The Presence of the Living God

Last November I was in a place called Mogopa in the Western Transvaal. Mogopa is a little village, a settlement some 70 years old, where over the years black people have built for themselves a stable community. Of course, they were still black people in white South Africa, which meant that the men had to leave their families and the village to go to work in the white cities. It meant that they were still poor, oppressed, and rejected. The people in Mogopa had their own school and their own churches. They were happy that they did not live in a so-called "homeland"; they had bought their land from the government 70 years ago.

But then they heard that Mogopa was a "black spot" in white-declared land. They were going to lose their land, and they would receive little or no compensation. The government, this anti-communist, "Christian" government, had broken down their schools and their churches, had cut off the water supply, and were getting ready to send in the army and the bulldozers to remove the people of Mogopa. And that is why we went, the "visible" leaders of the church, to pray with the people of Mogopa.

As I stood watching those proud people being reduced to utter confusion and helplessness—people who for so long had sustained themselves—I wondered what we were doing there. If not today, then tomorrow the bulldozers would come. We could not hope to be a protecting shield for these people. We knew that the government would stop at nothing to execute its plan. Why would a government that does not stop at killing children in the streets to protect its position care for the presence of the church in Mogopa?

I prayed with them, with those people who were so defenseless, so vulnerable, so weak against this powerful, ruthless government. We prayed and sang hymns all night. We heard testimonies and stories of how they had come to Mogopa, how they worked, and how they had made of this place a home.

Then the question was asked: Why? In God's name, why? "We are so far away from any white people," one said. "We never bothered them. We don't owe them money." The question which shook me most came from an old man: "These people are Christians, they say. But who is their God? I don't understand him."

At this I had to ask myself, what are we doing here? Where is this God of love and justice and mercy we were telling the Mogopa people about? As I saw them breaking down their own homes ("before the government does it"), I was overcome with a deep despair. Isn't there anything else we can do besides pray and assure these people that God is just, that God is love and is on their side, that God will not forget them?

A journalist confronted me and put the same question to me. Is this not, he asked, a perfect example of religion being the opiate of the people? I had to think about that. Where do we and the people of Mogopa find hope? This was a new experience for me—to be so totally helpless, so totally powerless, and yet to pray and believe. But for what do I pray, and in what do I believe?

And then I knew. Sometimes the church can do nothing but pray with people, become one with them in their silent suffering. The church must assure them that God is not aloof, but present in the situation, in their pain, sharing their despair and suffering.

But God's presence is not a placating presence, it is a protesting and comforting presence. God is with them not to bless the lie that is happening to them, but to remind them of the truth that is being crushed to earth but that shall rise again. It is not a presence that says "be still," but a presence that says "don't accept it." God's presence reminds us that such oppression, greed, and mindless inhumanity are not of God. These are lies that must be overcome by the truth that God reveals.

It is the truth that Jesus Christ alone is Lord, that he is our life and the life of the world. It is the truth that God is not honored or glorified by illness, poverty, dejection, or exploitation. God is not honored by death and destruction, by the inhumanity of apartheid. God is not honored by the untimely death of little children who suffer hunger while the tables of the rich are sagging under the weight of surplus food. God is not honored by the naked cynicism of those who seek peace through the terror of the nuclear threat. These are the lies that God's presence in suffering unmasks. And at the same time this presence reveals the truth, and we must shout it from the rooftops.

God is honored when we create peace on earth for all people in whom he has placed his favor. God is honored when the hungry are fed and when the poor and oppressed may taste the sweet fruit of justice. God is honored when prisoners are set free, when the exiles may return in safety, and the fruits of the earth are shared by all. God is honored when sinners repent and find forgiveness, when the broken-hearted are healed and become whole again, when the lonely and rejected discover their own humanity through communion and closeness with others.

God is honored when we, the people of this world, discover the joy of being the people of his favor. It is this truth which Jesus the Messiah has disclosed in his life, death, and resurrection. We discover this truth in prayer, in the presence of the living one. But this is subversive piety, for it kindles hope and life, and it teaches us obedience. And knowing this obedience means understanding the call to disobey all who would defy and kill this truth.

So the people of Mogopa knew, and the church in South Africa knows, and the government knows, that in this subversive piety lies the hope of the nations, the hope of the weak and the poor, the life of the world. For this hope is found in the comforting, protesting presence of the living God.

Allan Boesak was president of the World Alliance of Reformed Churches, chaplain at the University of the Western Cape in South Africa, and a Sojourners contributing editor when this article appeared.