HAROLD MAWELA

From my veranda in Akasia, Pretoria, I can see the vibrant colours of the city, a kaleidoscope of life, challenges, and opportunities. It's a microcosm of my faith journey – moments of stunning beauty interwoven with the grit of everyday life. Life here, like anywhere, feels a bit like navigating a sprawling, sun-baked wasteland at times. Loadshedding throws the city into darkness, reminding us of our precarious power situation; the news cycles are dominated by debates around the economic crisis and inequality— a harsh desert wind whipping through the nation's soul. And yet, just as Isaiah prophesied, God keeps carving rivers, surprising bursts of grace in the most unexpected places. Remember that viral video of that woman singing gospel music during loadshedding? Pure, unadulterated joy, a wellspring of hope amidst the darkness. That's a river in the wasteland, my friends. A testament to the enduring power of the human spirit fueled by faith. It mirrors the deeper trut...

From my study in Akasia, Pretoria, the sun streams in, a vibrant reminder of life's enduring strength, much like the unexpected grace that can mend fractured family relationships. This year, the loadshedding schedule feels particularly relentless, a microcosm of the constant challenges facing our nation, and, indeed, our families. Just as South Africans are navigating the complexities of Eskom's struggles, we too are wrestling with generational divides that threaten to plunge us into darkness. But, as the scripture reminds us, “Making every effort to keep the unity of the Spirit through the bond of peace” (Ephesians 4:3) is not passive; it demands action, bridge-building in the face of adversity. My *gogo* (grandmother), a woman whose wisdom is as rich as the soil of our ancestral lands, recently passed away. Her funeral, a beautiful tapestry woven with the threads of her life, revealed both the deep love within our family and the subtle fissures that time and differing perspec...

  Pretoria, Akasia. The sun beats down on the red dust of the streets, a familiar backdrop to the anxieties that sometimes creep into my soul, like a mischievous shadow. It whispers doubts, anxieties, even fears about the future of my country and the future of my faith. This, dear reader, is the fear beast. And it's a universal adversary. We see its fangs in the headlines, in the struggles of our neighbours, in the lingering echoes of our own past. It festers in our anxieties about loadshedding, the escalating cost of living, and the ever-present threat of crime. It’s a beast that adapts, evolving to prey on the complexities of our modern lives. But the good news? We have a powerful arsenal against this monster, weapons forged in the fires of faith. And one of these, my friends, is worship. Specifically, the kind of worship that goes beyond the Sunday service and permeates every facet of our lives. **Turning Fear into Faith through David's Harp** The biblical David, with ...

Staying put in Pretoria's Akasia, the recent murmurs of the ongoing load-shedding crisis, the vibrant buzz of social media, and the deep-seated conversations about economic inequality—it all feels like a tapestry woven on the veldt, a vibrant, complex reality, and a tapestry that requires discerning guidance. As a South African Christian author, I've found myself drawn to the quiet, yet powerful, metaphor of the Holy Spirit as the whispering wind of the Karoo. This isn’t your typical booming voice from the heavens, but a gentle nudge, a subtle assurance whispered on the breeze. The recent spate of protests around issues of service delivery across South Africa mirrors the spiritual struggles many face. We're grappling with tangible, earthly questions, yet our answers must come from a place of faith. Just like discerning the best path across the seemingly endless Karoo veldt, discerning God’s will isn't about a lightning-bolt revelation, but a journey of prayer, reflec...

Johannesburg’s relentless hum – the vuvuzelas of a thousand car horns, the insistent thrum of construction – often feels like a modern-day Baal vying for my attention. Here in Akasia, nestled in the heart of Tshwane, the struggle for spiritual focus is as real as the loadshedding schedules that dictate our lives. It’s a battle I, like many South Africans, fight daily. We’re juggling the anxieties of a volatile economy, the heartache of persistent inequality, and the constant barrage of information in our digital age. The question Elijah posed – “How long will you waver between two opinions?” – echoes sharply in my own Pretoria life. My “Baals” are subtle. They’re not blatant idols, but seductive whispers. The endless scroll of social media, promising connection but delivering only fleeting dopamine hits. The all-consuming nature of work, a necessary means to an end that easily becomes the end itself. Even the well-intentioned – a commitment to social justice, for instance, can b...

From my study in Akasia, Pretoria, the hum of the city – a symphony of car horns, construction, and the distant wail of a police siren – often feels like a crowded Jozi taxi. Overwhelming, to say the least. This past week, it was particularly chaotic. The loadshedding schedule felt like a personal vendetta against my writing deadlines, the news was filled with yet another scandal involving our politicians (truly, the telenovela of South African politics never disappoints!), and my neighbour’s jackhammer seemed determined to rival the percussion section of a heavy metal band. Philippians 4:6-7, that familiar balm, whispered to my soul: "Do not be anxious about anything…" Easier said than done, right? It's like trying to meditate during a Springboks rugby match – the sheer volume of noise and chaos makes serenity a distant dream. But Paul’s words aren't a magic spell, a quick fix for a stressed-out soul. They're an invitation – a lifeline tossed into the turbu...

From my study in Akasia, Pretoria, overlooking the jacaranda-drenched streets, I often ponder Deuteronomy 6:6-7. Those words, "impress them on your children," resonate deeply, especially living in this vibrant, sometimes chaotic, South Africa. It’s not just about Sunday school lessons and scripture memorization; it's about something far richer, more profound. It's about passing on the very essence of faith, like handing down a cherished family heirloom – a beautifully crafted, slightly chipped, yet undeniably precious, Xhosa beadwork necklace, passed down through generations, each bead representing a moment of grace, a struggle overcome, a promise kept. This “impressing,” as the text suggests, isn’t forceful. It's not about indoctrination, but cultivation. Think of it like tending a protea bush – a magnificent South African flower that needs the right conditions to flourish. Our faith, like the protea, requires nurturing: sun-drenched moments of prayer, the ...

Akasia, Pretoria. The acacia trees stand sentinel, their branches reaching towards the Pretoria sky, a quiet reminder of the enduring strength of nature. The air, though often thick with the city's bustle, carries a sense of anticipation, a quiet hum of activity. And it got me thinking about Proverbs 21:20, about "choice food and olive oil," and how that ancient wisdom speaks directly to our modern, often uncertain lives. You see, "choice food and olive oil" aren't just about groceries, are they? They're symbolic. The olive oil, in its richness and versatility, represents the resources God bestows upon us: time, talent, relationships, financial blessings – even the quiet moments of peace and reflection, so often difficult to find in our busy lives. The "wise" don't simply squander these blessings. They don’t “gulp them down” as the proverb puts it. Instead, they store them up, using them strategically, for both present needs and futu...

From my study in Akasia, Pretoria, overlooking the jacaranda-lined streets, the words of Proverbs 18:21 resonate with a particular urgency. "Death and life are in the power of the tongue..." It's a verse that feels less like ancient wisdom and more like a headline from today's *City Press*. The sharp divisions in our nation, the political rhetoric, the casual cruelty that spreads like wildfire on social media – it all screams the truth of this proverb. Our tongues, those nimble instruments, are capable of both extraordinary blessing and devastating destruction. Last week, I was at a braai with friends. The conversation turned, as it often does, to the electricity crisis. One friend, a staunch supporter of the governing party, launched into a tirade, blaming everyone but those in power. His words were barbed, laced with cynicism and a deep-seated bitterness that felt almost…toxic. Another friend, usually more reserved, countered with quiet empathy, speaking of t...

The sun beats down on my Akasia, Pretoria stoep, the heat shimmering off the dusty road. I sip my Rooibos tea, the warmth a small comfort against the complexities of faith – a faith often tested in this vibrant, yet volatile, South Africa. This week, the news has been dominated by debates around the ongoing struggle for social justice – a stark reminder of how easily even the most well-intentioned plans can unravel. It's a microcosm of life itself, isn't it? Our text today is Proverbs 16:18 – “Pride goes before destruction, a haughty spirit before a fall.” I’ve found this verse resonates profoundly, especially within the context of contemporary South African life. We see it in the subtle arrogance of those clinging to power, the insidious self-righteousness that fuels tribalism, and the quiet self-sufficiency that prevents us from reaching out for support when facing challenges. Each a thorn on the prickly pear of pride. Now, imagine this prickly pear. It’s stunning; a vibrant...

The rain lashes against the corrugated iron of the shacks in Akasia, Pretoria, a familiar rhythm that mirrors the relentless pulse of life in South Africa. Proverbs 14:23, "In all toil there is profit, but mere talk leads only to poverty," has been a constant companion in my life, a spiritual compass guiding me through the complexities of our modern reality. Recently, the relentless downpour, punctuated by the thunder echoing across the plains, highlighted a stark contrast. I saw the vibrant entrepreneurial spirit flourishing in our townships – the small businesses teeming with life, a testament to relentless effort – and the pervasive narrative of hardship often dominating the news. The load shedding crisis, the escalating cost of living, the political tension... it all feels like a relentless drought, doesn't it? But hardship, I argue, isn't just about a lack of resources; it's a spiritual condition, a barrenness of the soul. My own journey reflects this. Growin...

The other day, driving through Akasia – dodging potholes the size of small craters, a soundtrack of vuvuzelas competing with the irritating drone of loadshedding generators – I felt that familiar Jozi pressure cooker threatening to blow. My to-do list felt longer than the N1 during peak hour, my bank account leaner than a drought-stricken maize field, and the news – well, the news was its usual cocktail of corruption scandals and economic anxieties. It was enough to make even the most devout saint contemplate a career change to goat herding in the Karoo. But then, a line from John 14:27 whispered in my spirit: "Peace I leave with you; my peace I give to you." This wasn’t the fleeting peace of a quiet Sunday afternoon, the kind easily shattered by a missed call from the bank. This was the kind of peace that a baobab tree possesses, rooted deep in the earth, weathering the fiercest storms. You see, I’ve spent years studying theology, writing books about God’s unwavering lov...

From my study overlooking the streets of Akasia, Pretoria, the hum of the city – a blend of car horns, township rhythms, and the distant chatter of a football match – feels like a fitting soundtrack to life itself. A cacophony, yes, but one that, like Lamentations 3:22-23 reminds us, doesn't consume us. God’s *ubuntu* – his boundless compassion and unwavering faithfulness – is the unseen conductor, weaving even the discordant notes into a harmonious whole. Recently, the news has focused on the complexities and uncertainties of life in our nation. This constant flux mirrors the "musical interlude" I see in so many lives. We feel stuck, waiting for a clearer path forward. But even amidst uncertainty, a different kind of light shines. In the quiet moments of reflection, we find ourselves drawn closer to a deeper understanding of dependence, a reliance on something beyond our own limited resources. It's in these moments of uncertainty that we are reminded of the power...

The vibrant tapestry of life in Pretoria is a beautiful, if sometimes chaotic, thing. It’s a city that reflects both the light and the shadow of our nation – a nation grappling with inequality, corruption, and the echoes of a painful past, even as we celebrate our vibrant democracy and the incredible resilience of our people. This tension, this constant dance between light and shadow, is a lot like our faith, wouldn’t you agree? Recently, the load shedding crisis has been particularly brutal. Days bleed into nights, lit only by flickering candles and the glow of phone screens. It’s a constant reminder of our vulnerability, of the precariousness of even the most basic comforts. But in the darkness, something remarkable happens. We find ourselves drawn together, neighbours sharing stories, anxieties, and the last bit of battery power. We become more reliant on each other, more aware of our shared humanity, more dependent on the light of each other's presence, much like the early ch...

The loadshedding’s hit again, plunging Akasia into darkness. Another stage 6. My laptop screen flickers, mirroring the flickering hope sometimes felt in this beautiful, battered country of ours. The news – another corruption scandal, another service delivery protest – feels like a relentless, grinding soundtrack to our lives. It’s easy to feel overwhelmed, to let cynicism take root, like a weed choking the life out of a once-vibrant garden. But then, I remember 1 Corinthians 13:4-7, etched onto my heart like those koppie-like hills surrounding Pretoria. Paul’s description of *agape* – that tough, tenacious love – isn’t some sentimental notion. It's the baobab tree of the soul, weathering centuries of drought and storm. It’s not the flashy jacaranda in full bloom, beautiful but fleeting, but rather the quiet strength of the aloe, surviving the harshest conditions. Thinking of it this way, in the context of our South African reality, makes it less abstract and more practical. I...

From my study window in Akasia, Tshwane, I can see the jacaranda trees shedding their purple confetti, a vibrant counterpoint to the news headlines – loadshedding schedules, the ever-rising cost of living, the ongoing debates about land reform. The South African experience, like the veld, is both breathtakingly beautiful and brutally challenging. It's a landscape that mirrors the spiritual terrain of our lives, a constant dance between hope and hardship. And that’s where Philippians 4:19 – "And my God will supply every need of yours according to his riches in glory in Christ Jesus" – becomes more than just a comforting verse; it becomes a lifeline. This isn't about a divine ATM dispensing material wealth on demand, as some prosperity gospel preachers might have us believe. I've seen enough "get-rich-quick" schemes promising easy riches fail spectacularly, leaving a trail of disillusionment in their wake. No, God's provision is far richer, far de...

My own journey with this concept has been… eventful. I remember a few years ago, feeling trapped in a cycle of negativity, a toxic relationship that was sapping my joy. The fear of the unknown, the fear of being alone, held me fast, a clenched fist around a dead weight. I clung to the comfort of familiarity, even though it was suffocating me. But something shifted when I encountered Proverbs 3:5-6. It wasn't a sudden epiphany; it was more of a gentle nudging, a quiet whisper in the relentless noise of my own anxieties. That's when I started to notice how many of us – especially in our bustling South African cities – are burdened by the weight of expectations, societal pressures, and the often-unyielding challenges of modern life. The pressure to succeed, to keep up with the latest trends, to maintain a certain image – it can feel overwhelming. We're constantly bombarded with messages about what we *should* be doing, what we *ought* to be achieving. It's easy to get...

  The streets of Akasia are bathed in the soft, golden hues of late afternoon, a stark contrast to the news headlines screaming about load shedding and the rising cost of living. It's a beautiful, brutal juxtaposition – beauty amidst hardship, a familiar rhythm in South Africa. And it mirrors, I think, the peace God promises in Philippians 4:7: “And the peace of God, which surpasses all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus.” Now, let’s be honest, that “peace that surpasses all understanding” doesn’t sound much like the calm I felt last week, wrestling with my overflowing inbox while simultaneously trying to teach my son about the intricacies of the Springboks’ latest rugby strategy (and simultaneously trying to dodge the load shedding). It certainly felt far removed from the anxiety-ridden conversations I overheard at the local Spar about interest rates and the ever-increasing petrol prices. My peace wasn't quite a serene lake; it was more like...

Here in Akasia, Pretoria, the everyday grit of loadshedding and the persistent hum of traffic form a familiar soundtrack to life. Life in Mzansi, as they say, is a rollercoaster. It’s a beautiful, chaotic tapestry woven with threads of joy and frustration, hope and despair. And it's within this very chaos, this seeming contradiction, that I've found the profound truth of 2 Corinthians 12:9: “My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.” Recently, I was wrestling with a particularly stubborn manuscript. The deadlines loomed, the words felt clumsy and lifeless, and the familiar anxieties of self-doubt began to creep in. I felt like a mechanic staring at a hopelessly mangled engine – overwhelmed, inadequate, and utterly lacking in the required expertise. Loadshedding, of course, wasn't helping. My laptop battery was crying "uncle" just as I was finding a semblance of inspiration. This is the very real experience of many South Africans, ba...

From my study in Akasia, Tshwane, the Pretoria sky is a vast canvas, sometimes bruised with storm clouds, sometimes a brilliant, unwavering blue. It's a breathtaking sight, yet even this beauty can't always overshadow the weight of life. Lately, I've been wrestling with that familiar South African struggle – the tension between the vibrant energy of our nation and the deep-seated inequalities that still cast a long shadow. The news – whether it's loadshedding plunging us into darkness, the ongoing debates around land reform, or the heartbreaking statistics on poverty – can feel like a relentless *moer*. It's easy to feel like that forgotten piece of *veldkos*, discarded and flavourless. Lamentations 3:22-23, however, offers a powerful antidote to this despair. "Because of the Lord’s great love we are not consumed, for his compassions never fail. They are new every morning; great is your faithfulness." This isn't just some pious platitude; it'...

 From my perch in Akasia, Pretoria, gazing out at the sprawling cityscape, I'm struck by the sheer dynamism of it all. Change, like a relentless river, carves its way through the landscape, reshaping streets and businesses, even lives. And amidst this constant flux, I find myself pondering the unchanging rock – the steadfast faith that, like a baobab in this ever-shifting terrain, remains rooted and strong. Malachi 3:6 whispers promises of an unchanging God, a truth that feels both profoundly comforting and surprisingly challenging in this tumultuous nation. We South Africans are masters of change, of course. We've seen economies rise and fall, political landscapes transform, and personal lives—well, let's just say they've been, shall we say, "interesting." In this dance between the predictable and the unpredictable, the certainty of God's unchanging nature becomes not just a theological concept, but a practical, almost tangible presence. My own journ...

The Pretoria sun, blazing across my Akasia veranda, paints the trees in shades of fiery gold. As I sip my morning coffee, the whispers of the wind through the trees seem to echo the whispers of my own soul. Spiritual fitness. It's a term that rolls off the tongue, but carries a weight heavier than a marathon runner's training shoes. I've always been fascinated by the marathon. The sheer grit, the dedication. But what if the race was for eternity, with the finish line veiled in an almost palpable mystery? That's the spiritual marathon, I suppose. And let's face it, folks, we're all runners in this race. We train, we stumble, we pick ourselves up. 1 Timothy 4:8, a verse I've wrestled with for years, speaks to this. "For bodily exercise profits a little, but godliness is profitable for all things, having promise of the life that now is, and of that which is to come." It's not a flimsy, superficial pursuit. It's a deep, lifelong commi...