Farewells

            Sausage rolls, fried chicken wings, potato chips, peanuts, a spicy snack mixture, and a carrot cake are on the menu. Not the norm for a healthy diet, but it smells good and tastes even better when, after a few speeches and presentations, we get down to eating.

            We’ve gathered once more at the St. Augustine Theological School: The ordinands, lecturer John Hamathi, Florence Bogopa, Karen and me. (Fr. James Amanze, the Principal, is away in Uganda.) It’s my final time with them. The next time I see them, if there is a next time, they likely will have been ordained.

            They say some kind things, then present me with a framed basket, for which Botswana is renowned, and two cups with Botswana drawings – distinctive, they say, so Karen and I will not disagree about whose is whose. I then present them with some books for the library – useful for the library to have, no doubt, but also reducing our luggage weight considerably.

Thanks to Fr. Murdock Smith, who chaired the North Carolina-Botswana link for some years, I also present each with a copy of N.T. Wright’s Luke for Everyone. Our students do not have texts, and the list of books on theology that they may have is very short indeed. This is a beginning. This church year the default gospel in the lectionary is the Gospel of Luke. We hope to give them commentaries on the other synoptics during ‘their’ year in 2014 and 2015, and the Gospel of John as they are ordained to the priesthood.

That’s the plan, anyway. In the meantime, I encourage them to read (they have heard this from me before), and remind them of the practical help commentaries can give them when they are preparing sermons. John Hamathi concludes: ‘I don’t want this book to collect dust!’ They laugh, and vow that it will not.

Then we eat. We talk about the Zebras’ loss to Ethiopia in a World Cup qualifiers match last Saturday, which Bonny Bashe and I attended. We complain about continuing electricity outages and water shortages and why the stadium in Gaborone still isn’t repaired after five years. It’s all in good humor, with a nice twinge of frustration. They want to know, with more seriousness, when grades will be posted.

Conversation slows down, and we clean up a bit, and we close with the Grace, and go our way.

Exam time at the St. Augustine Theological School

          I am grading the last of the exams: ‘Marking scripts,’ as it is called in England and in many parts of Africa. The burden of giving them – ‘invigilating’ – has been largely upon my colleagues, as I have been traveling with my sister and brother-in-law during their first visit to Africa. We sent the examinations by e-mail up to Francistown for the students there, and the vicar at the parish kindly gave them for us. One ordinand is still to go, as his English skills are limited. We will give his orally, in Setswana, through an interpreter.

I admit that I have given more care to setting these exams than I do at the Wake Forest University School of Divinity. There I am concerned with students’ mastery of the material in the course. Here I ask myself again and again, what is really important for our ordinands to know in their ministry? Course mastery and foundation for ministry are not always the same.

So, in my sacramental course, I am keen to know their theological understanding of the Eucharist: How might they explain to our congregations what we, as an Anglo-Catholic diocese, do each Sunday? I am keen to know, now that they have studied the history of the Reformation, how they might appreciate the differences between the various Christian traditions in Botswana, for the legacy of the Reformation is alive and visible throughout the country. And I am keen to know, now that they have studied biblical interpretation, how they might approach the lectionary as they prepare a sermon on a given Sunday. What, I ask, do you know about this passage, and what would be helpful to you to know if you could? Exegesis and hermeneutics as a practical matter.

Now, having posed such questions, I have quite a stack of papers to mark. This task, I find, carries with it some emotion for the lecturer. Of course there is an ‘objective’ aspect to it all; some answers are simply right or wrong, and we mark accordingly. Others are more nuanced; even then, we try to be ‘objectively’ fair. The emotion comes in because I want them to do well, and when they do not, I cannot resist asking myself what I might have done differently, how I might have taught instead that would have helped them understand more fully. It is worrying when I envision those who do poorly leading congregations without the firm foundation in biblical and theological knowledge we desire.

But the fact of the matter is that many do very well indeed, and those who have not always have the capacity to grow in knowledge and understanding as time goes by. I recall a rather silly piece I wrote for our student publication when I was in seminary, in which I argued that it was unlikely that any of Jesus’ disciples would have survived the Anglican ordination process, including seminary. All of our ordinands here at the St. Augustine Theological School have gifts for ministry. That is clear, so perhaps I should not be anxious about their performance on an exam. There is more to it than that.

Water, and its absence, in Botswana

            Water-rationing has come to Botswana. I’m sure it’s not the first time.

The Sunday Standard has a full page ad in which the Minister of Minerals, Energy and Water Resources announces that, country-wide, we can’t use potable water to wash cars and stuff like that, construction companies can’t use potable water to mix cement – no doubt a major matter when there is so much building going on around Gaborone these days – and, this is the one that intrigues me, hotels and restaurants with automatic-flush urinals have to convert to manual within two months. I’ve never felt that flushing is one of the male species’ strong points, so maybe this will save tons of gallons.

            Gaborone, the major city in the country, goes further. They’ve worked out a rotation system, whereby they cut off our water on particular days. Ours here in the Village, where we live, is Saturday from 8:00 a.m. to about 4:00 p.m. Karen or I take a big tub bath on Friday nights, set aside a bucket, and we’re ready for emergencies on Saturdays.

            Water, of course, is a serious matter in a largely desert country. Rains have not been good (some of my Batswana friends use much stronger words) in the last several years, and the Gaborone dam is down to 24% capacity. One Motswana tells me that Botswana should run pipes from the controversial Lesotho Highlands Water Project, which is intended to help South Africa solve some of its water problems. That strikes me as quite a distance, and quite unlikely.

            So, we try to limit our consumption, and we look with dismay when we drive past a burst water line on the street this afternoon.

A final class at St. Augustine

            I teach my final class at St. Augustine’s Theological School. Next there is a study week, followed by a week in which the ordinands sit for exams.

            The course – one of the three I have been teaching – is sacramental theology. I dash through the remaining sacramental rites, which I never managed to cover in recent weeks, wishing I could have more time. We look at An Anglican Prayer Book (1989), originally adopted in the Church of the Province of Southern Africa but in official use in the Church of the Province of Central Africa as well.

            I have tried to point to that wonderful Anglican maxim, lex orandi, lex credendi – the law of prayer is the law of belief. Ask what it is that Anglicans believe, and we will point to our life of common prayer as our answer.

            This is especially true, I say, as we look at the sacramental rite of Confession and Absolution. The rubrics of our Botswana prayer book have one of the best treatises on the doctrine of sin around, and the words of absolution declare our theology of ministry. Beyond that, I love the simplicity and power of the closing words of this brief liturgy: ‘Go in peace, the Lord has put away your sins. Pray for me, also a sinner.’ I urge these ordinands to approach this sacramental rite with reverence and humility.

            I also point them toward the charge at the sacramental rite of Ordination. These words capture beautifully the ministries of deacons and priests. I ask that as the time approaches for their ordination, they will quietly read this liturgy, for it will help to prepare them for the sacred vows they are undertaking.

            I plan to speak briefly about the sacramental rite of Holy Matrimony, but they become energized about the dual role priests assume, serving both legal and religious purposes (shades of discussions in North Carolina), and they want to talk about what is and is not appropriate. They disagree among themselves. I sit back until the discussion lapses into multiple simultaneous voices in Setswana. Time to move on.

            At the end I decide to say a few words – well, maybe more than a few – about my prayers and hopes for them in their ministry. I have been blessed by spending these months with them, and I tell them so. Then I hand out ‘A General Thanksgiving’ from our American prayer book. It’s the one that my liturgy professor, Charlie Price, wrote, a beautiful prayer by a wonderful man.

            I have always liked the sentence that reads, ‘We thank you for setting us at tasks which demand our best efforts, and for leading us to accomplishments which satisfy and delight us.’ I remind them that they really have faced demanding tasks this year, and that they need to appreciate what good things they have accomplished.

            And then there is the next sentence: ‘We thank you also for those disappointments and failures that lead us to acknowledge our dependence on you alone.’ I cannot recall any other prayer that gives thanks for disappointments and failures. It is a remarkable message carrying a sound theology that proclaims that which we believe. We repeat it together.

            They take copies of ‘A General Thanksgiving’ away with them. Handout 15.

Bishop-elect Metlhayotlhe Rawlings Ogotseng Beleme

            We have a new bishop. Or at least a bishop-elect. The Very Rev. Metlhayotlhe Rawlings Ogotseng Beleme.

            For those following the Anglican Diocese of Botswana, this is not new news. He was elected a fortnight ago.

            I do not know Fr. Metlhayotlhe, and I doubt if I have ever met him. He has been serving in the Diocese of Matlosane, in South Africa, for some years, and is currently an Archdeacon there. But he is a Motswana, and a citizen of Botswana. His family is from Molepolole nearby, and he has had parish experience in varied places within the Diocese of Botswana. These are qualities many in this Diocese have been clamoring for. In fact, it has been a source of some tension that we have had mainly expatriate bishops, some of whom did not know Setswana. And so, when his election was announced the Sunday following the Saturday election, there were cheers and ululations in the Cathedral of the Holy Cross.

            The process for episcopal elections in the Church of the Province of Central Africa is quite different from that in the Episcopal Church in the United States. Nominees are solicited from pretty much anyone – common enough in the Anglican Communion – but then things move into a more restricted, and secret, process. A dozen persons have previously been chosen at diocesan synod to serve as electors, and the names go to them. They short-list the nominees, after which ten from elsewhere in the Province join them for the election. Those ten include the Archbishop, Albert Chama, from Zambia, and three each – bishop, priest and layperson – from one diocese in each of the other three countries that make up the Province: Zimbabwe, Zambia and Malawi.

            Probably more than you want to know.

            Even today, we do not know who the other nominees were. I innocently ask at a dinner party the other day, and the Vicar General’s reply is that all are sworn to secrecy. There are perhaps good reasons for this, but it’s quite a contrast to the American practice, where I can go on-line and see the names of all nominees and the votes each secure on multiple ballots. There are perhaps good reasons for that too. Just different.

            Now we await consents to the election from other provincial bishops. Presuming that consent comes, Fr. Metlhayotlhe will be consecrated as the fifth Bishop of Botswana, probably in July. I wish I could be here.

            In our classes, our students at the St. Augustine Theological School have been praying for the election for weeks before April 27^th. Sometimes I use the collect from our American prayer book: ‘Almighty God, giver of every good gift: Look graciously on your Church, and so guide the minds of those who shall choose a bishop for this Diocese, that we may receive a faithful pastor, who will care for your people and equip us for our ministries; through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.’

            Several of our students and I talk about the last part of that prayer, a faithful pastor who, as part of his pastoring, will equip us for our ministries. They and I both like that.

Ordinands from 'out of town'

            The final trip to Gaborone of students from Matsiloje, Serowe, Letlhakeng and Lobatse – ordinands too far away from Gabs to come to our regular weekday classes – is this past week. They have come before: My first week here in January (see my ‘St. Augustine Theological School’ posting below), again in March, and now in late April. They will sit for exams in mid-May.

            This has not been ideal, and we all know it. Regular classes, with time to reflect between them, week after week, is far preferable educationally to full days of seven different courses, one after another, followed by weeks of little to no contact. But it’s not clear what the solution is. We don’t have sufficient funds to be traveling north, which would be less demanding on our students. Oddly enough, it turns out to be cheaper to have them come here, and they have to get away from work and other responsibilities.

But we do what we can. Each day begins with Morning Prayer, and then away we go: This term its Biblical exegesis, the Pentateuch, the synoptic gospels, the doctrine of the Trinity, sacramental theology, the history of the Reformation, and ‘ministerial calling and spiritual formation.’ 



Fr. James Amanze in class

At lunch we head to the Y.W.C.A., which has a cafeteria with food that is inexpensive and filling and, to some extent, traditional. As the day ends, the ordinands return to a Catholic retreat centre, where we have found lodging for them.



Bonny Bashe welcomes Karen Spencer

            Thursday night they remain until I finish my class with our Gaborone ordinands – Fr. James Amanze urges me to finish early! – and then the School hosts a welcoming reception for Karen, who arrived a week or so before. Fr. James has some fine things to say, and he is followed by Bonny Bashe, the president of our student association, who does as well. It suddenly occurs to me that they will expect Karen to say something, so I whisper the news to her.

Karen does fine. Really, very fine. And happily, she resists the temptation to say that what she really missed in the three-plus months I have been gone is that I do most of our grocery shopping and cooking. I am grateful for that.

Friday Karen and I have the ‘out-of-town’ students over to our place for dinner. Fr. John Hamathi, our other lecturer, and his bride come, along with one of the student’s wives and another’s university daughter. It is all very relaxed and pleasant until I ask what we at St. Augustine’s could do to improve their experience.

There is awkward laughter, then a few exchanges in Setswana that no one translates for me, then silence. But as the conversation moves on, one comes over and sits next to me. He leans over. ‘We need to be placed in congregations under a priest while we are in this program,’ he says. ‘Those in Gaborone are, but we are not.’ He is right. There are good reasons why this is the reality, but he is right. I thank him.

As my final Saturday class winds to an end, I wonder if I will ever see these men again. They will probably remain in Francistown for their exams, and we may have someone there invigilate for us. And then, only a few weeks later, Karen and I head back to the United States.

I have prepared a final handout, which contains the wonderful General Thanksgiving that appears in our American prayer book. It’s the one written by my liturgy professor at Virginia seminary, Charlie Price, a man for whom I have had the greatest respect and affection. At the end of the class, we stand together and offer that prayer.

There are two parts of the prayer that I am especially drawn toward. ‘We thank you for setting us at tasks which demand our best efforts, and for leading us to accomplishments which satisfy and delight us.’ I have reminded the ordinands that they have faced demanding tasks here at St. Augustine’s, and they have accomplished things that really should ‘satisfy and delight them.’

But I also love the next part of the prayer: ‘We thank you also for those disappointments and failures that lead us to acknowledge our dependence on you alone.’ I cannot remember any other prayer in which we thank God for ‘disappointments and failures.’ It’s part of Dr. Price’s great wisdom that has us say this today.

Then we end with the prayer for Africa that is in our prayer book here in the Church of the Province of Central Africa. ‘God bless Africa…,’ we say together. And then we go on our way.

Art for five-year-olds in Mogoditshane

            Wife Karen has not been here in Botswana long before we travel out to the St. Peter’s Day Care Centre in Mogoditshane.

            Gladys Mudereri, the director of the Centre, is always welcoming. The periodic reports of the Centre are filled with stories of volunteers who add to the energy and, well, joy, of the place. All of whom, it seems, receive a gracious welcome. Her greeting to Karen is no different.

            Mma Mudereri – well, Mmaruti Mudereri, for a priest in Botswana is Moruti, and wives of priests, including Karen, are Mmaruti – anyway, Mma Mudereri and Mma Spencer set out to plan what Karen might do. By the time we leave (I am simply Karen’s driver, as she has not yet embraced driving here), the two have decided that Karen will do some art classes with the three-, four- and five-year-olds, will do workshops with teachers about art in the classroom, and may have a session with the caregivers of these orphans and vulnerable children.

            Our first quest is to discover if there are any art supply stores in Gaborone, and if so, where. We go to the Craft Market, where we find a gallery owner and several local artists having coffee. We join them. We learn that there are two stores here. If they don’t have what she needs, they say, the only alternative is to go to Johannesburg, where there is one store that these artists obviously love.

            The idea of a drive to Joburg quickly grows on me, but I am to be disappointed. The two shops here may not have a great inventory for professional artists, but they are reasonably well stocked for art in schools. Karen picks up some things and we head home.

            I know that Karen has become settled in Gabs when the coffee table is covered with her art projects and my cookware and cooking utensils are coated with glue and coloring. Her first class – with five-year-olds – is to be papier mache. She blows up thirty balloons, tears my newspapers up (most of which I have read), and begins to make homemade glue.

            The St. Augustine Theological School is soon coming to the end of the term, and I have some final course preparation to do and some concluding handouts to write. I have visions of driving Karen to St. Peter’s, where I will find a quiet corner to work on my laptop.

            No.

‘When I think of all the things I have done for you in your work,’ she begins. And she is right. During my time at Greater Birmingham Ministries, the Washington Office on Africa, and the Diocese of North Carolina’s School of Ministry, well… the list is quite long. My making a case for my plans really doesn’t hold up.

            The children are remarkably attentive as Karen shows them what they will be doing. They are making papier mache fish. I quietly pray that they know what a fish is. That is not a safe assumption in a desert country.

But they happily set out on the task. There are plates with Karen’s glue in the center, ample quantities of strips of newspaper in front of each child, and balloons rolling around on the table in front of them. Soon there is a quiet buzz in the classroom as they begin to glue strips of paper onto the balloon.

Many of them actually manage to cover the balloon – which is their goal – before the class time is over. The teacher, her assistant, Karen and I all assist a bit, spurring them on by adding paper ourselves. I see Karen smile when I tell one child that she needs to put glue on the paper before she tries to stick it on, but then I see her roll her eyes when the child persists and I say, ‘Well, dry is good too.’ There are other diversions. Those boys who clamored for a large balloon discover how much more work it is to cover big ones, and one child finds it fun to wash his hands in the glue. But they are remarkably diligent in the task.

            We hang the finished papier mache on a string I have strung between a cabinet and the windows. The line is low enough for the boys to reach up and tap the balloons – it’s low enough for the girls, too, but for some reason they don’t try – but I can’t get the line any higher. The teacher may have a challenge here before Karen returns for the next stage, adding colored paper, and tail, and eyes and a mouth.

The Botswana Immigration saga

            I am the proud owner of a sticker in my passport that says ‘Republic of Botswana – Permit – Residence – Extension.’

            This is a good thing. My first 90-day visa expires tomorrow, the same day I am meeting wife Karen at the airport. My Diocese of Botswana colleagues and I both agree that my fleeing across the border the day Karen arrives to be with me here might be seen by Karen as an issue. The Dean of the Cathedral of the Holy Cross observes encouragingly that the South African border is very close by and she could come across and visit me, but I’m not sure that will resonate with her.

            So now I have it. It’s been quite a saga. I show up at Immigration on March 25 and find the computer system down but – thanks to Diocesan Secretary Ben Motlhalamme’s presence – I learn that they are content with the papers we have assembled. I take him to the office, return, the system is now up, and I clear that hurdle. I look to the adjacent counter, Revenue, and discover it is closed until noon. I return at noon and am told to return at 2:00. I do, now at the end of a long line. Finally, close to closing time, they accept my money for a 90-day extension, and I have the papers to prove it.

            I am to return after Easter to secure a stamp in my passport, and I do. Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday. The computers are down all day. Friday they tell us not to bother to come. Monday Immigration is chaotic and I give up.

            Yesterday I come once again, early, prepared to wait as long as it takes. I bring a 600-page book, water, snacks, and a banana. But... I don't get to eat a bite or read a page. I end up with a ticket numbered "1" and after a few minutes, during which the official sighs and leaves her desk with my file (an ominous sign), she returns, attaches a visa sticker to my passport, and I'm home before I know it.

How strange.

Easter at St. Carantoc's

            Easter Day at St. Carantoc’s in Francistown, Botswana’s second city in the north-eastern part of the country.

            I was the preacher and celebrant here in 2010, on the day in which they honored their saint.  That sent me scrambling to figure out who on earth he was – a sixth-century Welsh abbot who crossed the Bristol Channel with his ‘portable’ altar made of stone and the boat sank and he went looking for his altar and there was this dove that took away shavings he was using to light a fire and where the dove went is where he built his church, and I think there was a dragon in the story somewhere.

            Put in that light, preaching on the Resurrection of the Lord seems a piece of cake.

            There was no priest in 2010. Now Fr. Raymond Kawaya, a former Roman Catholic priest from the Congo (DRC), serves the parish in Francistown. He generously invites me to preach and celebrate.

            Gordon Cosby, the founder of the Church of the Saviour and its Servant Leadership School in Washington, D.C., died a week or so ago. Mindful of his gift to the church universal and to so many of us, I preach the predictable things about the empty tomb, and then move on to ask: ‘What do we do after Easter? Today we say, Alleluia, Kreste o rudile. O rudile e le ruri. But, what do we do tomorrow?’

            I remind the congregation that on the day before Jesus died, ‘he washed the feet of his disciples. And when they complained that he should not be doing that, Jesus taught his disciples to be servants, just as he had been a servant to them.’ I tell them that ‘I believe that our happy celebration of the risen Christ is but the first step in our witnessing to the Good News. Our next step is to find ways to be a servant, to serve, not to claim authority over others, but to serve.’

And then I bring it home: ‘Priests are not rulers over the rest of us. Church wardens are not rulers. Lay leaders are not rulers. The head of the Mothers’ Union is not a ruler.’ That – the reference to the Mothers’ Union – is when I notice some knowing looks exchanged among the women wearing their smart-looking white MU jackets and black hats. ‘They, we, are called not to rule but to serve,’ I conclude.

Whenever I am in a parish, either here or in North Carolina, I talk beforehand with lay ministers as to what they typically do and do not do. Here I ask what they sing – Gloria, Sanctus, and so on. At St. Carantoc’s, I need not have bothered to ask. They sing everything. They sing the Nicene Creed. And they start without any lead from the priest.

The choruses and the settings are wonderful. It may be that their music is the high point of this Easter for me.

The Eucharist proceeds without any major errors. I am getting a bit more comfortable doing part of it – mainly the one-liners – in Setswana, and Fr. Raymond is managing the thurible, much to my relief.  And I don’t spill any wine when I lift the chalice at the Doxology, as I did in 2010, only to hear the assisting lay minister gasp.

As is common here, the children dash up to the altar for a blessing at the end. I enjoy that.

My daughter and her family are here. I notice the congregation is helpful to them, passing them a bilingual prayer book and Setswana hymnal from time to time. Jon is invited to say a few words during notices, and he does the Church of the Nativity in Raleigh proud.

A visit to Serowe

Mid-morning on Saturday Banks Lesetedi, one of our students, and I head out for Serowe, some 180 miles north of Gaborone. It is another clear, sunny day, bound to be hot. I really need to get the air conditioner fixed.

As we load up Banks suggests that he drive. ‘I am younger,’ he says; ‘my elder should not be driving me around.’ I decline, saying simply that I like to drive. Maybe, I say to myself, if I get tired he can drive later.

After Phakalane the speed limit goes up to 120 km/h, a bit over seventy. The conversation has lagged when he says, ‘You certainly are a law-abiding citizen.’ Normally that would seem to me to be a compliment, but it quickly becomes clear that it is a criticism: I am driving too slow. I now picture him driving along at 80 mph or more, and I am determined to drive all the way at a modest 65-70.

Serowe is an historic town, and a sprawling one. Several of Botswana’s presidents have come from here, including the first, Sir Seretse Khama.

We drive to Banks’ sister’s home, where we will be staying, and drop off our luggage. Then we are off to Ford Gagoane’s home; he’s the second of our Serowe students. His home is up a rutted dirt track, and I drive carefully, not sure how much clearance I have.

We are taken into the living room to await Ford’s return. It is a large room, with a variety of things – photos, certificates and so on – hanging on the wall. I notice a calendar theme. There is a bamboo calendar from 1993, advertising a Chinese restaurant in Hamburg. There’s a large one providing the veterinary inoculation schedule for 2011. The year is cut out of another, but it has a large number of wild animals on it, promoting tourism in Botswana.

Banks and I have eaten at Nandos, a periperi chicken place in Palapye, on the way up, but soon the family brings out more chicken and mealie meal for us to eat. Ford digs in. Banks and I pick at ours, finally explaining we have just had a meal. It’s three in the afternoon.

            When I awake on Sunday morning, I find Banks’ brother-in-law washing my car. ‘We cannot have a priest going to church in a dirty car,’ he explains, as he finishes up the exterior and heads inside. No wonder my ministry as a parish priest never really took off. It’s the car’s fault. Then he looks at my shoes and says much the same thing, spraying them with something and beginning to polish them. I watch the shine appear. ‘My,’ I say, ‘this really works. What is it?’ He shows me the can. It’s tire blackener.

            We arrive at St. Augustine’s Church in clean car and shined shoes. It is a pretty old church, off the beaten road a bit; no one drives by and says, ‘Oh, I think I would like to visit there.’ Reminds me a bit of St. Paul’s in Cary. You have to intend to be going there.

            I walk through the service with Ford and Banks. This is to be my first time as celebrant, saying the Eucharist in both Setswana and English, and I am a bit nervous. Complicating the picture is the use of incense. I have never been good at managing the thurible, with its hot coals and smells that make me cough. But the young man who serves as thurifer is good, and patient, and he hands me the chain back and forth several times for me to get the feel of it.  And ultimately I manage fairly well.

            It’s a good congregation. I reach that conclusion because I don’t see any smirks when I say the liturgy in Setswana, and they seem tolerant of a sermon that – I realize as I am going along – has too many different ideas in it. Just last week I was saying to our students how important it is in preaching to focus and simplify, and here I am….

Oh well. I’ll do better at the cathedral next week.

Setswana lessons

            Peter Moshapa is giving me lessons in Setswana. He is one of my students, but today we reverse roles.

            I have identified portions of the liturgy of the Holy Eucharist that I want to be able to say in Setswana. Well, actually, I want to be able to say all of it in Setswana, but that’s exceedingly unlikely. What I’ve done is identify sections that I have some reasonable hope of managing.

            Morena a nne le lona, I begin. ‘The Lord be with you.’ Bakang Morena. ‘Praise the Lord.’ Go sego Modimo, Rara, Morwa le Mowa o o Boitshepo. ‘Blessed by God, Father, Son and Holy Spirit.’ A re rapeleng. ‘Let us pray.’

            I write them out in my own weird version of phonetics. As I do so, I wonder why a ‘g’ in Setswana sometimes sounds like an ‘h’. And why, in Boitshepo, is there an ‘h’ at all, since it is pronounced ‘say,’ not ‘shay’? But Peter does not give me time to speculate. He has me repeat a sentence, then I listen to him say it, then I repeat it again. And again. When it comes to the Peace, he even has me stand up, raise my hands, and say in a loud voice, A kagiso ya Morena e nne le lona ka metlha. I lose my place.

            He is an excellent, patient teacher. Annoying, but excellent. He’s annoying in that I have gotten into this enthusiastically, and I am ready to move to the next sentence, and the next. But, no. After five or six sentences, Peter says, ‘let’s go back to the beginning and go through this again.’ After ten or twelve sentences, he says again, ‘let’s go back to the beginning.’ I have sixteen sections on my list, and I wonder if we’ll get to the last.

            I also realize that what he is doing is what good teachers do.

            And we do make it through, and Peter is very encouraging, even when I continue to flounder with the most difficult word I come across. I’m trying to say the Sursum corda, ‘Lift up your hearts.’ In Setswana it begins with Tlhatlosang. The ‘tlh’ mysteriously becomes a guttural ‘klah’, and the next ‘tl’ sounds like a guttural ‘clue.’ If I can make it that far I’m home free: the sang sounds pretty much like our English word. But I find it hard to make it that far.

            At home I take out my bilingual prayer book and write my phonetic spelling over the Setswana sentences, and I sit on my balcony in late afternoon, reading them aloud over and over again.

            I’ve already told Peter Moshapa that I hope he will work with me again next week.

A Central African oath of obedience

We are standing in the Bishop’s office, me and Bishop Trevor, with Susan Mogwera as witness. He has handed me a document on heavy card stock, with the seal of the Diocese of Botswana at the top. He asks me to read it aloud.

‘I, Leon Spencer,’ I begin, ‘do swear that I will pay due and Canonical Obedience to the Bishop of Botswana and his successors, so help me God.’  

I’m making my Oath.

‘I assent to the Book of Common Prayer,’ and ‘I believe the doctrine as therein set forth to be agreeable to the Word of God.’  I go so far as to ‘consent to be bound by all the Canons of the Province of Central Africa.’ Not that I’ve ever seen them, but then, I doubt if at our Episcopal Church ordinations we can claim to know all that is in our canons either.

The three of us sign my Oath.

Then it’s the Bishop’s turn. He takes out a second document, which has a fancy red seal on it. He begins to read. ‘We, Musonda Trevor Selwyn Mwamba, by Divine Permission, Bishop of Botswana to our beloved in Christ, Leon Spencer, a Priest in the Church of God: We greet you in the name of the Lord.’

He goes on to read that he has granted me ‘our license and authority to officiate as a Priest within our Diocese.’ He signs it +Musonda Botswana.

No doubt this is one of the last official acts he performs. His resignation as Bishop of Botswana takes effect in just a few hours.

The Diocese of Botswana turns forty

            It is quite a procession at the Cathedral of the Holy Cross here in Gaborone: first, the lay ministers, then we clergy, who peel off past the President of Botswana in the first pew to go to our seats, then come a herd of bishops. (Do bishops come in herds? Maybe it is a clutch of bishops. I’m pretty sure it isn’t a coven.)

Anyway, there are the bishops of West Missouri and of Newcastle, in the UK, two of Botswana’s companion links. There are bishops from throughout the Province of Central Africa, from Malawi, Zimbabwe and Zambia.  There is the first bishop of Botswana, and the third. There’s the Archbishop of West Africa, followed by the Archbishop of York, the Ugandan John Tucker Sentamu, who is to preach. Finally appears the celebrant, Botswana’s fourth bishop, Trevor Musonda Mwamba.

         

The Archbishop of York

We settle in for the long haul, but surprisingly, the service lasts only a bit longer than three hours. Not bad when you consider the place is packed, a superb youth choir has come over from Pretoria to join our fine choir, and sandwiched into it all is the dedication of stained glass windows, which include one with the seal of the Diocese of North Carolina.

Everyone knows that these are the final days of Bishop Trevor’s episcopacy, but I find it gratifying that the focus is not upon a farewell service for him. Instead it is upon the 40^th anniversary of the diocese, which before 1973 had been linked to the Diocese of Matabeleland in Zimbabwe, with ties also to Kuruman in South Africa. Its creation was a critical step toward the Church in Botswana securing its own identity.

Afterwards the two choirs do an impromptu concert, a kind of call-and-response, which is lively and, well, remarkable. I make a point to go over to our South African visitors and thank them for joining us for the celebration. Soon they are on their way again, across the border.

An excellent booklet on the history of the Diocese of Botswana is distributed to the congregation. Fr. James Amanze, my Principal and Canon Theologian to the Diocese, has written it. It is ‘published by the St. Augustine Theological School.’ We are shameless these days in self-promotion.

Mother Jamie L’Enfant and Dr. Sharita Womack, the new chairs of the North Carolina-Botswana companion link committee, and Fr. Murdock Smith, the former chair, represent Bishop Michael Curry, who could not attend. I take them around for the next few days. We visit the hospice, and St. Peter’s Day Care Centre for ‘orphans and vulnerable children,’ and our St. Augustine students, and even a few zebra at the Mokolodi Nature Reserve.

Bishop Trevor calls us in as we head to the airport, and we have tea with him in his office. Slowly but surely it is being emptied of all of his things. I then drive them to the airport, where there are many others to see them off.

A wedding

            John Hamithi is now married. He is our third lecturer at the St. Augustine Theological School, a former Catholic priest. I and several others from the School travel up to his home in Mogoditshane for the day’s events.

            The marriage ceremony actually began yesterday. Then John went to his bride’s home in Ramotswa, where he paid lobola (his uncle had negotiated 8-10 head of cattle, or the cash equivalent), and the couple went to the district commissioner’s for the ‘signing.’ Not only did the D.C. do the things necessary to make the civil marriage legal; she also ‘counseled’ them.

            Today the bride and her family come to John’s home. They stop at a neighbor’s place, and from there process down the road, singing. There must be 20 or 30 of them. I notice all the women have identical thick blue blankets pinned around their shoulders.

            It’s in the nineties.

            John’s family and friends, meanwhile, process down the road toward them, singing an alternative song. Eventually we all meet, turn, and return to the home.

            But now there is an obstacle. The elders of John’s family have closed the gate. They declare that when she enters the gate, she become part of their family, and to show they have the resources to care for her, they push some money to her family under the gate. Apparently satisfied, we are all allowed to enter, and we sit down for a meal.

            They bring a single plate with a sampling of food out and place it before me. I am to bless it. Fortunately, I realize this, and do not think, ‘how nice,’ and start to eat.

            I wish them well.

Guest lecturer at St. Augustine's

            ‘You should keep your candles in the refrigerator,’ Florence Bogopa tells me. We have been waiting for the Archbishop of West Africa, Tilewa Johnson, along with our Principal, Fr. James Amanze, the ordinands from St. Augustine’s Theological School, and a few assorted guests, to arrive for dinner. We hear them now, coming up the steps to my flat, when the electricity goes out.

            The Archbishop has arrived early for the 40^th anniversary celebrations of the Diocese of Botswana next Sunday, and Fr. James invites him to speak to our students at the School. He has now just finished giving his lecture on African ecumenism, which he precedes by telling us of the beginnings of Christianity in the Gambia, where he has been bishop for nearly two decades.

The first Christians there came up from Sierra Leone, where the British had been depositing freed slaves at Freetown in the 19^th century. His own ancestors would have come from Nigeria; Tilewa is a Yoruba name. ‘Johnson,’ he adds, ‘is my slave name.’ Our students laugh. He does not. I do not think he means it as a joke.

            Bishop Tilewa takes us back to the early Church, and describes how historic circumstance – notably the rise of Islam – swept away the Church in North Africa, ‘walling in’ Christianity as a white European religion, when in fact it was not our Christian heritage at all. And on he goes to… well, I have to leave to help with the final setup for our dinner.

            The lecture does not break up until nearly eight, and folks are obviously ready to eat. I still take a moment to welcome them all to my home, and especially Bishop Tilewa, for the Gambia has a special spot in my heart. It was my first African experience, fifty years ago next year, as part of a work camp program called Crossroads Africa, while I was an undergraduate at Wake Forest. And it was also my first experience, ever, in an Anglican church, at St. Mary’s Cathedral in Bathurst, now Banjul. I remember it particularly because of how helpful people were in guiding me through the 1662 Book of Common Prayer – a courtesy and welcome I have seen repeated all over the world as persons from other traditions join us – and because before I could leave after the service they brought in a casket and I ended up attending a funeral, whose I do not know.

      We chat after dinner. He tells me Stephen Bahoum, one of my closest friends from

Cross-

roads, has died. The years are passing. May he rest in peace.

            As people show signs that they are getting ready to leave, the power comes back on. The caterer, anxious to go home herself, quickly extinguishes the candles and takes them to the kitchen so she can wash the saucers they are mounted on. The electricity immediately goes out again. ‘She should have waited,’ one says as he descends the steps in the dark.

A Collect for the Protection of Cattle

            I have been teaching about what constitutes a collect in Sacramental theology. That, you will recall, is a particular form of prayer that we use in our liturgy.

A collect has five parts: It ‘addresses’ God; names a quality or action of God’s that seems relevant to the subject of the collect; makes a request of God; names the result that we believe will come if the prayer is ‘answered’; and closes with an ‘ascription,’ such as ‘through our Lord Jesus Christ.’ (Notice these features when you hear the Collect of the Day next Sunday.)

Anyway, I want our ordinands to understand not just what a collect is but to know that they can write their own when special occasions or events in their ministry arise. So, I set them to the task.

Batswana have a deep devotion to their cattle. If we don’t see someone on a Sunday, it is because ‘I have gone to my cattle post.’

I think: Why not? Write a Collect for the Protection of Cattle.

One wrote:

Almighty God our Heavenly Father,

Through you all things were made;

You created cattle according to its kind:

By your power and strength protect our cattle

   from sickness, hunger and thirst,

Bless our land with rain, good vegetation,

  and abundant waters, and

Give sanity and love to those who look after them,

So that our cattle will remain healthy and multiply;

We ask this through our Lord Jesus Christ.

I wonder about his use of the word ‘sanity,’ but I haven’t yet asked.

Another’s request is quite specific: Protect our cattle from foot and mouth disease that is threatening to wipe them out.  Fair enough.      

            I especially like the ‘result’ for which one ordinand prayed: So that in your generosity we may continue to have the source of our livelihood in abundance.

            Amen.

On field placements, and vestments

            Two of our students are being introduced to the congregation at St. Peter’s, Mogoditshane. They are placed here for some months as part of their ministerial formation.

            Our students like to be supportive of one another, and a good number have come to Mogoditshane today for the occasion.



Ordinands Octavius Bolelang (left) and Bashie Tsheole
with Fr. Andrew Mudereri



            I preach. The story of Jeremiah’s call works well, I think, to talk about their call to the ordained ministry, and about God’s call to all of us. Fr. Andrew Mudereri then celebrates the Eucharist, after which there are introductions and a Mothers Union lunch. The parish is having its vestry elections, so we St. Augustine folk eat together out on the porch.

            We are cooling off now that we have shed our vestments. It is already in the upper nineties. I sit there as students chat in Setswana, wondering whose idea vestments were anyway. I suspect a layperson, wearied by tiresome sermons, deciding that clergy should suffer too.

St. Augustine Theological School



Seated, Fr, Leon Spencer, Fr. James Amanze, and the
Rev. John Hamathi, faculty,
with ordinands at St. Augustine Theological School

    My time with the St. Augustine Theological School begins when four of our students come down from the north, around Francistown, for a week of intensive study. It has proven difficult for tutors to meet with these students frequently, and now, as the second term begins, they have come to Gaborone.

We meet in a small duplex that houses the School. It consists of a small classroom, an office for the head of the School (where the copier donated by the Diocese of North Carolina lives), another office for the second tutor, James Hamathi, and me, and a small kitchen. Nothing fancy, but it works.

I am teaching three courses: Reformation history, Biblical interpretation, and Sacramental theology. Only the latter have I taught before. I spend the week trying to organize my thoughts, organize the courses, and do a few things in our hours together that may be helpful in these students’ ministerial formation.  All the while we are no doubt sizing up one another – they as to whether I will be able to teach anything relevant to their ministry, me as to what their particular gifts and their academic strengths and weaknesses are.

            At the end of the week they go home – ‘it is time to tend my farm,’ one remarks – and the next week the students from here in the south, around Gaborone, arrive. There are seven of them. They work during the day, then come every weekday evening for classes.

            The next week one student from Lobatse, maybe an hour’s drive away, arrives. He finds it hard to come each evening, even when he is in Lobatse, and presently he is working on a project in the Kalahari, perhaps 700 miles away. When he is home, he comes up to spend several full days with us.

The final student – there are thirteen in all – is doing some theological study through a South African institution. We are evaluating the courses he is taking, and plan to augment them with areas where we see a particular need. Pastoral studies come to mind, Fr. James Amanze, who heads the School (as well as the companion link committee), indicates.

            I am impressed with the investment in time and energy and travel these students make. They have jobs, family demands, and church responsibilities. And yet, they are here, at a new school named for the patron saint of theologians. Their academic levels vary. But it is clear that they are committed, serious about this journey they – and the Diocese of Botswana – have begun.

            There is then something to celebrate here, already. The Diocese of Botswana now has an institution to prepare persons for ordination and lay leadership, something it has sought for literally decades. Earlier postings in this Botswana Diary date from 2010, when I was part of their reflections upon how the Diocese might provide ministerial formation locally, and… how it could support and sustain it. Now, they – we, thanks to encouragement from North Carolina – have begun.