Читать книгу I Have Come a Long Way - John W. de Gruchy - Страница 9

4

On a sharp learning curve

I’m wondering what you’ve got in your veins these days, you young priests! When I was your age we had men in the church – don’t frown, it makes me want to clout you – men I say – make what you like of the word – heads of a parish, masters, my boy, rulers. They could hold a whole country together, that sort could – with a mere lift of the chin.

(Georges Bernanos)8

During my final year at Rhodes, I received and accepted a call to the Sea View Congregational Church in Durban. I had previously visited there to preach with “a view”, as it is said, and liked the congregation. I also liked the attractive red-bricked church with its stained-glass windows, bell tower and lych gate at the bottom of the garden path that led onto Sarnia Road. The recently built manse was situated beyond an old hall on the same property, awaiting our arrival. We moved there at the beginning of February 1961. Soon afterwards, I was inducted on a very humid evening, perspiring heavily beneath my black Geneva gown – a gift from my parents. In those days, such garb was expected, as was the wearing of a suit and clerical collar when doing pastoral visits. It was madness in Durban’s sub-tropical climate, and I would soon get out of the habit.

Apart from the assurance of a warm welcome, my letter of call informed me that my annual salary would be 550 pounds (1 100 rand), and that I would get an extra 36 pounds each year for travel, but no car. Not much of a salary after five years of studying, even in those days. But my father, in an attempt to change my mind some years before, had warned me not to expect to make money in the ministry. We had a free manse, though, and the telephone and electricity were covered. Isobel had saved enough money during her teaching year to purchase furniture, and I was able to buy basic tools for my rudimentary workshop. A Zulu family, the Mbathas, who also lived on the church premises, cared for the grounds and helped in the house.

Back then, there were no supermarkets in town; only some local grocery stores, a hardware shop, chemist, post office and garage. Each week, we bought our fruit and vegetables from the Indian market in Durban. Our monthly groceries cost ten rand a month on average, and I could fill the tank of our car for two rand.

As the custom still was, Isobel, as wife of the minister, was expected to fulfil certain roles in the congregation, which she gladly did, but from time to time she also did some relief high school teaching.

Compared to the Dutch Reformed Church (DRC) down the road, whose members seemed to control the community, ours was a small congregation of not more than a hundred members. It was all white, all English-speaking, and most members were getting on in years. But there were some ex-servicemen, a sprinkling of young families, a vibrant youth fellowship, and a committed and caring leadership. Whatever anybody else thought, to my mind the congregation had a future.

So what did I have to offer in return for my monthly stipend? I felt I knew much about theology, understood the Bible, and could explain the Trinity, but I had virtually no training in pastoral care, and almost zero life experience. I was, to state it bluntly, a naive young minister, despite a projected image of competence and my BD certificate hanging on my study wall. I am now appalled at how I was let loose on the congregation, but some said they found my sermons helpful, and several of the young men in the youth group subsequently went into the ministry.

Our son Stephen was born in November 1961. I was present at his birth before the doctor arrived, and had a good look at him before Isobel cuddled him in her arms. So within one year I had graduated, married, been ordained, started my ministry and became a father. I still can’t quite understand how that all happened in such a short space of time, but it seems that we took it in our stride, as though it was perfectly normal. We got on with what had to be done; Isobel far more than I in the parenting arena, aided by Benjamin Spock’s now discredited guide to child-rearing. Isobel’s sister, Elsie, who became a boarder at Epworth Girls School in Pietermaritzburg following their mother’s death, often spent weekends with us and helped to look after Steve. Athanasius, our mongrel dog named after the fourth-century Orthodox bishop of Alexandria, made up the family complement.

I soon became involved in the regional affairs of the denomination, and got to know some of the congregations in Durban and elsewhere around Natal. I was appointed convenor of youth work, and organised several camps and conferences. Most memorably, I was a delegate to the Natal Congress, a week-long gathering in Pietermaritzburg, organised by the Liberal Party of which Alan Paton, Peter Brown and Archie Gumede were the leading figures. The congress was intended for the discussion of opposition to apartheid in the province, and the delegates did so with a defiance and clarity I had not experienced before. I was a junior delegate and had little to add to the discussion, but I listened to some of the most progressive and articulate political leaders at the time, both black and white. More than ever before, I became aware of the gaps in my political knowledge. There were some senior church leaders present whom I would later get to know well, including Catholic Archbishop Denis Hurley, and the Presbyterian minister Calvin Cook, whose intellectual stature I soon came to admire.

Other defining experiences were the two visits I made to Chief Albert Luthuli, the former president of the ANC, Nobel Peace Prize laureate, and a deacon in the Groutville Congregational Church. Luthuli was already banned and confined to his magisterial district. My first visit was in February 1962, and the second a few months later. I still have a photograph of Luthuli standing alongside my bright-red VW Beetle outside his home. His book Let My People Go, which I was reading at the time, was a life-changer. But try as I then did to encourage other white ministers to read it, I failed. To them, Luthuli was a communist. I suspect they thought I was one as well.

I was happy in my work in the congregation, and gladly accepted the extra responsibility of a new extension charge in New Forest about eight kilometres away. Preaching at least twice on Sundays was a challenge, but a good discipline. I enjoyed confirmation classes and Bible study groups, but pastoral care was a burden. What could I say to the parents of a five-year-old boy who was killed by a drunken driver while crossing the road near our church? How was I to counsel the teenage daughter whose parents thought she should seek an illegal abortion? How could I help a victim of polio and another of bilharzia, who asked me to pray for their healing? Little of what I had learnt as a theological student equipped me for such tasks. Today there are internships, continuing education programmes, and other support or mentoring structures. I am sure some senior ministers wondered whether I would go the distance.

Perhaps it was my pastoral inadequacy that led me to think about further study – largely as a distraction. As my BD was the equivalent of a master’s degree, I registered for a PhD at the University of Natal. And, because my congregation was located in an area with a large Indian population, I decided to explore the growing dialogue between Christianity and Hinduism. Professor Alfred Rooks in the Department of Theology suggested that I begin by reading the writings of Sarvepalli Radhakrishna, the well-respected Hindu Oxford philosopher of religion. This I did, and began to have occasional conversations with swamis in local ashrams and priests in nearby temples. None of this held much promise for my work as a pastor, though, nor did I feel equipped to pursue research at the required level.

In my second year at Sea View, I applied for and received a World Council of Churches (WCC) scholarship to study at Chicago Theological Seminary (CTS), which was then linked to the University of Chicago. WCC scholarships were not intended to further academic careers, but to widen horizons and change perspectives. I looked forward to that, but in preparation for a PhD, I hoped to focus on Christianity and World Religions – a subject well catered for in the Divinity School at the university.

My congregation gave me a year’s leave of absence, and we promised to return. So we made preparations to leave Durban for Chicago – a city associated in our minds with Al Capone, corrupt politicians, and a bloody massacre at a barber shop on St. Valentine’s Day.