Sample Chapter from Mark's book project-
The Chicks Return to the Nest
The Value of Reconciliation
In 1998 I had been invited to South Africa as part of a group of speakers who addressed South African youth pastors and volunteers on the nuts and bolts of youth ministry. After a group session in Johannesburg with Jim Burns, an American youth ministry specialist, we broke into small discussion groups. Our leader invited participants to choose the group that topically held the most interest to them from a list of five topics. The group I was leading drew twenty-one adults – twenty whites and one lone “coloured” woman, which in South Africa is a person of mixed racial lineage. I was still naïve enough not to notice the dynamics as I frittered around assembling my materials and setting up a newsprint stand. As I sat down in the circle, I could sense some tension – the group was too quiet, and everyone was looking everywhere but in our circle. Suddenly nervous, I shuffled my papers getting ready to begin.
I was about to open my mouth when a tall, lanky white Afrikaner man raised his hand at me with a question. I was beginning to recognized the informal uniform of Afrikaner men – the two tone, often blue, work shirt, work shorts when it is hot out that always remind me of 1980’s American running shorts with the emphasis on short, white tube socks and heavy, strong leather work boots.
“Sir?” he began, “May I ask a question?” Not one to stifle an inquiry that may help launch the topic, I encouraged him with a nod.
Then he looked over at the single coloured woman, whom I had hardly noticed, and he somewhat sharply asked her, “Can I ask you a question?” Instantly, I remembered where I was and what the presence of a coloured person could mean for a group in South Africa in 1998. Apartheid was still so freshly remembered. I didn’t know what to say. I had never encountered a situation like this. It's just not something you prepare for.
With her voice just above a whisper, she said, “Of course.” Then she quickly averted her eyes from him and to the floor. She seemed to shrink before us as if expecting to be swatted with a stick.
"Do you Blacks and coloureds really believe that you're capable to run this country in a way that is fair to all of us?" His question, his mannerisms, and his tone implied open warfare seasoned with racism, but the question was a simple and thoughtful inquiry. It seemed strange that he had not reflected that public policy had been unfair for most of both their lives. The silence in the group, which was already palpable, somehow hit a deeper hush. In my experience, a question and attitude like this would have ended the meeting and the crowd would have erupted with cries of anger and abuse. I looked around nervously to see if any of the hosts of this conference were in sight, but unfortunately, most of them were in Jim’s group. His popularity had left me on my own to handle the situation. Even the other whites in my circle looked taken aback by the question, so what was I going to do?
Thula, the woman’s name as I later learned, maintained her composure much better than I. She nodded once and then gave the man a gracious sounding answer. Her response was in Afrikaans, which in itself was remarkable as many coloureds and blacks viewed Afrikaans as the language of their oppressor. Blacks and coloureds were required to learn and use this uniquely South African white language. She was offering an olive branch of peace by speaking to him in his first language, just as president Nelson Mandela had as he became the president of this tumultuous nation. I only caught mention of some names I recognized, but the quality of her soul and the acceptance she offered this man were evident in her tone and demeanor. As she continued speaking, heads began to nod and the whites looked among themselves with appreciation of what she was saying. The sense of dread was eclipsed by her poise. Then she stopped, nodding again to her questioner.
He softened, yet continued to stare at her for a moment. “Thank you. I've wondered that since the election, and now you have cleared that up for me.” This he followed with a huge and unexpected smile of acceptance.
One by one, other questions were posed to this courageous woman. With grace, Thula warmed to the questions, and soon everyone was laughing with her and thanking her for her answers. My program took a back seat to this historic event. I was witnessing the first time that many of these white South Africans had a genuine conversation with a woman of color that was not related to domestic housework or servitude. She was being regarding not only as equal, but maybe even with heightened status. Frequently the group members apologized to me for not keeping with the program, yet none seemed all that interested in me taking over. Neither was I.
Following the allotted time for our discussion, as we rose, most of the whites went to shake the hand of gutsy Thula. Some of the white women even hesitantly hugged her. As people began to move back to the main hall, one middle aged Afrikaner woman came and shook my hand, thanking me for allowing the “Spirit” to move. She said it was one of the most remarkable conversations of her life and she said it reminded her of an old Afrikaans phrase, which declares “the chick is returned to the nest.” She said it was an expression of acceptance when one has been turned out but is brought back into the family. I heard reverberations of the parable of Jesus in the New Testament of the Prodigal Son. (Luke 15:11-32.)
How far these remarkable South Africans had come in a few short years. To be raised in a system of racial separation that routinely demotes humans to the status of pets, and that status was among the better treatments, then to be thrust into a new era of instantly imposed acceptance, is all beyond my ability to grasp. I witnessed seeds of hopeful change sprout in this one hour of questioning all because of the humble demeanor of one wise and patient woman. If you were the religious type, you might almost call that a miracle. And that miracle was of reconciliation. These people separated by a governmental policy of separation (apartheid) that, in fact, many whites were not in favor of maintaining, were openly seeking to walk a journey of reconciliation with their fellow countrymen and women who had been made taboo through separatist legislation.
I was beginning to realize that I was a witness to new life in this new nation.
The Value of Reconciliation
In 1998 I had been invited to South Africa as part of a group of speakers who addressed South African youth pastors and volunteers on the nuts and bolts of youth ministry. After a group session in Johannesburg with Jim Burns, an American youth ministry specialist, we broke into small discussion groups. Our leader invited participants to choose the group that topically held the most interest to them from a list of five topics. The group I was leading drew twenty-one adults – twenty whites and one lone “coloured” woman, which in South Africa is a person of mixed racial lineage. I was still naïve enough not to notice the dynamics as I frittered around assembling my materials and setting up a newsprint stand. As I sat down in the circle, I could sense some tension – the group was too quiet, and everyone was looking everywhere but in our circle. Suddenly nervous, I shuffled my papers getting ready to begin.
I was about to open my mouth when a tall, lanky white Afrikaner man raised his hand at me with a question. I was beginning to recognized the informal uniform of Afrikaner men – the two tone, often blue, work shirt, work shorts when it is hot out that always remind me of 1980’s American running shorts with the emphasis on short, white tube socks and heavy, strong leather work boots.
“Sir?” he began, “May I ask a question?” Not one to stifle an inquiry that may help launch the topic, I encouraged him with a nod.
Then he looked over at the single coloured woman, whom I had hardly noticed, and he somewhat sharply asked her, “Can I ask you a question?” Instantly, I remembered where I was and what the presence of a coloured person could mean for a group in South Africa in 1998. Apartheid was still so freshly remembered. I didn’t know what to say. I had never encountered a situation like this. It's just not something you prepare for.
With her voice just above a whisper, she said, “Of course.” Then she quickly averted her eyes from him and to the floor. She seemed to shrink before us as if expecting to be swatted with a stick.
"Do you Blacks and coloureds really believe that you're capable to run this country in a way that is fair to all of us?" His question, his mannerisms, and his tone implied open warfare seasoned with racism, but the question was a simple and thoughtful inquiry. It seemed strange that he had not reflected that public policy had been unfair for most of both their lives. The silence in the group, which was already palpable, somehow hit a deeper hush. In my experience, a question and attitude like this would have ended the meeting and the crowd would have erupted with cries of anger and abuse. I looked around nervously to see if any of the hosts of this conference were in sight, but unfortunately, most of them were in Jim’s group. His popularity had left me on my own to handle the situation. Even the other whites in my circle looked taken aback by the question, so what was I going to do?
Thula, the woman’s name as I later learned, maintained her composure much better than I. She nodded once and then gave the man a gracious sounding answer. Her response was in Afrikaans, which in itself was remarkable as many coloureds and blacks viewed Afrikaans as the language of their oppressor. Blacks and coloureds were required to learn and use this uniquely South African white language. She was offering an olive branch of peace by speaking to him in his first language, just as president Nelson Mandela had as he became the president of this tumultuous nation. I only caught mention of some names I recognized, but the quality of her soul and the acceptance she offered this man were evident in her tone and demeanor. As she continued speaking, heads began to nod and the whites looked among themselves with appreciation of what she was saying. The sense of dread was eclipsed by her poise. Then she stopped, nodding again to her questioner.
He softened, yet continued to stare at her for a moment. “Thank you. I've wondered that since the election, and now you have cleared that up for me.” This he followed with a huge and unexpected smile of acceptance.
One by one, other questions were posed to this courageous woman. With grace, Thula warmed to the questions, and soon everyone was laughing with her and thanking her for her answers. My program took a back seat to this historic event. I was witnessing the first time that many of these white South Africans had a genuine conversation with a woman of color that was not related to domestic housework or servitude. She was being regarding not only as equal, but maybe even with heightened status. Frequently the group members apologized to me for not keeping with the program, yet none seemed all that interested in me taking over. Neither was I.
Following the allotted time for our discussion, as we rose, most of the whites went to shake the hand of gutsy Thula. Some of the white women even hesitantly hugged her. As people began to move back to the main hall, one middle aged Afrikaner woman came and shook my hand, thanking me for allowing the “Spirit” to move. She said it was one of the most remarkable conversations of her life and she said it reminded her of an old Afrikaans phrase, which declares “the chick is returned to the nest.” She said it was an expression of acceptance when one has been turned out but is brought back into the family. I heard reverberations of the parable of Jesus in the New Testament of the Prodigal Son. (Luke 15:11-32.)
How far these remarkable South Africans had come in a few short years. To be raised in a system of racial separation that routinely demotes humans to the status of pets, and that status was among the better treatments, then to be thrust into a new era of instantly imposed acceptance, is all beyond my ability to grasp. I witnessed seeds of hopeful change sprout in this one hour of questioning all because of the humble demeanor of one wise and patient woman. If you were the religious type, you might almost call that a miracle. And that miracle was of reconciliation. These people separated by a governmental policy of separation (apartheid) that, in fact, many whites were not in favor of maintaining, were openly seeking to walk a journey of reconciliation with their fellow countrymen and women who had been made taboo through separatist legislation.
I was beginning to realize that I was a witness to new life in this new nation.