Leading in another language...

This year as I wondered how to lead the covenant service in my church - especially in isiXhosa. I thought I should find someone to read the liturgy for me.  My bishop; in his wisdom challenged us at a meeting of ministers working in 'mixed culture' contexts. 

He said something to this effect:  'You white ministers that lead Xhosa societies; don't go getting other people in to lead the covenant, learn to do it yourselves!'

I was a bit cross with him for being so mean to us white ministers.  I had a vision of my pending embarrassment in front of my patient congregation.  I nearly called for back up at the last minute; but remembered that my ordained friends had their own barriers to cross that Sunday.  And I had to do what I was called to do.

So I stumbled through the Xhosa liturgy, embarrassed by my inability in front of this group that I am appointed to lead. It all went a lot better in my study at home as I spent hours carefully dissecting the script and practicing the tongue twisters and trippers.  But as usual, stumbling through the liturgy in front of the congregation it all fell apart.  As I laboured on I wished I could have heard through their ears.  Was I making any sense?  I hoped they had their prayer books open... just in case.

Embarrassed, I am filled with gratitude.  Sunday after Sunday I stumble through foreign words on the pages of my prayer book.  I'm getting better and better at saying them; I am quite sure I often say foolish things.  And I think how often Afrikaans, French, Korean, Xhoso, Sotho, Tswana people have been gracious enough to speak English as faulty as it may be so that I could understand.  

As an English person - in my arrogance, because of the legacy of empire I have not submitted to any other language.  I can speak and understand Afrikaans; but when I start - people who speak Afrikaans feel sorry for me and help me out.  I think I take advantage.

Is it only English people who get to hear their language injured by a foreign tongue? 

I now realize that hearing your language injured by a foreign tongue is actually a privilege.  A privilege enjoyed only by those in power.  Those important enough not to bother reaching their hands and ears across the void of intelligibility.

So I stumbled on - and afterwards thanked the congregation for their patience.  

Some people can't stand hearing their mother tongue so badly represented.  They move to greener pastures where Xhosa reigns.  I don't blame them.  I much prefer hearing my own language spoken; my whole neck gets stiff trying to say and sing strange words.  Cultural faux pas abound.  I spend my life worrying that what I've said or done may unwittingly offend someone.  And I'm quite sure that Satan will take advantage of every chink.

But then - I am a minister.  Ordained by the laying on of hands to 'represent'.  And I represent the church.  The church in its frailty; with its faltering, stammering attempt at communicating the Word of God to the world.  And though I stammer I still go.  And when I lead in a language difficult for me to pronounce I still represent the community of God in all its blackness, brownness, whiteness and greyness.  Often, not so well.

So thank you church for teaching me to cross language boundaries.  And thank you for the vulnerability inherent in doing so.  And I'll keep trying.  And together we'll bear with one another in love.

Gus