José has an aphorism which he brought back from a recent visit to Switzerland (the IPM has its origins in the Swiss Mission): “The Swiss has a watch, but the African has time.” It may not be original – I’m told the Taliban recently said the same about the Americans and themselves. But it’s still quite telling – although I remain an unrepentant watch-wearer.
Saturday was one of those frustrating days that happen from time to time. We had the promise of a guided tour of Maputo, but the guide failed to turn up at the appointed time. When he did appear, we were about to eat lunch, so he promised to come back in another half hour. After two hours I gave up. But maybe he had the time for something else.
On the other hand, although I may keep looking at my watch, I am not constantly connected to my mobile phone, as many people here are. There was a “no mobiles” notice glued to the pillar in church this morning, but they were certainly in peoples’ hands in the vestry before the service, and were ringing as soon as it finished. And in what is a very unregulated society compared with ours, they are of course in constant use on car journeys, by passengers and driver alike. People who have time seem not to be able to suggest that now is not the best time.
But the value of having time , rather than being tied to time, was seen in a service like this morning’s at the Presbyterian Church at Tshavana. We got underway at about 9.15 (I imagine it was programmed for 9 o’clock), and were only shaking hands outside at a quarter to two. What came in between embraced the usual liturgical fare (quite a brief sermon) and a couple of “specials”. The congregation, which has grown from practically nothing over the eleven years of its existence is now trying to get out of the fairly constricted shop that houses it, and put up a new purpose-built church. Today was one of the monthly occasions for people from each of the zones (a bit like cell groups perhaps) to bring the money they’d pledged, and hear that they are now close to being able to purchase the land.
But the main “extra” was a presentation to the previous pastor, who left the parish about a year ago. This is the way they do things: say goodbye only when you’re well and truly gone. I suppose it combats that dread that our churches have of a minister changing their mind and deciding not to go after all; but it must be strange for the new minister in post to hear all the wonderful things about their predecessor, and wonder whether or not they’re reckoned to be shaping up to such high standards. Each of the groups in the church made their own speeches and presentation – all accompanied of course with song. The a capella singing was as wonderful as ever – and the gifts all magnificent, from cooking pots to blankets, and from a mattress and bed to three sheets of corrugated iron for a canopy.
Sitting on my wooden bench, relying on an interpreter, I admit that it felt a long session. But for everyone else in the church, I am sure that the morning flew by. Hardly anyone left before it ended, when I had the privilege of giving the final blessing – which the congregation had been warned would not be translated! Here were people who simply had time – time to worship God, time to find joy in one another’s company, and time and generosity to assured a well-loved pastor that her work among them and the gifts she had shared with them would not be forgotten. And the variety of gifts she struggled home with certainly didn’t include a watch.
John Durell
