On Sunday, we went to church.
Church here did not feel like church back home. Even the way people said it made it carry more weight. We went to church, with heavy emphasis on both the ch's. Our tour guides wanted to come to with us to church. Two pastors, one of them a former bishop, came with us to church. When we arrived, everyone was dressed to the nines, greeting each other, then heading in yo pack the sanctuary. Church back home is a place you go to and get your weekly worship in, like an errand. Church in Soweto is an event.
An event was made out of our presence too. The sanctuary held maybe 700 people, with plastic chairs at the end of some of the pews and extra benches and chairs that stretched back into the narthex, and still the pastor chose to seat us at the front as honored guests, introducing us at the beginning as seminarians from “the land of Trump.” And since we were here, he had assigned his seminary intern to preach so that she could preach to her peers. Two of us read scripture and at the end of the service, the professor who organized the trip was brought up to say a few words to the congregation. By that time, though, we'd been in church for three hours already, so I can't be sure anyone was really listening to Eileen. After the service, there was a meal for us and for the church leadership, and it was made clear that this was a privileged meal to partake in.
I would love to tell you about the content of the service, how glorious it was to hear what was essentially Anglican chant (this is a Methodist Church, after all) sung by their award-winning choir in African languages and African harmonies, how powerful it was to see a young black woman in a headwrap deliver a message about transformation that was deeply entrenched in the scriptures, having to pause every line for the translator and yet never losing her rhythm or her passion, how joyful the seemingly never-ending communion line was. I want to talk about the involuntary chill I got when two women of the congregation offered intercessory prayers, kneeling in the chancel and speaking with fervor, jumping between languages as they prayed. I want to describe for you the offering, how the baskets were full both time money was collected, and explain all the different uniforms that those in different societies and organizations in the church wore. It was a sea of red and blue with white highlights. I want to talk about the powerful women of the church. I want to talk about the abundance of children who all stayed for the entire three and a half hour long service. I would love to describe for you the way my heart jumped when we sang O For A Thousand as our first hymn. Even stumbling through the Xhosa, it was a wonderful moment.
It would be a delight if I could tell you more about those wonderful moments but the truth of the matter is, the moments are all that I have. My brain kept interrupting my experience of the service with a long and unkind mental argument that I won by the end. So while everyone else was talking about how powerful the Spirit had been in that place and how life-giving the worship had been, I was shutting down, trying to steal some recovery time for myself at our privileged lunch.
So let me instead tell you about what I learned about how I want to pastor from that service and from the conversations after. Because it's an interesting thing about pastors-- we are meant to be humble servants of God shepherding a congregation, but the job requires a touch of bombast from time to time and as such can attract people with big personalities looking for an audience. Of course, some congregations are looking for that kind of a pastor and that can be a feedback loop that can be dangerous if people aren't paying attention. I'm not a deeply Augustinian thinker, but I do think that pride can be a damaging thing when it's sinful.
And of course, there's that interesting phenomenon of maleness in ranks of the clergy, even though globally, and especially in Africa, the majority of church attendees are women. If you're reading this, chances are you've talked to me at least once in my life, and if you have, you've heard from me about the challenges of being a woman doing church work. The traditions and the current systems, formal and informal, of the church make it a challenge to be heard and respected as a female clergy person. The situation in the Methodist Church of Southern Africa is complicated at the moment. Last year, they passed legislation saying that until the ranks of bishops were at least 40% female, no new male candidates for bishop would be considered. Then last week, one of their former bishops made disparaging remarks about female clergy. There is pain and hurt and frustration in the church because of it.
So when this pastor brought all of us into the vestry, along with a good portion of their award-winning choir so that we could be sung to and prayed over and given the seats of honor in the sanctuary, I knew that this was not how I wanted to greet guests as a pastor. While I can't be sure of the cultural differences at play here, preferential treatment with a side of showiness is a type or posturing that I have no intention of participating in.
And while the pastor gave up his pulpit for liturgy and preaching, he never gave up his church. From his announcements at the beginning to his presentation at the end of the service, where he used our presence as an excuse to lecture his congregation on the different organizations he felt they should be involved in, he was in charge. I felt grateful for my ministry internship, where I've been entrusted with the entire service many times. When I'm a pastor, I intended to practice trust and sharing in worship. After all, it's not my church. It's God's and the community's. I want to freely give it to capable hands.
And when he introduced Themba Mntambo, the former Bishop, and his beautiful wife, and told all the future pastors in the room that they should follow Themba's example in finding such a beautiful wife, I felt confirmed in my conviction to never speak about a woman's appearance before her ability. Kedibone Mntambo is a powerful pastor in her own right, full of her own passion and strength. She is sharp and capable. In a culture where women of good behavior are expected to wear a dress and cover their heads in church, her pantsuit and lack of hat made a statement in solidarity with the other female pastors throughout the connection who had been put down by their fellow clergy's comments. If I wanted to be like any pastor in the room, I wanted to be like Kedibone, able to stand and speak for justice without having to say a word.
Now, all of this was an undercurrent in the service. Even though I noticed the awkwardness between Themba and the pastor during the introductions and paid attention to what was said when and by whom, it took some time unpacking with others to see what was going on. There were other good moments of genuine Christian affection, like during the passing of the peace, or when Themba offered words of encouragement to the preacher after the service. And, as I said, the music was glorious. Even struggling as I was, it did not feel like the service had lasted three hours. I imagine that had I been able to mentally engage in the service, I would have missed these subtle signs of strained fellowship.
We have hard work to do from Sunday to Sunday. Church may be an event, but the life of the Church continues throughout the week, and it is during those days that we are the most challenged. How do you reconcile with your brother so that the Church might be whole? How do you learn to respect your sister so that the Body of Christ might be complete? How do we do all that internal work while also feeding those who are hungry, giving water to those who are thirsty, welcoming those who have travelled far, clothing and sheltering those who lack protection from the world, and visiting and caring for those who are sick and in prison? How we do all this work while standing for justice like the prophets and like Mary? Our strength to do this work comes from our fellowship and our worship and so we need our church on Sunday. But if we aren't doing the work Sunday to Sunday, we are missing the mark.
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