View From Cape Town
I am posting this from Cape Town, South Africa, where I am conducting research on servant leadership as ministry in some of the most impoverished settlements in the Western Cape. The religious community I am studying--and living with--feeds the hungry, prays, sings, and then prays and feeds some more. They are primarily Colored (of mixed blood) rather than Black (of tribal blood) and the distinction is important here, with prejudice going both ways. No time for a political analysis; I'd simply like to describe several people I've met.
Andre is a Muslim. He offered the use of his truck to this Protestant ministry because they are doing good works. "There is only one God," he told me. "I will do anything to help these people because tending to the poor is also a pillar of the Muslim faith."
I watched the Muslim butcher who sells lamb to the ministry for feedings as he slipped some extra food in the bags. He always does that. And, he sells at the cheapest possible price. He said it was the least he could do, and was embarrassed that I'd noticed.
Connie is a non-churchgoing man. Everyone in his community calls him "Uncle Connie" because he knows everyone and helps anyone. He has taken 2 weeks off work to help with the ministry's latest round of feedings and concerts in the townships. "I help people who do good things," he said.
Last night I spoke with a 25-year-old man who has lived with no kidneys for 4 years. When his kidney failure was complete at the age of 21, the government told him he didn't qualify for dialysis because he was not married, had no children to support and no job. (His disease had prevented him from working.) He was deemed expendable. His doctor has personally paid for the expensive treatments ever since. He's a musician and says that he has great hope for the future. Survival is about faith and music, he said, not dialysis.
Later I spoke with Frederick, a 15-year-old who immigrated here with his family from Ruwanda, barely escaping death. A month ago Frederick was baptised at the municipal pool. Soon thereafter he fell into the deep end and sank to the bottom. By the time they found him he was blue and rigid, with no pulse and blood around his nose. Lifeguards worked on him, then gave up and called an ambulance. People were crying because he was obviously dead. Meanwhile, Pastor Jerome and his gathered faithful began praying. Frederick, who had never heard of near-death experiences, was flying through a dark tunnel when he heard people praying in the far distance. He then said, "Help me, Pastor. I'm drowning," and woke up. His system had been without oxygen for 10 to 15 minutes and everyone expected brain damage, at best. But there was none. There are probably medical explanations for his survival, but Frederick credits the love of a community that prayed when all was hopeless.
Astonishing things like this happen every day here, where the space between the harshest reality and the grandest spirituality is but a scrim. Whatever the religion of these people, they all share one value--service. And they would pass Greenleaf's "Best Test" for a servant-leader with flying colors, especially the part about serving the "least privileged."
Andre is a Muslim. He offered the use of his truck to this Protestant ministry because they are doing good works. "There is only one God," he told me. "I will do anything to help these people because tending to the poor is also a pillar of the Muslim faith."
I watched the Muslim butcher who sells lamb to the ministry for feedings as he slipped some extra food in the bags. He always does that. And, he sells at the cheapest possible price. He said it was the least he could do, and was embarrassed that I'd noticed.
Connie is a non-churchgoing man. Everyone in his community calls him "Uncle Connie" because he knows everyone and helps anyone. He has taken 2 weeks off work to help with the ministry's latest round of feedings and concerts in the townships. "I help people who do good things," he said.
Last night I spoke with a 25-year-old man who has lived with no kidneys for 4 years. When his kidney failure was complete at the age of 21, the government told him he didn't qualify for dialysis because he was not married, had no children to support and no job. (His disease had prevented him from working.) He was deemed expendable. His doctor has personally paid for the expensive treatments ever since. He's a musician and says that he has great hope for the future. Survival is about faith and music, he said, not dialysis.
Later I spoke with Frederick, a 15-year-old who immigrated here with his family from Ruwanda, barely escaping death. A month ago Frederick was baptised at the municipal pool. Soon thereafter he fell into the deep end and sank to the bottom. By the time they found him he was blue and rigid, with no pulse and blood around his nose. Lifeguards worked on him, then gave up and called an ambulance. People were crying because he was obviously dead. Meanwhile, Pastor Jerome and his gathered faithful began praying. Frederick, who had never heard of near-death experiences, was flying through a dark tunnel when he heard people praying in the far distance. He then said, "Help me, Pastor. I'm drowning," and woke up. His system had been without oxygen for 10 to 15 minutes and everyone expected brain damage, at best. But there was none. There are probably medical explanations for his survival, but Frederick credits the love of a community that prayed when all was hopeless.
Astonishing things like this happen every day here, where the space between the harshest reality and the grandest spirituality is but a scrim. Whatever the religion of these people, they all share one value--service. And they would pass Greenleaf's "Best Test" for a servant-leader with flying colors, especially the part about serving the "least privileged."
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