We have reached the end of the semester, thanks be to God. However, this also means that I have some marking to do.
So, I have about two inches of papers to mark, plus the 17 assignments that were submitted via email.
I also have a lot of coffee. Thanks be to God.
I love the digressions our class discussions can take. While discussing the Holiness Code in Leviticus 17-27 with my Masters of Divinity students, we were discussing what was meant in Leviticus 18:8, and how it differs from Leviticus 18:7. This led to a small discussion on various marriage customs in Uganda, particularly with regard to giving another girl in the marriage to help at home.
How “help” is defined in this situation is still a bit fuzzy to me, as the discussion devolved a wee bit as students from different tribes took exception to how others were defining it. One student raised his voice, and began, “Now, Reverend, I am a Muganda, and we – ” to which I replied, “I am also a Muganda, though adopted.”
Apparently this was enough to derail the discussion, because someone asked what my Luganda name is. I have two: I was given Nakalema years ago, and last semester, a student gave me Nasuuna. So I explained this. The class was quiet as they digested this, and I leaned over to a Rwandan student who was sitting in the front row and whispered, “This means that I’m a princess.” He looked at me with some skepticism.
However, this was confirmed when one of the Baganda said, “Those are royal names.” Indeed they are; names must be appropriate for the clan to which you belong. And since I belong to one of the royal clans (Lion), I can have a royal name. Amen.
I explained that I’ve been given names from several areas in East Africa, which I wear as badges of honor. From the Luo in Kenya, I am Achieng (born at midday). One of the Kenyan students in class was delighted to hear this, and said he will call me this from now on. The Bunyoro give pet names, and one of our professors named me Abwooli (clean, or cat), and one of the Munyoro students has already adopted it. From the Muyankole, I am Mbabazi (Grace).
And all this from a discussion of the Holiness Code.
During the holidays in Uganda, messages fly fast and furious – wishing a Merry Christmas, a Happy New Year, and many other felicitations. Images and memes were thrown across WhatsApp and Facebook Messenger like confetti, thanks to cheap and easy bulk messaging.
However, last night, two of our graduates called to wish me a happy new year. This is somewhat unusual, as 1. a phone call is paid by only the initiator (not the recipient), and 2. they both graduated about a year and a half ago, so they are in my rear view mirror, and my focus is on the approximately 150 students in front of me. Regardless, it was a delightful surprise.
The larger surprise, though was that they both essentially said the same thing: they gave me a short update on the family and on the ministry, then both thanked me for all I did for them in their ministerial formation. One of them was, shall we say, a bit more of a trying student, so his words were especially sweet.
Of course, both phone calls were a tremendous encouragement. The students are arriving for the semester, lectures begin on Monday, and I am already stressed by what I know is coming, never mind what I don’t know is coming. As much as I love ministerial formation, it takes the lion’s share of time, both administratively and interactively, and of course, it never ends. They reminded me to take a deep breath, cling to Jesus, and soldier on. Amen.
One of my favorite things that we do is supervise our students on their internships, or block placement. While we certainly make them work while they’re with us at the University, it is tremendous fun to see them in their home churches and meet their families.
This year, I volunteered to visit Joram in the diocese of Maseno West, in western Kenya, as I had been in the diocese in 1998. At a conference in 2015, I promised the bishop that I would come home. So come home I did.
As it turned out, for the time that I would be visiting, the bishop was going to be conducting confirmations in two of the parishes in which Joram had worked, so I went with him to attend both services. And I had the joy of seeing the fruit of his ministry.
In Kenya, the confirmation age is 12, and I think it’s the same in Uganda. This means that confirmation often happens at the close of school terms for the church-founded schools, or towards the end of school term holidays, as the students have been prepared for confirmation during this holiday. Joram said that when he arrived, there were only 12 candidates for confirmation, and since he didn’t want to waste the bishop’s time, he traveled throughout the church to find more people to be confirmed. He ended up with a class of 43. The other service also had about 40 confirmands, so in two days, I witnessed in excess of 80 people being confirmed. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a service in the US with that many confirmands!
One of the things I love in African is that the bishop examines the confirmands in advance of their confirmation. Most of the questions are related to reciting the answers in the Catechism, reciting the Lord’s Prayer, or the Creeds (Nicene and Apostle’s), and these are often done as a group.
But then the bishop went around the circle and examined the candidates individually. Sometimes the question was as (presumably) easy as “what is the name of your bishop?” The confirmand answered that question correctly. However, if the bishop was not satisfied with an answer, he retained the confirmand’s name tag, and returned to that confirmand later. The confirmand is free to consult with the clergy (and presumably) others present to get the right answer.
In this class, ultimately three students had to be examined again, and all passed and were confirmed. I asked Joram whether the bishop ever declined to confirm anyone, and he replied, “Oh yes. In fact, he has dismissed an entire class because they were not prepared properly.”
Joram was surprised to hear that this is not the way we do things; in my memory, we did meet with the bishop in advance of the confirmation service, but he didn’t examine us. I assume his agreement to confirm us was based on the recommendation of the rector, or in my case, the youth pastor, who had prepared us for confirmation.
I love that the bishops in Kenya (and presumably Uganda, though I’ve not witnessed the pre-service activities) test the confirmands prior to the service. In my humble opinion, this is as it should be. Confirmation is an important sacramental rite, and we would be remiss to not take it seriously. Praise God for all bishops, clergy, catechists, and ordinands who do treat this work with the gravity it deserves!
Sometimes I wonder whether my prayers are too small, or whether it’s my faith in God that’s too small. The Lord gently pointed this out to me as I landed at Entebbe last week, after a wonderfully relaxing (though not as academically productive as I’d hoped) home assignment.
I had picked up a some kind of respiratory thing mid-November, and while my prayer requests before travel always include safe and uneventful travel, I assumed I wouldn’t enjoy my flights for being a bit congested.
How wrong I was. Not only was I not congested, I had no seat or row mates for either flight… meaning I could almost get myself comfortable and rest. This, in and of itself, is a miracle. I only had a two-hour layover in Amsterdam, so that was blissfully short.
My last concern for my trip was a suitcase I was bringing for a friend who had just delivered her first baby. Missionaries live for having people schlep things to them, and Leah had sent me with a bag, and then had things sent to me while I was in Virginia. I had heard of stories of people having things taken from their luggage at the exit x-ray machine at Entebbe, and I was fervently praying that would not be the case, especially for the things for Leah’s sweet baby girl.
When I had retrieved al my luggage and saw the line at the x-ray machine, my heart fell, knowing that I’d have to put all my luggage through. I was praying for the Lord’s protection over everything, and headed over that way.
When I got to the line, one gentleman blew right on by, right in front of me. The two attendants were surprised, but didn’t stop him. That must have emboldened me, because I asked the male attendant, “Do I go this way (pointing to the x-ray machine), or that way (pointing to the door)?” Now, the answer is patently obvious. I’m already in line. Americans are quite good at queuing up in lines. But no harm, no foul, right?
The man peered at me for a second, then asked, “Do you have a drone?” Did he just ask if I had a drone? WHY on earth would he ask if I have a drone? I must have given him an odd look as I replied, “No…” because he asked me again. “Do you have a drone?” This time, I answered him more confidently, “No! I’m a musumba (shepherd, priest); basumba (plural) do not have drones.” And I sailed right on out, with all my items intact.
As I was thanking God profusely for His provision, He gently pointed out how He had taken care of everything on my trip… my health, rest, lack of seat mates, the x-ray machine, and asked if I really believed He could do all that. I had to confess that I didn’t.
I mean, I did, in the sense that yes, I know God can take care of these things, and I trusted that He would, but did I confidently believe that He would? Not really. So He showed me how small my faith was. And in my rejoicing, I repented.