Religious Minority

Early one morning in mid-March, two experienced North American ESL teachers and I stepped into a van in central Cairo for a three-hour drive to a city in Upper Egypt. Once past Cairo’s vast metropolitan area, traffic thinned. As we rode on the arrow-straight, six-lane divided highway, with endless desert on both sides, the women prepped me about their unusual work. 

They were adjunct teachers in an Egyptian Protestant seminary, affiliated with a large seminary in the U.S. Hardly customary in that Muslim nation, the women were teaching eight male pastors English in preparation for the “International English Testing System” exam. Each pastor had a Bachelor of Theology degree, but entry into the U.S. seminary’s Master of Divinity program required a certain proficiency in reading, writing and speaking English.  

The women teachers had invited me to observe the classes, promising their students would be eager to tell me about their lives as clergy in this nation with a small minority Christian population. In breaks between two intense sessions, all the pastors were eager to practice their English. Despite the always delicate relationships between Christians and Muslims in Egypt, three were willing to be named sources for this article. But in order not to put them, their congregations and colleagues at risk, I’ve changed their names to Fahim, Daquan and Nady.

	Photo credit: Mel Weening.

‘Village’ pastors 
All eight pastors in the English classes had pursued other careers before studying for the ministry. Fahim and Daquan live in neighbouring settlements, an intentional plan put into action after Daquan interned with Fahim before his ordination three years ago. As neighbours, they cooperate in their rural “villages,” respectively home to 9,000 and 10,000 people. These populous communities nurture such close relationships among inhabitants that “village” is a fitting identification. The customs and experiences the pastors described offered deep insights into the hopes, joys and significant risks that they and their congregations count as parts of daily life as a small religious minority. 

Since the July 2013 military coup ousting democratically elected Mohammed Morsi, Egypt’s government of coup leader Abdul Fatah al-Sisi replaced 2012’s Islamist-oriented constitution with a secular constitution, officially guaranteeing freedom of religious confession and practice to Muslims, Jews and Christians. Even though those rights are unevenly respected around the nation, the pastors stand hopefully on that legal foundation in their ministries. In our conversation, they described lives and work embraced within defined but fascinating and confusing – to my Western mind – layers of official freedoms and unofficial restrictions. Yet these pastors do not merely survive; they have learned to thrive, living peacefully, creatively with their tiny congregations which draw 75 to 100 worshipers for Friday worship.

Tensions among Christians
Though their churches are the only Protestant congregations in these villages, Daquan’s village counts a Coptic Orthodox population of 55 percent; Fahim’s village is split almost evenly between Copts and Muslims. As in Reformation-era Germany where the region’s ruler determined religious practice, similarly in modern rural Egypt. Both pastors said that they had experienced more peaceful, routine lives growing up in Muslim majority villages than where they now pastored among a large number of Coptic Orthodox Christians. 

I had naively assumed that life among majority Copts would be relatively easy, but Fahim and Daquan set me straight. Fahim cited instances of Coptic priests challenging villagers, “Don’t ever go to the Protestant church or associate with the pastor.” Both described annoying roadblocks to purchase property for their congregations: Fahim waited two years for permission to buy. Daquan is still waiting for a building permit. As a result, his congregation packs into homes of parishioners, holding two or three services to accommodate worshipers. 

When I asked how they had managed to plant churches in this rocky soil, Fahim and Daquan offered similar explanations. Because Muslim and Coptic populations were nearly equal in their villages, most supported the guaranteed right of worship. Neither pastor had faced difficulty settling into their villages as registered Protestant pastors. Yet both knew that in villages of a strong Coptic or Muslim majority, such acceptance would have been harder to create. 

Building credibility
Regardless, both pastors had to discern how cautiously to develop tolerance in their communities. Soon after Fahim moved to his village, he discovered he could move about and talk freely with women on the streets and in the market if his wife accompanied him. Initially, talking with Coptic or Muslim men was nearly impossible. Only after showing up regularly in public, carefully, respectfully asking women what social or family needs they experienced, did men begin approaching him, a few suspiciously, some more welcomingly. 

Having earned that small confidence, Fahim then proposed to Coptic and Muslim leaders that all cooperate to establish basic social services otherwise unavailable in the village. With little money or outside resources, but as an educated man humbly gaining stature among village leaders, he was able over several years to open a cooperative community centre. Villagers now find opportunities to build healthy family customs, maintain their homes and enjoy recreation. 

As a wise disciple, after Daquan left Fahim’s village, he adapted his mentor’s model. There he and village leaders founded an orphanage and clothing depot. As relationships improved, both villages now sponsor cooperatives for local farmers to distribute and market crops to nearby towns. As a result of such innovative work, the Protestant congregations worship without disturbance, each gradually growing in number and community appreciation.

Quiet witness to Christ
I was intrigued by these stories, but wondered if the pastors ministered in Christ’s name in any public way. In a gracious nod to a fellow student, Fahim and Daquan asked Nady to share a now often-practiced attempt to be as wise as serpents and as meek as doves. When Nady moved to a new village, he met expected suspicion and isolation from community leaders. Knowing a few Protestants there, he joined them to lead worship.

Before his arrival, the daughter of a member of Nady’s small house church had married a Muslim man. Several years later the woman was suffering abuse and wished to return to her parents’ home. But her eldest uncle – and family authority – refused permission. By this time Nady knew the local imam well enough to ask him for advice. The imam said the woman should be permitted to return to her family. When Nady shared that counsel, the uncle remained unbending. Nady convinced the uncle to consult personally with the imam. After that visit, the uncle eventually permitted the woman to return.

Because the imam had given the same advice as Nady, his star as a wise man in the village slowly began to shine. Since then, more villagers have sought Nady’s advice, though without disturbing village equilibrium. Instead, this Protestant pastor was welcomed into the informal fellowship of elders without ever saying the name of Jesus aloud.

When the day’s classes ended, we three North Americans and our Egyptian driver headed back to Cairo. On the way, a spectacular sunset set the desert on fire. I remembered that there is no place on earth the sun sets where God does not reign in Compassion, Wisdom and Hope.