This second part explores the spiritual consequences of national decline and the urgent need for a Tewahdo‑rooted liberation theology.
A Church Facing an Emptying Pew
Eritrea’s demographic collapse is not only a national crisis; it is an ecclesiastical one. The Eritrean Orthodox Tewahdo Church — one of Africa’s oldest apostolic Christian institutions — now faces an existential threat as its youth disappear through migration, war, disillusionment, and conversion to other well‑organized and well‑funded proselytizing Western churches. Entire villages have lost their young men and women, leaving communities hollowed out. In the diaspora, churches are expanding more rapidly than those inside Eritrea, yet even this growth masks a deeper crisis: the Christian share of the population inside Eritrea has fallen below 50% for the first time in modern history. Diaspora churches themselves are aging, and their liturgies — conducted largely in Tigrinya and Ge’ez — speak to the first generation but not to their children, who often understand neither language. It is sobering to remember that a mere two centuries ago, regions such as Hamasien‑Saqla (Bogos, Maria, Habab, and Mensae) and Tsina‑Adegel were bastions of Tewahdo Orthodoxy. Temporary and quick bandages will not stop this long history of hemorrhaging. It requires serious thinking, strategic planning, and a willingness to confront uncomfortable truths.
The Tewahdo Church has long been more than a religious institution. It has served as a cultural archive, a guardian of identity, a preserver of language, and a stabilizing force through centuries of upheaval. Its monasteries educated generations; its clergy mediated conflicts; its rituals anchored communal life. But institutions that survive on memory alone eventually become museums. Without youth, the Church loses not only attendance — it loses continuity, creativity, and the capacity to renew itself.
I recall a conversation with my mother — one of the nine women who founded the Medhane Alem Tewahdo Church of Dallas — in which she recounted an observation from a Greek Orthodox priest. He asked with disarming clarity: Is your church for you, or for your children? If it is for the latter, he said, liturgy and sermons must be in English; if it is for the former, the church will die with you, and your children will not inherit it. His warning was prophetic. Eritrean children attend church faithfully through childhood, but once they reach high school, most drift away — not out of rebellion, but because the church never learned to speak to them in a language they could understand.
Language, however, was not the only fault line. The final rupture — the one that split the Dallas church into two — came from the shameful interference of the Eritrean regime, whose involvement dragged the community into costly litigation and diverted funds away from ministry, youth engagement, and institutional renewal. People may debate which faction is “winning,” but the truth is painfully clear: the only loser is the church itself — and its future.
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The consequences of that rupture are not abstract to me; they are lived. In recent months, we have lost several members of our community. To pay customary respects, console grieving families, and make my due contribution, I found myself attending mourning gatherings at an Ethiopian Orthodox church — not because I wished to, but because the families of the deceased belonged to the group that had temporarily lost ownership of our Eritrean church, now controlled by the PFDJ‑affiliated faction.
I fulfilled my social and spiritual obligation, but I was deeply uncomfortable. Sitting in that Ethiopian church, I felt like a wendegaba — those Eritrean Tegadelti who defected back to the enemy camp. I felt like an intruder, a guest, an outsider: present, but not at home. I feel the same discomfort in other sister churches too, including the Coptic and Greek Orthodox Churches. I respect them, but they are not mine. My spiritual identity is rooted in the Eritrean Tewahdo tradition — its liturgy, cadence, memory, and sense of belonging. If I cannot find that in an Eritrean Tewahdo church, I know I can live without it. That is how profound the rupture has become: a church that once anchored identity now risks alienating even those most committed to its survival.
At the same time, I must admit something essential: the people I am most comfortable with — those whose values, temperament, and spiritual disposition I naturally identify with — are mostly not aligned with the PFDJ‑affiliated church. Yet I still feel at home within that very church because it is Eritrean, and they are my kin and kith. Whether at an individual or group level, we should not allow temporary setbacks to erode permanent bonds of brotherhood. This tension — between discomfort and belonging — reveals the depth of the crisis and the stakes of its resolution.
This discomfort is not merely emotional; it is diagnostic. It reveals how deeply the politicization of the Church has fractured communal life. When believers cannot mourn their dead in their own house of worship, when clergy become extensions of state power, when the sanctuary becomes contested territory, the Church ceases to function as a spiritual refuge. It becomes another arena of national trauma.
Nearly a decade ago, I argued in my book that “what goes for the Tewahdo goes for Eritrea.” Today, that confidence is gone. The Church has lost its most important potent force: its youth.
Yet decline is not destiny. As the Japanese proverb teaches: Tomorrow’s battle is won during today’s practice. The Church must treat this moment as a defining battle.
A Call for a Tewahdo Liberation Theology
To stop the hemorrhaging of its youth, the Church must speak not only about salvation but about the conditions in which its people live. It must address:
- Justice
- Peace
- Human rights
- Family values
- Economic opportunity
- The dignity of the young
A Tewahdo‑rooted liberation theology — grounded in the Gospel yet responsive to suffering — is not merely desirable; it is essential. In the Eritrean context, spiritual salvation cannot be separated from social liberation, because the wounds of the people are lived, daily, and generational. The Tewahdo Church already possesses the theological foundations for such a synthesis: the Incarnation, the unity of body and spirit, the inseparability of faith and works. What is needed is the courage to apply these principles to the lived reality of oppression.
Liberation theology is not foreign to Orthodox tradition. The early Church fathers wrote extensively about the moral obligations of communities facing injustice. Quddus Basilios condemned rulers who hoarded wealth while the poor starved. Quddus Yohannes Afeworki insisted that faith without social action was hypocrisy. Both saints are known for their contribution to Metsehafe Qeddassie of the Tewahdo church. The Tewahdo tradition — with its emphasis on tselot (prayer), Gedli (struggle), fithi (justice), gbre senai (charity), fiqri (love), and the sanctity of human dignity — is already fertile ground for a theology that speaks to suffering rather than retreating from it.
In many ways, the Eritrean Catholic Church, small as it is, has already modeled this path. Its social teachings, pastoral letters, and moral interventions consistently affirm that faith must speak to injustice, that human dignity is non‑negotiable, and that silence in the face of suffering is a betrayal of the Gospel. The Tewahdo Church need not reinvent anything; it only needs to embrace what is already consonant with its own tradition.
I felt this truth profoundly in 2014, when the four Eritrean Catholic bishops issued their historic Easter pastoral letter, Where Is Your Brother? Their courage moved me in a way few ecclesiastical statements ever have. As I wrote at the time: “I was moved and inspired by the courage of the four Eritrean Catholic Bishops and felt obliged to do something, or at least shout out the proverbial expression of solidarity, ‘I am an Eritrean Catholic too.’”
Compelled by an irresistible urge to help and promote their cause — which is Eritrea’s cause — I translated their thirty‑seven‑page document into English in just a few days, while working a full‑time job. The urgency of their message left no room for delay. Their words demanded to be heard beyond Eritrea’s borders, and I felt personally responsible for ensuring that happened.
That experience crystallized something essential: the Catholic bishops were modeling the kind of moral leadership Eritrea desperately needs. They spoke with clarity, courage, and compassion — not as partisans, but as shepherds confronting national suffering. Their letter demonstrated what a liberation‑centered religious ethos looks like in practice: principled, grounded in scripture, and unafraid to challenge injustice.
The Tewahdo Church has the theological depth, historical authority, and communal reach to do the same. What it lacks is not doctrine, but courage. The Catholic bishops showed that courage is possible even in a repressive environment. Their example remains a mirror for the Tewahdo Church: a reminder that moral leadership is not a luxury but a duty, and that silence in the face of national suffering is itself a form of complicity.
The same imperative applies to Muslim Eritreans. The ethical core of Islam — justice, compassion, communal responsibility, and the Qur’anic mandate to stand with the oppressed — aligns naturally with a liberation‑centered religious ethos. No faith community can afford indifference. The suffering of the people is not a sectarian issue; it is a national wound demanding a unified moral response.
A genuine liberation theology would also require practical reforms: youth ministries that address mental health and migration pressures; sermons that speak to contemporary realities; liturgies that incorporate English for diaspora youth; clergy trained not only in theology but in social ethics; and a Church leadership willing to confront state interference rather than accommodate it.
Liberation theology, in this sense, is simply the religious expression of a basic truth: a nation cannot heal when its spiritual institutions remain silent before injustice. Eritrea’s future depends on a moral awakening that transcends denominational lines and reclaims the prophetic role of faith in public life.
If the Tewahdo Church fails to rise to this moment, it risks becoming a church with more memories than members. Eritrea’s future — political, moral, and spiritual — depends on a liberation‑centered awakening that unites faith with justice and restores dignity to a wounded nation.
Lebanon’s experience is not a distant cautionary tale for Eritrean Christians. It is a mirror. And the handwriting on the wall is clear.
Pastoral Letter: A complete and Literal Translation – Awate.com
To contact the author: weriz@yahoo.com
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