THE LEGIONNAIRES

Humour is often to be found there where it is least expected. It is gut holdingly amusing and laughter provoking, in precisely those settings where the seriousness of the venue and occasion dictate it should be stifled for the sake of decorum. 

In a little chapel not too far from Cape Town, set in the Constantia Valley before it succumbed to the pressure of urbanisation, just such an occasion presented itself. Constantia later turned into the site of choice for the hoity-toity millionaire set to build their homes on acres of vacant land. The pastor of a small flock of sincere believers took his ordination into the ministry seriously. He prevailed upon the oversight not to keep out the hoi polloi, but to welcome them into the congregation and to cater to their spiritual needs. His was a chapel that opened its doors to a motley assortment of hobos, spiritual hobos, as well as quirky and rejected elements of Cape Town society. It was not unusual to have the company of the odd drunk off the street, whose rowdy interjections, had to be graciously quelled by the gentle giant who dutifully served as usher twice every Sunday – morning and evening. Mornings attracted the more staid crowd who took their faith seriously, but the evenings hosted the less formal outreach-type services and included the more joyous choruses accompanied by upbeat music that was more attractive to visiting itinerants. In other words, Sunday mornings were for the frozen chosen and in the evenings they reached out to the rock-and-roll contingent. 

The pastor made a point of reaching out to the downtrodden and felt the compunction to approach the Director of Cape Town’s mental hospital. Folk whose behaviour failed to conform to the norms of society were in the mid twentieth century still shunted off to the fringes of society and institutionalised. It has only been in more recent years that more enlightened methods have been employed to treat those afflicted with mental illness that is not of their own making. Quite rightly chemical imbalances, psychotic episodes and ranges of disorders have been better diagnosed and treated of late. The goal is now to return patients to the mainstream of society if at all possible, whereas they were shunted off out of sight in decades past. The Gospel, as the pastor correctly pointed out, is inclusive. God’s intervention in the affairs of humanity was not for the exclusive benefit of the rich and famous (or even just the “good”) but was welcoming to all mankind. The whole point of Jesus’ ministry and the story of his life, death and resurrection was egalitarian in principle.

Nevertheless, the Director gave his blessing to a small group of the unfortunate folk who had landed in his care to attend an evening service once a month. They would be ministered to at the institution during the week, but he felt it would be good for them to gradually be reintegrated into normal society. What better route than through the good offices of the pastor and the church? One of the patients had a driver’s licence and owned a VW Kombi van. As the most stable (or least unstable), oom Ben Wilsenach would be entrusted with the care of five other patients and was deemed reliable enough to oversee the outing. The Kombi was a trifle old, but could splutter along safely enough – the brakes worked. Oom Ben, unbeknownst to the Director, had improvised an accelerator, because the cable had snapped on a previous trip. He had rerouted the cable through the driver’s window to the engine bay in this rear engined vehicle. So, with left foot on the clutch, right foot on the brake pedal and right hand operating the accelerator via the window, the six set off one Sunday evening for the service.

Sadly, there was no GPS at that time, so Oom Ben had to navigate from memory. The most disruptive elements by some quirk of fate always show up late and enter with much fanfare at the most inopportune time. It so happened that the Pastor was busy with the following scripture reading as the runway for his sermon, just as the merry band entered the chapel. More about their arrival after the reading.

‘Then Jesus asked him, “What is your name?”

“My name is Legion,” he replied, “for we are many.”

… “Send us among the pigs; allow us to go into them” …’

Accompanying the solemn reading, oom Ben galumphed down the centre aisle to the front row. Chapels always fill up from the back benches, so the only clearing for six was right up front. Behind him was Onkel Hans, a German veteran who was seriously afflicted with shell shock and quivered uncontrollably with heightened stress. Piet Latsky followed – his hair disheveled like Boris Johnson’s – but well attired in a three piece suit, a propeller (bow-tie) and Stokies (flat corduroy slippers). Ansie was next. She had the misfortune to be afflicted with Tourettes, so was prone to the odd outburst of foul language and tics that included wild gesticulations. Fritz was okay-ish, except sartorially. He insisted on wearing short pants, a shirt, tie and ill-fitting cardigan. Casual slip-ons sufficed as an alternative to bare feet. The straggler who was last to enter was Emmy. She took three steps forward and one back, hence her late arrival. She was also, unfortunately, accustomed to turning her head around  to stare at whoever was sitting behind her as if she knew precisely the dates and times on which he had committed all of his sins.

Without batting an eye the Pastor, accustomed as he was to off the cuff impromptu responses that could be weaved into the sermon, graciously welcomed the guests and requested patience as the “Legionnaires”, as he now dubbed them, took their seats. His exegesis of the scripture that Sunday evening seemed made-to-order. Vivid scenes crossed the minds of the congregation as the front row interjections, “Amens” and inappropriate tics punctuated his prepared sermon. The antics of the Legionnaires seemed a stark portrayal  of the infusion of minds with the capers of “Legion” and his consignment to the herd of porkers making their undignified leap from the cliff into the sea.

To top it off, the Pastor, in his valiant effort to be as inclusive as possible, asked oom Ben to quote a Bible verse he was aware the old man had committed to memory, as a benediction to the service. Oom Ben insisted on using only the King James translation of scripture – replete with “thees” and “thous”. He was also aware that oom Ben had a speech impediment that caused an inability to pronounce “th”. This sound would come out as a very distinct “d”. So the benediction went as follows:

“Fear  dou not for I am widdee: be not dismayed; for I am dy God: I will strengden dee; yea, I             will help dee; yea, I will uphold dee wid de right hand of my righteousness.”

©Paul M Haupt