Saturday Mass

Yesterday morning I was fortunate to attend a Mass of Thanksgiving in celebration of the twentieth anniversary of Michael Lapsley’s survival of a brutal attack by the South African apartheid government. This was only the second Catholic Mass that I have attended, but I dare say it was the single religious service where I have most felt the omnipresence of God. Many things contributed to this experience I’m sure – the ornate architecture of the cathedral, the rainbow of skin colours of the congregation and Fathers, the flickering candles, the statues of Jesus and Mary, the crucifix, and the perfume of burning incense that dispersed through the air around us. The service was also multi-faith, multi-generational, multi-national, and multi-lingual.

When I decided to attend the service I knew nothing of Father Lapsley, the man, or his story. In fact my decision to attend was based on the fact that the anti-apartheid activist and archbishop Desmond Tutu (winner of the Nobel Peace Prize and Gandhi Peace Prize, among numerous others) was presiding over the service. Tutu is also one of the proponents of “ubuntu,” a collective concept that translates roughly as “I am human because we all are human”, and one that I am thinking to explore in-depth during the year following my graduation. Despite my reverence for Tutu, I was equally inspired by the spirit of Father Lapsley. I have included Father Lapsley’s narrative below because I believe it is one worth reading, and I know that many of you will not read it unless I include it here (and some of you will still skip over it, and that’s okay, too):

Michael Lapsley (South Africa)

After Father Michael Lapsley was exiled by the South African Government in 1976, he joined the African National Congress (ANC) and became one of their chaplains. Whilst living in Zimbabwe he discovered he was on the South African Government hit list. In April 1990 he received a letter bomb in the post. He now runs the Institute for Healing Memories in Cape Town.

No one told me why I was being exiled. But as a university chaplain, and in the wake of the Soweto uprising (when students were being detained and tortured) I was no friend to the apartheid regime. In exile I therefore became a target of the South African government.

I had long ago come to the conclusion that there was no road to freedom except via the route of self-sacrifice, but nothing could have prepared me for what was to follow. Three months after Nelson Mandela’s release from prison, I received a letter bomb hidden inside the pages of two religious magazines that had been posted from South Africa. In the bomb blast I lost both hands, one eye and had my eardrums shattered.

For the first three months I was as helpless as a newborn baby. People have asked me how I survived, and my only answer is that somehow, in the midst of the bombing, I felt that God was present. I also received so many messages of love and support from around the world that I was able to make my bombing redemptive – to bring life out of death, good out of evil.

Quite early on after the bomb I realised that if I was filled with hatred and desire for revenge I’d be a victim forever. If we have something done to us, we are victims. If we physically survive, we are survivors. Sadly, many people never travel any further than this. I did travel further, going from victim to survivor, to victor. To become a victor is to move from being an object of history to become a subject once more. That is not to say that I will not always grieve what I’ve lost, because I will permanently bear the marks of disfigurement. Yet I believe I’ve gained through this experience. I realise that I can be more of a priest with no hands than with two hands.

In 1992, I returned to South Africa to find a nation of survivors, but a damaged nation. Everyone had a story – a truth – to tell. In my work I’ve developed a programme called the Healing of Memories. Our workshops explore the effects of South Africa’s past at an emotional, psychological and spiritual level. I try to support those who have suffered as they struggle to have their stories recognised.

I haven’t forgiven anyone, because I have no one to forgive. No one was charged with this crime, and so for me forgiveness is still an abstract concept. But if I knew that the people who sent my bomb were now in prison, then I’d happily unlock the gates – although I’d like to know that they weren’t going to make any more bombs. I believe in restorative justice and I believe in reparation. So my attitude to the perpetrator is this: I’ll forgive them, but since I’ll never get my hands back, and will therefore always need someone to help me, they should pay that person’s wages. Not as a condition of forgiveness, but as part of reparation and restitution.

http://www.theforgivenessproject.com/stories/michael-lapsley

I still find it hard to believe that something this brutal happened in my lifetime, and I cannot comprehend that similar acts of violence, suffering, and torture are occurring even as I am writing this. To think of all of the so-called achievements and progress that we as humans have made, while knowing that we are simultaneously unable to control our rage and anger in a humane manner, is an absolute embarrassment to the human race.

My semester abroad has been and continues to be very much a search within myself, often through the lives of others. Religion and spirituality has been one of the more subtle avenues of this self-searching journey, but is just as important, in my opinion. Thus there were certain excerpts from Father Lapsley’s remarks at yesterday’s Mass that I especially appreciated:

It is not an accident that we began with an Islamic and a Buddhist prayer. I have long believed that the future of humanity is an interfaith future in which we need to [have] reverence and learn from each other’s faith traditions including traditional beliefs but I also have the deepest respect for my atheist, agnostic, and communist friends.”
The congregation laughed enthusiastically after this last statement, much to my amusement. I am including the following two excerpts simply because I like them:

Traveling the world has taught me that we are one human family capable of the most horrendous deeds. Just a few days ago I visited the genocide site in Srebenica in Bosnia. At the same time we are all capable and called to tenderness, kindness, generosity and compassion.

Often through the years I have asked myself why I survived a bomb that was supposed to kill me when so many others died, who also deserved to live. I guess that some of us had to survive to be living reminders of what we in this country idd to each other. But a thousand time[s] more importantly, I hope I can be a small sign that stronger than evil, and hatred and death, is goodness, compassion, love and life – indeed of God.

Tutu is also a funny character, though I admit I was more than a little disappointed when he didn’t shake my hand. Prior to giving his closing remarks Tutu, referring to the small square bandage on the back of his nearly-bald head, said to the congregation, “I know you all are wondering what happened to my head. Instead of praying, you were wondering.” Everyone laughed. Tutu continued, “A dermatologist drilled through my head. And found nothing.” Again the congregation – and Tutu – roar in laughter. A nice time at the cathedral indeed.