My immigrant parents – my father in particular – are ardent Christians. As such, my childhood seemed radically different from the glimpses of American life I had witnessed in school or on television. My parents often spoke of their regimented, cloistered upbringing in Nigeria and their belief that Americans were too lax. They came up with a series of plans to keep us on the straight and narrow: At home, we listened to an endless stream of gospel music and watched Christian programs on the Trinity Broadcasting Network. However, the centerpiece of their strategy was daily visits to our small Nigerian church in North Texas.

I quickly discerned a gap between the patriotic, energetic Christianity I saw on television and the sincere, ardent faith I experienced in church. On television, it seemed that Christianity was not only a means to spiritual salvation, but also a tool for convincing the world of America’s preeminence. Africa was frequently mentioned on TBN, but almost exclusively as a destination for white American missionaries. On screen, they appeared dour and sweaty as they handed out food, clothing and Bibles to hordes of seemingly bewildered but grateful black people. The ministers explained how God’s love — and, of course, public support — made such donations possible, but the subtext was much stronger: God had blessed America, and now America blessed everyone.

In church, however, I encountered an entirely different type of Christianity. The biblical characters were the same, but they were evoked for different purposes. God was on our side because we, as immigrants and their children, were the underdogs; our ancestors had suffered a series of losses at the hands of the Americans and Europeans, just as the biblical Israelites had suffered in their day. And like these chosen people, we would emerge victorious.

By Scholastique Mukasonga

Over time, I have learned that Christianity is a malleable faith; both the powerful and the powerless can use it to justify their beliefs and actions. This is partly the message of Scholastique Mukasonga. Sister Deborahpublished in France in 2022 and recently released in the United States, in a translation by Mark Polizzotti. Set in Rwanda in the 1930s, the novel spotlights a group of recently arrived African-American missionaries who preach a traditional Christian message about a coming apocalypse, but with a twist: They prophesy that “when all would be well again dry, Jesus would appear on his cloud in the sky and everyone would discover that Jesus is black. These missionaries exert a destabilizing influence on a territory dominated by another version of Christianity, established and disseminated by the Belgian colonizers, which emphasizes the supremacy of a white Jesus.

Read: A family story about colonialism and its aftereffects

The most vital force in the novel is Sister Deborah herself. She is the prophetic and ungovernable luminary of the African-American contingent and possesses healing powers. During her stay in Rwanda, she developed a theology centered on black women; as a result, she is ultimately castigated by her former mentor, Reverend Marcus, a gifted itinerant preacher who serves as leader of the missionaries. Sister Deborah is a novel about the scope of Christianity but also about the limits of its inclusiveness, particularly for the women who compose it.

These limitations are evident throughout the novel. The first part is narrated by a woman, Ikirezi, who remembers her childhood in Rwanda. She had been a “sick girl” who needed constant attention, but her mother had avoided the local clinic: she had “no confidence in the pills the orderlies doled out to her, seemingly at will.” Ikirezi’s mother eventually determines that her child’s chronic illness comes “either from people or spirits.” So, desperate, she decides to take him to Sister Déborah. She doesn’t know much about this American missionary except that she is a “prophetess” who has the gift of “healing by the laying on of hands.” Upon learning of his wife’s plans, Ikirezi’s father explodes:

You are not going to this devil’s mission. I forbid it! Haven’t you heard what our real Padri said about it? They are wizards from a country called America, a country that may not even exist because it is the land of the dead, the land of the damned. They were not baptized with good holy water. And they are black – all real padri are white. I forbid you from dragging my daughter there and offering her to the demon who hides in the head and in the stomach of this witch you call Deborah. You can go to hell if you want, but spare my daughter!

Through the brilliance of Ikirezi’s father, Mukasonga skillfully draws the two opposing Christian camps in the novel: one that depends on the Bible to protect its status, and the other that uses the Bible to achieve status. White padri (priests) seek to maintain spiritual control over the local population by labeling African-American missionaries as evil intruders. The missionaries, for their part, positioned themselves as an alternative religious authority and began to attract many followers, particularly women, attracted by their energetic services and the supernatural abilities of Sister Deborah.

Ikirezi’s mother defies her husband and takes Ikirezi to see Sister Deborah. They arrive at the American dispensary, where Sister Deborah is holding court “under the large tree with its bright red flowers, sitting on top of the tall termite mound covered with a carpet decorated with red stars and stripes.” She asks the children gathered in front of her, including Ikirezi, “to touch her cane while she places her hands on their heads”. Subsequently, Ikirezi remembers “that under the palm of his hands, a great feeling of ease and well-being invaded me”. Ikirezi’s portrayal of Sister Deborah remains more or less at this level throughout the rest of this section: deferential and mystified, studied but also somewhat distant. As time passes, Ikirezi’s reverence for Sister Deborah only grows, forming a canvas that obscures the healer in a misty glow.

The novel then pivots to Sister Deborah’s point of view; she develops and revises Ikirezi’s portrait of her life. As a child in Mississippi, Sister Deborah discovered she had healing powers. Her mother pulled her out of school, fearing “people’s revenge as much as their gratitude” for her daughter’s gift. Shortly after, Sister Deborah is raped by a truck driver, which drastically changes the trajectory of her life. She has a profound religious experience when she visits a local church and soon after meets Reverend Marcus.

Reverend Marcus initially views Sister Deborah as a tool to further his own ambitions. He is concerned about the suffering of black people around the world: “the contempt, insults and lynchings they have endured in America; the slavery, massacres and colonial tyranny imposed on them in Africa. His theology focuses not only on their salvation but also on their ascendancy.

Sister Deborah begins performing healings during Reverend Marcus’s revival services, and eventually, he takes her on a mission trip to Rwanda. There, Reverend and Sister Deborah initially work in harmony, attracting new, dedicated converts. But their partnership begins to unravel when a divine spirit informs Sister Deborah that a black woman, not a black Jesus, will save them. Reverend Marcus’ response is both a warning and a prophecy: “If we follow you in your visions and dreams, we are leaving Christianity and venturing into the unknown. »

Although the Reverend initially accepts Sister Deborah’s “vision” of feminine power, he eventually uses it to undermine her, condemning her as a witch. Even within his progressive and radical theology, Reverend Marcus believes that women should serve men; According to Mukasonga, he is a man whose myopia and lust for power end up overwhelming his good intentions. Her behavior reflects a reality that many Christian women have experienced, Black women in particular. In Rwanda, Sister Deborah struggles with a caste system that places white men at the top and black women at the bottom. Sister Deborah’s claim that the savior is a black woman undermines this status quo. And the reverend’s response reveals a contradiction that many black Christian women have faced: They are encouraged to seek spiritual freedom but are still expected to remain submissive.

Read: Why did this progressive evangelical church collapse?

What Reverend Marcus doesn’t realize, however, is that his warning about “venturing into the unknown” also gave Sister Deborah a path to her own liberation. Like the women in Mukasonga’s earlier works – a collection of memoirs, novels and short fiction – Sister Deborah explores and then occupies unknown areas. Unknown, of course, to men, who create hierarchies in which they can thrive and then mark any territory beyond their reach as obscure. Yet it is in these dark spaces, Sister Deborah comes to believe, that black women can flourish. A group of women start following her and she changes her name to Mama Nganga. The little girls collect “medicinal plants” for her. She treats local sex workers and invites homeless women to stay with her. She builds an ecosystem of care and protection for women and proudly claims the label that Ikirezi’s father placed on her at the beginning of the novel: “I am what we call a sorcerer, a healer, although some would say a witch.” she declares. “I take care of women and children.” To Sister Deborah, Reverend Marcus’s Christianity is inadequate because it prioritizes domination over service. She abandons this approach to pursue the true mission of Jesus: to raise and care for the most vulnerable.

Mukasonga’s little novel is loaded with ideas, but perhaps the most powerful and urgent is her assertion that sometimes black women cannot achieve true freedom within the confines of Christianity. By exposing how even progressive interpretations of faith can support patriarchal norms, Mukasonga invites his reader to question the limits placed on marginalized believers. In Sister Deborahtrue liberation consists of avoiding conformity to any dogma, even the Bible. But the novel is more than a critique of religious institutions: it is a call to redefine faith, perhaps even radically, on its own terms.