The nature of the job and the privilege of calling

THE last time I had a job was in 1978. I left it for Christ’s sake and have often found myself at odds trying to explain what I do on a day-to-day basis.

My son Andile had a clearer idea about my calling, premised, it would seem, on his observation of my daily routine. “My daddy stays home,” he told his Grade 1 teacher when asked what kind of work his father does: “And he visits people and drinks tea”.

This desultory lifestyle also suggested how my income was sourced. He told his teacher on another occasion: “The church people send the collection plate around so that we can buy food.” But if the late Father Chris Davids is correct, the collection plate could do with some boosting. He once told his Westridge Parish congregation: “Julle behoort julle te skaam. Die Here kannie eers ‘n pakkie chips koepie met

wat julle ingooi.” Though it must be said, you seldom see a skinny priest. Not that we are chubby, but we are inclined to look well cared for.

There was a certain innocence about some of our clergy of bygone years. The now retired Father Wrongcliffe Chisholm once went for a job interview. This was before he considered submitting himself to the church’s ordination discernment process. At the end of what was a very positive interview he was asked what he expected to earn. Rocky, as we know him, gave some modest figure. Wrongcliffe, when he was told that he would be earning thrice that amount, exclaimed, “No, that’s too much!”

Most, if not all, of my generation of priests, up until the day of their ordination, were unaware and probably not interested about what they would be paid at the end of the month. The majority of these clergy served in poor, working-class parishes. The emphasis was on the privilege of being invited to serve, and that guided and strengthened their value code.

But these were not saintly, heroic figures. They were challenged by the social circumstances of their parishioners who were not passive recipients of priestly rebuke, imagined or fact.

A fellow over time became very frustrated at his wife’s constant mention of “Father wants to know why you don’t come to church.” (This was her interpretation of, “How is Jack doing?”). His reply, “Sê viraai vark hy

moet vi’ my ko visit”, eventually reached my ears via the tongues of a multitude of zealous piempers. Nothing gladdens the heart of the faithful more than

skinner and a fight. I duly honoured his instruction and pitched up outside the door of one of the flats in Ottery’s Mongrel territory. His daughter opened the door and I said to her, “Sê vi jou pa die vark is hier.” We were friends till the day he died.

Our younger clergy, Anglican and those of other denominations and faiths, face the vicissitudes of a post-apartheid society. But they do so, unlike their predecessors, in a generally more fragmented and a morally fraught, de-energised civil society.

There is a clamour for present-day Desmond Tutus and Allan Boesaks.

The march to justice always begins on our knees. St Benedict was of the mind that our prayers to God need not be marked with many words but done “in purity of heart and in the compunction of tears”. A bit of salting of our conscience often leads to clarity on the retrospective gaze on what we have left undone or said.

A prayer of St Thomas Aquinas guides us onto the path of solitude and the rich sense of community it engenders: Grant me, O Lord my God, a mind to know you, a heart to seek you, wisdom to find you, conduct pleasing to you, faithful perseverance in waiting for you, and a hope of finally embracing you. Amen.

All in a day’s work, my son.