Proximity | three writers, two countries, one hour

Standing in the doorway of the little yellow church, the only Catholic church within 100 kms, I peered past a few elderly women in long purple robes, the uniform for the Women of Saint Anne, and waved to a friend with my xiTsonga mass book. I greeted a few friends, quickly zig-zagged through bodies, and made my way toward the front of the church.

My friend Emerencia was saving me a seat, alongside her daughter Simphiwe, and her niece. They were sitting in the front pew, waiting for everyone to take their seats. It was Good Friday and, like every year, the Acornhoek Mission was hosting the Passion of Christ.

“Momma,” said eight-year-old Simphiwe, looking up to her mother with stress-crinkled eyes, “I am worried about Jesus Christ.” Rolling her eyes, Emerencia put her arm around Simphiwe and pulled her in a little closer, a little tighter.

Simphiwe squeezed my handing, seeking just a bit more comfort, as I turned back to see the doors closing and seats being taken. Strange enough, the church seemed full and sparse at the same time. There were more children than I’d ever seen in this A-framed church, built in the late fifties, but still very few people for such a religiously important day.

Outside, the mission’s old classrooms were filled with laughter and commotion. Boys and girls from an out-station prepared to reenact the stations of the cross. Boys were dressed in old choir gowns and priest vestments, while most of the girls draped themselves in traditional cloths with a pattern of Daniel Comboni’s framed face throughout—similar to those worn with the face of Mandela, King Goodwell Zwelithini, and the Swazi royals. Daniel Comboni, an Italian Catholic Bishop, was the founder of the Comboni Missionaries, a group who settled across the continent in the mid-1880s, building communities under the vocation of “Save Africa through Africa.” Acornhoek’s mission was a product of Daniel Comboni’s work, nearly 75 years after his death.

When the Bishop, the parish priest, and a priest just starting his new placement in South Africa walked down the aisle, everyone sang. A kaleidoscope of golden shapes danced across the front alter – reflections from the Bishop’s gold ring and theatrically large cross. Reaching the alter first, the Bishop kneeled down on a sangu and laid his entire body flat against the mat in prayer. Everyone followed, kneeling on the cement floor or the slender, warped wooden kneelers. The late afternoon sun peering through the window cast an elongated shadow of Simphiwe kneeling, across the front of the church floor, just before the alter, just below the Bishop’s feet.

Eventually, the Bishop stood, dusted off his white robe, and straightened his gold-embroidered, red vestment. Father Anton, whose Berkinstocks with socks could be seen beneath his robes, stood at the Bishop’s side and started to speak to the congregation in xiTsonga (with only a thread of his Spanish accent sounding through).

The reenactment began. Simphiwe watched from the edge of the pew. Nervousness seemed to take over every muscle in her body. The boys, acting as Jesus’ guards and persecutors, whipped him with long, fresh-leafed, mango branches. Jesus, whose crown of thorns was a twisted branch of yellow and green snapdragons, was shorter and leaner than the others. Although, surprisingly, despite the painful crack of each branch, his voice exuded confidence and power.

He was barefoot. And nearly naked. His purple and white vestments were pulled from his body as the cross was placed on his back. The whips continued to strike. The heavy gum poles leaned against his thin, ribbed frame, pushing him closer to the ground.

Jesus, a Sotho boy no older than sixteen, was forced to carry the burden across the chapel’s front, past the sacristy, out the side door, along the side of the church, to the front stoop, and down the aisle towards the alter once again. The sound of the mango branches cracking and the yelling of his persecutors could be heard the entire time. Steps from the alter, just to the side of Simphiwe and Emerencia, Jesus fell to his knees, sending a boom through the little yellow church. Simphiwe flinched. The sound echoed and could be heard across the mission grounds. He lay in the aisle, pulled himself up, took one step, and landed again on the alter.

The tallest of his persecutors, wearing vestments resembling Napoleonic curtains, pulled Jesus from the ground and held him against the cross, propped up by the hands of his peers.

His wrists and ankles were wrapped to the gum poles with rope. Nails were hammered into the cross through the gaps between his fingers and into the platform on which his feet were propped. His body appeared to hang. The live Sotho Christ, suspended from the cross, mirrored the crucifix hanging above the Bishop’s head, stripped to a loin cloth, with his head fallen to the side.

Eventually, at the motion of Father Anton – the priest who once confronted me with with an order-like suggestion to attend mass in the home of a Hoedspruit-based Afrikaans family – Jesus was removed from the cross and carried out the door. Girls with hand brooms made of summer cut grass swept mango leaves and wood splinters from the alter.

An elderly woman with Tsonga tattoos covering her legs carried a child-sized crucifix to the front of the alter. The bishop kneeled and kissed the body of Jesus on the cross. The two priests followed. One-by-one, from child to elder, each took a turn. The tattooed woman was there with a white cloth to wipe Jesus’ body each time someone kissed him. Toward the end, Emerencia slipped out of the pew on the with a gaggle of childen in tow to kiss the crucifix. Simphiwe stood in front of the crucifix, alongside Emerencia, and kissed Jesus, together with her mother.

As mass ended, the mission came alive. Women and childen (and the occasional elderly our teenage man) were milling about, greeting one another and talking with friends, or standing in line to greet the Bishop, thanking him for (driving more than four hours to be there and) saying mass on such an important day.

Simphiwe and I stood in the doorway of the yellow-washed cement church, where she usually sits with her grandmother during the week, preparing wool for tapestries and rugs. We surveyed the landscape of families, visitors, and tradition. Simphiwe held my hand with two of hers, locking her fingers in mine, and said to me, in xiTsonga, “I am still worried about Jesus.”