Gifts

We give gifts for all sorts of reasons. We give gifts to family and others whom we love, well, just because. We give some gifts simply because we ought to, hospitality to hosts and so on. And then, we give gifts expecting something in return. For better or worse, we recognize there are meaningful returns for our generosity.

There is a bit of history of this latter purpose between companion links of Anglican dioceses. Years ago I remember one African bishop even telling me of how wonderfully his diocese hosted some companions, then added, ‘and we got a library for our seminary out of it!’

But that's certainly not always the case in our companion links. Our Diocese of North Carolina recently gives some gifts to our companions in the Diocese of Botswana. We do it for the best of reasons: No one asks us to, we do it because we want to, we do it because we care.

First it is the historically black churches in the Diocese of North Carolina. They give Bibles to all of the ordinands from the St. Augustine Theological School at their December ordinations.

Second it is the deacons in the Diocese of North Carolina. They give clergy shirts to the new priests.

Bishop Metlha, Fr. James Amanze and I try over the last several months to find an occasion to gather the new priests together and present the shirts and affix book plates to their Bibles, indicating the gift. Unfortunately, we never find the occasion. Most of us gather for the funeral of Fr. Jacob Modisenyane in Matsiloje, but that is not the best occasion.

The plan now is for the new priests to receive shirts and book plates for their Bibles when all clergy gather on Maundy Thursday. I will no longer be here, so we arrange for a photo of the presentations with Bishop Metlhayotlhe Beleme, Fr. James Amanze, and me in advance.

These are wonderful gifts, much appreciated here.

This business of gift-giving can be relationship-building or relationship-diminishing. What is just happening with the deacons and the historic black churches is, I think, relationship-building. But when gifts are given by one companion link in a manner that suggests our abundance and their neediness, we undermine the relationship.

Fr. James and I are talking just the other day. We’ve been wrapping up the technology project, in which we hope to enable face-to-face conversations across the ocean, across our boundaries, using Skype and the like. We in North Carolina have just spent a bundle: a laptop, flat screens, camera and speakers and microphones, software, and internet upgrades. All of us – Botswana and North Carolina – have agreed on the plan, and the grant.

I mention to Fr. James that if the St. Augustine Theological School needs some wiring work to get an outlet near the new flat screen, our grant can cover it. Fr. James laughs. ‘When someone brings the main course for dinner,’ he says, ‘we don’t ask him to pay for the salt.’

This is refreshing. Bishop Metlha says much the same when Fr. James and I meet with him. Botswana’s companion link committee has outlined some of Botswana’s church building needs. But: ‘We need to work this out for ourselves,’ the good Bishop says. ‘We need to be able to build our own churches.’

It has not always been this way. We have been through a long history, we Western and African Anglicans. For well over a century Western Anglicans define what the African churches need, then pay for it. Then, for a fairly brief period, African Anglicans define what the African churches need, and Western churches pay for it – penance, perhaps for the long history of paternalism. At long last, we are reaching a point when African churches are defining their own needs, and Western Anglicans consider what it means to be partners, not just check-writers.  Maybe we are actually treating the ‘Ten Principles of Partnership in the Anglican Communion’ seriously. (The 'Ten Principles' are on pp. 16-18 of Toward Dynamic Mission: Final Report of the Mission Issues and Strategy Advisory Group II [1992] but appear on pp. 27-29 on the bar at the bottom of the linked document.)

I love the generosity of our historically black churches and our deacons – true gifts. I also love the fact that we are beginning to cope with the challenge of divergent resources in ways that reflect God’s gift to us, and our gift to one another.

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A naturalized home

Coming ‘home’ takes all sorts of forms, let alone whether where we are coming to is technically home at all. Back in 2010 I came to Botswana, my first visit since 1989, to work with Fr. James Amanze in envisioning a House of Studies, now the St. Augustine Theological School. There was nothing about ‘home’ then – rather just a curiosity as to whether a ‘foreign land’ where I had been over 20 years earlier had changed much (it had). But when I returned in 2013 to teach at the new school, my first diary entry tried to convey the emotion I felt when Ben Motlhalamme, then the diocesan secretary, simply said ‘welcome home’ as we passed the peace on my first Sunday back. It felt like belonging. The following year my first diary entry only speaks of the intensity of it all – classes and the challenges of settling in and all that. It still felt like belonging, but the focus was on the busy-ness of it all.

Here I am again. 2016. It’s almost ordinary. Susan Mogwera, the Diocese’s executive administrator, meets me at the airport at noon and drives me to my flat, which looks much as I left it (well, no longer in the midst of a major construction site), and where she hands me the keys. We have a bit of lunch and she takes me to the School, where Florence Bogopa, who keeps all working smoothly there, greets me, hands me keys to the School and to my car, which is sitting outside, nicely clean and with a full tank. I sit down and we begin our class at 2:00. Two good sessions, but nothing out of the ordinary. Afterward I boot up my laptop and glide smoothly into the School’s wireless setup. I hear the printer start to whir, and it even remembers that I asked it to print out a couple of documents in 2014, and it spits them out now. Later Fr. James takes me to dinner, and I return to the flat, needing nothing but some groceries to ‘belong’ again.

The Diocese's flat for companion link folk, plus my car

It all seems so routine.

Finding ‘home’ is a great theme, in life as in literature. Sometimes it may touch us deeply, sometimes there’s an intensity to it, sometimes you feel as if you never left. It doesn’t matter. One of our great quests is to discover a place to feel at home, whether in or out of our own culture, whether geographically our ‘technical’ home or not. Sometimes, remarkably, it comes to us in unexpected ways, unexpected places. Sometimes even its ordinariness may be profound.

This morning, at the early (7:30) service at the Holy Cross Cathedral, Bishop Metlha offers me a word of welcome. ‘We will help you become naturalized when you are ready,’ he says with a smile. Some in the congregation follow with a laugh. I smile too, and I thank him. But I remember too that being ‘home’ is multi-directional. The extent to which I feel at home is directly related to the extent to which I am made to feel at home by others whose home this truly is. I remember those who have been in Botswana for decades – even secured citizenship – but are reminded daily that they are not truly ‘home’ here, and never will be. I recall that, despite having grown up in North Carolina, my absence for over 40 years means that I am not, in the eyes of some, as ‘North Carolinian’ as those who never left. I think of the viciousness with which people in leadership, both political and religious, have made it clear that children of God who are distinctive in their ‘otherness’ are not truly ‘home’ in the United States. I see daily – we all do – those caught up in war seeking a new ‘home,’ knowing that what used to be home cannot be again, and what may become home is a foreign land and a foreign tongue.

How do we discover home for ourselves, and affirm home for others who come among us?

This week’s return to Gaborone happens against a backdrop of a meeting of Anglican archbishops, where together in Canterbury they seek to find a way forward after years of contention over the Church and issues of human sexuality. Those issues are important, but for purposes here: Never mind those issues. The issues could have been quite different, but it wouldn’t matter. Behind it all is the question of ‘home.’ Do we belong together? Are we ‘at home’ together? Can we embrace difference – much as families try to do when they get together on holidays – and still belong together? Can we respect the dignity of every human being – which for me means, can we welcome others as being at ‘home’ with us?

Jesus has an answer to this. It’s his prayer that ‘they all may be one’ (John 17:21). We are one together when we find a home together, one which we can embrace despite all that distinguishes us from one another. That’s not easy, as the archbishops sadly demonstrate. But I like to think that in such a small but maybe not such a small way, my being welcomed into a ‘naturalized’ home in Botswana is a small gesture at our oneness, at our sense of home.

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Ordinations

‘My brothers,’ Bishop Metlhayotlhe Beleme asks, ‘do you believe that you are truly called by God and his Church to the life and work of a priest?’ Twelve, our first graduates from the St. Augustine Theological School, answer, ‘I believe I am so called.’ ‘Do you now in the presence of God and of his Church accept this trust and responsibility?’ Bishop Metlha continues. ‘I do,’ they answer.

Today, in Gaborone, at Holy Cross Cathedral of the Anglican Diocese of Botswana, marks the culmination of the long process of discernment and study and formation for these men. It’s the largest ordination held in the Diocese’s history, and is a major expansion of the number of locally-trained Batswana priests.

I am not here.

Our – the Diocese of North Carolina’s – absence is just one of those things that happens. It really is a stewardship issue. I am returning to Botswana in January to teach another term, and despite my having taught these ordinands in two previous years, and despite how much I would love to be present, it is not a good use of our resources, and no other options present themselves. So our Diocese is not here.

Representatives from another of Botswana’s companion links, the Diocese of Newcastle in England, are, and visitors from the Diocese of Tennessee happen to be here on this occasion. Some South African Anglicans have travelled up.

We are not forgotten, however. Bishop Metlha acknowledges the ‘tremendous assistance’ it has received from North Carolina, and he singles out now Presiding Bishop Michael Curry. He also kindly mentions me.

And the Diocese of Botswana rightly recognizes that ‘the primary success of the school and ordination of these men was made possible by Canon Professor James Amanze, Principal of St Augustine and Canon Theologian.’ It is his vision that began St. Augustine Theological School in 2012, begun truly as an act of faith. Today would not be without him.

But the focus today is on these men. I can picture them, their families present, excited by the prospect, relieved that this moment has finally arrived. The evening classes, day after day for three years, is finished. The decision of the Bishop is final. The previous week’s retreat is over. And now, they are to be made priests.

Besides relief and excitement, however, I hope they feel humility. In our Sacramental theology class I ask them, two years ago, to read ‘the charge to the priests’ in the ordination liturgy. I remind them of the seriousness of the words they will one day embrace. Now, at last, they are doing so.

They are standing before the Bishop as he says

You are called to make disciples, bringing them to baptism and confirmation; to lead the people in prayer; faithfully to read the Scriptures and proclaim the word of God; and to preside at the Eucharist with reverence and wonder. Like Aaron, you will bear the names of your people on your breast in intercession before the Lord. You will teach and encourage them from the Scriptures, and bless them in the name of God. You will help God’s people to discover and use to his glory the gifts he has given them. Like Moses, you will gladly receive counsel and share the burden of leadership with others. In love and mercy, remembering your own frailty, you will rebuke sin, pronounce God’s forgiveness to the penitent and absolve them in the name of Christ. Following the Good Shepherd, you will care for the sick, bring back those who have strayed, guide his people through this life, and prepare them for death and for the life to come, that they may be saved through Christ forever.

This ministry will be your great joy and privilege.

That remains, for me, a remarkable charge. Back in 2013 I ask them to reflect upon the ordination liturgy throughout their formation, readying themselves for this day. Now they are hearing this recitation of their calling by their Bishop.

And after all of these words, and acknowledgment of joy and privilege, the charge concludes with great understatement:

It is also a weighty responsibility which none would dare to undertake except for the call of God.

Yes.

Give them holiness of life, wisdom and gentleness in their ministry, and perseverance in prayer, we all say in the post-communion prayer.

I am not here, at Holy Cross Cathedral in Gaborone. But I am in spirit.

 

 

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Getting out of the way

Fr. James Amanze is working hard to convince me that I should return to teach in 2016. ‘You need to persuade Bishop Michael,’ he is saying, ‘that it is crucial for you to be here in our new students’ second year.’ He does not argue about how long I should stay. We both know he wants it to be longer than 90 days – the automatic visa we Americans can secure. I am non-committal.

There are some good personal and family reasons not to return for another term. But as I listen to Fr. James, my mind wanders to the long-standing struggle I have had during my years in Africa and in African studies: When is it time for an expatriate to get out of the way? And a corollary to that question adds to my reflections: What constitutes my role while I am still here?

Anitepam

My greatest failure in ‘getting out of the way’ has to do with Anitepam, the possessor of one of the longest organizational names I have ever known: The African Network of Institutions of Theological Education preparing Anglicans for Ministry. Thankfully, the acronym is pronounceable.

Anitepam has its beginnings when I am asked by the Seminary Consultation on Mission (short title but disgusting-sounding acronym) of the North American Episcopal seminaries to organize a gathering of American and African theological educators. I do so, with Chad Gandiya, now the Bishop of Harare, in Harare in 1991.

When I end up living in Kenya in 1992, the African theological educators who attended the Harare consultation ask if I will administer a new network they wish to create… what becomes Anitepam. And I do.

That’s fine, as long as I am living in Kenya, working at an Anglican theological college, and serving under African leadership, which I do for five years. And then I return to the United States. A good moment to, well, get out of the way. But I don’t. These are years when international financial transactions in Africa can be difficult, and Anitepam’s council asks me to continue to manage their hard currency funds, and I say yes. My successor as administrator has trouble laying out our publication, the Anitepam Bulletin, and they ask me to do that too. Again I say yes. And the years pass.

Eventually Anitepam finds itself in crisis: administrative, financial, and vision. By then I am raising, every year, the question of my ‘getting out of the way.’ Every year I am asked to continue. ‘Just until we get things stable again.’ Stressful to continue, but feels good to be wanted.

We get attached to ministries and opportunities to which we grant importance. And once we feel invested, we don’t let go very easily. Especially when the timing of ‘letting go’ might mean the collapse of something we value. Most of the time organizations will survive or fall on their own, regardless of what we do. And maybe the value African friends and colleagues attach to Anitepam will ultimately determine which constitutes its future. Not me.

In 2012 we negotiate a transition from an independent Anitepam council to the ‘theological education arm’ of the Council of Anglican Provinces in Africa (CAPA). During the negotiations in Nairobi I watch as the general secretary of CAPA gets up, walks around to where Bishop Chad Gandiya and I are seated, puts a paper in front of me rather than +Chad, and leans over to ask a question. I point him to +Chad instead, but that one moment makes it clear that it is past time, well past, for me to withdraw. It’s not to my credit that I stay so long.

Companion links

What about our role (‘our’ meaning those of us expatriates who spend time in Africa in relationship with the Church) while we are here? Consider the Anglican companion diocese program.

The Anglican system by which dioceses around the world establish ‘companion links’ with one another is, overall, a good one. It’s been around for a while. I serve on the Alabama-Namibia link back in the 1980s, then am engaged when the Diocese of Washington ambitiously moves toward a link with the entire Anglican Church of Southern Africa (no single diocesan relationship for us!) in the 1990s. Now I am involved with North Carolina’s companion relationship with Botswana.

The idea is that we learn more of the life of the church universal, we build relationships, and we do a few things together. The idea comes out of the challenges in relationship between the long-established Anglican churches in England, North America, and Australia on the one hand, and what are once called the ‘younger churches’ of newly-independent countries, shed of colonialism, especially in Africa. What is our relationship to be? Especially when the long-established churches still have the money. And the new ‘partners’ are ‘needy.’

The Anglican Congress in Toronto in 1962 tries to sort this out, and they come up with a wonderful phrase, ‘Mutual Responsibility and Interdependence.’ A phrase filled with meaning. But still, words.

Companion links are a part of all that. They offer a fine vision from a mission standpoint, and often do just what they are supposed to do. But frequently, even now, decades later, they get caught up in the classic pitfalls of relationships across cultures and material disparities. In particular, they have a hard time sorting out the related but competing issues of projects and relationships.

Projects and relationship

I am pretty big on the relationship end of things at the outset, back in my Alabama days. I recall writing a piece that my Bishop, Furman Stough, sends all around the Episcopal Church. My argument is that we Americans, in these companion links, are drawn to projects. We visit, say, our African diocesan link, make quick decisions as to what they need, then set out to organize our resources to carry it all out. We don’t take the time to listen, and we have little inclination to be needy ourselves, certainly not to turn to our partners and ask them to help us.

We’re good at projects.

And projects, no matter who first envisions them, have a way of moving us, those from the West, into leadership roles, if not ‘in charge.’ Just where we don’t need to be.

My thinking finally begins to shift as I hear repeated again and again in North Carolina that our link with Botswana is ‘all about relationship.’ Well, yes it is. But….

               At work during Crossroads 1964 in the Gambia

I recall my Crossroads Africa experience a half-century ago in the Gambia. Crossroads follows the historic work camp model. We – American and Canadians – come to an African country and live with African counterparts and do something, build something, plant trees, whatever. There is a project. But in the process of doing things together, we build relationships.

The ‘it’s all about relationship’ mantra can create a barrier to shared activities, to projects, and we end up with neither relationship nor accomplishment.

Companion links have often, still, not quite worked this out.

Ten Principles of Partnership in the Anglican Communion

So what do we do? If we want to be partners, we’ve got to be around. ‘Getting out of the way’ isn’t a solution to relationship. At one time it seems necessary. At least some African church leaders think so. Back in 1971 John Gatu, moderator of the Presbyterian Church of East Africa, calls for a ‘moratorium’ on foreign missionaries, and the All Africa Conference of Churches echoes his call three years later. ‘How could they not want us?’ is the outraged response of many Westerners. Well, there are reasons.

Be that as it may, the relationships, such as they are, continue over the years, and those in the West learn to listen a bit better, and we all begin to struggle with what helps define our bonds. One result, in the 1990s, is the Ten Principles of Partnership in the Anglican Communion. I consider that document to be one of the most important to come out of any Anglican commission or initiative. It’s also probably the least read.

The principles proclaim about stewardship and inter-dependence, about where the initiative for any actions belong (‘primarily to the church in that place’), about how we ‘learn from one another,’ and about transparency and solidarity. It’s a kind of check list of all the things we get wrong.

Here’s the answer, to my mind, to the relationship vs. project false dichotomy. It doesn’t urge us to get out of the way, but it sure does lay down some critical ‘rules’ about how we behave when we are together.

A theology of partnership

I begin to ruminate about a ‘theology of partnership’ while I am Dean of the Diocese of North Carolina’s School of Ministry. I go so far as to produce a DVD in 2008, with interviews with folks from Botswana, Costa Rica, and North Carolina. What is our biblical foundation for these cross-cultural relationships? What are the challenges?

A good effort, perhaps, but I still haven’t reached any clear conclusions. All I know is that for as long as we stay partners, companions, we need to be conscious of the pitfalls. We Westerners need to sit back and be quiet sometimes, a lot of the time, and listen. We need to ask again and again whether this is our idea or theirs. We don’t need to rush in with the cash. We need to master the ministry of presence. And yes, we need to find something to do together.

Sustainability

So when, if ever, do we get out of the way?

I have a friend, Bill Yon in the Diocese of Alabama, who helps to establish a theological training program in Namibia back in the 1980s, during their liberation struggle. From all I can tell, he does a fine job. He leaves and the program comes to an end. He’s very philosophical about it. Just because a program exists does not mean it needs to continue to exist, he says. It serves a purpose for awhile, and then we move on. That’s fine.

                      At the Anitepam negotiations in Nairobi, 2012

The sustainability issue is one of the reasons we choose not to get out of the way. That is behind my failure with Anitepam. Let’s stay around just a little longer, until the project – whatever it is – has firm footing. Maybe in the process we do help… or maybe we delay African ownership of what should be an African initiative. And maybe we delay an end that should come.

Companion links have a way out. They are established for a specified time – usually five years – and can be renewed. True, they sometimes get renewed again and again. The relationships are there, and folks don’t want to lose those bonds. ‘Getting out of the way’ can become an issue here too.

Fr. James is still making his case for my return. It’s hard for me not to want St. Augustine Theological School to gain a firm footing, to secure the support it needs from its own Diocese, augmented for a while by North Carolina and others. Maybe my presence here off and on over the last few years helps. I like to think so.

But maybe this time I will know when to leave.

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Worship at Mochudi

Mochudi is an historic Botswana town, and picturesque, with Phuthadikobo Hill (which Karen climbs last year, despite a failing leg) in the town centre. The town is about a half-an-hour’s drive north from Gaborone.

The major church in Mochudi is Dutch Reformed, owing in large part to the fact that, back in 1892, the Kgosi (‘chief’) refuses to allow any other church to work in the area.

Our goal, though, is St. Matthew’s Anglican Church. Even today there are few Anglicans in Mochudi, Fr. James Amanze tells me. Those that are tend to be the families of people who flee South Africa during apartheid years, and end up here. Fr. James has been reminding me for several days how small the congregation is, but the church – admittedly a small building itself – is full, some 30-40.

We vest in the sacristy in the back – I with my chasuble, Fr. James in alb and stole, and the lay leader in her white cassock and cincture. (Priests do not usually wear cinctures in Botswana.)

The lay leader takes us through the Service of the Word (Scripture and prayers and creed and all that). As we sing a hymn before the Gospel, Fr. James leans over and says a word about my sermon.

I am not aware that I’m preaching a sermon, and I must look horrified, as he immediately retreats and says, ‘That’s fine.’

I wish I were able to step forward on a moment’s notice and give a well-crafted, thoughtful and even entertaining sermon, as Fr. James does. Forgiveness is the theme. Seventy times seven. He even has the congregation do the math. ‘It is easier to do in English, isn’t it?’ he says.

Then we pass the peace. Often, around the world, the peace is very individual and chaotic. Some folks stay put. Others venture out into the aisle, randomly taking someone’s hand. Here in Mochudi it is more organized, though it may not look it. Two elongated circles emerge in the aisle, one moving clockwise, the other counter, so that sooner or later, all have greeted everyone, ‘the Peace of the Lord.’

I am the celebrant, and I venture forth, mostly in English, partly in Setswana, pronunciation taught me last year and which I review this past week. I am rusty, but the congregation is kind. Once, when I am trying to say Jaaka Kreste a re rutile re pelokgale go re (‘as Christ has taught us, we are bold to say’), and trying to say it smoothly, I falter, and they move into the Lord’s Prayer without me, leaving me still with go re unspoken.

At the end of the service we process out, the congregation follows us, and we greet them, as seems to be common around the world. My Western mind thinks what a fine opportunity this is to slip away quietly, but it seems all of them return into the church for announcements.

Next Sunday Bishop Metlha is visiting, and there will be confirmations. Fr. James wants their names. Do they have baptismal certificates? Yes says one, no says another, maybe says a third. ‘Who will present them?’ he wants to know. And afterward, who is providing food. ‘I will bring chicken stew,’ he commits.

I think he is tired, but I provide the excuse. ‘I must take Fr. Leon back to Gaborone,’ he says. ‘He has had a long morning? May I be excused?’

Outside, Fr. James and I stand before the Church of St. Matthew’s sign. Children crowd around for the picture.

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On books, and on African books

Fr. James Amanze and I present commentaries on the Gospels of Matthew and Mark to our third-year ordinands.

We begin this last year, thanks to the initiative of Fr. Murdock Smith, who chairs the Diocese of North Carolina’s companion link committee with the Diocese of Botswana during the early years of our relationship. Then Fr. James and I present commentaries on the Gospel of Luke. Now we are completing the three-year cycle of the synoptic gospels in our lectionary.

The books are written by N.T. Wright, Bishop of Durham in the Church of England. They are thoughtful and readable and engaging.

They are also, well, very English, and the stories he sometimes tells to illustrate his points have little connection with the African context. But there we are.

‘There we are’ because of the dearth of literature on Christianity, the Bible and theology written by Africans. It is difficult to find suitable Bible commentaries or texts for use in our African theological schools written by African theologians and scholars.

One of the things that European missionaries get right, as they yield leadership of African Anglican churches to Africans in the 1950s and 1960s (a bit late, I know), is their conviction that the African churches will need African-based literature to proclaim the Good News to what are then called ‘Younger Churches.’ As a result, they help to establish local presses: Uzima Press in Kenya, Centenary Publishing House in Uganda, and the Central Tanganyika Press in Tanzania, to use East African examples.

These presses have done important work. But my concern here has to do with resources for African ordinands in African theological schools. And here, well, there is not much to see.

It’s not that there are not talented and engaged African theologians. Fr. James Amanze, our Principal here at St. Augustine Theological School and the chairperson of Botswana’s companion link with North Carolina, is a case in point. At the risk of turning this diary entry into a bibliography, Fr. James’ books African Christianity in Botswana, African Traditional Religion in Malawi, A History of the Ecumenical Movement in Africa, Ecumenism in Botswana, and African Traditional Religions and Cultures in Botswana remind me of the invaluable scholarship provided to Africa, and to world Christianity, by Africans.

The work of Prof. Jesse Mugambi, an Anglican layman and sometime chairperson of the Department of Religion at the University of Nairobi, also comes to mind.

Still, what do we put into the hands of our seminarians? Commentaries by Bishop Wright from the Church of England.

John Pobee, an Anglican priest from Ghana who serves on the World Council of Churches’ ecumenical theological education staff many years ago, is instrumental in producing a bibliography of essential books for African theological school libraries (and libraries elsewhere in the Two-Thirds World). The bibliography is filled by books by non-African authors.

Back when I am Dean of Studies at Trinity, the Diocese of Nairobi’s theological college, I visit him in his offices in Geneva. It is some two decades ago now. We talk about the need for African authors to come forth. Not concerned persons such as myself, an expatriate in Africa. Africans.

Recently I wrote a book, Toward an African Church in Mozambique. (Hard not to know if you have looked around this website.) In my unbiased judgment, it is a pretty good book, and for me the story of the key character, Kamba Simango, is fascinating. But it has the same flaw: Non-Africans writing about Africa. Of course we non-Africans can have something important and helpful to say about African affairs and about the African Church – if I did not believe that, I would not have followed the life journey I have followed – just as Africans have something important and helpful to say about what happens in North America and Europe, and in our churches there. But none of that changes the fact that we need people of a culture speaking and writing about their culture and their faith journeys within their world.

It really has not happened, at least not for appropriate works for Anglican Africans. The Roman Catholics maintain an active publications program: Paulines Publications in Nairobi is a case in point. And the evangelicals and fundamentalists and Pentecostals have theirs. We in what are once called the ‘mainline churches’ – the Anglicans, Lutherans, Methodists, Presbyterians and Congregationalists – are largely silent.

This is little short of a tragedy.

I am somewhat amused (not all that much, but somewhat) with the preoccupation of the Episcopal Church in the United States with structuring itself to be more ‘efficient’ and ‘effective’ and ‘nimble.’ What matters is mission, God’s mission, and structure and efficiency are a minor part of that. And when it comes to mission, of course there are competing missiological priorities. But it is hard for me to see how far we as an Anglican Communion (or indeed the church universal) can go if we do not address the desperate need for ministerial formation, appropriate to the varying contexts within our world. And that requires meaningful resources written, in this case, by Africans for Africans.

The sad thing is: I could have written this reflection two decades ago, without changing a word.

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