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(Photo by David Gutnick)

It is 10:15 in the morning and five-year-old Noluthando Mahlaugu cannot keep her eyes off me.

I catch her gaze and she puts her left hand across her face and peeks through her fingers. I pretend to look away and she sticks out her tongue through a smile she cannot hold back.  She wrinkles up her nose, squints her eyes and pulls down on her earrings trying to look like a monster but then she cannot help but break into another broad smile.

So does her grandmother, Margaret Mahlaugu, and so do I.

Playing around in the middle of a church service is not the kind of thing I usually do.

But then the Central Methodist Mission is not your usual kind of church, and the Reverend Dr. Paul Verryn - the bearded preacher  in the brilliant white robes - is not your usual kind of man.

The five hundred people here in downtown Johannesburg are part of a community that over the decades stood on the front lines in the bloody fight against apartheid. These days they are in another, subtler, but just as crucial fight:  with their fellow citizens who are threatening African immigrants and refugees and want them kicked out of the country.

In May 2008, xenophobic violence broke out in neighbourhoods in some of South Africa's biggest cities.

Sixty-two people died, hundreds were injured.

Two thousand foreign nationals, a majority from Zimbabwe, found refuge in the Central Methodist mission. They were terrified that the crowds outside would crash through the doors and attack them.

Families slept in their clothes on the floor between the pews, in the stairways and in the vestry.
 
One man who was not able to make it inside had his head slashed open with a machete as he stood on the church sidewalk.

Just a few blocks away construction workers were renovating the Ellis Park stadium that is being used for World Cup games.

"The story of Ruth is a story about acceptance," says the Reverend Dr. Paul Verryn, "it is a story about loving each other like brothers and sisters regardless of the colour of our skins or the languages we speak or our birthplace. We are all Africans"

The Reverend goes on to tell a story about one of his nephews, a scientist, who carried out a study of the DNA makeup of South Africans.

"It turns out," he says, "that any white family that has been living in South Africa for more than a hundred years has more than likely some black blood flowing in their veins."

The Reverend looks out over the crowd and smiles. "People like sleeping with each other," he says. "It is normal human behaviour. My family has been here for more than a hundred years. Chances are that I am not as white as I look. I delight in thinking that I have a very black great grandfather."

The crowd roars. 

Margaret takes my hand and says that she is glad that I am here. I take a picture of the proud grandmother and her bright-eyed granddaughter.

The Reverend Dr. Paul Verryn and the choir lead everyone in a Zulu hymn.

Ngatimukudze Mwari
Nemwoyo inofara:

Tsitisi dzake ihuru
Dzinoitirwa isu

Anoraira zuva
Rivenekere nyika

These days there is talk on Johannesburg streets and in taxi-vans and the little bars known as shabeens in Soweto and Alexandria that as soon as the World Cup party is over on July 11, xenophobic violence could break out again.

"Now the world is watching us," says Sam who is too afraid to give his second name. "But when the last game is over and the stadiums are empty and all the journalists go home, the people who hate us say they will come after us again."

I spent Saturday with Sam and a couple of dozen Zimbabwean refugees in Yeoville, the downtown neighbourhood where they live. They told me that they are increasingly hearing whispered threats.

Some families will no longer allow their children to play outside because they are too afraid. So six, eight, ten people are spending the World Cup in rooms crowded with packed suitcases. Televisions tuned to the latest match sit on bulging cardboard boxes.

If the mobs come hunting for immigrants once the soccer party is over, they are ready to escape. On Saturday afternoon, a fellow was loading a trailer up with fridges and a couple of couches and sideboards before heading north to Kinshasa.

Everywhere you look in Johannesburg - from mega exclusive Sandton to the tin shack slums of Diepslout there are bright banners promoting South Africa as a "Rainbow Nation."

Archbishop Desmond Tutu coined the phrase in the early 1990's to describe post-apartheid South Africa.

President Nelson Mandela expanded upon it in a speech:  "Each of us is as intimately attached to the soil of this beautiful country as are the famous jaracanda trees of Pretoria and the mimosa trees of the bushveld- a rainbow nation at peace with itself and the world."

But despite the World Cup rainbow nation hype, all the waving flags and joyous stadium crowds South Africa has not found the peace that Madiba spoke about.
 
"I live in Soweto," the Revered Dr. Paul Verryn tells his congregation. "I was at a meeting there yesterday where we discussed the growing sense of xenophobia. We are all still suffering the scars left by apartheid. When things get tough, when people lose their jobs or do not get the government services they deserve, they hunt for scapegoats. And once more refugees and immigrants are becoming targets."

Just like in 2008, people are sleeping on the floor of the Central Methodist Church, living a nightmare filled with fears of angry mobs carrying sticks and rusty machetes.

"During the apartheid years so many South Africans found refuge in neighbouring countries like Zimbabwe," says the Reverend.

Now those Zimbabweans are fleeing a dictatorship of their own.

"We are all brothers and sisters," he pleads. "You are black, I am this other colour. But we share the blood in our veins."

Jesus! the name that charms our fears
That bids our sorrows cease;
Tis music in the sinner's ears,
Tis life, and health, and peace.

He speaks, and, listening to His voice,
New life the dead receive,
The mournful, broken hearts rejoice,
The humble poor believe.

The collection baskets are passed around.  Margaret Mahlaugu digs through her wallet and finds some coins. She gives them to Noluthando and hand in hand, they walk the main aisle to the front where they kneel, their heads down, their eyes closed.

The whole church is filled with competing prayers that meld into a rhythm that fills the space and bounces off walls and windows.

We all sway back and forth, tight together, men in suits, grandmothers in shawls, teenagers in jeans.

"Next Thursday June 30th at 5:00 pm there will be a Peace Action Meeting," announces Reverend Dr. Paul Verryn before the service comes to an end. "We need to talk about what we are going to do about xenophobia. We only have a couple of weeks before the World Cup ends. We need as many of you as can make it"

Margaret and Mahlaugu and Noluthando and I leave the church together.

The Reverend Dr. Paul Verryn is on the stoop, shaking every hand, patting every baby.

"God Bless," he says.

Noluthado waves to me. She makes another face "See you next week," she says.

I want to acknowledge "moose moss" for pointing out the spelling mistake.  It is indeed Madiba, not Madibo.  Thanks!