St George's Cathedral, Cape Town

A sermon preached by the Reverend Canon Andrew Hunter in the Cathedral Church of St George the Martyr at Evensong on the 19th Sunday of the Year, 13 August 2006

At a meeting of Diocesan Chapter towards the end of June, the Dean passed round a list of dates asking members of Chapter to indicate when they would be available to preach at Evensong, here at the Cathedral. A couple of days later, I received a phone call from Fr Bruce, asking me if I would be willing to preach tonight. And so I have the dubious privilege of kicking off the “series”, during which it is hoped that a member of Diocesan Chapter will preach at Evensong here on the 2nd Sunday of each month. The Dean and those around him are keen for this to “signal a return to the long tradition of the presence of Chapter in the life of the Cathedral and bring about closer bonds of engagement and reciprocal connection between the Cathedral and the Diocesan Chapter” (quoting from the sheet we received!).

So – thank you, Mr Dean, for the invitation. It is good to be here, and it is a privilege, and not merely a dubious one!

The place, and role, of Diocesan Chapter in the life of the diocese and of the cathedral is an interesting one. Our title, for a start. We are not “Diocesan Chapter”, although that is how we and others tend to see us. We are the Chapter of the Cathedral Church of St George, with stalls, and the right to be in them, at any service in the Cathedral; and the duty to attend the diocesan bishop whenever he is formally present at any function within the Cathedral. But what do we actually do, apart from look important? As a body, Chapter has no formal powers. Our function as Diocesan Chapter is one of advice and counsel. We do not have the authority to do anything, and the decisions in which we share are ultimately the decisions of the bishop. We are called together to assist and advise the bishop in certain areas in the life of the diocese, such as clergy appointments, all matters concerning “faith and morals” and “spiritual discipline”, and “on all grave matters affecting the general interests… [or] the welfare, of the diocese.” In some ways we are the eyes and ears of the bishop; but it is also our job to raise issues of concern with him, if as members of Chapter we feel the need to do so – a bit like a parish council for the diocese. And we also have the responsibility “to take counsel as occasion may require in important matters affecting the services and arrangements of the Cathedral as the Mother Church of the Diocese.” So in that important respect, we have some degree of oversight over the life of the Cathedral; and the ministry exercised by the Cathedral as the flagship of the diocese is of particular interest and concern to us.

People – and I suppose I am really referring to the clergy here – have mixed feelings and are quite ambivalent towards us. We are seen as those who are close to the Archbishop and Bishop of Table Bay, their right-hand men and women; perhaps also as the bishop's henchmen, the bishop's hit squad, the bishop's bouncers, the bishop's heavies (though I would say that some of us are viewed as heavier than others); and I have found that being on Chapter can change one's relationships with one's colleagues.

I have found it a huge privilege to be part of Diocesan Chapter, and at times an immense amount of fun. At other times we feel like the disciples in the boat, in the midst of the storm, wondering when Jesus is going to wake up and save us. We face immense challenges, and it is not an easy or a comfortable ministry. At the same time, our Chapter meetings are times of fellowship and mutual support, and (I hope) support for our bishops in their ministry and with the loads that they are carrying. There are times when I feel we are like the elders who held up the arms of Moses while the battle raged on, giving both him, and the people, strength for the task at hand.

Over the years our fellowship on Chapter has meant that our meetings are places where we can be open and honest and even vulnerable. So much of what we do in the life of the church is based on the quality of the relationships that we have with one another, and when these are good, when there is mutual trust, when we love one another, things are able to happen easily and well. I want to say again what a privilege it is to serve on this body and to be part of this fellowship – even though at times we tear our hair out – again, some have torn out more hair than others!

This is a significant time for us all in the life of the diocese. It is the Sunday before Synod, always something of a kairos moment in our life together. It is also the Sunday after the celebration of National Women's Day, with its particular historical focus of memory, of the women who declared to Prime Minister Strydom, in 1956, “When you have struck the women, you have struck a rock!” The focus of NWD in today's context is on the huge challenges facing women, and all of us, especially in the area of poverty, HIV-AIDS, and violence towards and abuse of women. NWD is also celebrated in the context of the immense contribution that women make, in the workplace, in education, and in business, in church and community. We salute – I salute – the women clergy in our church (I do of course have a personal stake in that one!); women in parishes who take such a significant leadership role and do such wonderful ministry; women in our country, in communities, in business, in politics, women who are positive role models. And we salute – I salute – the men in our church and in the wider community who in their relationships with women do not play power games, who encourage and model respect, and who show care and compassion as opposed to brutality and violence and abuse.

What interesting readings we have tonight. Our Gospel (second) reading, the stilling of the storm, was linked in the Sunday morning lectionary, earlier this year, to Job 38:1-11, in which God speaks to Job, and in which we are given a quite overwhelming picture of God as the one who creates, God who is Lord of all creation, God who is Lord over the chaos of storm and sea. There is an obvious link with Mark 4, as Jesus stills the storm and shows that he too is Lord over the storm and the chaos. When the disciples see this, they ask, “Who then is this, that even the wind and the sea obey him?” (Mk 4:41).

But tonight, the same Gospel story, the stilling of the storm, is linked with the terrible reading from 2 Samuel, the rape of Tamar. It is perhaps easier to theologise about God as creator, Lord over creation, Jesus as the one who brings order and peace out of chaos – it is perhaps easier to theologise on these great cosmic and Christological themes, than it is to theologise about rape and violence.

The feminist writer and theologian Phyllis Trible includes this story of the rape of Tamar in a collection of writings which she calls “Texts of Terror”. And texts of terror they are, as we face, in the pages of scripture, and therefore at the heart of our inheritance of faith, a litany of pain and degradation and abuse and oppression and power and suffering. The Levite and his concubine, the daughter of Jephthah, the story of Hagar, and the rape of Tamar – four stories, four women, who in their loss and suffering and pain make a place in our faith tradition for all women, and especially for women who have suffered violence at the hands of others.

I have a wife. I have two daughters. I have a sister, a mother, aunts, a mother-in-law, nieces, girl cousins, colleagues and friends who are women. When I read one of these texts of terror, such as our reading tonight of the rape of Tamar, or when I read or hear a report in the news of rape, or abuse, I cringe, I am angry, I am appalled.

When Jacob Zuma's supporters toyi-toyed outside the Durban High Court, hurling abuse at his accuser, I and many other South Africans, and many other men, were outraged and disgusted.

When I read Helen Brain's book, Here be Lions – a memoir not suitable for children, and reflect on all that she writes and the story that she tells, including our church's struggles with these issues, or when I think back only a few years to the pain we all went through, you here at the Cathedral, and we in the rest of the diocese, over a priest who was accused of rape, I want to weep.

Later this week, in the context of our Diocesan Synod, we shall be engaging with some of these issues. One of the focus groups during Conference of Synod is specifically on violence against women. The draft motion in our Agenda Book will call on Synod to do various things, and people may well express their anger and outrage towards those who abuse women. I remember sitting in a gathering of our Bishop's Forum, a year or two back, as we were presented with what felt like a set of stereotypes of arrogant male attitudes towards women. Eventually I said, “Hey, I am not like that. We have moved on. We are not stuck in the past. Some of us do see things differently. Not all men are violent, uncaring, thoughtless, or cruel. Not all men see women as less valuable than men, or misuse their power, or try to push women down.”

One can reject the stereotypes but still enjoy the jokes, as my daughters and I do, with our collection of blonde jokes. My two daughters, who are very blonde, gave me this one: the story of the two blondes who were lounging next to the swimming pool somewhere in Constantia, and the one looks dreamily up into the sky and says to the other, “I wonder which is closer, the moon or Durban?” The other replies, “Duh, of course it must be the moon – you can't even see Durban from here!”

But have we moved on from the old stereotypes? Do we still, quietly, to ourselves, justify them? What about collective responsibility? To what extent do all men carry the responsibility for what some men do to women, just as it could be argued that, to some extent, all whites carry some responsibility for apartheid and racism? Have we as men become immune? Do we simply shrug our shoulders and walk by on the other side and say, “It's not me, it's not my problem?” How do we as men respond when our brothers, our fellow men, do dreadful things? How do we respond when RAPCAN informs us that, according to research, “perpetrators are getting younger, and that the incidence of crimes involving youths younger than 18 years has increased in the past two years” – in other words, as we see a lowering in the age at which young males begin to behave violently towards women and girls – how do we respond?

And how do we help remember? Who remembers Valencia Farmer – that young girl who was gang-raped in Elsies River a few years back, was left for dead, but managed to survive long enough to identify at least some of her attackers? Who remembers her now? Who will remember Bianca Macwili – a young 14-year-old who was gang-raped and murdered early in July? Who will remember her, when the court case is over, those who raped and killed her are, hopefully, convicted and appropriately sentenced, and life has moved on? Who will remember her? And as Ravensmead, and Cape Town, reel with the shock of another 4-year-old abducted, raped and murdered, little Celine Cowley – who, after a few years, will remember?

The parents of these children, these young people, will remember. Their school mates, their friends, will remember. Every woman, every girl who heard their stories will remember. But I hope that every man, as well, will remember: that these events become, like the texts of terror in the scriptures, part of our collective memory, and that as we remember, we say again and again, it should not be like this. Perhaps one of the worst things that can happen is that, collectively, we forget; that we shrug our shoulders and say, “These things happen,” that we take refuge in blame – she was asking for it, or she was wearing a kanga, or her parents should not have sent her out, she was a bad sort, she was clubbing, or drinking … and we are unable to say and to believe and to know and to proclaim that rape and violence against women (and men), is deeply, deeply wrong, that a culture, whether formal or informal, which promotes or encourages this behaviour, is sick and needs healing, that attitudes that allow these things to go unchecked need to be challenged and repented of, that a justice system that makes it so very hard for victims of rape to receive justice is not a system of justice.

As we do these things, as we accept collective responsibility, and as we remember, we are honouring all women in our country, in our communities, in our families, in our churches. We are honouring especially Tamar and her sisters down the centuries, those whose trust and vulnerability has been so abused. We cry out with them, we weep and rage and grieve with them.

“I call to my God, I cry out toward him: I call to my God and surely he will answer. In the day of my distress I seek the Lord, I stretch out my hands to him by night: my soul is poured out without ceasing, it refuses all comfort.” Ps 77:1-2 (Alternative psalm for Evensong).

And as we continue to reflect deeply on these biblical stories that are part of our tradition, and as we embrace them and all survivors and victims of violence and rape and abuse – women and men, girls and boys – we become the presence of Jesus with his disciples, in the boat, in the midst of the storm – and we can begin to be a sign of God's love, and God's authority, over the chaos and terror that we face.

… and can begin to proclaim:

“I will declare the mighty acts of the Lord: I will call to mind your wonders of old. I will think on all that you have done: and meditate upon your works.” Ps 77:11-12.

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