On
Sundays in Johannesburg, Black Gays Find Hope,
Solace in an Unlikely Sanctuary
By Julia Roller
JOHANNESBURG, South Africa, Mar. 31— Zulu words reverberate through the yellowing chandeliers as stamping feet cause dust to fly up from the carpet.
"We are in the throne room of God," calls Oliver Ndzimande. "We just want you to shake yourselves!"
The 64 members of the Hope and Unity Metropolitan Community Church obey, their bodies whirling around in an unaffected dance of praise.
This Johannesburg church is a haven for its members: black gay and lesbian South Africans, the most marginalized section of a marginalized society. The small, Baptist style church is located on the seventh floor of a dilapidated tenement hotel in Hillbrow, a seedy suburb of Johannesburg. The area is notorious for crime, and in order to reach their sanctuary without incident, congregants must hide their cell phones and walk quickly. Even when precautions are taken, someone is often robbed or attacked.
|
Inside the Hope and Unity Metropolitan Community Church. Photo by Julia Roller. |
Stepping off the elevator, they walk past a table covered with HIV/AIDS information and one lone prayer book to semicircles of chairs in a dingy conference room. The altar is a small table covered with white cloth, the only other sign of religion a cross on a wooden table in the corner. There seems to be an unwritten dress code among these young churchgoers: the men in tight shirts and form fitting jeans, and the short-haired women in baggy trousers and button-down shirts. Hugs are exchanged freely, leaving a scent of mingled cologne to linger in the still air.
"I like the church because everyone's welcome and you feel free," says Sandile Zwane, a 27 year-old hair stylist who has visited the church each Sunday since 1995.
This church is one of few places Zwane and his fellow parishioners can relax. The church's ambiance of acceptance was the original purpose when the church was started eight years ago in a Soweto living room.
"We wanted to create a place where people could feel free and open, where nobody would be against them, hindering them or pushing them out of the church," said assistant pastor Paul Mokgethi, one of the original 12 members.
Mokgethi and the other founders knew firsthand the difficulties of being gay and lesbian in an unaccepting society. In the whole of Africa, homosexuality has been harshly condemned. President Robert Mugabe of Zimbabwe has called gays "animals" and "dogs" undeserving of equal rights. But most hurtful to Mokgethi and his friends was the condemnation of the church. In South Africa, where over 90 percent of the population is Christian, church was a refuge for the poorest and the most oppressed — all except gays. Mokgethi and his fellow founders sought to remedy that.
"I am happy with the fact that people have a place that they can claim as theirs without any preacher telling them how sinful they are and how God loves the sinner but hates the sin," says co-founder Bengare Nyathi. "I am mostly over-excited with the fact that those who were once called the "lost generation" of young South Africa, can find out that alcohol, sex, drugs, and disco night life are not....solutions toward a better quality of life and certainly cannot serve as one spiritual substitute, but God through Jesus Christ can love us no matter what."
Ndzimande, the song leader, dressed in a tight white shirt and jeans with a red AIDS awareness pin, opens his mouth and makes what can only be described as a beautiful noise unto the Lord, a ululating kind of sound of desperation mixed with joy. His voice is not accompanied by instruments, only his own clapping hands and the voices of the other members in a spontaneous praise that is both harmony and melody, unison and round. There is no hymnbook or bulletin insert: the faithful know all the Zulu words by heart.
|
Members of the HUMCC after services. Photo by Julia Roller. |
The voices and faces reflect a real hunger for God. These are people who have been rejected by mainstream churches because of their sexuality, and the idea that God loves even them is still fresh and exciting. "People still think there's something wrong if you're gay and you're Christian," said Cyril Lgujulwa. "I don't know of any other churches in South Africa that accept people like that. But I had this vision that even if you are gay you can still be a Christian."
That his vision is shared by the rest of the congregation is evident as members give testimonies — not the standard "How I found Jesus" stories, but horrific descriptions of friends shot by police bullets in front of loved ones, armed robberies, and daughters rejected at their parents' deathbeds. Talk of God's love mixes with the descriptions of violence, but no one appears shocked. The listeners nod emphatically, recognizing the similarities to their own lives.
Rev. Nokothula Dhladhla preaches a sermon in Zulu, simultaneously translated to English. It emphasizes coming to God "as you are," a concept with which Dhladhla is familiar. During her first year in seminary at the conservative Rhema Seminary she had to lie about her sexuality.
"They were asking questions about whether I was a lesbian," she said. "I was so afraid they would find out I was. I didn't believe what they taught. I wanted something that would accommodate all kinds of people."
In the Metropolitan Community Church, an international denomination started by a gay man in Los Angeles in 1968, Dhladhla found what she was seeking. She dropped out of Rhema and became ordained in the MCC.
The South African congregation is receptive to Dhladhla's MCC theology, listening attentively and highlighting relevant passages in well-worn bibles.
"If Jesus had wanted to condemn homosexuals, he would have done in while on earth," she says. "He did not talk about it."
Three hours of singing and praying and dancing and Zulu/English anguish later, the service comes to a close. The hugging does not stop; The faithful seem hesitant to return to the realities of Hillbrow's streets, where the members know they are not accepted so unconditionally. But eventually the service ends, and they can linger no longer. The youngest among them must hurry home. They have not told their parents where they are. Indeed, one of the church's most immediate goals is to find another location to congregate outside of Hillbrow.
"A lot of white people, other races, they are really scared to come to Hillbrow," says Mokgethi, the assistant pastor. "They do come, but they feel unsafe to come to such a place. It would really be helpful to have a place where everybody is safe and everybody is secure...a place that would be open to everyone."
For now, the congregation is content to sing an a cappella version of "We Shall Overcome," in the back room of their conference room church.