Last Tuesday, during Eskom’s Stage 6 load-shedding, I sat in my dimly lit Akasia living room, staring at a WhatsApp message from my cousin Thabo. Our once-close bond had fractured over a political debate—ANC vs. EFF—that spiraled into personal jabs. His text read: *“You’ve become a coconut, bra. Black on the outside, white-washed inside.”* My reply? A venomous *“At least I’m not a populist clown.”* Pride, that sly serpent, had coiled around our tongues.
But as the generator hummed and my coffee cooled, Colossians 3:13 flickered in my mind like a candle in the dark: *“Forgive as the Lord forgave you.”* Unconditional. No asterisks. No “but he started it.” Just grace.
**II. The Theology of Broken Pipes**
South Africa knows fractures. Our Vaal River, choked by sewage and neglect, mirrors relational toxicity—grievances left to fester. Yet, Christ’s forgiveness isn’t a passive drip; it’s a flash flood. To “bear with one another” (Colossians 3:13) is to choose daily repair, even when the other person keeps clogging the pipes.
Modern example? Look at our national mood. Last week’s protests over service delivery in Johannesburg saw neighbors hurling stones, then sharing *vetkoek* from the same frying pan. We’re a nation of paradoxes: rage and resilience, division and *ubuntu*. But grace, like the Vaal, insists on flowing toward reconciliation—even if it means navigating sludge.
**III. Boundaries and Biltong**
Forgiveness ≠ folly. When my colleague Nomsa borrowed R5,000 and vanished, I forgave—but also froze my bank app. Boundaries, friends, are holy. Proverbs 4:23 says *“guard your heart,”* not “leave your wallet on the table.” Toxic relationships demand wisdom: pray, release bitterness, but don’t hand the knife to someone who keeps stabbing.
Yet, South Africa’s real miracle isn’t our biltong or sunsets; it’s how we’ve avoided a civil war. Why? Because somewhere, someone chose to lay down stones and pick up ploughshares (Isaiah 2:4). Nelson Mandela sipped tea with his jailers. Desmond Tutu laughed with those who spat at him. If they could forgive apartheid, can’t I forgive Thabo’s EFF rant?
**IV. The Apology Letter (and the Rugby Match)**
I wrote Thabo a letter. Not an email—ink on paper, like Paul’s epistles. I confessed my pride, quoted Proverbs 10:12 (*“love covers all offenses”*), and invited him to a braai. He arrived: *“Still voting for dead horses, hey?”* But as the fire crackled and the Springboks scored, we found common ground: Siya Kolisi’s leadership. Unity, it turns out, thrives where criticism dies.
Which brings me to the Bokke. Last month’s win against the All Blacks wasn’t just sport; it was a sermon. A Zulu captain, a Afrikaans coach, and a Xhosa winger—each carrying scars, each choosing the jersey over old wounds. *That’s* Colossians 3:13 in scrum formation.
**V. The Mystery of Softened Hearts**
Here’s the rub: forgiveness is irrational. Why reconcile when you can retaliate? Why write letters when silence is safer? Because faith is a risk. When I prayed *“Lord, mend what’s broken,”* I didn’t feel a lightning bolt—just a nudge to pass the salt at the braai. Yet, Thabo’s latest text? *“Let’s watch the elections together. I’ll bring the snacks.”*
God works like our Gautrain: on tracks we can’t always see, but always toward connection.
**VI. The Call (and the Cricket)**
So, Akasia friend, where’s *your* fracture? That estranged sibling? The coworker who stole your idea? The political troll on Twitter? Write the letter. Make the call. Set the boundary. Burn the bitterness.
And if you doubt, remember: even Proteas cricketers drop catches—but the game goes on. Grace isn’t a trophy; it’s the pitch we play on, dusty and divine.
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