God se waaghalsige genade. Oor Saggeus en spiritualiteit. (3)

Nadat ek oor Saggeus in my vorige blogs geskryf het, loop ek die volgende pragtige inskrywing van Neil Thorogood raak (interessante webwerf van die gereformeerde kerke in Cambridge waarop hy skryf). Sy inskrywing gaan ook oor Saggeus, maar werk die implikasies van hierdie verhaal op ‘n besonder uitdagende manier uit.

In sy inskrywing sien ek vir myself raak hoe ‘n mens oor God se genade kan dink. Ons weet so maklik God se genade word geskenk, vrylik, in kerklike jargon, sonder menslike verdienste. En in Spiritualiteit is dit ‘n belangrike motief. Die lewensveranderende aanraking van God kom wanneer ‘n mens dit nie verwag nie, kan nie afgedwing word nie, verdien word nie. Maar jy weet wanneer dit gebeur het, diep in jou innerlike. God het vir my buite alle meriete om kom raak. En met God se aanraking sal dinge nooit weer in ‘n mens se lewe dieselfde wees nie.

Maar hoe lyk dit prakties, eenvoudig en in sy alledaagse konsekwensies? Hoe gebeur dit dan dat God ons aanraak? Soms op mistieke wyse in oomblikke van verrukking, ja. Dan maak God se aanraking ‘n brandende pinkstervuur in ‘n mens wakker. Maar Lukas, wat verrukkende oomblikke soos Pinksterdag ken, ken ook die eenvoudige aanraking van God. Dan kom gebeur die sagte sprong (Cussons) in ‘n vlietende oomblik. Partykeer, verbasend, soos vir Saggeus in die midde van die daaglikse rumoer van die skares wanneer ‘n Mens by jou kom stil staan, opkyk en jou by die naam roep. Dit gebeur in Lukas se verhaal oor Saggeus: Hierdie oomblik dat Jesus gaan stil staan en opkyk na Saggeus en “sonder enige gesprek,” soos Thorogood dit stel, by hom tuisgaan. Geen kategese! Geen geloofsbelydenis! Geen colloquium doctum. God waag darem baie.

En dan uiteindelik die eintlike punt: as ons sien hoe God stilweg in Saggeus se lewe instap, staan ons gekonfronteer met die waagstukke in ons eie dissipelskap. Hoe kan dit dan ook nou meer prakties by ons tuisgebring word as in hierdie Lukas-verhaal oor Saggeus: Hoe waag dissipels om lief te hê soos Christus hier liefgehad het? Eenvoudig, by die huis, in die familie, in die kerk kan ‘n mens dit nog waag.

Maar baie moeiliker is dit in ander plekke, selfs gevaarlik met die groot moontlikheid van aaklige gevolge. Hoe waag ons om keiharde misdadigers lief te hê? Is die kapelaan by sy volle verstand as hy, sonder naam in hierdie verhaal, sonder vermelding van die ure van sy angs, onsekerheid, sweet, trane, gebede oor sy geloofswaagstukke sê: “And as we talk faith in this place begins to unfold as he speaks of value, worth, humanity and the inexhaustible grace of God that can transform the most powerful evil and claim shattered lives.” Hy praat van God se genade wat die hardste van harde klipmens kan stukkend breek.

Praat van konformiteit aan Christus. Dit is egte spiritualiteit. Dit is nie ‘n maklike pad nie – die grommende skares wat saam met ons in die kerk is, raak kwaad en opstandig as ons so baie waag (Moet tog nou nie laf wees met sulke sentimentele praatjies nie...). Dis hulle wat uiteindelik hul woede kruisgewys op Hom uitgehaal het (Ander het jy gered...) Maar selfs vir hulle wat gehoorsaam die pad wil loop, is dit nie maklik nie – soos Thorogood se baie vrae aan die einde uitwys.

Maar dit is hoe God met die mensdom reis – ‘n avontuurlike, maar gevaarlike, waaghalsige reis.


Hier volg sy inskrywing en die web-verwysing

http://www.westminster.cam.ac.uk/index.php/reflect/27-reflections-on-my-first-visit-to-wayland-prison

Reflections on my First Visit to Wayland Prison
Written by Neil Thorogood
Arriving on a grey day I’m immediately aware of scale. A vast and featureless wall, rounded and bulging at its peak, shuts out the world of prison from my world. There’s a neat car park with small trees off an unremarkable country side road, and this great wall. In the gate house I’m warmly welcomed and my passport is checked. They’re expecting me. The strangeness is calmed a little by being expected, my name on a list, my reason for being here understood. But I’m conscious of fidgeting and turning pages without reading the magazines as I wait for the chaplain to see me through the gates. And I think of prison as a place where God is. I recall that role of apostles, and Jesus, heading into the cells. They were captured, or handed themselves over, alive in faithfulness. I think of Daniel. I think of Bonhoeffer. What might it mean for me to bring my faith into prison? What faithfulness will I meet here? How is God busy?
Then we’re in, surrounded by the hardness of concrete and stone, the clanging shut of gates and the endless clinking of huge bunches of keys. There are dogs with handlers in the exercise yard. But otherwise it is empty and the chaplain and I make a lonely procession towards the normality of his office and a welcome coffee. And as we talk faith in this place begins to unfold as he speaks of value, worth, humanity and the inexhaustible grace of God that can transform the most powerful evil and claim shattered lives.

Root is carved from a great block of limestone. It has been worked on, yet retains much of its original form. It isn’t hard to think of it still as just a block of rock. Yet there is also transformation here with twisting forms and a whole language of tiny marks incised on its sheen as if it is some sort of Rosetta stone remembering another language, offering a voice into the stillness around it.

In Wayland I encountered people who carried still the weight of evil done. I talked with some who have hurt others beyond imagining, and some who hurt themselves beyond enduring. They carry scars, a language of broken lives like the marks of the chisel on the stone.
I find myself drawn to glimpses of salvation; Jesus calling to Zacchaeus in his tree and, without it seems discussion, inviting himself in to this man’s home for food and fellowship and a conversation that will change life for a sinner, and for a community that must welcome back a sinner (Luke 19:1-10). Jesus makes the approach, but Zacchaeus eagerly responds to it. A way is opened, but a step over the threshold is taken. I encountered in chaplaincy this willingness to constantly open a way: a way into relationships; a way into honesty; a way into giving an account; a way towards taking hold of consequences; a way towards God. Some of the prison officers, I gathered, saw chaplaincy as the feather bed offering a place of comfort for anyone with the wit to befuddle the chaplains. But in the chaplains I found a realism about the possibility of being lied to by prisoners gifted in dishonesty, yet a conviction that following Christ here meant always risking. Zacchaeus has to re-enter his community able to demonstrate change, yet unable to remove the past. He carries the scars and, maybe, every day has to live out being forgiven all over again. How does that work with a convicted sex offender contemplating release into a society hostile? What would ministry mean for me in a congregation welcoming Zacchaeus yet also upholding the victims of deceit and abuse? How do I now understand what Jesus means when he speaks of seeking and saving the lost?
Neil Thorogood (February, 2009)


Die beloofde skildery oor Saggeus volg nog.