When the Homily is about Immunology

African Coffee Hour


I'm just going to tell what happened with very little commentary, it is late, so please excuse any abnormal literary failings...the normals ones you are no doubt used to.

I got in touch with Father Peter Matovu and he encouraged me to go with him to St. Sophia Mission/Parish as opposed to the cathedral of St. Nicholas in Kampala. I agreed. For those who perhaps do not know anything about this priest, do a google search. He is an pretty amazing man, as you will see. In his living room he has a framed copy of the Nobel Peace Prize which the UN organization he worked for won in 1981.

Fr. Peter was supposed to pick me up between 7:30 and 8am. He eventually arrived at 8:30 apologizing profusely. He told me he had an emergency and had to run a child to a clinic. Who could argue with that?

We drove a short distance - perhaps 6km from downtown. But as we did, it became clear that modest poverty was quickly being replaced with near absolute poverty. I cannot describe it...I wont even try to...some places that all manner of charity organizations would love to use as backdrops to their infomercial appeals. It is, for many, like living at a primitive campsite forever. Something we Americans do for "fun" with lots of money and nearby grocery stores and Park Ranger garbage service and beautiful scenery and then we grow sick of it all in a manner of days - right about when things start to get "dirty." Houses were made of a massive variety of materials and all of them bestowed upon my 1500 square foot home in Poulsbo the appearance of an impossible large and beautiful mansion.

I wondered why so many of the brick structures looked so ugly...I would soon learn that the youth of St. Sophia - like so many others - make their bricks by hand from their natural surroundings.

Anyway, we arrived at the church and some of those who graciously greeted me kissed my hand after shaking it. It soon became apparent that they were mistaking me for a priest...had I heard "father bless" I would have known, but as it was I thought perhaps it was an African custom or something. Anyway, with that eventually settled (later I would note that Fr. Peter was not wearing a pectoral cross - not sure why - but it explained why people initially mistook me for a priest in my "underwear." John Burnett would later tell me that in Greek practice the cross is not worn.), I surveyed the church building: it was big actually and designed in a sort of ancient byzantine basilica fashion, though I will admit that minus building codes and regulations I would not wish to be there in an earthquake. It is both a lovely expression of the peoples love for God and the Church and of their humble means.


Father went in to begin his prayers and such prior to beginning matins. I walked around the mostly empty church and played some with two of father's adopted children. One of them was particularly intrigued by the camera. In their mind I was a exceptionally intrigued...throughout the day every time I would happen to glance in their direction they would be staring at me...cracking magnificent smiles each time our eyes met.




Uganda's dirt is red...shockingly so the first time you see it. And dirt is present most everywhere - paved roads are reserved for only the most major thoroughfares in the city, and well paved roads are rarer still.

The church is surrounded by the poverty I ineffectively described earlier and the structure itself, though only a couple of years old could easily pass as dating to the time of the fifth or sixth ecumenical council - made almost entirely of some concrete like material whose recipe and methodology I would imagine also dates back to the time of Byzantine basilicas. Lush greenery fills the little valley behind the church and people are constantly on the move with huge jugs to collect water (from a natural spring I'm told) or to attend to some farming chore. Cows and chickens roam freely, though the cows are well branded with their owners ID to keep them sorted in some fashion...at one point a group of African cowboys (on foot) tied up traffic with a large herd of these massively gigantic horned beasts - I kept waiting for one to join us for liturgy.




I was able to follow along pretty well. Most of the service was in the Luganda Language, but Father offered a few portions of English for my benefit. It was beautiful..though being a small Parish they did not have some fantastic polished choir...but even so I noticed two things: Talent and joy. These people clearly LOVE to sing. And while some of the melody of the songs were familiar to me, most were not and included that absolutely beautiful and unique African harmonies that are as instantly recognizable as they are enjoyable. I would compliment them all later, telling them that I could listen to them sing all day.

The service besides having a number of unique customs was decidedly Orthodox and familiar.

Afterwards, Father Peter took it upon himself to embarrass me as utterly as could be imagined. First during the service he prayer for me "our missionary" and then afterward he gave a little talk about how amazing I was to have left the wonderful comforts of America to come here and help the Ugandan people. (Like my ego needs this?!?!) And the people applauded as I shrunk in my seat, remembering how much I tried to avoid coming.

He then asked an elder (a grandson of one of those who first brought Orthodoxy to Uganda) to say a few words. After several minutes of him gesturing to me from time to time (plus applause) while offering a lengthy speech in the Luganda language, Father asked me to speak - while he translated into Luganda.

I tried to contest that I was not a Missionary and that I was simply doing my job which happened to bring me here. But Fr. Peter would have none if it: "You are an Orthodox Christian here to help the Ugandan people...you are a missionary." In that moment...my "job" truly took on a new meaning to me. The extent to which I am blessed and the extent to which I was a fool to not want to come (regardless of having good reason) became completely clear to me.

I didn't know what to say...I was already so undone by their simplicity, their devotion, and their joy that I just tried to tell them about what I was doing and how I was already realizing that I was learning more from them than they (or at least the lab techs at Mulago) would learn from me.

Coffee Hour saw me being - without question - the guest of honor. As if I needed further embarrassment. The youth of this little Parish are apparently renowned for their traditional African drumming, singing, and dancing. And so, outside in what we might consider the narthex, I was treated to a most amazing show of traditional African talent. (I'll post some vids later) I don't know what to say about it - it was something completely contrary to anything I'd ever experienced. People around us herded their cattle, chased their chickens, gathered their water, and made their bricks while we celebrated. One of the young people gave a little speech informing me that while they had no gift to offer me (Hospitality is astonishing here), that they wished to dance and sing for me...and boy did they ever. I was amazed...it was like a scene out of a Rick Steve's travel video. And as if the performance wasn't enough, when Father Peter decided it was time for us to leave they DANCED us to his car in a procession.


Father then invited me to have lunch with him and I gladly accepted. On the way to his house we drove past some of the very worse of poverty that Kampala has to offer. What can one say about seeing such a thing...you just have to see it to believe it...more than that, you have to see the smiles on their faces. It was a ride of shame...they shame us, they really really really do.

Father and his wife fed me until I could eat no more. And then they fed me more...and more. I lost count of the courses.

Generally, the day was a stark series of contrasts: poverty and hospitality. In the American eye...so many of them have every reason in the world to be depressed and down trodden, and yet the locked gaze of a child with a stranger nearly produces joyous laughter.