Moral Relativity

Moral relativity….the priest announced the title of his sermon on a wet Sunday in July, and my high spirits ebbed. “Another boring day,” I thought. Just as soon, the priest said, “I will not bore you with any excerpts, prepared texts or biblical literature.” My heart silently reopened fixing a smile on my face. Rather disappointingly he continued, “Instead I will tell you a story from one of my trips to America.”  This priest is toying with my mind this morning, I concluded. Another brag-ga-do Americanah, trying to form whitey, with one thousand stories from two trips to God’s own country. Well, it’s raining, so I have nothing to lose. I consoled myself, reclining back into my chair.

“……after the story, you would make deductions yourselves,” I heard him saying. Below is a dogged attempt to retell his story.

I was in the US last month as guest of my very good friend Father Patrick Tonucci, an Italian priest who manages an orphanage of gifted kids. One day he asked to accompany him to the supermarket to replenish the homes’ supplies. We have finished picking various items we needed and hauled the large trolley to the checkout counter, standing in line behind a lady. As we waited our turn we started discussing the kids in the home. At the time the home was housing eleven kids, and I had mistakenly mentioned aloud how he was coping with his “eleven” kids and parish duties. No sooner that I had said that the woman in front, probably in her late forties, spun around and snarled, “You’ve how many kids?!” She was glaring at Fr. Patrick like he’d just disclose her bank details, including debit card pin.

As a typical Nigerian, I had wanted to ask her, “Wetin concern you?” But Patrick beat me to it, with a rather polite answer. “You heard right, I have eleven kids,” he replied, unfazed by her vehemence. “Do you have a problem with that?”

“As a matter of fact I do,” she retorted back through clench teeth. “All those kids? That’s the most selfish thing I’ve heard of!” she added.

“Shoo, help me see this white people,” I said in my head, but reasoned that she didn’t know we were Roman Catholic priests, since both of us were dressed in plain casual clothes. I gestured to weigh in, in order to clarify that the kids we were referring to are in a home he manages, however, Fr. Patrick gestured to me to let him handle this, like he was used to such overtures by intrusive eavesdroppers. Then he countered the woman with another vexatious question. “And why is that?”

“It’s selfish,” she scowled, “because while others are preserving limited resources to control global warming, you’re overcrowding the planet. To have that many kids is irresponsible, immoral and wrong,” she fired on all pistons. “And I can bet you’re anti-abortion.”

At this point Fr. Patrick and I burst out in laughter, which was clearly not the reaction she expected.

“Yes, of course I’m anti-abortion,” Fr. Patrick said through butts of laughter. “What was your first clue?”

“Well, you should get over it, abortion is legal,” she said staring at us both acidly.

“So what?” Fr. Patrick retorted. “Just because some dumbos made it legal, doesn’t mean it’s moral. Abortion is…..,” he intended to buttress his argument, but she cut him off, saying…

“It wouldn’t be legal if it wasn’t moral.” She snapped.

“Is that so?” he retorted, lightning works engulfing his grey eyes. I could also see an ice-cold smirk lurking on the corner of his white lips, for I know, like he does, the woman has just boxed herself into an untenable position from which to argue. “You realise that slavery used to be legal here in the US, with the Supreme Court having legalized it in 1857, right?” he queried. Back then I could own this my friend here,” pointing at me, “I could beat him or even kill him if I wanted to. Or I could even sell off his wife or kids if I wanted to. Did the fact that slavery was legal make it moral?”

Realizing her foolery, she simply glared in silence, but Fr. Patrick wasn’t done.

“You also know that apart from the Supreme Court stupidly legalizing abortion and slavery here in the US, how about Germany during the Nazi era. It was completely legal to round up Jews, force them into concentration camps and exterminate them in gas chambers. It was legal, was it morally right?”

The woman was now visible growing red with anger, which made me remember a poem on the variety of colours white people change to, to reflect alterations to either external or internal factors. However, Fr. Patrick finally fired the killer shot with history I never knew.

“And what about the fact that,” he was saying, “If you had been born before 1920, you would have been legally” motioning inverted commas in the air for emphasis on legally, “prevented to vote,” pointing directly at her. “Does that make it okay, because it was……..”

She didn’t wait to hear the final words, as she stormed off angrily, which made me wonder if she’d pay for her stuff. What I know is that, she would have to come down that high moral ladder about abortion, large families and whatever else she’s up in arms against, with her defective logic of “if it’s legal, its moral.”

“God bless His words in our hearts,” Fr. Lawrence Jatau concluded as the choir took the cue.

It’s now left to us to practice and refine this moral relativist position, a fallacy which can easily be disproved off, by simply turning the tables by relativizing anything logic a moral relativist holds dear. Many examples abound in the world today, same-sex marriages, Euthanasia, divorce, forced marriages, girl-child marriages, one-child policy, to name just a few. Some are legally practiced in most countries across the globe but that doesn’t make it moral, because the way of man is not (and can never be) the way of God (Is. 55:8).

Daily Doses

On a beautiful sunny morning I could tell all wasn’t good as Mrs Otta traipsed across the sandy field head fixed towards my class with somewhat a Goliath’s gait. She and I had been good friends for a few years, but any time she shows up in my class, apart from break periods…………….it wasn’t a good thing. The look on her face today wasn’t good at all.

Mrs Otta, as the students’ call her has an official title of student counsellor, and within her duties she helped students with a range of things: subject/career choices, university admissions and any another in-school difficulties a child faced. Outside her duties, she was warm-hearted, kind and willing to listen to any issue a kid might have. At times it involved simple issues as arguments between friends. Other times the issues were weighty as an unplanned pregnancy. Nevertheless, she went above and beyond her job description to help them.

“I’d love to see that every troubled kid have a perfect life,” she will reiterate on many occasions. “It’s my dream. Although, no matter how much I try some seem unfixable,” she added with frustration behind her beady eyes, “most times I let God take control.” But she had never given up on an issue; small or large, students bring to her.

Today was no exception, as she entered into my classroom, and whispered into my ear, “I need Theodore Kantiok, then added, “and you.”

Surprised, I looked up to where Theo, being the abridged version students call him, was seated and called. Theo, could you come here.”

The tall, slender boy with knotty hair and dark bulgy eyes had only resumed my class last term, and I really didn’t know much about him. I heard his dad had enrolled him into the school and was rarely seen, but he never for once skipped school or delayed in payment of his fees. He has also never spoken about his dad, mum or siblings either. He was always by himself, rarely associates with other kids. Although, not an “A” student, his grades never suffered. Your archetypal nondescript personality who you wouldn’t give much of a passing to, however, there was a etched sadness in his eyes and smile, which made me wonder what might have caused it. Which was why when I’d call his name, with a stout faced Mrs Otta close by, myself and the other kids who heads were now turning to each other with asking eyes, “what has this quiet boy done?”

Mrs Otta drew in the chalk dust filled air before speaking, “We’ve a problem, Mr Theodore. It’s your dad.”

Theo stiffened; a sudden fear crept into his eyes. “Is he alright?” he asked. “Where’s he?”

Mrs Otta sighed, “He’s in my office.”

Theo grimaced, his shoulders dropping. “Oh,” was all he said.

We followed Mrs Otta to her office, and when she opened the door, I didn’t need to see the problem. I smelled it.

An older and taller version of Theodore who was seated on the visitors’ chair tried to stand up, stumbling awkwardly. When he spoke, his breath retched of alcohol.

“Th…you forgot your….” then he held out a pair of white P.E short.

Theo in an instant was at his side, helping him back into the chair. “Daddy,” he whispered, his voice filled with pain.

“Why’re you here. You shouldn’t be driving in…..” He raised his eyes towards us. “Forgot to hide the keys this morning,” he said.

“You mean this happen often, Mr Theodore?” Mrs Otta queried gently.

The older man looking perplexed asked, “Have I done something wrong?”

Lifting a comforting arm on his dad’s shoulder, Theo bowed his head, nodding, “……just the drinking, not the driving,” he said. “I often hide the car keys when he’s drunk. He hasn’t sobered up since mummy died,” tears cascading underneath his large white eyes.

Mrs Otta breathed deeply, Well, it won’t be nice to put him in a taxi all by himself and I don’t know how to drive,” as she turned to me with begging eyes. “Would you?” Hesitating for a moment, “I will be glad to drive Mr Kantiok back home,” I finally said, “but you would have to cover my class till am back.”

“Not a problem,” Mrs Otta said with a thankful smile.

Sheer relief scrubbed Theo’s sweltering face, as he apologized relentlessly, when we helped his dad into the back seat.

“He took to drinking heavily after my mom died in an accident,” the involuntary matured child told me, “…..but he’s good and looks out for me.” Wiping his forehead with the back of his palm he added, “he lost many of his contracts, but…”

The words were drained off my tongue, as I could only mutter a catholic phrase wishing Mrs Otta was here with her soothing words, “You shouldn’t give up on him…he needs you to pull through. You’re his blessing.” He sighed half-heartedly, so I guessed he must have heard different versions a thousand and one times like a broken tape. “One day he’ll realise what he’s doing, and get back his wits….”

“That’s my prayer daily. I dream of such a day,” Theo said with a whisper, a smile gratefully playing on his lips.

We pulled up in front of a sun washed green bungalow, and together assisted his dad unto the sitting room’s large three sitter sofa. I handed Theo the car keys, which he proceeded to hide behind a stack of old newspapers.

As we boarded a public vehicle to school I marvelled at Theo’s love and patience. Most grown-ups would have given up on such a situation Theo faced daily.

“Wishing you luck,” I told him as we approached the school gate. “I will pray for you and your dad.”

“Thank you,” he said, “for everything. I’m so grateful.” His eyes were reddening again, and against all the rules of student/teacher handbook, I leaned and hug him.

Then I smelled what bonds sons and father. There was alcohol on Theo’s breath. I drew back in an instant and stared remotely at him, not knowing what to do or say. He stared back at me and I thought I saw remorse in his eyes, but no it wasn’t, just a plain and ugly fixated stare.

“It helps me through the day,” he said and walked through the opened pedestrian gate.

Gone from My Sight

Dear readers, if you ever met someone crying, what would you say to that person? I am asking this question because only early this year my neighbour’s four year old toddler Dayo, was able to handle this difficult situation.

We all live in a sixteen semi-detached flats estate, where Dayo and his parents shared walls with an elderly man who was widowed recently in October, 2014. The man had thrilled anyone he could “bother” for a conversation with stories of how he married very young, and had lived with his wife for over 50 years. They had only one child a girl, who is married with kids residing in the UK. The sudden death of his wife had left him quite devastated.

The death of one’s spouse is one of the most painful of losses, and is often fraught with negative consequences. “Nothing will ever be the same,” he told me. “I feel dazed, frightened, and unprepared to face these new challenges by myself;” he would add. I had no other words than to tell him; “All would be well.” But on this fateful day, Dayo was playing in the courtyard of their twin flats when he saw the elderly man weeping on a bench. The small boy instinctively left his games and sat down beside him, clasping the man’s wrinkled hand warmly with his own soft little hands. I was watching all this from my apartment window, and was quite moved by the sight, and when the old man bade his younger friend goodbye, as the evening cold was starting to get harsh, I called out to Dayo and asked him, “What did you say to your neighbour?” “Nothing, Uncle,” was the reply. “I just helped him to cry.”

Isn’t it nice to hear that a small boy was able to do the right thing at the right time? An adult like myself would probably have waited ‘for the right moment’; he or she would have first considered what words to use, and would then have said them feeling very uneasy and embarrassed. Children, on the other hand, have firsthand knowledge of frailty; they still have to learn to hide it. This is why Dayo was able to comfort the old man so easily and spontaneously.

If we believe that God looks lovingly upon our frailty because, each one of us is “precious and honoured in His sight,” then it is easy to understand that to comfort the grieving is one of the most important things we can do.

Everyday opens with the memory of our dear departed, a memory that fills us all with longing and a certain amount of pain. However, the remembrance of those who are no longer with us is celebrated by us as believers in the light of that eternal destiny which God has reserved for all Christians, a future in which we will enjoy the wonderful existence which can’t be faintly compared with the live we are living now. And so we can see dying as the journey into love without measure, a journey where we return whence we came, to have the same love lavished on us that is lavished on Jesus. Death is, in actual fact, a wonderful voyage into never-ending light, as Charles Henry Brent (1862 – 1929) reminds us:

What is dying?

A ship sails and I stand watching

Till she fades on the horizon,

and someone at my side

says, “She is gone.”

Gone where? Gone from my sight,

that is all; she is just as

large as when i saw her.....

the diminished size and total

loss of sight is in me, not in her,

and just at the moment

when someone at my side

says “she is gone,” there are others

who are watching her coming,

and other voices take up the glad shout,

“there she comes!”.....and that is dying.

To remember our dearly departed means to live in the awareness that human life is fleeting and fragile, yet illuminated by hope, because after all, at the end of our life’s journey, “a new earth and a new heaven” awaits us.

“What did you say to your neighbour?” I asked Dayo. “Nothing, Uncle, I only helped him to cry.”

And what would you say to those who need to be comforted?

Is The South African Media Telling The Truth About T.B. Joshua?

By Marelise Van der Merwe

I must confess I don’t often attempt to order my eclectic myriad of ruminations into words, especially on such a sensitive, sorrowful issue. As a patriotic South African, I am still trying to come to terms with the tragic incident that veiled our country in a cloak of sadness this week. My heart bleeds for those who lost loved ones in the church collapse in Lagos, Nigeria that sent 84 salvation-seeking South Africans to an early grave. May their souls rest in perfect, permanent peace.
At this juncture, I don’t want to attempt to proffer reasons as to the cause of this tragic incident; let’s leave professional investigators to their job. My concern is the prejudiced media reports circulating within the public sphere, myopic headlines such as ‘TB Joshua: Profile of an accomplished performer’ incensing a barrage of vitriolic comments online.
Let me elaborate at this point that I have undertaken a ‘spiritual pilgrimage’ to The SCOAN on one occasion back in June 2013, a decision I certainly don’t regret despite my initial cynicism. The visit, albeit unusual, was spiritually enriching and I can attest to the constructive changes my life has seen since.
Before going further, please drop the stereotypical connotation that I am one of those ‘T.B. Joshua fanatics’ who offer ill-conceived rebuttals toward the slightest hint of criticism against ‘my pastor’. I am not here to ascribe undue praise to any man or adopt the ‘sheepish mentality’ that has sadly led many would-be Christians today into elevating their pastors to an unhealthy ‘godlike’ status. However, putting my personal convictions aside, the reports being circulated by our media do not accurately reflect the ministry of Pastor T.B. Joshua.
Let me cite just a couple of examples. Painting the picture of a ‘flamboyant millionaire’ who is ‘milking the masses’, multiple reports highlight Joshua’s alleged wealth, citing a Forbes article which stated he is the third richest pastor in Nigeria. How many media houses, however, reported his immediate denunciation of this report, requesting his name to be removed from the rich list? “There is not enough to keep for tomorrow. As it comes, we give it for the needy,” he said in response.
On that note, have any media house highlighted Joshua’s extensive humanitarian endeavours? The same Forbes article being quoted calls Joshua Nigeria’s most philanthropic pastor, claiming he has given “over $20 million to causes in education, healthcare and rehabilitation programs” – a fact our journalists ‘conveniently’ left out in their write-ups. Indeed, I have never once heard T.B. Joshua campaigning for money or scrolling bank details across Emmanuel TV in the name of ‘fund-raising’, a nauseating practice that distanced me from most of his evangelical counterparts.
Another popular article which was widely read stating this incident was the fourth building to have collapsed at SCOAN is nothing but malicious misrepresentation. A look at Joshua’s intriguing documentary, ‘This Is My Story’ reveals the said ‘buildings’ were barely formed structures that were destroyed by the elements over 15 years ago when his ministry was at a very primitive stage. The mention of such on The SCOAN website serves as an encouragement for people to never give up despite the ‘storms of life’. Comparisons with the tragic incident last Friday are cruelly misplaced, probably to create an impression of insecurity or lack of safety.
The media are repeatedly referring to an incident that happened over a decade ago when Springbok rugby player Wim Basson sadly perished even after visiting SCOAN. Yes, that’s true but what about those who have received healing through T.B. Joshua’s prayers? Why is it that such positive aspects of Joshua’s ministry have been surreptitiously excluded in the majority of news?
After all, what drives the faithful droves to take the long journey to SCOAN week-in week-out, ignoring the threats of ‘Boko Haram’ and Ebola, if not for their firmly held convictions? Are the media insinuating that these thousands of South African pilgrims are mentally incapacitated or under some cryptic delusion? Also, how many of those making judgmental statements behind the comfort of their computer screens have met the man, heard him speak or partaken in one of his services? I have.
Yes, T.B. Joshua is controversial, unconventional and unpredictable but that is no reason for the media to add needless sensationalism to a story that is already tragic enough. This is not a time to debate Joshua’s authenticity but to mourn with our brothers and sisters whose lives were lost.
By Marelise Van der Merwe, Johannesburg, South Africa