The Father

I don't think I've ever encountered so much Catholicism in my life as I have in South Africa.  Not because South Africa is Catholic - it's primarily Protestant.  Rather, because, the Catholic missions in place in South Africa are a source of great wisdom, knowledge and sustainability within the communities where they work.  The pervading issues of homosexuality, molestation and women's rights are far from reach in these mission thresholds.  They are more concerned with the pressing needs of the local population - which include HIV infection, orphaning, child parenting, abuse, and hunger.

It is through the Father here that I have seen an immense love for community and a stellar example of one who has given up their life for the service of others.  I have been to the Father's house several times for traditional Liverpudlian meals, cooked by him, and have been given a tour round his small parsonage.  His room is bare, no less than one would expect from a priest, no pillow, no thick duvet, only a blanket and fitted sheet.  His home is scattered with books and he cracks me up by listening to the Afrikaans radio station - he's trying to learn Afrikaans.  He began his Sesotho studies by attending a Grade One classroom at a Primary School for a year; an impressively tall white man, sharing at a tiny desk with a half pint a quarter of his size.  He is now fluent in Sesotho and presents all his sermons to the black community in their language.

The Father has a terrifically difficult job, for a South African.  He must deliver sermons to 4 parishes on Sunday. Two in townships and two in the surrounding, predominantly white towns.  So not only must he engage with the absolute poorest of the poor, he must also engage with two separate and very different cultures from a place of love without judgement.

I complain it's a terrific sacrifice to only return home once a year.  But the Father only returns home once every three years, to England.  The Father has lived in 3 different parts of the world, serving missions and learning their languages, before landing up here - where he has been 7 years and is now a citizen.

At any given moment while visiting in his lounge, drinking tea that is utterly too sweet (because he refuses to give me a 1/2 teaspoon, claiming it's ridiculous), at least five children will pop round.  To each one he'll caress their little face, pat them on the head and give them an orange or two to take away.  Another few knocks on the door, informal settlers will appear with buckets, requesting a dip into his well.  His little home is a source of refuge.  Even for me - with the appeal of foreign, not local, company and a different perspective.

He has found a niche within each community, however I have been privy to the complaints in the English community.  Yes, this great man has a terrifying fault with the locals.  He stinks.  His hygiene is what one would expect of a hippie, but it's deliberate.  He doesn't wear deodorant and only bathes twice a week, or so I've heard.  The congregation has taken immense exception to this poor protocol and it has often been the topic of the dinners I've attended.  It's difficult to know how this issue is perceived in the Sotho community, considering there are many a staunch, smelly armpit there; yet the Sotho people are some of the cleanest, well-bathed and manicured people I know.  Cleanliness, is the holiest way out of poverty in Africa. One may be poor, but their stoop will always be clean, the sink empty of dishes, the clothes washed daily and pressed to perfection.

Honestly, it's irrelevant how the Father smells.  People in small towns always want something to complain about and in this case it's the priest.  But I am in awe of the Father. He's the kind of priest who will punch someone in the face for raping their niece.  And he doesn't care about the implications of collecting hitchhikers on the road.  I don't know what's in his head and he's probably not a pure Mother Theresa, but in my book, he sure comes close.  His regard for humanity says it all.