From my Akasia home, the city lights of Pretoria shimmer – a beautiful, yet often brutal, tapestry woven from threads of wealth and want, of gleaming skyscrapers and shadowed alleyways. This isn't some distant, theological debate for me; it’s the reality that crashes against my windowpanes every morning, a relentless reminder of the stark contrasts that define this city I call home. Matthew 25:31-46, the parable of the sheep and the goats, isn't some dusty old scripture gathering dust on a shelf; it's the street I drive down, the faces I see at the traffic light, the silent stories etched on the weathered faces of those who walk amongst us, often unseen, often unheard.
I remember Ouma Agnes, a woman I met volunteering at a soup kitchen near the city centre. The memory of her is still vivid, etched deep within the chambers of my heart. Wrinkled hands, gnarled by time and hardship, yet surprisingly gentle; a smile that could melt the coldest heart, a smile that transcended the physical limitations of her age, radiating a warmth that defied the chill of the Pretoria winter. She'd quietly take her portion of food, a simple plate of warm stew, her eyes holding a lifetime of stories, a lifetime lived on the margins, a lifetime lived with a quiet dignity that left me breathless. She didn't preach or demand; her very being was a silent sermon on grace and resilience, a testament to the enduring strength of the human spirit in the face of adversity. She spoke volumes without uttering a single word. She was a walking, breathing parable, a living embodiment of faith's unwavering perseverance. And then, one day, she was gone. Poof. Just another face disappearing into the vast anonymity of the city, swallowed by its relentless, indifferent rhythm. Another name lost to the statistics, another story left untold.
Now, I could easily dismiss her as “just another case,” another statistic in the poverty narrative that plagues our beautiful, yet wounded, country. I could file her away, categorize her, and move on, comforted by the illusion of order and the convenient distance afforded by such detached categorization. But the truth is, Ouma Agnes haunts me. Her quiet presence, her unassuming dignity, forced me to confront a stark, uncomfortable reality: a reality that shattered the carefully constructed walls of my comfortable existence. It forced me to confront the hollowness of my faith, the superficiality of my understanding of God's love. Jesus wasn't just *present* in the grand churches of Pretoria, in the soaring hymns and the polished pews; He was *incarnate* in Ouma Agnes, in her hunger, her loneliness, her quiet dignity. He wasn't wearing flowing robes and preaching from a pulpit; He was wearing worn-out clothes, patched and mended, bearing the scars of a life lived on the edges, yet radiating a strength that shamed my own self-sufficiency.
The passage from Matthew 25 isn't a moral checklist, a convenient list of charitable acts to tick off like items on a shopping list, absolving us of our responsibilities with a self-satisfied pat on the back. It's not a formula for spiritual perfection, a guidebook to achieving divine favour through meticulously performed acts of service. It's a mirror reflecting our own souls, a mirror forcing us to confront the unsettling truth of our own complicity in the systemic injustices that perpetuate the suffering of others. It's a mirror reflecting our own capacity for both compassion and callous indifference. Are we truly seeing the face of Christ in the faces of the marginalized, in the eyes of those who have been cast aside, discarded, and forgotten? Or are we, like the goats in the parable, too preoccupied with our own comfort, our own carefully constructed lives, too engrossed in the pursuit of our own self-preservation to notice the brokenness around us, the suffering that cries out for our attention, for our compassion, for our love?
This isn't about guilt; it's about awakening. It's about shattering the illusion of self-sufficiency, confronting the uncomfortable truth of our interconnectedness, and recognizing that our own well-being is inextricably linked to the well-being of others. It's about seeing the divine not only in the stained-glass windows of our churches, in the soaring arches and the echoing hymns, but in the cracked pavements and tired eyes of our neighbours, in the silent suffering that pervades the lives of those who live on the margins of our society. It's about recognizing that the Kingdom of God isn't some distant, ethereal place, some utopian fantasy relegated to the realm of wishful thinking; it's breaking into our lives right here, right now, in the form of Ouma Agnes, and countless others, who are, unknowingly, ministers of grace, serving us even in their suffering, teaching us lessons of resilience, dignity, and faith that our comfortable lives often fail to impart.
The weight of that realization is profound, a weight that settles heavily upon the shoulders, demanding our attention, our response. It confronts our complacency, exposing the shallowness of our spirituality, challenging us to move beyond empty platitudes and superficial acts of charity. It challenges us to shed the comfortable robes of self-sufficiency and to embrace the messy, uncomfortable reality of serving a God who identifies himself with the forgotten, the overlooked, the "least of these." It challenges me. It challenges my carefully constructed life in Akasia, the comfortable bubble of relative privilege that I have created for myself. It challenges Pretoria itself, this city that I love and yet find increasingly difficult to reconcile with its inherent inequalities.
This isn't a call to grand gestures, to dramatic displays of philanthropy designed to garner public praise and inflate our egos. It's a call to small acts of love, to quiet acts of service, performed not for recognition or reward, but out of a deep, abiding sense of compassion and empathy. A cup of tea shared, a listening ear offered, a helping hand extended, a kind word spoken – these are the building blocks of a kingdom that transcends the city limits, a kingdom where God is not only seen, but felt, in the quiet moments of genuine human connection, in the quiet acts of kindness that often go unnoticed, unacknowledged, yet resonate deeply within the souls of both giver and receiver. It’s a kingdom where the unexpected face of God emerges, not in grand pronouncements or miraculous interventions, but in the quiet dignity of Ouma Agnes, in the gentle smile of a stranger, in the unwavering faith of those who live on the margins, reminding us that the true measure of our faith lies not in our piety or our possessions, but in our compassion and our willingness to serve. It’s a kingdom that I believe is possible, even in the heart of Pretoria, a kingdom that begins, not in grand cathedrals or bustling city centres, but in the quiet corners of our hearts, where compassion and empathy take root and blossom.
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