I’ve been in South Africa for the past 8 days, and to stand in South Africa, or any part of the Motherland for that matter, is a profound and emotional experience. There is a primal sense of belonging in the simple act of touching the red African soil, breathing African air, and being kissed by African rain. I know my father would have liked to be here at some point in his life, to visit Johannesburg and maybe visit the Mandela foundation. He wouldn’t have been allowed to travel here when he was young because of apartheid, but one of the leaders he always looked up to was Nelson Mandela or Madiba. So, I came knowing that my father would have liked to visit some of the sites I have seen the past few days. South Africa holds a palpable energy: a feeling of fierce resistance and liberation, yet also an undeniable sense of pain and grief. The complex truth I’ve encountered is that Black South Africans fought, achieved a semblance of justice, and continue to struggle. But, the fight for true liberation, I’ve learned, is far from over and remains deeply contested.
I am in South Africa, specifically Johannesburg because I am an Atlantic Fellow for Racial Equity. The time here has been enriching and profoundly moving. One of our visits was to the Nelson Mandela Foundation and a visit to the archives of Nelson Mandela. We were shown some of his handwritten notes to his granddaughters and nieces, some pictures which bore shrapnel damage and some of the awards he received. While the highlight for many would be holding the Nobel Peace Prize that Nelson Mandela was awarded for his contributions in the fight against apartheid and the ushering in of a new South African democracy; and while that was indeed very special, for me a different artifact proved more compelling: the Methodist prayer book he held while imprisoned on Robben Island. It was a prayer book used for services I assumed happened while in prison. The Methodist Church, like other Christian denominations in South Africa, has a complicated, often conflicted, history with the issue of apartheid. Though not all denominations consistently opposed the system, there were vital pockets of resistance within the Methodist church. (This article highlights some of the Black leadership of the Methodist church and that struggle.)
When we were presented the book while visiting his archives, the archivist made it a point to mention that Mandela wrote down three specific texts that were probably meaningful to him: Hebrews 11, Luke 9:61-62, and John 11. Right after he mentioned them, I briefly gave a thought about why I think he wrote down Hebrews 11. Knowing this chapter is known in Christian circles as the ‘Hall of Faith,’ I suggested that maybe Mandela saw it as a profound text on resilience and a vital way to connect with the ancestors of faith. The archivist was struck by this reading, noting that it was an insight he hadn’t considered.
But after offering that insight on Hebrews 11, the other texts in his prayer book remained with me. I wondered, what could Luke 9:61-62 and John 11 offer to Mandela during his imprisonment and what could we learn from them?
Maybe for Mandela Luke 9:61-62, a text where Jesus asks for deep commitment and warns that “No one who puts a hand to the plow and looks back is fit for service”, speaks directly to the radical sacrifice required for his cause. One could argue that to commit fully to the path of liberation he had to functionally leave everything behind: his family, his professional life, and his personal freedom. I thought of this as we heard from his archivist that because of the struggle there is a contested and complicated image of Nelson Mandela, acknowledging the personal costs and human complexities inherent in revolutionary leadership.
And what about John 11? Well, this chapter, which famously deals with the Resurrection of Lazarus, might have been taken as a powerful message of hope, the belief that even when one feels “dead” or defeated by a multiple unjust imprisonments, resurrection and renewal are possible.
But then I thought, what specifically could have interested him in the chapter. The chapter is a long chapter, 57 verses long, and while the resurrection is a clear symbol of hope, it dawned on me upon reading further that maybe a discourse that is towards the end of the chapter (verses 49–50) might have been what interested him. Here, the text states that “it is better for one man to die for the nation than for the whole nation to perish.” Could it be that Mandela chose John 11 because of resurrection and this message, especially as he was imprisoned for the sake of the nation? Maybe he was drawn to this passage as a divine vindication of his suffering and what his long-term confinement meant for the future of the liberation fight for South Africa.
Clearly, this is a lot of interpretative liberty, but one could read all three texts as being intrinsically connected to Mandela’s story of faith and resistance. But then this started to raise a final, more personal question: How do I, as a visitor and person of faith, connect to these three texts? What do I see when I reflect on the Hall of Faith, the call to leave everything behind, or the promise of resurrection?
When thinking about Hebrews 11, it brings to mind the ancestors, the people who have come before me, who have paved the way for me. I stand in this place, in particular Jo’Burg at the moment, because of the ancestors who came before me. My grandparents who I never met, my late father, Floresmiro Perea Renteria, and my mentors, Miriam Jimenez Roman and Juan Flores, and those who prayed for me before I even knew I needed it. Our legacies are inextricably linked to those who held out faith, whether that was faith in the Divine or faith in the ultimate goodness of humanity.
When I think of Luke 9:61-62 I think about what we really need to let go of in order to bring about the kindom. How am I deeply committed to the kindom? Maybe that’s the invitation for us, to ask these questions.
And lastly, when I think about John 11 I start to think of which perspective are we using for the text. Maybe we are like Lazarus, the one who was sick and died, but for whom family and friends persistently advocated; or maybe like Martha, speaking faith and carrying hope despite anger and grief; or like Mary, weeping in despair or maybe we are meant to be like Jesus, knowing that when the time for action is at hand, we must act. Lots of invitations for us here.
Thinking about these three texts over the past few days, especially as I lied sick in bed for a whole day, has helped me think about my own call for this season of my life. I still have some time left here in South Africa, but when I leave, I think I will carry with me a renewed understanding of the power of our ancestors, a resolve to continue to deeply commit, and the belief that renewal and resilience are always possible, even when the struggle feels overwhelming. And maybe, with all that is going on in the world, this is a good reminder for all of us.