The Priest

I dreamt about my grandfather last night; the Reverend Fred Rea who died in his bed in 1984 after a mercifully brief battle with pneumonia.  Gramps never really died however because he crops up in my dreams every so often.  Sometimes it's just a quiet, smiling presence.  Sometimes he's taking a walk with my brother and me as he used to do in Zimbabwe's Eastern Highlands when we were kids. Last night he was - somewhat improbably given his staunch Methodist position on liquor - assisting as a barman at a charity event I was attending.  It was he who taught me (patiently) how to play golf (impatiently) and much of my earlier church memories revolve around the stirring and erudite sermons he was known for.

Last night's dream came hours after a cell group discussion on 1 Peter 2 vs. 9 in which we examined the servant heart we believers are required to adopt when we operate within the systems of this world. "

"But you are a chosen people, a royal priesthood, a holy nation, God's special possession, that you may declare the praises of him who called you out of darkness into his wonderful light"

Earlier yesterday, I had been listening to an audio book entitled "What it's like to Go to War" by Vietnam veteran Karl Marlantes.  At 18, the author abandoned a Rhodes Scholarship for a place at West Point.  Soon after, he was serving his country as a second lieutenant in Vietnam.  Marlantes recalls the particularly violent defense of a forward operating base on the border of Vietnam and Laos in which he and is men were nearly over-run by the NVA.  It was Christmas but the enemy didn't seem to care. Shortly after the firefight, a helicopter arrived to deliver ammo, medical supplies and mail.  On the helicopter was the Army Chaplain who, writes Marlantes, was "armed with a case of Jack Daniels and a fresh supply of dirty jokes".  Marlantes was furious.  Here was the one man who could provide perspective on the atrocities that had just taken place - yet all he could do was lower himself to the level of his surroundings.  He probably thought he was doing the men a favour.

A couple of years before her death in 1997, my grandmother wrote a book about her and Fred's lives as Irish missionaries in Africa.  It was entitled "The Best is Yet to Be" and, amongst many other nuggets of wisdom, contains excerpts from my grandfather's war diaries.

During World War II, Fred had served as a Chaplain in the SA 6th Armoured Division that fought in Egypt and Italy.  He occupied the rank of Captain and was exposed to more peril and horror in 5 years than most people see in a lifetime.  My brother and I were mostly oblivious to this, romanced by the popular images and vainglorious stories of WWII found between the pages of the Victor and Hotspur annuals.  But once when I was very young, I remember showing him a picture I'd drawn of a battle scene.  It contained all sorts of detail:  tanks, soldiers, planes and even mortar explosions.  "That's not what mortar explosions look like" he said with a frown as he took the pencil from me,  "when they explode they look more like this..."  

As I contemplate servanthood and the true meaning of priestly duty I am reminded of a section in my Gran's book containing the citation that accompanied his decoration as a Member of the British Empire. This honour he received for his "consistently magnificent example in disregard for personal safety".  I am most proud of what it says and it inspires me whenever I feel I am losing my grip.  It reads:

Award of the M.B.E. (Military Division) to Captain the Rev. Frederick Beattie Rea

Captain Rea received his MBE for inspiring devotion to duty, outstanding courage beyond the call of duty, and for his consistently magnificent example in disregard for personal safety.

Throughout the campaign in Italy, with the 6th S.A. Armoured Division, Padre Rea was attached to the Engineers and Signal Corps.

During this time Padre Rea never spared himself the smallest effort.  He visited the troops in the most inaccessible places, lived with them, worked, talked and laughed with them.  Whenever he heard of troops moving forward, he was there in his unassuming and reassuring way.  if on arrival he found, as he often did, that the troops were going out to repair demolitions under cover of darkness, his normal request was to be given a shovel and to be allowed to join the working party.

His ready smile and reassuring manner, together with his complete disregard for personal safety and discomfort, have been an inspiration and example to all ranks and a factor in morale which is unsurpassed.

Added to this, his practical work in attending men and preparing the dead for burial was done with such dignity and grace that even this became a source of inspiration for all present.

If ever there was a priest AND a servant then surely Fred Rea was it.

Carnage

A dark and sinister shadow still hangs over Pinetown after what must surely be SA's worst road disaster in years.  27 people are dead and nearly 80 are injured - some critically.  Chilling footage from the dash-cam of a truck that narrowly avoided the holocaust records a scene which, prior to the collision, might depict any rush-hour in any city in the world.  

It is dusk.  Three taxis and a blue vehicle (possibly a VW Jetta?) wait patiently for the green light.  One can imagine the mood.  Kwaito blares from a tinny sound system.  Weary workers reflect on a busy day of domestic service or on the monotonous stop/start of the production line in one of Pinetown's light industries.  Women clutch shopping bags after a hurried shop in the store up the road.  Their day is not yet over - households that depend on their provision await the evening meal.  A flustered driver longs for his shift to end - he's beat.    It's a typical end to another South African day.  

The light turns to green...

Part of me wishes I'd never seen the footage of the collision which can be seen here.  It is chilling and it haunted my sleep last night.  If a nightmare is an exaggerated projection of some basic fear we face then what plagued me last night was no nightmare.  It was reality pure and simple - except I was sleeping.

Perhaps the reality of South Africa's treacherous roads is that we are all sleeping.  From the one-over-the-limit boytie who insists "I'm driving, live with it" to the taxi driver who willfully overloads his vehicle.  There's the arrogant owner of that luxury German sedan whose superior driving abilities entitle him to speed - even if it scares the crap out of the rest of us.  And tragically, there's the escalating fleet of un-roadworthy freighters which simply don't belong on roads like the M13.  

I'm angry about this.  I am wondering what I can do about it.  Those least able to defend themselves are, in this instance and many others like it, the ones squarely in the firing line.

Heaven help us.

Managing Distractions

“All of humanity's problems stem from man's inability to sit quietly in a room alone.” - Pascal

If you are like me you want distractions in your life.  

Perhaps you feel you owe yourself an hour or two in front of the TV after a hard days work. Perhaps you enjoy a good book and believe that no soak in the bath or bedtime would be complete without your favourite reading material.  Some of us are wired up for socialising and spend most of our free time with friends. Some of us just can't leave our computers or smart devices alone - what are our mates up to on Facebook?  What's the latest scoop on Twitter or Instagram? 

Of course any of the above may actually be good for you, but, as Paul points out, while everything might be permissible, not everything is beneficial.  It depends on the circumstances.

So when does a pleasurable pastime become a distraction?

• When it hinders the discipline of "sitting quietly in a room alone" at least once every few days.

• When we can't do without it, even when it's inconvenient to self and nauseating to others 

Yet in a strange way distractions are the general anaesthetic that dulls the aches and pains of reality. 

There's nothing like a fast to remind you of this.  We're currently in the middle of a three-dayer and I've decided to give Facebook a miss for the duration and if possible for longer.  If possible.  As though avoiding Facebook were impossible.

But today I was reminded Just how much I crave and seek out distractions.

It was a fairly light day work-wise so I was in a position to swim, take an afternoon nap and, at 4pm, go for a walk with the dogs.  Blogger Seth Godin (coincidentally a cancer survivor) sees his daily dog-walk as a privilege and not a chore.  In a piece entitled "assorted tips", Godin says that "taking your dog for a walk is usually better than whatever alternative use of your time you were considering".  

Yet I have to actively remind myself of this, especially today.  Though I enjoy the route we take, my reaction to the prospect of 45 minutes alone was one of mild yet discernible anxiety.  A longish walk - particularly in light of the fast - would in one sense be a great chance to focus on the spiritual issues surrounding it.  Yet where on earth would I find the focus and staying power to do that for the better part of an hour?

I'm learning a lot about what it takes to cultivate the discipline of solitude.  I'm onto day 5 without Facebook and am finding it to be a liberating experience.  For one thing my phone battery is lasting at least a day longer than it usually does.

Let's hope my spiritual stamina follows suit!

"We live, in fact, in a world starved for solitude, silence, and private:  and therefore starved for meditation and true friendship"

C.S. Lewis

The Art of Joy

Lately I've been thinking about the word "Joy".  This is because I am not a particularly joyful person.

Like many of you I live with my head up my backside.  Amongst other things, I am guilty about doing too much of this and too little of that.  I overlook beauty and fixate on triviality.  I have a gnawing anxiety about becoming irrelevant, not having enough money and becoming a phantom before I die.

Why this mediocre half-life?

Maybe it's because Joy doesn't mean a whole lot anymore.  Let's face it, the word has been taken into all sorts of laughably inappropriate areas by advertisers - from German luxury cars to lollipops for kids.

For my part, it may be because I've always thought Joy to be a bit of a naff emotion. When I was a kid, my mum had a frumpy old friend named Joy who liked gardening and who wore bad frocks.  I guess I've never quite gotten over the association.

And then there's the pursuit of joy which seems altogether unfashionable in the "real world".  In one sense being Joyful just isn't cool anymore.  Far better to be the edgy cynic right?

Two stories have forced me to give Joy a second and serious look.  Consider the following:

Firstly, a sudden illness in the family.  On July 1, my sister-in-law was diagnosed with cancer.  Nothing pulls things so sharply into focus - or so I am told - than the possibility that you may not live to stuff your next Christmas turkey. Indeed, this was the spectre which loomed large for my brother and his wife as they awaited a clearer prognosis.  In a recent blog, my brother wrote the following:

"... it occurred to me that today is our only reality. Tomorrow is not reality. Tomorrow may never come. Further, my perception of tomorrow is an illusion. Tomorrow does not exist as my mind imagines it, for tomorrow will always be different to what I expect. But today is today. I live in the present moment of today, not in the past or in the future.

For these reasons, I could see that “today” was a precious gift and something that needed to be unwrapped with joy

Though my sister-in-law would never have asked it for herself (nor would any of us have wished it upon her) - both she and my brother are experiencing a side to to their life in God which precious few of us who are healthy get to feel.  They are discovering that Joy is especially abundant in dark places.

Secondly, consider the exciting journey upon which a friend named Lara Kruiskamp has embarked.  18 months ago, Lara was going places in corporate - and I mean seriously going places.  Then she heard God telling her to give it all up and follow an outrageously ambitious dream.  A bit like serious illness, there's nothing like living off your savings and repeatedly saying "no" to lucrative job offers to pull life sharply into focus.  But because of this, Lara is living in the sweet spot of her dream, her gifts and God's plan for her life.  This is happening because she's actively saying "no" to things that others think are sensible.  Her life may well be simple but it's joyful.  For more on Lara's journey click here

Both stories remind me of that harrowing scene from Fight Club where Brad Pitt puts a gun to the head of a convenience store till operator to get him to face reality in light of the dreams he once had.  After taking him to the brink of death he eventually lets the man go remarking:  "Tomorrow will be the most beautiful day of his life.  His breakfast will taste better than any meal you and I have ever tasted..."  

Here are a few thoughts I've had about Joy:

• Joy is cool!
• Joy lies on the other side of an overwhelming obstacle
• While Joy may alight with the grace of a butterfly is as hard as nails 
• Joy is not cheap.  It won't be purchased on my Edgars account nor is it a perk that comes with my latest promotion or contract
• Joy discriminates, attaching herself to people who understand life's real trade-offs and who content themselves with (and even rejoice in) the one's less traded.  
• Joy is an art.

My name is ______ and I'm an addict

Every now and then, amidst the diverse internet content I encounter, a blog post comes along that really hits home.  Ironically the one I'm referencing here - though written and disseminated with the full wizardry of the net - speaks out most strongly against the dangers of same.  But on-tap porn and fanatical gaming cabals that turn youngsters into school yard killers don't get a look in here.   

In a series of posts entitled "Don't let the screen strangle your soul" (found here and here) Kevin de Young examines the effects of something we all like to play at and which at first glance looks fairly harmless - Social Media.  Writes de Young:

I was speaking at one of our top seminaries when after the class two men came up to me in private to ask a question. I could tell by the way they were speaking quietly and shifting their eyes that they had something awkward to say. I was sure they were going to talk about pornography. And sure enough, they wanted to talk about their struggles with the internet. But it wasn’t porn they were addicted to. It was social media. They told me they couldn’t stop looking at Facebook; they were spending hours on blogs and mindlessly surfing the web.

The first threat the author calls out is the obvious one - addiction.  In a book entitled "The Shallows", Nicholas Carr describes how he became more and more dependent on the internet for information and stimulation. In time, his brain began to not only drift but to display a sort of hunger which could only be satisfied by the Net.  The more it was fed in this fashion, the hungrier it became. 

The second threat is Acedia a form of mental lethargy which inhibits creativity, belief, faith and hope.  Author John Neuhaus defines it this way:

Acedia is evenings without number obliterated by television, evenings neither of entertainment nor of education but of narcoticized defense against time and duty"

In short, Acedia is a "tastes like chicken" existence.

The third threat is that of shrinking or evaporating boundaries - social media addicts are, quite simply, never alone - never in a position to enjoy the recreational benefits of solitude.  It's almost like the squirreling busyness that accompanies the addiction plays right into our cravings to be heard, understood and relevant.  Yet as we know, the content of that busyness is often nauseatingly transient.

Is Kevin de Young alone in his thinking?  He is not.  Last week HBR contributor Umair Haque explored a similar theme, only he drew a bead on the TED Talks that many of us have grown to love and keenly anticipate.  Haque, meanwhile, questions the message TED is leaving with us:

The idea of our age is that Great Ideas can be simplified, reduced, made into convenient, disposable nuggets of infotainment — be they 18-minute talks, 800-word blog posts, or 140 character bursts.

TED is like an Orgasm Machine for the human mind. It gives us the climax of epiphany, without the challenge and tension of thought.

Great Ideas on the other hand - often leave more questions than solutions - they don't always resound immediately because it isn't always clear what to DO with them.  In Haque's words, "they challenge us to redefine the reality of our worlds..." - or as poet John Ciardi puts it:

"A good question is never answered. It is not a bolt to be tightened into place but a seed to be planted and to bear more seed toward the hope of greening the landscape of idea"

So of one thing I am certain.  While all along I thought I was mining the net it is in fact the other way around.  The internet is slowly mining me.  In fact it is strip-mining me.  And while I haven't a clue as to how to reduce my dependance on it I'm thinking that upgrading to the latest iPhone this week was probably a bad decision!

The happy child

Oscar Pistorius as a child - Source The Daily Maverick

If I've learned anything about the media and our insatiable fascination with celebrity (particularly the fallen type) - I suspect the Oscar Pistorius affair is set to dominate the headlines for some time to come.

I suspect it will bore some of us before long too - (O.J. Simpson anyone?)

There was however one piece in The Daily Maverick by freelancer Alita Steenkamp (no relation to the tragically deceased Reeva) which got me thinking.  It was prefaced by the endearing photo of a beaming toddler wearing a bib, home-knitted jumper, blue shorts and prosthetic legs.  It was none other than our nation's erstwhile hero, the Blade Runner himself.  

The photo broke my heart.  I wanted to reach into the screen, pluck the lad out and place him on a path other than the one he would ultimately choose - even if it meant a life lived in obscurity.

It reminded me of a piece I read by a British Rabbi named Lionel Blue who, on his 52nd Birthday sat and contemplated a photo of himself as a young boy and then wrote a letter to that child.  

I include it here not to comment on the sub judice issues of the Pistorius affair but perhaps to invite you into a similar form of introspection.  None of us are immune from catastrophe - but we can manage at least some of the probabilities through the choices we make.

Here are some excerpts from Blue's letter:

Dear Child

I don’t know how we are related, if we are, for not one cell of your body lives in mine.  I know you tried to imagine me once or twice as you gazed into the future, but you wouldn’t recognize me now.  I don’t know if I’ve ever been your friend or foe, for there was a lot of niceness in you I never allowed to grow, but I didn’t have much choice!

It is of course your birthday too, and I remember the presents you longed for – a cup cake at the Corner House, meeting a millionaire who would give dad a job. 

But I cannot reach through the glass that separates us and can give you nothing.

I can’t even pass on some knowledge that would make your life easier.  That sort of knowledge, as you’ll learn later, always comes too late, after events not before them.

But as I look at you, your image gazes into me and I see myself without the rucksack of anger and reproaches I’ve got used to carrying on my back.  I wonder what it would be like to let it go, I know from your face that it wasn’t always there.  Perhaps I can, because as I get older I am closer to being a child again, a second time round, and I become free from grown-up hopes and fears.  

Or as Soren Kierkegaard said

"Life can only be understood backwards; but it must be lived forwards"

Zip it!!

That’s right.  You heard me.

My new year’s resolution is to do just that.  To Zip it.  Let me explain.

Late last year my wife and I went to Cape Town to watch Linkin Park live in concert.  I had been waiting for that moment for like, 10 years or more and when it finally arrived I was determined to make the most of it.  So needless to say I sang (OK, screamed) my head off.  As a result, I awoke the morning after with that tell-tale scratch in my throat that said I might sound a bit like Barry White for the foreseeable future.

As it turned out, I sounded like Barry for a full week before my voice petered away to nothing…slap bang in the middle of a workshop with a client.  Instead of rescheduling the workshop we forged ahead; me handing written instructions to a colleague who in turn would read these out to the group.  Somehow, we limped through the day in this fashion. 

Then came the trip home.  Savage rainstorms had hammered Gauteng throughout the afternoon disrupting flights out of ORT by several hours.  What made it worse was that the airlines weren’t being completely honest about the delays and my flight got pushed out at least three times.  In the end, I flew out four hours late just before midnight.

Yet in spite of the obvious turmoil, the experience held the seeds of an intriguing discovery  - one profound enough to become enshrined as a resolution for 2013.  In a nutshell, here it is: 

When you can’t complain, the experience you wish to complain about isn’t half as frustrating as it would be if you could complain.  Therefore Zip It

Or put another way, silence is Golden.

The discovery came at about 10.45 when I bumped into my friend Robbie who’d been travelling for 2 days and was itching to get home to spend the weekend with his wife and small baby girl.  Robbie let fly with a stream of vitriol, no doubt hoping I’d add to it with a touch of my own hot air.  The more he vented, the more agitated he got.  When he was finished, I just gestured apologetically at my throat, croaked feebly and indicated with a slicing motion that I was a mute.  He nodded, said sorry and we parted ways.

I reflected on the evening which in some ways had been quite frustrating.  Yet once I’d resigned myself to the delay and settled down with a Cappuccino and my book it was actually quite an agreeable experience.  What's more, because I couldn’t recount the story to my wife the following day – or for the following three days - the experience rapidly faded from memory.  What role had being voiceless played in this strange phenomenon?  I don’t know but I’m sure it was a key factor.

The experience led me to two Bible stories in which people had been temporarily struck dumb because they failed to believe the promises of God.  One was Abraham’s wife Sarah (Genesis 17) and the other was John the Baptist’s father Zechariah (Luke 1).  A Typical interpretation of these two events suggests that the individuals concerned were being punished for their unbelief, which, so far as it goes, was probably true.  But was punishment the only end?  I believe that in at least one instance (Zechariah’s), the enforced silence was meant to create the space for the individual to grasp the momentous thing that God was doing.  As John emerges from his mother’s womb, Zechariah literally explodes into prophecy about both the significance of his son’s ministry and that of Jesus – suggesting his spirit had undergone  a massive change during his forced silence.

I am no saint but I’ve tasted just enough of silence’s benefits to believe that it’s going to play a key role in my spiritual growth this year. 

Who knows? I’ll keep you posted.