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      Surprised by

      the Man on

      the Borrowed

      Donkey

      Ordinary Blessings

      Denise M. Ackermann

      Lux Verbi

      For Rebecca, Anna, Jo, Rachel and Seth

      and

      for Luke Stubbs (05.09.1960–20.07.2009)

      who started it all

      Foreword

      Some of us in South Africa have chosen to call our reflections “contextual theology”, but few of us, if any, have been as thoroughly and painstakingly contextual as Denise Ackermann. She does not make use of labels like “contextual theology”, but she is deeply aware at all times of the historical, political, social and economic context of her theology, as well as the personal and biographical circumstances and experiences that have shaped her thinking. This makes for a theology that is thoroughly concrete, experiential and spiritual.

      In a way all theology is contextual. The difference is between those who are aware of this and those who are not. The classical definition of theology is “faith seeking understanding”, and we seek understanding by asking questions and searching for answers. Genuine faith questions, however, vary enormously from place to place, time to time and person to person. The questions arise out of our context and experience of life.

      Today most theologians are fully aware of this. Too often in the past, though, and sometimes in the present too, theologians have persisted with answering questions other people asked at other times and in other places as if they were the only questions people may grapple with in theology. Those who formulated these questions many years ago were often white clerical males who lived in monasteries, seminaries and universities. They knew nothing of the questions and experiences of women, of black people, of lay people or of the poor, let alone the questions and problems of the world as it is today. The theology of the past had a context, but it is not our context.

      A theology that is fully aware of its context and how that is different from other contexts is what we call a contextual theology. Thus feminist theology, black theology and liberation theology, for example, are consciously contextual theologies.

      Nor is it only the questions that arise out of our context. The answers are also shaped by the context in which we live and by our biographical experiences. That is not to say that contextual theology is totally subjective and arbitrary. Any Christian theology has to find its answers in Jesus as the incarnate Word of God. However, our particular context and experience of life can give each of us a particular perspective on the meaning of Jesus’ life and death. This perspective can open our eyes to what is already present implicitly in the Word of God. It can provide us with new insights.

      The theology of Denise Ackermann’s book is deeply and consciously contextual. And yet it is at every point a book about Jesus, about her honest and personal experience and struggle with faith in Jesus. It is her “biography of faith” – faith in “the man on the borrowed donkey” as she calls him.

      Of course, if we are honest, we will discover that there are few, if any, easy answers to the questions that arise for us today. Denise is painfully aware of that. She faces the contradictions, the paradoxes and the mystery of it all. She faces her own experience of being diagnosed with cancer and her more recent experience of macular degeneration with its threat of eventual blindness. She writes about the questions that these experiences raise for her and about her search for answers. It is clear that her faith has enabled her to live fruitfully with unanswered questions.

      The result is an amazing number of valuable insights into the meaning of holiness, secularism, spirituality, freedom, death, gratitude, listening, greed, sharing and humour, as well as the wonder of God’s creation, especially in the awesome beauty of birds. Looking at her life, her experience and her context with the eyes of faith enables her to see above all else a history of blessings, many blessings. Hence the subtitle of the book: Ordinary blessings.

      Albert Nolan

      Johannesburg

      4 February 2012

      Introduction

      I believe that all theology is contextual and therefore, in a sense, autobiographical. A theologian’s experience of place, time, culture, history, relationships, and her experience of despair, grace and hope are all interwoven in her life of faith. As circumstances change, beliefs are reshaped, perspectives revisited. My life is no exception. The experience of looking back and sifting out that which has meaning from the trivia of life is a privilege of age. Having faith, reflecting on what this means, and then trying to speak about it can never be done in a vacuum. Furthermore, it is an ongoing task, in which we reflect upon our lives within specific communities and relationships, and this shapes our theologies.

      Trying to work out what is meaningful in the life of faith is much the same as the trying to answer the question “What makes life worth living?” This question was central to After the Locusts, a previous book in which I wrote letters to those close to me about my attempts to live out my faith in South Africa after apartheid. But what do I mean by “the life of faith”? I am reminded of a humorous little poem by American poet Emily Dickinson (1830–1886):

      “Faith” is a fine invention

      When Gentlemen can see –

      But Microscopes are prudent

      In an Emergency.

      The life of faith is not wholly without microscopes. A greater intensity of seeing oneself in the world and finding joy in the small things are fruits of faith. Faith infuses life with significance, and with a surprising depth and abundance of experiences in which love, hope and peace surface. Awareness of the ever-present blessing of grace brings a sense of awe and moments of profound fulfilment. While I marvel at the riches of faith, I cannot claim to be a person who always feels fulfilled, and who is able to sail through life with impunity. Above my desk I have a framed verse: “I believe, help my unbelief!” (Mk 9:24). I do believe. I also wrestle with the contradictions in the life of faith, and with moments of abandonment. The question “What makes life worth living?” continues to gnaw at me. This book is a further attempt to find answers as I continue to mull over it.

      I also wonder whether there is something like a theological identity? The older I get, the greater my unease with labels, yet at the same time I cannot avoid them. I am a woman, a Christian, a wife, mother and grandmother, a friend, a feminist, a theologian, a news junkie, a lover of icons and sushi, and much, much more, all at the same time. According to our latest census, I am a white South African of European (mostly French) descent. The irony is that my DNA proves that I am originally a native of East Africa! I also come from a mixed cultural background, am a social democrat by conviction, a cultural hybrid, an amateur “greenie”, a bird watcher, walker – the list goes on. The point is that, like every other human being, my complexities of identity are endless. I belong to diverse categories simultaneously and, depending on the circumstances, one or other category will emerge and engage me. I treasure all my labels. Some of them provide a view from the margins where all the contradictions of life bump up against one another. I prefer this view; it is less stifling, and more open to paradox and contradiction.

      As a theologian I have labelled myself a “feminist theologian of praxis”: “Feminist” because of a lifelong concern with the dignity and equality of women; “praxis” because the only valid test of beliefs is how they translate into actions that promote love and justice. These concerns remain central to my theology and continue to shape my perspective from the edge. But they are not the whole story. More recently I further qualified my identity as a theologian by calling myself “a ragbag theologian”. Why? Women know that ragbags are filled with an odd assortment of cloths that are useful the second time around. I came to theology later in life than many of my colleagues and, as I play catch-up, I cannot resist digressions, particularly when I am not sure where they will take me. So ragbag theology is second-time-around theology – a

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