Early in November 1988 a man with a heavy Afrikaans accent phoned in a chilling threat to my secretary: “Tell your boss Peter Storey: ‘I’m watching you, your time has come. Some of your black servants are already suffering.’ ” He claimed to belong to the Wit Wolwe.

A matter of days later, 21-year-old right-wing Afrikaner Barend Strydom went on a shooting spree in Strijdom Square, Pretoria. He cold-bloodedly murdered eight black persons, wounding 16 more. When taken into custody he claimed to be the leader of a right-wing group called the Wit Wolwe, something the police decided was a figment of his imagination — that he was the only wolf. If they were right, then the call to my office came from Strydom himself and it is still an uncomfortable thought that I was on his list.

The phrase “Prayer and Protest” came to describe gatherings where CMC’s (Central Methodist Church) pulpit was a platform for prophetic resistance. The biblical prophets — including Jesus — disturbed the sleep of the powerful with God’s voice for justice and CMC made space for the prophets in our broken land to be heard. For a while we could offer better protection than more exposed venues, but as confrontation escalated the powers showed scant respect for church spaces. In 1977, for instance, the Security Police raided Khotso House and held the staff — including (Storey’s late wife) Elizabeth — hostage for many hours as they searched different offices.

Riot police teargassed political funerals and trashed the Methodist Youth Centre in Jabavu, leaving its premises in a shambles. Churches of other denominations, especially in the Eastern Cape, suffered a similar fate.

Our turn to be violated came later. On 6 December 1988 a meeting at Wits University protesting the Delmas Treason Trial was banned at the last minute. Word went round to disperse and re-assemble at

CMC and soon the church was packed. The protest was resumed, this time as a “Prayer” gathering. SACC General Secretary Frank Chikane and I were sitting behind the pulpit, with Dr Allan Boesak addressing the crowd, when I got word that a “whole lot” of riot police were outside. I went to investigate and sure enough, a platoon of men in full riot gear and carrying sub-machine guns was formed up in front of our doors. Seeking out the officer in charge, I asked him why they were here — we were holding a perfectly orderly meeting. He replied that the meeting was banned and his men were there to clear the people out.

“You must be mistaken,” I said. “The banned meeting was at Wits University. This is Central Methodist Church.”

“Don’t be funny with me, Reverend,” he said, “we know who’s in there and we’re coming in.”

“Listen, Captain,” I remonstrated, “this meeting isn’t in the hall. It’s in the church sanctuary. You guys have never invaded a church. If you do that, you cross a line. There will be hell to pay if you dare to invade a Christian church.”

In doubt for a moment, he turned and spoke into his radio: “Ons het ’n probleem,” he said. “Die priester sê hulle’s in die kerk self …” Then came the reply and on hearing the word “Beweeg!” crackling through his radio I turned and ran up the stairs and down the aisle into the pulpit, stopping Boesak in full cry.

I told the congregation that we were about to be occupied by riot police and to stay absolutely still in their places. There were only two major staircases down to the ground floor and I was desperately concerned about what would happen if a crowd approaching 1,000 people stampeded.

Before I got the sentence out the police were streaming into the church. The sight of some 60 men in full riot gear, positioned around our communion rail pointing their weapons at the congregation was frightening, but to their credit everyone stayed calm and seated.

The officer, pistol on hip, joined us in the pulpit and barked an order at me: “Tell them they’ve got four minutes to disperse.”

Again I remonstrated: “That’s impossible! It takes much longer to empty this church… I know this. Let me calm them and dismiss them.”

While we were arguing in the pulpit, Ken Roberts, who I liked to call my “resident conservative”, now in his late 60s, did his own amazing thing. With dignified anger at the riot squad’s lack of decorum he got up and approached them.

“Take off those helmets,” he instructed. “Don’t you know you’re in a church? Show some respect!”

It seems that some of the young Afrikaners in the squad were from God-fearing homes, because a few of them sheepishly removed their visored riot helmets, trying to tuck them under their armpits. In spite of the anxiety of the moment I couldn’t suppress a small smile. The police captain realised I was right about the dismissal and grudgingly agreed to my request, whereupon I announced that the service had been declared illegal and that we would have to leave… after a closing prayer. With that I lifted my hands and began to pray.

It was a long prayer. I wanted to at least challenge the power equation: why should a bunch of policemen have all the authority? So, while the officer repeatedly growled, “Maak klaar, priester, maak klaar!” I managed what I hope was a dignified ending and pronounced the Benediction: “The grace of the Lord Jesus Christ, the Love of God, and the Friendship and Protection of the Holy Spirit, be with us all.”

With that the people left quietly and there were no arrests. DM

Peter Storey is the former bishop of the Methodist Church of Southern Africa and a Distinguished Professor Emeritus of Duke University in North Carolina. Once chaplain to Nelson Mandela on Robben Island, he founded LifeLine SA and Gun Free SA and led the South African Council of Churches when it was fierce opponent of the apartheid state. I Beg to Differ is published by Tafelberg.