The first weekend of October, I am off to a retreat with my church, Fresh Wine Ministries, at a former monastery in the outskirts of Bruges.
I am apprehensive at first. The activity is organised by the Horizons team at FWM and aimed at ‘young adults’. The definition is already stretched to breaking point with a late 30s cut-off point. And I still fall outside that age bracket. I am finally convinced by my younger Germanic lovelies, Brenda and Karin, to come along. My arm doesn’t need much twisting. It’ll be my first spiritual getaway in several years, even before the ‘Rona. Plus, this will be my first FWM retreat. I don’t intend to make a habit of sneaking into these youth spaces but with the pandemic, there have been precious few such opportunities lately.
It’s to be an intense three days of activity, with only one full day at the converted monastery. In the end we’ll be 50-odd 20 and 30-somethings (ahem), drawn from different church groups or none at all.
Somehow, Karin and I find ourselves preparing to host a Saturday afternoon workshop. We settle on the theme of making Christian worship spaces more inclusive.
On the evening of departure, Karin is also in charge of ferrying some of the group by train to Bruges. I’m tired and not especially chatty. Reminded it’s not very Christian to be grouchy, I rouse myself to make conversation with a fellow passenger. Amongst our group is a lanky and voluble Belgo-Rwandan, Joshua. He’s pleasant enough but seems inordinately enamoured with the sound of his own voice. Talkative is one thing. Wanting to be the centre of attention is another.
I am often too transparent for my own good and not skilled at hiding my distaste.
At Bruges, we have the option of lifts to the monastery. I choose the smaller vehicle, hoping for a quiet ride with just Karin and the driver, Pawel. Before I can change my mind, Josh has slipped into the front seat. I roll my eyes at Karin. So much for a peaceful journey. A conversation about our countries of origin descends into the "Oppression Olympics". Newly-arrived from Poland, Pawel makes an unfortunate comparison between the Belgian atrocities in the Congo with the annexation of his country by the Germans. An awkward conversation with Karin present, and him being well-aware of her Teutonic connections. The interaction becomes more awkward still when Pawel’s bluntness and ESL converge into more insensitive comments, intended or otherwise.
Brenda awaits us at the castle. Everyone registered is obligated to take a rapid COVID-19 test, irrespective of vaccination status. Brenda oversees these self-test sessions like a pro. For some of us, myself included, this will be our first Coronavirus test of any kind. There are nervous jokes about the kit resembling a pregnancy test. Brenda will run the procedure a number of times over the next couple of days, as guests arrive in waves. Thankfully, it appears all are virus-free which allows for a level of freedom. Most significant of all, we don’t have to wear masks on the grounds.
The facilities are simple but more modern than expected. The central-heating is mercifully in working order and well-needed. The weather will be consistently wet and cold. The meals are cooked by volunteers. Some are more substantial than others.
Following dinner the first night, there’s just about time for icebreakers. Brenda and main coordinator, Monica, do an admirable job of organising inventive games. Over the weekend, I’m pleased to meet a number of non-FWM members and those who are not regular churchgoers. We’re not just stuck in our Fresh Wine bubble (no pun intended). I'm also on the alert for those who look more mature than the rest. A bit of grey here, or laughter lines there. Alas, I turn out to be a good half a decade older than even those.
After the fun and games we retire, in theory, to our rooms. I catch a glimpse of senior Pastor Mike and give a hearty greeting. His wife and co-Pastor, Tasha, will arrive in the morning with the children.
The excitable voices of guests carry late into the night. I wait for some calm to take a midnight shower, to avoid having to jostle for the bathroom in the morning. I won’t know until later that I end up using the boys’ facilities. Fortunately, there are no unintended sitcom-style nude encounters.
The next morning I hear a melodious male voice singing with abandon. It takes a few moments to realise it’s Pastor Mike, doing a solo Praise & Worship session for the brief time he’ll have the space to himself.
After an excessively bread-based breakfast, we head to the main room for the morning activities. Karin and I are invited to announce our workshop. I fluff my lines but manage to work it into the routine with a self-deprecation that comes more easily than usual.
Later a skinny-jeans clad, barefoot Pastor Mike takes the floor. I'm glad to note he's not wearing product in his hair, letting his ethnically-ambiguous waves flow free. He leads us in more Holy Song and a moment of scriptural reflection.
After the sermon, we break into our pre-assigned small groups for a time of intimate prayer. Katya, a self-effacing woman in her early/mid 30s, speaks frankly about navigating an extended season of singleness. She wants God to be enough but yearns for her own family. It’s a tension that I know all too well. When Jelena, our group leader, suggests I pray for Katya, it's already on my mind. I request that we have a moment alone.
As I move into a new decade, I’ve been reflecting even more on life's disappointments. I’m slowly beginning to appreciate how my own story and process allows me to be there for others. I'm finding comfort and joy in other types of relationships; different from- not inferior (maybe even superior) to romance. Friendships are taking on a new beauty and flavour. It might not have been so if everything had gone according to my plan. God doesn’t waste your pain, as my mother’s pastor is wont to say.
Katya wells up as we pray and share life stories. She’s so appreciative of my input that, at the end of the retreat, she presents me with a local delicacy.
The two of us are some of the last to arrive for lunch. I am sat next to a sweet South American chica. We affirm each other in an organic way. I tell her God has a sense of humour. This time last year, I spent in the company of somebody from the same corner of the world. At the time, I thought he was also sweet but it quickly turned sour. This positive exchange with his compatriot a year-to-the-day feels like cosmic consolation. Or rather a definitive full stop to a hurtful moment that seems both recent and distant.
That afternoon, Karin and I set up for our workshop. Once the tech is sorted, we wait. Potential participants turn out to just be lounging in the room before leaving to snooze, play games or take a walk in the rain. Others join and change their mind. Pastor Mike, squeezes my shoulder and wishes us all the best. Having grown up in Apartheid South Africa as a so-called Coloured, his participation would have been salient. (It turns out he isn't aware of the workshop's content).
In the end, five stay for the two-hour discussion, based around Sandra Van Opstal’s lovingly confrontational talk on Worship and Justice. Plans for breakout groups are shelved. Despite my intentions to leave it all up to Providence, I feel let down by the low turnout.
Karin can relate but is more philosophical.
The views of the group are as diverse as their backgrounds. Three hail from Eastern Europe, amongst them Pawel. His position relies on the ‘safety’ of Poland not being part of the colonial scramble. He claims to be colour-blind. There’s an unwise use of the word ‘civilised’. Karin tries to correct this misstep and make Pawel realise that as a Caucasian male, he enjoys privilege of which he’s not aware. I add, as tactfully as possible, that being "colour-blind" is not a virtue but a way of effacing difference and rendering whiteness as normative. Pawel is slightly defensive yet still in a posture to learn. He came for that purpose, he explains. Back home, there is so little engagement with these issues. He wouldn’t know where to start. He’s so far been reliant on online content.
Other attendees are challenged by some of Opstal’s observations as well as our own. Even those from racialised backgrounds have not really reflected on Western hegemony; still evident in churches that pride themselves on being multicultural. Diversity is not the same as inclusion, I point out.
The lively discussion continues around the snacks table, notably with Pawel and a dapper young gent with an inflated sense of himself, whose name I’m yet to memorise. I step away in time before this apparent contrarian can pursue some pointless controversy.
Before embarking on a long walk with Karin, I note that the Hip-Hop dance workshop is full, somewhat to my surprise. I thought inhibition would get the better of guests and they’d be more inclined towards stimulating discourse around a topical issue. Go figure.
Later that evening, Pastor Tasha and Mike submit themselves to a grilling by the guests. I’ve attended these ‘Ask Anything’ sessions before-albeit online-where questions are submitted anonymously.
Normally, and predictably, these queries show a level of restraint. There are the usual theological conundra, often preoccupied with relationships (How do you know if he/she is the one?). This time however, the interrogation is far more exciting, if damn right impertinent. The pastors aren’t only queried about eschatology or dating but also their views on contraception, advice on getting out of abusive relationships and the use of kinky toys. Oh yes, and their preferred sex position.
I’m aghast. I can’t think of any context or anybody I’m so close to where that question would ever be appropriate. Except my future husband. If he exists.
Monica doesn’t flinch, reading out these cheeky probes as if it’s a shopping list. To Tasha and Mike’s credit, they’re far less scandalised than the rest of us. Perhaps they’re used to this level of curiosity. They maintain their sang-froid, are open and easy-going. It leaves a good impression. The culture of taboo should be minimised so that we can be authentic.
Afterwards, Pawel continues the candour. He opens up to me about the depression he suffered following the break-off of an engagement. Formerly agnostic, his interest in church and God began with the woman he’s currently dating. He believes now that it’s part of him, regardless of what becomes of the present relationship.
The evening events continue with a time of praise and prayers. Tired of the Coldplay-lite songs that dominate Western-style charismatic churches the world over, I retire to my room. The singing follows me. It does sound rapturous. I plan to make it downstairs for prayers but mismanage my time.
That night, guests stay up well into the wee-small hours, apparently playing raucous rounds of Uno and Jenga. I still hear the cheers as I nod off, long past 1am.
That already brings us to Sunday, the last day of the retreat. I skip another bread-based breakfast for some extra hours of kip. That morning, Pastor Natasha will share how she came to faith by recounting her troubled formative years in the Rainbow Nation. The daughter of co-dependent parents and one of a dozen siblings, she was passed from one relative to another. By the grace of God, she survived alcoholic step-parents, inter-continental moves, suicidal ideation and even, very briefly, rough-sleeping. She eventually worked in academia before becoming a full-time church minister. Tasha's unstable upbringing made her very intentional about her own life choices. Once again, by the grace of God, she's landed on her feet. It’s a well-rounded message, combining emotional and psychological factors with spiritual warfare.
Although my background was not as chaotic, there are elements of overlap in our stories. I’m drawn to Pastor Tasha’s testimonies of healing and forgiveness.
After her intervention, we divide into small groups again to pray for each other. Before lunch I grab the opportunity to speak to Natasha, one-to-one, albeit somewhat hurried.
Lunch is a light-hearted and cordial affair, with votes of thanks, the distribution of gifts and official farewells.
An unexpectedly tense discussion with one of the song leaders, Mark, temporarily puts a dent in my good humour.
Having perceived -rightly or wrongly – something of the exhibitionist in him, I have hitherto kept my distance.
However, I’m feeling sufficiently upbeat after lunch to venture an introduction. I detect – and ignore – a needlessly sardonic tone to some of his responses. The pleasantries all but evaporate when the conversation takes on a political turn. A convinced centrist, Mark claims that even if the ecological and human cost of Capitalism is high, it’s still the best option in town. I counter that he’s speaking from a privileged Global North position, bearing in mind he’s a beneficiary of the status quo. He is defensive, claiming some taste of deprivation having been born in Burma. I point out that the experience of a European ex-pat would be very different from an impoverished Burmese.
Thanks for judging my life when you don't know me(!)
In any case, I add, he can’t afford to be so dismissive about Capitalism’s adverse affects on the environment. Even if he doesn’t consider it discredited by the substantial human cost (!), the Climate Crisis is an existential one.
I have been in this position many times, debating with a (usually, not always) cocky and/or overbearing white male. I stand my ground. Mark calms down abruptly, although I can’t read his intentions. The heated discourse is interrupted by chocolates passed round by the effete and endearing Claude; one of Mark's bandmates.
Meanwhile, I rush to offload about this frustrating exchange with an ever-sympathetic, Karin.
It’s home time. Guests hurry around finalising their travel plans. I’ve bagged a free ride with Claude and a Dutch lass, recently moved to Belgium.
It’s a very pleasant journey back to Brussels, with the conversation flowing freely and unforced.
Once Claude drops us off at the Metro, I make my way to Mérode for some Lebanese takeaway. There I bump into a number of fellow travellers, including Mark, Jelena and chatty Josh. I’ve thawed towards him during the course of the weekend. He’s eager to probe an off-hand comment I made back at the castle about being a "tech-vegan".
Much to his credit, Josh asks intelligent questions and listens as well as he shares.
I apologise for being stand-offish at the start. Josh has not been oblivious to it. For him, it's a friendly challenge; a chance to converse. For me, a lesson in humility.
Soundtrack: Melodi by Kit Sebastian
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