift, so He uses compost to maximize our perfection. It is so hard for us to see that the wind and rough weather beating us down are to strengthen us and grow our roots deep. Now I can thank Him for those four tough years, as I see the bigger view. Cecile can thank Him for the painful months of recovery and the limitations she has endured for over two decades. No one can meet her and not see that she is full of the joy of life.

Now that I'm in out of the wind (not to say I won't find myself in it again at any moment), I can appreciate what St Francis meant when we said: 

That has always been and still is most dear to me and more sweet and more acceptable which pleases the LORD my God most to let happen in me and with me.

God is pleased to let compost happen to me so I may produce the fruit of holiness. I have to stand back from fretting about things, grieving over what I cannot fix, and come in out of the wind. He has a plan that includes the past, the present and the future. It is whole, not fragmented.

And one day we will wake up. The bad dream will be over. It will be morning.

Forgiveness in Relationship

Last September as I perused Garland Library’s shelves for books on South Africa, one title grabbed me, so I plopped it on top of the three biographies of Nelson Mandela I’d selected.  I couldn’t possibly pronounce the author’s name (Antjie Krog), but a title like Country of My Skull, and a quick flip through assured me of a riveting read.

Now I have read three of her post-modern, lyrical and poetic works. An Afrikaans poet, philosopher, anti-apartheid activist, and radio journalist, Antjie (pronounced AnKee) has won my admiration and set my mind to thinking. Her two subsequent works: A Change of Tongue and Begging to Be Black continue the line of thought and questions that Antjie began in Country of My Skull. That work was her journal interwoven with three years of reporting on the Truth and Reconciliation Commission requested by Nelson Mandela and led by Bishop Desmond Tutu.

Antjie covers a lot of territory in her works and is not concerned with resolving as much as understanding. Her perception of “ubuntu”, that wonderful quality of the African community life which Tutu chose as seminal for the work to be accomplished in  the Truth and Reconciliation Commission, is broad and deep. Her respect for the cultures which Afrikanerdom dominated and diminished is admirable. I highly recommend her work for insight into the hearts and mind-set of the Afrikaaners as they hewed their own culture and history out of the rough landscape of Southern Africa’s mountains, karoos and vast veld: caught between the mighty British empire and the tangle of tribes inhabiting subSaharan Africa.

One brilliant gem she comes away with is the breadth of what forgiveness means. Believe me, I’ve read a number of books written by Christian authors (some theologians) on forgiveness. But I think Antjie has captured a key of the truly Biblical element, and sadly, attributed it almost exclusively to African culture.

“Forgiving is therefore never separate from reconciliation, but the first personal step. It demands a response from the forgiven one, to change, to become human, to share. Forgiveness is thus not an uninformed embrace of evil, it is not a miracle brought about by an individual, but an interconnected act that makes a changed relationship possible, a future, a new way of being.” (p. 212 Begging to be Black.)

a cupful of death

"What's lost is nothing to what's found, and all the death that ever was, set next to life, would scarcely fill a cup."
--Buechner


Last month I lost two friends. I didn't misplace them. They died. It was a grievous month.


Becky is like a sister, growing up in Korea with me. I lived with her family before there was a hostel for MKs in Seoul. Her family is my family. She fought breast cancer and survived brilliantly. Then non-metastatic liver cancer came and took her away. Another fight, not as long. It gave us time to grieve, so we thought. But it still hit like a two by four when Uncle Larry called my cell as I rode along in the car, Becky was finally free.


Koos is a South African friend from our Mozambique days. He and his wife lived in Quelimane for years alongside us. He was a woodcrafter par excellence. He made the beautiful doors in our home. We enjoyed braais with his family. Our children went to the same Portuguese school and we mothers fought the same cultural struggles with it. The anopheles mosquito got him. Cerebral malaria. And we long-timers, we were the ones who were proactive and aggressive whenever there was a suspicion. But it got him and Retha wondered and blamed herself: "if only--"


For many years our hearts grieved because Koos could not make sense of our confidence in God. We tried the Experience Faith book with him and his family. When we discussed Abraham leaving home and family for he knew not where, all Koos could say was, "He was crazy, man." End of discussion. But in the end, Koos got crazy, too, and handed over his life and business to the Lord. After we left.


So here I am, remembering two friends, both in a place I eagerly look forward to.  I affirm that what I've lost is nothing to what they've found. And I will find. This death stuff, it's a drop in the bucket compared to life. But we are the cups, and we don't know much outside our rims.


So I miss Becky and Koos. And I tear up, remembering the litany of those whom I've lost, and miss terribly, beginning with my grandmother back in Korea when I found her cold and still one Sunday morning.


One day I'm going to set my cup of death next to life and see what a pittance it truly was.

epiphany in intercultural studies

That's me, age two, in my "aerocopter"in Inchon, Korea. My first venture across cultures, and I've been doing it ever since. You can do something so often you begin to feel like you know all about it. Growing up in a shame-based culture (Korea) and having a passport from a guilt-based culture (US), I thought I pretty much "got it." Even though I understood the difference, I didn't realize that the gospel needed to speak into that part of the culture, too.

I was all too aware, though, that western tidbits like the four spiritual laws just didn't communicate. If folks don't feel that their sin is all that terrible to keep them from God, they don't sense their need. I found this often when sharing with Muslims. They are simply trying to accumulate enough good things to outweigh the bad. Redemption isn't even part of the picture: I do my part, God does His.

But I've learned something and then added onto it and maybe, just maybe, this will help you share, too.

If you're acquainted with the guilt and shame based cultures, that helps. But there is a third culture and all three operate along a circular continuum. Along with guilt and shame, there are cultures controlled by fear.

Guilt-based cultures (like our western ones) ingrain a sense of personal guilt when one breaks the taboos, even if one does not get caught. So many are wracked by painful emotions brought on by disobeying the rules.

Shame-based cultures (like the middle eastern ones) make upholding the honor of the family (community) paramount and when someone is caught disgracing the group, retribution is swift and brutal.

Fear-based cultures (like many African ones) operate on a level which controls behavior through fear of spiritual forces which must constantly be appeased, often without understanding.

Most people operate primarily out of one of these models and have fringes of at least one of the other two. By hearing where a person is, we can have an idea of how to bring liberation to a broken heart.

The father of lies has utilized these cultural elements in his warfare against our race. He fills our heads with doubts which stem from our cultural heritages.

The guilt-based he tells: "You are a failure. You never will be good enough. But keep trying harder, because if you don't you'll never find peace." To those with stronger self-images he lies this way: "You are a very righteous person, you try hard, you have a great reputation and image. Keep up the good work, you're doing fine compared to the others."

The shame-based he tells: "You are shameful and unworthy, terribly unclean. But try to get ritually clean and stay that way so you will be able to do your prayers and give alms that will gain credit." To the more legalistic he says: "Wow, you are keeping all the rituals properly. You are impressive and ought to find secret ways to fulfill your private needs so that others won't be affected by your actions."

The fear-based he tells: "You are alone, an orphan, and no one loves you. You can depend on no one and there are evil ones out to get you. Find a safe place to hide and crawl into it or find some spirit to appease and manipulate for your own purposes." To those dependent on their own strength he says: "You cannot depend on anyone else, so you have to build a power base from which to operate and maintain your own strength regardless of the situation of any others. Do whatever it takes to get the powerful spirits on your side."

Amazingly, these models each reflect an unbalanced understanding of the Trinity. Each model tends to cling to a Person of the Trinity more than the others, and the lack of weight on the other two is serious when sharing the gospel.

Guilt-based Christians identify strongly with Jesus, the Son. They have a legal understanding of their sinfulness and He has paid their debt. He is one they pray to, trust in, adore, and are grateful to. They see their position as one of restored innocence or being forgiven.

Shame-based Christians identify strongly with the Father. Much like the father of the prodigal son, God the Father is willing to risk the shame of receiving back a disgraceful son and restoring him to family position. They have a familial understanding and appreciate the restoration of honor.

Fear-based Christians identify strongly with the Spirit. The Spirit is often perceived as a Comforter in the West, but many biblical passages show the Spirit as a Power. The Sword of the Spirit is an offensive weapon. These people see the importance of power encounters and trust in the spirits which manifest mightiest power, and the Holy Spirit is the One.

So, when we share our faith, we have to be careful what we communicate. There are three persons in the Godhead. One God. And He can reach into the needs and lies and make us all new. Let us be aware of how best to do that.

tomb guard poem

“An easy duty, rest assured,” the priests and elders said:
“To guard a rock-hewn garden tomb and keep a dead man dead.”
I saw them carry in the corpse, the wrapping thick with gore.
They laid it on the granite slab centered in the floor.

What job was this for legionnaires? Our indignation rose--
But Rome still gives the orders with her discipline imposed.
The storied stone was rolled in place; we five were out of breath.
And once in place, a seal was set: to break it would be death.

We were alert, the night was cool, no ghostly hauntings there;
Suddenly the garden quaked and Power filled the air.
My breath came short. We double-checked the seal upon the stone.
Before our normal watch resumed, a deep unearthly groan

Issued from foundations and the night grew strangely colder.
Spirits? My heart pitched to hear the grating of the boulder.
Horror-struck, we watched as some Almighty, unseen hand
Rolled back that stone, no effort shown: brought down the Jewish plan.

We witnessed, knowing certain death; to fail was execution.
My fellows fell as petrified, my mind was a confusion.
Moonlight pierced, the stone rolled free and pagan death reversed.
I fought to breathe; I grasped my sword to fight: I felt the curse

Give way and out the gaping hole a figure came in white.
No blood marred Him. He was not death. Dare I trust my sight?
For one brief pause, our eyes full met. He looked at me and smiled,
Then through the waking garden strode. I rooted like a child.

I saw Him rise--I felt His strength, and peace, that makes no sense:
His liberty was my arrest. There’d be strong recompense.
We fled straight to the city and reported what occurred.
Expecting threats, recriminations, the outcome was absurd.

They offered us a soldier’s dream: retirement and gold.
Instead of twenty years, I’m free in ten and not so old!
We simply said we fell asleep and His disciples rolled
Away the stone and took Him off. They paid in Caesar’s gold.

So with a lie I saved my life, betrayed my soul, however.
When I denied I saw Him smile, His peace left me forever.

crazy little puzzle pieces

We are in intercultural training for a month. This is my first writing assignment: a personal view of culture.

We all carry them around with us in all sorts of random places: in our pockets, our knapsacks, our purses, our cell phone holders, our suitcases, our cars, our cuffs; whatever we happen to be wearing or carrying is a potential receptacle for them. These scruffy jigsaw puzzle pieces are so much a part of our lives, we don’t even notice them anymore. I suspect it’s because we have pretty much forgotten the Original Intent: of putting the Puzzle together. We’re too busy going to work, raising families, meeting expectations, schooling kids (or wondering how to pay to school them). Occasionally we take out one of the pieces and look at it, turn it around, wonder how it fits in, then slip it back into the pocket.

When we were younger, of course, the excitement of getting the Puzzle complete had us much more focused on the pieces. We took them out, showed them to others, compared sizes, colors, designs. I can still remember how exciting it was to find someone who had a piece that matched one of mine. Yes, they all do come together eventually. We believed there was a grand Puzzle, and we were all carrying pieces throughout our lives.

Wherever you go, you encounter puzzle pieces. Everyone has them: rich or poor, educated or uneducated, northern or southern hemisphere, lazy or hard-working, everyone. As I have shown mine and seen others, I’ve noticed they are rich with color, symbols, partial clues as to the big picture. Chipped tiles, sleigh runners, palms, trade marks, pagoda roofs, oceans, crosswalks, rice paddies. I’ve seen so many bits and pieces, it gets overwhelming. Usually the pieces of people in the same localities are more likely to fit together. But I’ve found pieces of mine that fit in the most unlikely situations. It’s effort, but rewarding.

Ah, the feeling of a “connection” when pieces come together. In college, lots of us had connecting pieces and that gave us a feeling of the rightness of things and that it was inevitable that we would eventually find the others and “get it all together.” We were pretty idealistic in college and whether we went to the mission field or stayed home and did the “sending” thing, we gradually let go of putting pieces together. So much effort.

Many times pieces looked like they just had to go together. When they didn’t, it could be frustrating. I knew there were some people who wanted to change my pieces to fit, just snip a bit off here or there. Others tried to force the fit. The bulge was a little too big, but by ramming it, it would stay put. Then the pattern didn’t look right. Sometimes we figured the pieces were too different and speculated that they were parts of separate puzzles: there wasn’t One Grand Puzzle. That disturbed many of us who were convinced there was a Puzzle Maker who specifically designed the One Puzzle. These pieces that turned up in our living could not possibly all be random bits of cardboard without some intention behind them.

I love the process of finding those rare connections. When a piece I have fits with one someone else has, it’s euphoric. Then both pieces are ours, not just the one! Odd thing about those pieces, when they fit together, they multiply--no one loses. I have no idea how that works, but it does.

At various academic institutions I’ve attended over the years, I’ve listened to and watched many people analyzing the puzzle piece phenomenon. They try to explain the relationship we have with our pieces: how we feel our pieces are special and right. It bothers us when folks want us to change our pieces to fit theirs. We resent aspersions cast on our pieces because the pattern isn’t like anything they’ve seen or they stick out where someone would like them to go in. Many end up trying to find ways to force their puzzle pieces to fit others to give a sense of the Puzzle making progress. We all know how that’s going to end.

Over the years as I’ve thought about this Puzzle business, I’ve tried to get a handle on it. What does that big picture look like? Nobody knows because nobody has all the pieces. There is no cover of the box to look at. Some people try to speculate, but without an overall idea, we are pretty much flying blind. You very rarely find edge pieces, too. I’d say in all my looking at others’ pieces and comparing with mine, I’ve probably only seen half a dozen edge pieces. So we are trying to make connections without knowing the limits. Folks with edge pieces sense that they have something special, so they hang onto them for dear life. They can be pretty reluctant to let you try to fit yours into theirs.

I’ve noticed that there are many people out there who don’t get it. They come across the puzzle pieces in their pockets and hiding places. They look at them, stroke them, feel the edges. Then they put them away with a sigh. They don’t have a sense that there is something bigger going on. As a result, some of those pieces get pretty mangled and dirty with time. But I’m convinced they fit in somewhere. Each piece is a part of the whole, so it’s important, even if it’s a bit beat up.

I've heard a theory that by heading out and informing distant peoples about the significance of the pieces and how puzzles work, there will likely be an increase in fitting them together. There are difficulties, however, because some well-intentioned but uninformed folk end up simply telling folks with very odd pieces that their pieces are somehow faulty and need to be re-examined and brought up to certain standards. This provokes outcries from the Purist Puzzle Piece group, convinced that pieces are all equally viable in whatever condition we might find them. At this point, even those with great insight into piece shapes and designs are castigated as being guilty of the same insensitivity as those who are uninformed.

One of the sad things about these cool little pieces is how many people don’t give them any credence. They cannot be bothered with the in’s and out’s of the crannied cardboard. They are not fascinated by the colorations or texture of the finish. Long ago they gave up any hope of them being designed. They reckon the cardboard bits are random cut-offs from various factories that make things out of cardboard. Can you imagine? I want to ask how they think these pieces get into our pockets and fall between the cushions of our sofas. But they have already eliminated the Design idea.

I believe there is a Designer so artistic that we cannot begin to comprehend His Puzzle.

I believe He sees the whole, He knows where every little piece is and He is responsible each one. I believe that the pieces which have been disfigured with handling and the grime of cow dung floors, pieces which have been lost in the cracks of mundane suburban living will be restored one day. And when He has brought us all with our pieces and we see them fit into the whole, we will see something more breath-taking than we could ever have imagined. And we will know it was a burden and a privilege to be entrusted with these little puzzle pieces in this life.