Mr. Paliso died suddenly Oct. 11, 2011
“Do not forget to entertain strangers, for by so doing, some have unwittingly entertained angels.” – Hebrews 13:2
It was the first time I recall meeting him, although he was quick to remind me that we met before – I think simply by knowing my name. No matter. It will remain the image forever etched in my mind. He was staring in the window of the flat my brother and I rented at an old, retired hotel called Pelican Place in the seaside village of Hamburg – a tiny hamlet of whiteness in the midst of poor, rural, black South Africa. His face was round, graced by wise grey stubble that was yet somehow refined and neatly kept. His body was slightly rotund; it echoed the happiness that exuded from a smile I never will forget. A smile that began with his mouth, traveled through his eyes and from there invaded every living spirit in its midst with unrelenting vigor. Put simply, he made me happy. Just his presence made me happy. He was evidence of God and Santa Claus, all rolled up in one. I can say that. I know God understands.
He said his name was Boy. I was sure I missed something in translation. A black man in his early 60’s in post-apartheid South Africa who goes by the name “Boy”? That was among the first of many enigmas I would encounter in this place in the years to come. But the Boy I met then – a seemingly simple Xhosa security guard who slept outside and guarded the gate – was far from the Mr. Paliso I would later come to know… and depend on.
As years passed, and 25:40 become more and more involved in the Hamburg community, we aligned with a small, community-based effort called the Hamburg Social Development Project. It was initiated by our dear friend and true brother, Atwell Ndlondlo – another local Xhosa man with a dream of better opportunities for his community and his community’s children. Encouraged to reach out for true mentors, Atwell went first to Mr. Paliso. Atwell knew a man of courage, integrity and – most importantly – love when he saw one. He knew that justice, mercy and humility – rather than pride, anger and aggression – were the key ingredients of hope. Atwell understood this and demonstrated so when he asked Mr. Paliso for help. And so, when I entered my first meeting with HSDP, and saw “Boy” among the respected community members entrusted with this project, he stopped forever being “Boy” to me, and became “Mr. Paliso” – an elder, a statesman, a father and grandfather, a man more worthy of my respect than I could ever dream of being to anybody.
But in his loving mind… he saw himself as neither Boy nor Mr. Paliso to me. He was boetie. He was simply… my brother.
There are far too many times in the history of our involvement in South Africa where I have reached the end of my rope. Many times when the frustrations so outnumber the positives that there seems no conceivably reasonable rationale for continuing on. People you endeavor to help steal from you. Or hurt one another. Or just plain ignore the fact that they are leading self-destructive lives, even though there can be another way. Sometimes, the notion that making any difference just seems impossible. (Here, as my dear friend Wikus reminds me, is when we truly know we are doing God’s work.)
It is, at these lowest of points that God sends His angels. He sends someone to gently remind you to “carry on.” That no matter what, yours is the job to seek out the lost sheep… if only one. (Luke 15:4). I guess, if you are a mediocre golfer (being a terrible golfer, I can’t relate to this metaphor), it is that one shot in an otherwise awful 18-holes that keeps you coming back. You know, that shot that God made possible, because there is no way you could have done it. That shot, that was Mr. Paliso to me. A black man who lived through the entire era of apartheid. A man who faced the very worst that poverty could throw at him. A man who persevered against the greatest odds, including the diabetes that – I think – ultimately overcame him. The man who asked for nothing except that we carry on, not for him, but for those around him. This man was among the first that I would count among the few rocks on which we have built this ministry. Because he said, time and again, please… don’t give up.
Mr. Paliso and I had a number of conversations over the years – mostly late at night, on the porch of a flat at Pelican Place. We talked about the kids in the community, the things happening around us, and God. And we prayed together. In the last long chat we had, he shared with me that he was gathering some scrap metal, and trying to obtain some other basic resources, so he could build a shack to serve as a church. He was, among all the other things, a minister for his community – which lacks a formal church. And while he freely welcomed his brothers and sisters in the community into his home for worship, it was too small. My mind immediately roaring with the possibilities, I said I would help him. Forget the shack, we’ll build a real church. And then, and then, and then… His eyes grew wider with my reckless pondering. I fear he left that night imagining something he ultimately would never see.
You see, I never let go of that dream. I just always thought we would have more time to fulfill it. I just always thought that Mr. Paliso would be there when we finally spent the time, raised the money… saw it through. My brother even warned me that night not to promise things I might not deliver. Prophetic, I suppose. But always in my head, I was not falling short… just buying time.
Mr. Paliso, I owe you an apology. One I hope you will accept in your new home in the kingdom. If it is at all possible, I pray that the promise I made to you will be fulfilled in even greater measure for the next generation – that they may know a church that is greater than mortar and stone and reflects the grace, peace and love of our Lord. Such a thing would only remotely begin to reflect your presence in our lives. It was your dream. I will work toward it. Brother, carry on. With justice. With mercy. Walking humbly with God. (Micah 6:8).
God bless you.
