a blog that tells joburg's stories
Set deep in a dusty, less-than-spectacular Midrand suburb, St Sergius of Radonezh Russian Orthodox Church is an anomaly: only one of three Russian Orthodox Churches in Africa, its gold-leaf domes blindingly glint against an incongruous hot-blue sky; a Slavic Star of Bethlehem, they guide curious strangers from the N1 highway to the gate’s buzzer…
The tail-end of a storm torrent washes over the driveway’s blue-brick menorah. Across the road, Praise Jesuses hail from a Pentecostal church; its neon palm-tree sign blinks in the drizzle. A tall, white-robed man greets us at the gate; his matching yarmulke contrasts against the dome of his black-skinned head…
Emmanuel’s car is old and beaten up, but smells new. The Virgin Mary is perched on the dashboard; a moving pedestal for her bleeding, plastic Sacred Heart. Two rosaries jangle above her from the rear-view mirror, their beads swing wildly with each turn through Joburg’s Sunday morning CBD streets…
Like a Minotaur in a maze, Scientology is an incredibly difficult beast to pin down. But I wanted to try. I’ve watched loads of documentaries on the subject, and Heather (aka 2Summers) shares my obsession with this rather unconventional religion – she almost peed her pants when I suggested we visit L. Ron Hubbard’s house on Linksfield Ridge. Prior to our excursion, I had never met a Scientologist, and I only knew about Scientology via three sources: Wikipedia, ex-Scientologists from the aforementioned documentaries, and Tom Cruise…
They say ‘write what you know’ – so I thought I’d start this project off with Catholicism. I was brought up Catholic (I was dragged to Mass by my mother each Sunday, practically kicking and screaming). I remember how our parish priest, Fr Kelly, would ensure his lips extracted the very last drop of wine from the chalice after communion. Just before wiping the golden cup and putting it away, he’d tip it riiiight back and have a good sluk. I also remember him urgently puffing on a cigarette – still in his vestments – the minute he was outside after Mass and shaking people’s hands.