Inch Deep and Mile Wide

Last week, I went to church with a friend in her village. On the wall of the simple building were pictures of St. Daniel Comboni and the Uganda Martyrs, respectively. The building was obviously unfinished, with no windows or outside paint. It was, however, already cracking, with large cracks up and down the floor and a large crack from ceiling to floor. The cracks were patched up but obviously endemic. Sometimes I think this is a perfect illustration of religious faith in Uganda. Not yet to the point of reasoning, not past the point of “everyone is doing this,” and many times not to the point of personal behavioral change, but already with serious fundamental cracks. Moreover, the priest emphasized that the parish could no longer depend on outsiders for funding, but had to stand on its own. He set a challenge for each person to give $0.50 that month. I know that this is half of the cost of a motorcycle ride across town—which most people can achieve quite easily. It seemed, however, to be a great challenge.
I would be the first to say that I wanted my experience here to be spiritual, and it has been. It has been much more spiritual than I ever imagined, but I am a bit unique in that. I have met some Ugandans who speak of faith in a cogniscent manner and are able to talk about philosophy. For the masses flooding football stadiums to see big TV preachers—hand in hand with prominent politicians—however, I wonder.
The sisters usually say that still waters run deep; I completely agree. For the masses of people shouting the gospel on street corners and dancing in Pentecostal churches; multiple wives are still the norm, the alcohol consumption rate is still the highest in the world, and the rate of HIV infection is still increasing. Speaking of my sisters, moreover, their order was founded in the 1970’s, at which time, it received many new novices. That stream of young women has already begun to atrophy. When the great old orders, begun in the 1500’s in Europe took at least half a millennium to decrease, this one is struggling to reach 50 years strong. The obvious corollary exists—noisy waters are usually shallow.
This is not to discount the great work done by missions and missionaries in Africa. As I know several missionary priests and work at Catholic institutions, I admire their efforts. I am certainly unable to start several schools and hospitals and religious orders, changing a completely foreign people into baptized converts on my own. I admire the old missionaries still around who speak the local language better than locals and are responsible for the faiths of thousands if not more. My question, however, is one—what is the foundation? Inculturation teaches us that the African philosophy on God does not ask what is true; it seeks merely to relate to deity in the best way possible. My nuns tell me that the Christian God is appealing because He is kinder than the vengeful ancestors of traditional beliefs. Maybe the gifts of schools and hospitals don’t hurt, either.
At the end, there is still Sister D. in the garden, who saw fellow teachers hacked to death by rebels in Gulu. She doesn’t speak much, but spends at least 4 hours a day with her Jesus in the prayer room. When I hear her pray the luminous mysteries, I know she speaks from a relationship. The loud PTA chairman, however, with his big crucifix, recently married his 16th and 17th wives, respectively, and tried to sell his handicapped son for human sacrifice. The other week tried to make a big public donation in church. The priest, who is a fan of Buddhism and psychology, as they relate to Christ—made him sit down and put the donation away. What a place!