One day I asked him about “accountability” and how he understood it. We had a far-ranging conversation, but here’s what has stayed with me. One of the things he emphasized was the word “key,” as in “key accountabilities.”

On the back of the paper place mat in the restaurant he asked me to write down the three to five key things that I was accountable for doing in my work as a minister. There was worship and preaching and pastoral care. He asked me to define those for him. What was my key accountability in this? That was a good question. He asked me to list the specific responsibilities I had.

Then he asked two questions that have stayed with me.

First, where did I get this information? Who told me what my job was?

Second, with whom did I discuss this and agree on it? That got me thinking, and I can still see the back of the place mat with my key accountabilities listed on it.

Then he asked me about relationships and who were the key people with whom and for whom I was accountable in my work. I made a list on another part of the placemat.

He asked me who I reported to? Who did I go to when there was a problem? Who would come to me when they were having a problem?

Before I knew it we had a list of no more than 10 people with whom I was responsible for the leadership of the congregation. These included (I’m an Anglican) the two churchwardens, the organist, the parish secretary, and the chairs of a couple of key committees.

My management consultant said that if I paid attention to the two lists—key work accountabilities and key relationship accountabilities—that I would do just fine.

As the coffee came, he talked about trust—that most sacred part of human relationships. He said trust is often assumed but can never be taken for granted. It takes a long time to build and there is no substitute for carefully building a foundation. Once it’s broken, he said, it’s almost impossible to repair.

“So keep building the trust,” he said. “Over communicate—check your assumptions, let people know what you’re thinking. Invite them into your own reflections so that they can see where you’re coming from. And focus on the key jobs and key people and you’ll be fine.”

I hope you can see why I kept asking him to have lunch with me.

My doctor is a small man, and I’m a tall and big man. Every year when it’s time for a check up and I stand on the scales, he says the same thing: “You tall guys can sure hide a lot of weight.” He is a skier and works out. When I was in parish ministry, I didn’t have time to work out and skiing was too expensive. Besides, the one time I tried it, I couldn’t stop and ended up at the bottom of the hill in some hay bales, which were not soft cushions at all.

Anyway, sitting up on the paper-lined cot while he takes my blood pressure gives me a chance to think about my “lifestyle.”

And, in thinking about my weight (which isn’t way out of line, given my height), I have come to realize my good doctor does not face the reality of sandwiches and squares after funerals; of long car trips to and from hospitals; sitting at meetings for days it seems; meeting young couples about their wedding after dinner when you’d rather go for a walk; and having lots of good food and drink around while you’re working because there’s always something in the church fridge.

He sees patients in his office and then goes home. Probably he visits the hospital in the morning and I’m sure he has a very stressful job.

But when I go home, I’m faced with a bunch of deadlines that make me feel anxious—my column for the newsletter, the homily and arrangements for the funeral, Sunday’s sermon, and reading the minutes and reports for the volunteer community board I agreed to serve on. And I’m hungry, and there are snacks and beverages of a spiritual nature that will make me feel good and if I’m not careful, drown my sorrows.

This is a particular challenge in small rural parishes where there is a generation of generous women whose mission in life is to feed men.  I ministered to one of those congregations and I really enjoyed my afternoon visits because I love to eat. And most of the time I was hungry and so I wasn’t faking it.

But I knew if I ate too much in the afternoon, I wouldn’t be hungry for dinner, and my wife, who was home with the children and had worked hard to prepare something nutritious, wouldn’t be happy that I’d been out snacking.

I remember one cold afternoon visiting a farmer and his wife. We sat at the kitchen table and they set out a huge block of cheddar and homemade bread fresh from the oven. Tea was served in mugs and I could have happily sat there all afternoon.

I also remember enjoying some wine at a 50th wedding anniversary party and then having to shift mentally when someone wanted to have a serious conversation about their spiritual journey, more than I was up for.

I remember deciding that I’d better minimize, if not eliminate, drinking alcohol at church functions because in a sense I was “on the job” and I needed to be able to focus. There would be time—and there always was—when I could relax and put my feet up later.

So I’ve come to understand that, among many other stresses in ordained ministry in congregations, there is the added pressure of eating and drinking. Jesus enjoyed both, and we do need to celebrate all that life offers.

But there are special challenges for those who don’t have enough time or inclination to exercise, and who like to eat and drink, and who have stressful and important jobs.

Knowing I had an annual medical coming up always made me think twice about the second date square (my favourite) after the funeral.

A church I visited recently has a new minister. He follows someone who was there a long time and was well loved. I could see it was overwhelming for him to be with all these people and wonder if he’d ever get to know them.

I remember that feeling. Each time I moved it was awful. Saying goodbye to one set of people was hard enough. But suddenly, there was this whole new group—all of whom knew a lot about me already, and I had no clue who they were as individuals.  And what overwhelmed me was getting to know all their names.

What helped me was to keep a small clipboard with me on Sunday mornings so I could jot down questions about people that I could ask some of my key folks about—who’s the woman who sits by the window?  The one with the big hat? Who’s the guy who helps people get in and out of the elevator? It was like a crossword puzzle in a way.

Sometimes I could fill in the name of the person by myself. Other times, it filled itself in as I completed other parts of the puzzle, if you know what I mean.

I developed little tricks for remembering people’s names, which worked for the most part.

But even after being in a congregation for several years, there were a couple of embarrassing occasions where I should have waited and not tried too hard to get the name right. One was asking a woman how Roy was? “That was my first husband whom you buried,” she said.

Then there was a nice guy I really liked, but I could never remember whether it was Dave or Bob, and in trying to impress him, and maybe myself, I always got his name wrong. He didn’t stay with our congregation very long.

Once, when I was a new assistant, I visited the quilting group with my rector. There was one woman who didn’t come to church and he asked her, while we were chatting, why not? She said that whenever she came, he couldn’t remember her name.

He promised—I was there with him—that if she came the following Sunday he’d remember her name. So she did, and as she shook hands at the door, she said, “Now, what’s my name?”

He looked at her vacantly and said, “I know you—you’re Wednesday morning!”

When we say hello, it’s the beginning of a conversation that may lead to a relationship.

Clergy share in the ministry of the Good Shepherd who calls the sheep by name. Part of that is being known by name. A church congregation offers many people a community where they can be known by name.

As a minister, it occurred to me many times that getting to know people by name was one of the most important things I could do. Each name was tied to a person. Each name had a story to it, which was the story of that person’s life.

And so I said a prayer for the new minister as I watched him cope with this, and hoped that it wouldn’t be too long before he would know most of the names.

Praying for each other before arriving in a new congregation was how one minister did it. He asked people to send him a note saying they were praying for him. He sent them back a note saying he was praying for them. In this way, he compiled a list of people by name even before he arrived. I thought that was a great idea.

In my experience, the best idea for saying hello and getting to know people ended up being called, “The Great Store-Bought Cookie Project.”

I asked some key members in a congregation I was entering to arrange gatherings for church folks in people’s homes. The idea was we’d meet from 7:30 to 8:30, and I insisted that the only thing the hosts serve were coffee, tea, and store-bought cookies. I didn’t want the event to be a burden.

When we gathered at 7:30, I asked everyone to sit in a circle in the living room and then I explained I wanted to go around the circle and have everyone tell us two things—their name and how they came to this congregation.

They were wonderful evenings, and folks who couldn’t make one asked if we could organize some more. I took a calendar and all I did was put an X through two evenings a week and give those dates to the organizers. They’d tell me where I was going and off I’d go to meet some new folks. When they couldn’t fill one of my slots, I had the gift of a free evening—a real bit of grace.

I know of other clergy who have had gatherings at the church to meet folks, and there are many creative ways to enter and say hello. One of the privileges of parish ministry is that we have the opportunity to meet new people and tell our story again. It’s something that very few professions have—new opportunities with new communities.

I once heard a story from a minister who had filled in at a small country church. It was a very different, and positive, experience for him because he was from the city and worked in the church head office.

On Monday morning, he called the minister he’d supplied for to thank him for the opportunity. “How many did you have?” the minister asked. “Twenty-nine,” he said. “Does that include you or not?” was the question back. “No, with me included there were 30 of us.” “Then you had them all,” said the minister of the congregation.

In relating this story, the supply minister reflected on what it was like to “have them all”—to know that everyone was there who could be there. I would remember his reflections whenever I’d start the “hello” process. At some point, I would know the congregation. There would always be more “hellos” to come with new people, visitors, and others returning. But it would be a relief when I came to know the congregation and know them all.

How we say hello is very important. Life is lived between the hellos and goodbyes we say to each other.

And congregational ministry gives us the opportunity to say hello and get to know people in a very special way.  There’s something rather nice about the “honeymoon” period. But it usually doesn’t last long. Sooner, more often than later, there is serious work to be done and serious conversations to be had.

Recently I noted a few things that, from where I sit, are contributing to an increase in the challenge and ambiguity of ministry work. One of them is how active, or busy, people of all ages are. Every aspect of professional ministry practice is affected by this.

Take pastoral visiting, for example.

It used to be that some people were home during the day and ready to welcome visitors and friends. These days, few people are at home during the day. Healthy, active seniors aren’t home. Working parents aren’t home. And when young families do have “free” time, it is often taken up with competitive sports and other activities.

In terms of pastoral visiting, that leaves inactive seniors. And many clergy spend hours visiting these elders who have great wisdom and experience to share. In my own ministry, I always enjoyed visiting vital folks in their 80s and 90s who would lift me up spiritually and provide a longer view of life than I could manage on my own.

The level of activity most people experience extends to the evenings and weekends, including Sunday, traditionally a day to meet at the church for worship, meetings, or study. It’s hard to get people together, though, because they’re busy. And when they do get together, they’re tired. What they really need is rest and refreshment, not more engagement with leadership challenges in the church.

Churches rely on happy and healthy volunteers to staff leadership positions. What they find is that the folks who wish to help are very busy and very tired. This puts an added strain on the clergyperson, who typically spends hours recruiting, persuading, training, and hoping that somehow this person will do their job well and, if they’re any good, stay with it for quite a while.

Another challenge for the church is the competition. So many worthwhile agencies are doing important work: how do you—or do you—persuade someone that giving their time to the church is more important than being involved as a volunteer in their local social service agency?

Life is busier—more options are available, people are living longer and are able to do more things. All of this makes life much more challenging for the clergy because there is always some role that needs to be filled, some job that needs to be done. There is another problem and that is, often the folks with the most time to offer are not healthy themselves, or have needs that aren’t being met at home or at work, or they have difficulty getting along with people. And so in the name of helping, they may cause more problems than they solve and in the end, the job doesn’t get done.

What helps, I think, is to simplify things so that the priorities are well considered. What are the basic core functions of the congregation? These need to be looked after by the healthiest and most capable people.

We can’t turn the clock back—we have to deal with realities. And the church needs to adapt its decision making and accountability structures, and its ministry priorities, to recognize that active people like to be busy and it’s going to be a challenge for the clergy to manage this.

When I stop and look back, there are some changes that have happened in the 33 years since I was ordained that I think relate to both the challenge and ambiguity clergy face these days.

1. Church furniture

Something shifted, I’m not sure what, in moving the altar out from the wall. As long as the clergy had their back to the people, they were on the same side as the people, facing God. I know, I know—God isn’t and wasn’t ever in the west wall, with the priest being closest.

But from where I sit, moving the altar out and having the priest face the people has created an unexpected difference. People are now noticing more personal things about the priest than before, often burdening the ordained person with more projections. I think this adds to the ambiguity and the challenge of the clergy role. I also think something significant has shifted when clergy preach from the aisle. I’m not sure what, but it’s a major change.

2. Professional role and dress

My late father gardened in gray flannels and always put a tie on to go “downtown.” We dressed up for church. There were certain professionals you could recognize by their dress—the banker, the funeral director, the doctor, the lawyer.

In our time, perhaps in an effort to relate to ordinary folks, clergy are not dressing as professionals for the most part. Again, this is part of the ambiguity and challenge of the clergy role.  In our work with clergy, we often find that the clergy wish to belong to the community and be part of the whole people of God as fellow Christians. This sometimes conflicts with the community’s need for leadership and accountability.

3. The work day and the work week

In the 1920s labour unions campaigned for the 40-hour work week and the 8-hour day with the slogan: “8 hours of work, 8 hours of sleep, and 8 hours to do with what we please.”

Now many people work much more than 8 hours a day and 40 hours a week—especially clergy.

Perhaps I’m romanticizing, but I think there was a time when you could go home and you’d leave your work behind. But when you have a job that involves working evenings and weekends and being available to your people, it’s hard to turn work off. That raises another question about clergy Sabbath time, but I’ll save that for a future column.

Many clergy work too many hours and because of the nature of the job, there aren’t always shared agreements with parish leaders about the work week. I found Monday to be the best day of rest, although it was often filled with errands and chores. Friday I tried to keep free for sermon preparation and study. That left three days in the middle of the week that were crammed. I think the Jews have it right—God’s time is daily and weekly.

In our work with clergy we find there is a need for shared expectations about not only the primary roles, but also the time involved so that there is clarity, which builds trust—the most precious commodity in ministry and the hardest to rebuild once it’s broken.

4. Technology

In 1980 I went to a parish that was very proud it had a telephone answering machine. This was a heavy metal box with a couple of tape recorders in it—one for the outgoing greeting and the other for incoming messages. There was a plunger thing that held down the buttons on the dial phone until it rang and when it did, the plunger popped up, the greeting tape started, and people could leave their messages. Voilà!  I had to learn how to work this thing.

Then there were fax machines, real voice mail, the Internet, email, Blackberries.

The good news is that we can be in almost instant and constant contact. The bad news is that we can be in almost instant and constant contact. It’s a major challenge to turn off work.

Email is mostly good news. My parish in Toronto (The Church of the Redeemer) sends out e-news regularly and bulletins when there is special news or a funeral. Events and worship are planned electronically.

But email has a shadow side. In our work with congregations we find that occasionally private emails have been forwarded and circulated, causing a breakdown of trust. We need to develop some protocols for this new form of parish communication to protect privacy as we develop efficient communication. I haven’t dealt with Facebook and wireless devices.

That’s just a start for my list. What’s on yours?

While in South Africa, our team of Christian scholars was exposed to a number of examples of public theology—compelling accounts of how the church should be in the world. Central Methodist and J. L. Zwane churches were what one might call ecclesial embodiments of public theology; the Constitutional Court was a secular parable of public theology; and the Beyers Naudé Centre was a place of disciplined reflection on public theology. I think each was important in its own way. At the same time, each without the others would represent a distortion.

Without ecclesial embodiments, public theology can become dangerously abstract. Perhaps the best example of this danger is found in the leaflets that I saw scattered on the information tables of some churches—including Anglican churches—I visited. These leaflets listed in point form the features of a “values agenda” for the New South Africa. While one would never want to overlook the urgent need to address the corruption of political leaders, the selfishness promoted by consumer capitalism, and the careless and non-committal sexuality characterizing a “liberated” society, such lists omit the crucial question of how such “moral” people are formed.

One cannot simply choose to be morally upright, as if choosing makes it so. This is the error of liberalism. Morally upright people are formed—and from a Christian perspective they are formed by discipleship, and by having their desires shaped by Word and Sacrament. And yet the formation of disciples can never be simply a means to the end of creating a more moral nation without falling into the folly of idolatry, of forgetting that we live “during the world.”

Without secular parables, the church might find herself in danger of thinking that it is she and not the world that is the object of God’s redemption. And yet without the church, we have no way of “reading” what God is doing in the world. As Stanley Hauerwas says, “That I go to church does not mean I think that Jesus is only to be found there.  It just means that he has promised to show up there in a manner that can help us discern how he shows up in other places.” The practices that discipline our desires “during the world” also provide pictures—in Karl Barth’s well-known phrase “parables of the Kingdom”—that map our situation in the world, but also (if we have ears to hear) point us beyond it.

Finally, without disciplined theological reflection, public theology isolates itself from academic life. Proceeding from a holy disposition (1 Pet. 3:15), public theology gives a reasoned account of the life of the church for the world. But the kind of public theology that I think apt is not the speculative, philosophical description of how to apply  free-floating “values,” but a kind of anthropological “thick description” (as Clifford Geertz writes) of those practices that form citizens of the world to come, who live in amazingly faithful ways in relation to this world. And those practices are available to all of us Christians—yes, even you and me!—who participate in the Liturgy.

And so in baptism we are transitioned from a world of conflicting interests and agendas and enfolded into a people who live in conformity to the crucifixion and resurrection of Christ. We become that people who share the world’s rejection of Christ, but who also live the hope of God’s ultimate victory of life over death. In thus dying to the world we are liberated to be a people in solidarity with the despised and rejected, as the J. L. Zwane congregation shows. The sharing of our gifts in the Eucharist takes us up into a new economy—God’s economy—such as at Central Methodist where the hungry are fed and the homeless sheltered. Seeing the world refracted through these practices, we participate in a redeemed world that irrupts into this one “like grass through cement.” We become a strange and peculiar people. We become the church.

It starts sometime in February. A common conversation starter in the cafeteria becomes, “What are you giving up for Lent?” The first year I was on campus, I thought this was an anomaly. “We must have a particular group of very religious students,” I thought. But each year it has continued, and many of the students who seek so strenuously to observe Lent are nominal Christians, from families who rarely attend church.

I suspect that some of this emphasis on Lent is a result of the publicly funded Catholic school system in Ontario. Lots of students graduated from Catholic high schools, even though for many that was their only real contact with church. Lent was taught and observed at school, and the students bring that with them to university.

The popularity of Lenten disciplines also owes something to the diverse student population, especially the Muslim population. Orientation Week generally falls during the observance of Ramadan. Students move in, and are immediately aware that their roommate, or the person down the hall, is not eating at the regular hours in the cafeteria, because they are fasting between sunrise and sunset. Later in the month, Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur take place, and the Jewish students also fast. There is some relief when Lent rolls around and students who identify as Christian have a chance to say “Our turn!”

Students give up a variety of things. Dessert or french fries are popular items to deny themselves. A Facebook fast is also common, though many rely on the fact that Sundays are “mini-Easters” in order to survive the six weeks. At Renison, there's a fair bit of social pressure to give up something. One enterprising student added one more item each year, creating a cumulative list of foods he couldn't eat, until he realized that left him almost no choices in the cafeteria.

Some students understand the meaning behind the Lenten discipline. They listened in religion class, or were taught well in Sunday School. They ponder their strongest attachments, and consider what they might give up in order to remember what they truly need. They put money aside as a way of sharing their abundance.

Other students are responding to the social pressure, or are attracted to something that seems similar to the “purging” espoused by celebrities. My challenge is to help deepen this engagement with a spiritual practice, and then encourage students to reflect further.

Last year, an engineering student arrived in my office on Shrove Tuesday. “Help! It's Ash Wednesday tomorrow, and I don't know what to give up for Lent!” He ran through the list of what he had given up in previous years. I suggested he might want to take on something instead.

When he looked at me blankly, I explained, “Lent is about examining your life. It means asking, is this how I should be living? It's about getting your priorities straight, putting your life in order.” There was silence while he processed this. Then excitement and relief showed on his face.

“I have been thinking I do nothing but schoolwork. So maybe Lent means I should pull out my trombone more often and play?”

“Exactly!” I responded, “And maybe that's part of how God intends us to live.”

I have no idea whether this emphasis on Lent will remain with students as they move into the rest of their lives. But it has been a gift to me, made me ponder unexpected connections. I am keenly aware that we have a wealth of traditions, based on the observance of the church year. These include the Daily Office, Advent wreaths, bell-ringing at New Year's, the colour red for Pentecost, candles to remember the dead. How do we share these with a new generation? And what are you going to give up for Lent this year?

First, the generosity. These words from Charles Dickens ring true for me:

I have always thought of Christmas time…as a good time; a kind, forgiving, charitable time; the only time I know of, in the long calendar of the year, when men and women seem by one consent to open their shut-up hearts freely, and to think of people below them as if they really were fellow passengers to the grave, and not another race of creatures bound on other journeys.

Lately, as I’ve been busy with ministry in my neighbourhood, I’ve noticed how people in the community are opening their hearts freely—from the Salvation Army officers in our stores to the good work that the local churches are doing, including my parish. One thing the Parish of Seaforth is doing is shipping out care packages of food, toys and clothing in large quantities. This is part of a project to support  Mission to Seafarers, a ministry that offers hospitality to those men and women who work on ships and arrive in Halifax, often in need of help.

Inside my church, I’ve heard many sermons about hope, peace, joy, and love, and I see Advent candles being lit. Many people are smiling at the joy and the feeling they get from giving their time and money to those in need. I truly believe that this is something that Christians should strive for: a generosity that is heartfelt, that breaks down the walls of social status and economic wealth.

But what’s this poverty that we’re responding to at Christmas? Today people are poor in many ways. As an ordained minister, and personally as a Christian, I feel it’s my job and call to seek those in need. To make sure they are healthy in mind, body, and soul. Pastoral care—a nurturing of faith through word and sacrament—is something ministers offer to God’s people. Christ believed that such a minister was important. His social justice stance was that of the Beatitudes, from “Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven” to “Blessed are the merciful, for they will receive mercy.”

At Christmas time we often remember those who Christ calls blessed—the poor in spirit, those who mourn, the meek, and those who are pure in heart. Unfortunately, these needs last beyond the Christmas season, and sometimes we forget about the blessed at other times of the year. People do not just go hungry at Christmas, people are not mournful just when the Christmas tree is lit. As someone who has a strong passion for social justice, and also as a clergyperson, I feel it is my obligation to encourage the gospel the whole year through, to inspire people to live the Christian teaching not just on holidays, but also on those bright summer days.

But as the nights grow darker and the snow falls, I’m aware that Christmas draws nearer. For me, the birth of our Saviour Jesus Christ is something I look forward to. Christ comes as the light of the world and shines through in the darkest corners of our lives. All things are possible through Christ. He can even turn around our poor lives with the generosity of his grace. My prayer this Christmas is that the light shines brightly for those in the dark. My prayer is that Christians will shine and give of themselves this season, and that this would continue all the year through.

Without question, Mvume Dandala has been one of the most widely respected church leaders in South Africa's recent past. A presiding bishop of the Methodist Church from 1996 to 2003, and most recently general secretary of the All Africa Conference of Churches, Mr. Dandala is best known outside the church for mediating an end to the violence that broke out in Johannesburg hostels between African National Congress (ANC) supporters and Inkatha supporters over a decade ago. He is known to be a man of integrity and of deep holiness.

But this was in a previous phase of his life. As the political culture of South Africa degenerated into cronyism and corruption, a section of ANC members saw an opportunity to break away from the ruling party to form the Congress of the People (COPE). And they approached Mr. Dandala to lead the party into the most recent election.

For many, this would have been an immediate career-defining move and a high promotion. But not for Mr. Dandala. The request resulted in a time of soul-searching, prayer, and discernment. He had always agreed with Archbishop Desmond Tutu that the place of a pastor was outside partisan politics—at least in a "normal" situation. And Mr. Dandala has always had “a pastor’s heart.” But South Africa was descending into abnormality—at least in terms of its professed democratic vision. So Mr. Dandala asked to be released from his position as pastor, effectively laying aside his clerical collar, in order to bear witness as a politician.

As he spoke to our group, I could hear the struggle in his voice. The questions he faced were stark. How could he, a well-respected bishop, expose himself to abuse as a politician? Would the give-and-take of parliamentary debate and the often-unsavoury nature of partisanship corrupt him? But the alternative, in his view, was to perpetuate the idea that party politics was "unholy"—a significant issue given his Methodist theology. Even this calling must be sanctified. So he agreed—and agreed to suspend his credentials with the church. But he remains a Christian fulfilling what he and his spiritual advisors consider a redeployment by God.

But Mr. Dandala also had a message for the church from his new location. He argued that pastors need to engage in “political education,” shaping members as citizens aware of their responsibilities. They should remain non-partisan, but at the same time be passionately informed about the political process.

Mr. Dandala’s talk raised a number of important issues for our discussion group (and others who joined us), and had us arguing rather loudly—to the point of being asked to “quiet down” as we were disturbing the sleep of our fellows! Here were some of the issues raised:

1. What is the nature of citizenship for Christians? Are Christians citizens of one city (the New Jerusalem)? Or two?

2. If a Christian becomes involved with party politics, what norms should govern their behaviour? Is creation, cross, or resurrection most determinative?

3. How should Christian political office-holders be held accountable to the church? What does it mean when a president who professes to follow Jesus disobeys his bishop (George W. Bush’s invasion of Iraq comes to mind)? What would the electorate think of a bishop excommunicating a president?
It’s possible to read Mr. Dandala’s decision as a form of kenosis—renouncing divine attributes as Jesus did—and perhaps even of embracing a form of suffering. And I do think his soul is in danger, given the recent cutthroat practices of South African parliamentarians. But Christians are sometimes called to dangerous and risky service. St. Augustine said that a Christian should not seek office, but neither should he (or she) refuse to serve when called upon. I remain unwilling to make a conclusion—which is probably just as well. But I do commit to keeping the former Bishop Mvume Dandala in my prayers.