Part 3: Botswana Diary Update

We gather again in the “Upper Room” at the Cathedral.  There are about 60 of us: Lay leaders, leaders of the Mothers Union, the Anglican Women’s Fellowship, the Anglican Men’s Fellowship, and the Guilds. 

I ask someone about the Guilds.  “What are they?” I want to know.  Uncertainty constitutes the reply.  As best as I can figure, they are folk beyond the extended dates used to define youth, and not yet of the Mothers Union variety.  Maybe adults in their 30s and 40s, I’m guessing.

       Fr. Amanze organizes them all into groups to discuss particular questions we have posed. Things like: What do you consider that you and other lay leaders in the Diocese need most to increase your effectiveness? On what subjects do you as lay leaders especially need further training?  What training do you who are church group leaders need to increase your effectiveness?  What form should this training take?

Having small groups report back is usually a nightmare for me.  There seems always to be someone who talks far beyond her allotted time, or someone who yields to the temptation to say what he thinks rather than what the group said.  And the rest of us often seem bored except when our group is reporting.

And so I am pleasantly surprised at the efficiency with which Batswana report.  One, two, three; here are our key points.  They hand me well-organized sheets of newsprint to post.  “Does anyone in our group have anything to add?” their presenter asks.  “Are there additions anyone wishes to make?”

Done.

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            After the workshop we are having lunch in the parish hall.  A man next to me suddenly declares, “A hung parliament.  Hmmph.”  I draw a blank.  I have been reading Botswana newspapers, and there is much about a faction breaking away from the ruling party, but I recall nothing about an election.

            “Britain,” he finally says, as if I am a small school child.  “I’ve read there is a chance,” I remark.  “Is the vote today?”  “No,” he laughs.  “It’s done.  A hung parliament.”

            I return to the house determined to get a grip on what is happening in the world.  I pull out my old short-wave band radio, which has served me well over my years of travel in Africa. 

Finally I find the BBC World Service, lost somewhere in the 16 meter band.  It is as static-y as ever, reminding me of childhood nights seated next to my grandparents’ old radio in their bedroom, warmed by the coal stove behind me, searching for a world far beyond the confines of their farm near Seaboard.

            But now, only two days later, the election news receives merely a sentence or two.  Instead they devote their time to Greece.  Boring.  I have already talked about the Greeks, in a reflection I did today on Paul.

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            I spot George Callender’s gray beard as I walk across the tarmac at the tiny Francistown airport early on a Friday morning.  I am carrying my new backpack, with University of Botswana blazoned across it, my only “souvenir” – a functional one – thus far.

Rev. Callender is a deacon in Francistown, the only clergy in fact, as there is no priest.  He takes me to his home for breakfast.  Soon he, his wife and I are eating boiled eggs, bacon, toast, baked beans, and hot dogs.

They are from Guyana.  They came over as a young couple, first to Zambia, then to Botswana.  They have been here ever since.  Their children, now grown, were born here.

Mrs. Callender is growing herbs in pots on their concrete front porch.  She and I stand next to them as Rev. Callender speaks on the ever-present cell phone.  “I have spent over half my life here,” she says.  She smiles.  Then she adds: “I am told that it does not matter; I will always be an outsider.”

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            Today is St. Carantoc’s feast day, and the church by that name is celebrating. 

If you have not heard of Carantoc, there is a reason: He’s quite obscure.  But there are some fascinating (well, odd) stories about this sixth century Welshman.  He apparently traveled around with a portable altar, and once he propelled it out onto the Bristol Channel (on a raft, presumably, since it reportedly was made of marble, which limits the meaning of the word “portable” somewhat), with the notion that where it came to rest, there he would build his church.

            As I prepare my sermon, I set aside the thought that his church would likely have been under water.  I turn instead to his encounter with a dragon, at King Arthur’s behest, no less.  And sigh.  This will not play well for a congregation proud of their saint.

            No one can explain to me how a church in Francistown, Botswana, is named for St. Carantoc.  It’s hard enough to find any in England, Wales, or Ireland.  My uneducated guess is that St. Carantoc’s Church was created by the slightly older congregation (they’re both over a century old) of St. Patrick’s Church, also here in town, and they liked the somewhat dubious tradition that Carantoc was trained by Patrick.

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            As there is no priest in Francistown, they are delighted to have one to celebrate the Eucharist on St. Carantoc’s feast day.  Even me, though their tradition is not mine.  Their history is Anglo-Catholic, and while I respect that tradition, I am a bit in the dark as to whether I must kiss the altar (they say yes), and when and how I am to deal with the incense.  I live in fear that I will accidentally set fire to the altar, or worse (at least for me), my alb.  I grew up Baptist, after all.  This seems very foreign.

            Over the years I have been immensely impressed with how well-trained young people (including the quite young) are as acolytes in Anglican African parishes.  It is with some dismay, then, as we walk through the service on Saturday, that the young man who manages the thurible (where the incense burns happily) has never done it before.  I have been counting on his experience.

            But we manage.  The acolyte master diplomatically remarks afterward: “We do things somewhat differently here than you are used to, don’t we?”

            The service over, the church warden instructs me to follow her.  I naively think she is leading me to the head of the line for the food now being laid out on tables outdoors.  Instead we return to the church, where “the celebration is to continue.”

            Various groups within the congregation come forward, singing all sorts of choruses, and presenting gifts for the food to come.  Eventually I am to come forward and offer my gift, which I do, and even sing a solo, which I do not wish to talk about.  Even though they cheer.

            Finally we eat.  After six hours, I am home.

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