Crude Faith, Sacred Forests: A Multidisciplinary Inquiry Into The Oil Controversy In The Congo and The Spiritual Cost of Africa’s Black Gold

 

By Emmanuel Mihiingo Kaija

An Evangelist And Missionary Grounded In Bible Studies, Theology, Church Ministry And Interdisciplinary Studies.

Emkaijawrites@gmail.com

 

Introductory Citation:

 

“When the forest cries, even the spirits hide.” — Baka proverb

Dedication:

I dedicate this intellectual art to the trees felled without prayer, to the rivers poisoned without regret, and to the children of Ituri and Virunga whose futures have been sold for a silence wrapped in oil.

Introduction: A Land Anointed with Oil and Blood

In the belly of Africa where the Congo River snakes like a living vein through emerald jungles and ancient wisdoms, a battle not merely for oil but for soul rages. The Democratic Republic of the Congo (DRC), a land kissed by nature and cursed by greed, now stands at a perilous intersection between divine stewardship and destructive profit. In July 2022, the Congolese government auctioned off 30 oil and gas blocks, many located within and around critical ecosystems such as the Virunga National Park—a UNESCO World Heritage site and home to the last of the mountain gorillas. These auctions, masked as economic salvation, unleashed an international uproar, sparking resistance from local communities, environmentalists, theologians, and Indigenous elders.

“God gave us this forest not just for firewood, but as a womb for all life. If they drain her blood for oil, we will not survive.” —Mama Odette, a 73-year-old Bantu matriarch from Tshuapa Province.

The story of oil in the Congo is neither new nor neutral. It is entangled in colonial extraction, foreign interference, theological manipulation, ecological crisis, and the silencing of Indigenous voices. This paper offers a multidisciplinary lens—weaving theology, environmental science, postcolonial studies, ethics, anthropology, and political history—to ask: what is the true cost of drilling in the Congo’s sacred womb? And more deeply, can a continent be truly free when its lifeblood is commodified?

“A man who sells his mother’s grave for silver will one day eat his own children.” —Shilluk proverb (South Sudan)

Section I: The Land as Sacred Text – A Theological Reflection

In African cosmology, the land is not property; it is a sacred inheritance, a living being with memory and spirit. In the words of Kenyan theologian John Mbiti, “Africans are notoriously religious,” and this religiosity is not confined to temples but embedded in rivers, trees, and stones. The DRC’s rainforest is the second largest on earth, often called the “lungs of Africa,” and for many, the

—for many, the forest is not just an ecological system but a cathedral of creation. Each tree is a psalm, each river a flowing scripture, each birdcall a liturgy in the divine language of the wild. Within this theology of the land, to desecrate the forest for oil is not merely an environmental offense—it is a spiritual betrayal. The exploitation of the Congo’s natural resources is thus a form of sacrilege, a theological crisis as much as a political and ecological one.

Theologians such as Laurenti Magesa and Mercy Amba Oduyoye have reminded us that African spirituality is holistic—there is no neat division between the sacred and the secular, between spirit and soil. The earth is part of the moral universe, and any harm done to it is a disruption of cosmic harmony. “The earth is crying,” said an elderly pygmy elder during a protest in Équateur Province, “because her prayers have been swallowed by machines.” These machines—bulldozers, drills, corporate contracts—move with a logic that silences ancestral wisdom and ignores divine covenant.

In biblical terms, we are reminded of the Genesis mandate not to dominate the earth, but to till and keep it (Genesis 2:15). But what does keeping mean in an age when transnational oil companies act as modern pharaohs, extracting without mourning, building empires from the bones of the earth? When sacred groves are uprooted for pipelines, we are witnessing the modern equivalent of Nebuchadnezzar’s desecration of the Jerusalem temple—a violation not only of place, but of purpose.

“You cannot enter the shrine of the ancestors with bloody feet.” —Yoruba proverb

And yet, the theology of the land also invites hope. It calls for repentance, for jubilee, for the restoration of what has been defiled. If the forest is a sacred text, then our task is to read it again—not with the greed of conquerors, but with the reverence of keepers. The oil beneath may promise wealth, but the sacred above promises life. To choose one at the cost of the other is to gamble with eternity.

Section II: Oil, Empire, and Environmental Catastrophe – A Postcolonial and Scientific Critique

Black gold. That is what they call it. But in the Congo, it is more black than gold—more curse than cure, more wound than wealth. The oil beneath the rainforest’s ribs has become a symbol not of progress but of plunder. Since the 19th century, when Leopold’s ghost first carved greed into Congolese soil with a bloody pen, the DRC has been a theatre of extraction, where foreign powers arrive cloaked in the language of development but depart with coffers full of stolen lifeblood. Today, oil joins the pantheon of exploited riches—alongside rubber, coltan, diamonds, cobalt—as a commodity baptized in imperial fire, washed in ecological ruin, and sanctified by silence.

“A river that forgets its source will dry in the arms of the sun.” —Igbo proverb

The 2022 oil block auctions mark not the beginning, but the climax of a long colonial arc that never truly ended—only changed costume. Multinational oil giants, often headquartered in Europe, now act as new colonial lords, wielding influence over governments desperate for revenue and riddled with corruption. Reports from Global Witness and Greenpeace Africa reveal backdoor deals, environmental impact assessments ignored or falsified, and the erasure of local communities from decision-making processes. In these so-called negotiations, the people most affected—Indigenous Batwa forest dwellers, riverine farmers, fishing communities—are treated not as stakeholders but as obstacles.

The scientific cost is staggering. The Congo Basin sequesters approximately 1.5 billion tonnes of carbon annually—an ecological blessing that, if lost, could accelerate global climate collapse. The peatlands of the Cuvette Centrale alone store 30 billion tonnes of carbon, twice as much as all global fossil fuel emissions in a year. Drilling in these regions could ignite an irreversible environmental chain reaction. Moreover, the biodiversity in Virunga, Salonga, and surrounding rainforests rivals that of the Amazon. Here, okapis tread where spirits walk. Gorillas build nests where prophets once prayed. Endangered species face extinction not because of natural evolution, but because of corporate ambition.

“You do not chase a leopard into the forest where it was born.” —Mangbetu proverb

But it is not just nature that suffers. Oil development displaces communities, poisons rivers, and incites militarization. In oil zones like Muanda on the Atlantic coast, children suffer birth defects, cancers, and respiratory diseases linked to unregulated oil flaring and water contamination. Satellite imagery confirms the slow death of once lush canopies, while toxic runoff seeps into the Congo River—the mother artery of the nation—threatening millions who depend on her. Oil roads built through dense jungle fragment ecosystems and pave the way for illegal logging, bushmeat trade, and increased violence.

This is not just poor governance. It is environmental violence, fueled by a postcolonial system where Africa’s wealth is extracted to build cities she will never see. While CEOs toast in Paris and Geneva, villages in Mai-Ndombe mourn children lost to poisoned wells. This is the spiritual cost: a continent bleeding quietly while her enemies wear suits, not spears.

“A man who kills a lion to sell its skin forgets that his own skin is bare.” —Rundi proverb

Yet in the face of these tragedies, resistance blossoms. Activists like Dr. Jean de Dieu Mambweni and Sister Marie-Bernadette Musongela have risked everything to expose the silent war against the Congo’s forests. The Church in some regions has become a prophetic voice, reclaiming its ancient duty as steward of creation. Indigenous elders perform rituals of mourning and protest, calling down the ancestors for protection. Their cry is not just against oil—it is for memory, dignity, and sovereignty.

Science, ethics, and history now converge with spirit to issue a warning: The Congo is not an oil field. It is a sacred ecology, a climate lifeline, a spiritual archive. To destroy it for temporary wealth is to tear pages from the Bible of creation. And when the last tree falls, when the last fish dies, and when the last child coughs blood, what then shall we say we profited?

Section III: Between Prophets and Profiteers – The Ethics of Silence and the Role of the Church

In times of moral crisis, the prophets must speak. But in the Congo, many pulpits have gone quiet—subdued not by reverence, but by reluctance. The Church, once the drumbeat of justice during colonial rule, now often watches from the sidelines as creation weeps and exploitation marches on. How did a faith born in the blood of martyrs become a companion of profiteers? How did the Body of Christ become so easily seduced by the wine of petroleum?

“When the sacred drum is silent, even the goats forget how to dance.” —Bakongo proverb

There was a time when the Church in Africa stood as a bulwark against empire. Missionaries, both African and foreign, gave voice to the voiceless and sheltered the displaced. But today, as oil money flows into state coffers and foreign partnerships, the ecclesial voice is often muted. Some church leaders receive state patronage. Others fear retribution. And many—too many—have internalized a prosperity gospel that baptizes oil revenue as divine favor, no matter how it was acquired. In this distortion, oil rigs are seen as altars, and bulldozers as blessings.

Yet in Scripture, silence is not always innocence. To remain neutral in the face of injustice is to side with Pharaoh. When Jesus overturned the tables in the temple, it was not only for their corruption—it was for their desecration of holy ground. What then of the forests, rivers, and mountains that God declared “good”? What then of the creatures with no voice, the children poisoned by greed, the widows displaced by drilling?

The prophetic tradition calls us higher. Like Amos, who cried out against those “who trample on the poor and take from them levies of grain” (Amos 5:11), we too must cry out against those who trample the forest to sell its roots. Like Jeremiah, we must mourn a land ravaged and say, “The harvest is past, the summer is ended, and we are not saved.” (Jeremiah 8:20)

“When the ancestors speak through thunder and no one listens, famine follows.” —Kuba proverb

Yet hope is not lost. In the diocese of Kisangani, a group of Catholic and Protestant leaders have formed an ecumenical climate coalition, urging an oil moratorium and calling for eco-theological education in seminaries. In Goma, young Pentecostal pastors are using scripture to preach conservation as worship, framing creation care as spiritual warfare against Mammon. From the sacred groves of Ituri to the halls of the World Council of Churches, voices are rising again—some trembling, some thunderous—but all refusing to let silence become complicity.

The Church must remember: we are not called to manage the empire’s profits, but to echo the Kingdom’s justice. We are not keepers of convenience, but guardians of covenant. Our silence is not neutral—it is either a balm or a blade. And in this age of ecological crucifixion, the Church must decide: will it stand beside the crucified earth, or sell incense to those who nail it?

“You cannot bless the spear that kills your own shadow.” —Akan proverb

To be prophetic now is to risk. But to be silent is to perish with the forest. The oil controversy in the Congo is not just a political dilemma or a scientific emergency—it is a spiritual reckoning. And in the reckoning, every priest, every prophet, every parishioner must choose: the forest or the furnace, the womb or the weapon, the sacred or the sale.

Section IV: Restoring the Womb – Indigenous Wisdom, Decolonial Theology, and the Path Forward

There is a cry in the Congo that does not make it to the headlines. It is older than the oil blocks, deeper than the colonial archives. It is the cry of the land herself—mboka ezali kolela, the earth is weeping. But she does not weep alone. The ancestors still hover over the rivers, whispering in winds and rustling through leaves. The forest, though wounded, is not dead. It waits. It listens. It remembers.

“A womb does not forget the child it carried, even if the world forgets the womb.” —Mongo proverb

To restore the Congo’s sacred womb, we must begin by listening—not to consultants or CEOs, but to the custodians of memory: Indigenous elders, forest prophets, river women, herbalists, griots. In their stories lie geographies of healing. In their rituals lie theologies unbroken by empire. Among the Mbuti and the Baka, trees are not timber—they are kin. Rivers are not resources—they are umbilical cords. The forest is both altar and ancestor, teacher and temple. For these communities, conservation is not an environmental policy—it is an ethical covenant.

Yet their wisdom is too often dismissed by technocrats and theologians alike, treated as folklore rather than epistemology. This is the enduring arrogance of coloniality: the belief that only the West can diagnose, define, and develop. But as Ghanaian philosopher Kwasi Wiredu reminds us, “To decolonize is not merely to resist, but to re-root—to think from the ground where your ancestors bled and prayed.” Africa does not need imported salvation. She needs restored memory.

“The tree remembers the axe that first wounded it.” —Soga proverb

Decolonial theology, then, is not just critique—it is resurrection. It asks: what would it mean to read the Bible with Congolese eyes and listen for the Spirit not only in the sanctuary, but in the soil? What would it mean to see God not as the petroleum provider, but as the rainmaker, the seed-giver, the protector of the sacred grove?

In this decolonial imagining, salvation is not escape from the world but healing within it. Justice is not a courtroom verdict but the return of displaced communities to the forest paths of their ancestors. And hope is not a contract signed in Geneva, but a drumbeat rising from a village council under the moonlight, declaring: tokobatela mboka na biso—we will protect our land.

The way forward demands more than protest. It demands a new covenant—a Jubilee for the earth. This covenant must:

1.[Genesis 2:15; Psalm 24:1; Leviticus 25:23]

To recognize Indigenous sovereignty over ancestral lands is to honor a divine covenant etched before time itself—a covenant that calls humanity not to dominion as conquerors but to stewardship as sacred caretakers. In the garden of Eden, God placed humanity to “work it and take care of it” (Genesis 2:15), a charge that transcends ownership, inviting reverence and responsibility. The psalmist reminds us, “The earth is the Lord’s, and everything in it” (Psalm 24:1), grounding all land claims in the ultimate sovereignty of God. Therefore, Indigenous peoples are not mere stakeholders in economic terms; they are sacred stewards whose deep, ancestral relationship with the land embodies God’s own heartbeat for creation. The land is not a commodity, “for the land is mine” (Leviticus 25:23), says the Lord, “and you reside in my land as foreigners and strangers.” To disrupt this sacred trust is to unsettle the very fabric of creation’s harmony.

2.[Psalm 104:24; Job 12:7-10; Jeremiah 2:7]

To declare oil drilling in ecologically and spiritually significant zones a crime against creation is to echo the lament of the earth itself. The psalmist sings, “How many are your works, Lord! In wisdom you made them all; the earth is full of your creatures” (Psalm 104:24), and Job bids us “ask the animals… or the birds in the sky” to learn from their silent witness (Job 12:7-10). Yet, Jeremiah mourns, “I brought you into a fertile land… But you came and defiled my land” (Jeremiah 2:7), a poignant indictment of greed that scars both earth and spirit. When sacred places are ravaged for profit, the Church and state must stand united, declaring such acts a crime against creation—a desecration that violates God’s sovereign design and the spiritual lifeblood of communities.

3.[Leviticus 25:23-24; Proverbs 12:10; Isaiah 58:11]

To invest in regenerative, community-based economies rooted in local wisdom is to restore the rhythms of life ordained by God. Leviticus proclaims, “The land must not be sold permanently, because the land is mine” (Leviticus 25:23), inviting us to honor the cyclical renewal of creation rather than exploit it. Proverbs affirms, “The righteous care for the needs of their animals” (Proverbs 12:10), reflecting a broader ethic of care for all living things. Isaiah promises, “The Lord will guide you always; he will satisfy your needs in a sun-scorched land and will strengthen your frame” (Isaiah 58:11), inspiring hope for flourishing economies that emerge from the soil of justice and wisdom. Such economies honor medicinal plants, forest tourism, and traditional knowledge—tethered to ancestral roots and embraced in global solidarity.

4.[Romans 12:2; Proverbs 3:5-6; Colossians 1:16-17]

To reform theological education is to open the doors wide for transformation—a renewing of minds that breaks free from colonial patterns and embraces ecological ethics and Indigenous worldviews. Paul’s call resounds, “Do not conform to the pattern of this world, but be transformed by the renewing of your mind” (Romans 12:2), beckoning us toward deeper insight. Proverbs urges us, “Trust in the Lord with all your heart and lean not on your own understanding” (Proverbs 3:5-6), an invitation to humble listening. And in Christ, “all things were created: things in heaven and on earth… all things have been created through him and for him” (Colossians 1:16-17), underscoring the sacred interconnectedness that must shape theological formation. This reformation births a theology that honors earth and peoples alike.

5.[Psalm 96:12-13; Isaiah 35:1-2; Revelation 21:1-5]

To reforest not just the land but the liturgy is to breathe new life into worship itself, allowing the voice of creation to rise in lament and jubilation. The psalmist proclaims, “Let the fields be jubilant, and everything in them; let all the trees of the forest sing for joy” (Psalm 96:12-13), while Isaiah envisions, “The desert and the parched land will be glad; the wilderness will rejoice and blossom” (Isaiah 35:1-2). The promise of Revelation draws the horizon further still: “Then I saw a new heaven and a new earth… He will wipe every tear from their eyes” (Revelation 21:1-5), a vision where creation’s restoration mirrors our spiritual hope. Reimagining liturgy to include these sacred themes invites the Church into a worship that both mourns earth’s wounds and celebrates her resilience—offering a prophetic witness in a wounded world.

“A healed tree gives sweeter fruit than one never wounded.” —Tshiluba proverb

To restore the womb is not to erase the scar—it is to bless it. To anoint the oil not as fuel for empire, but as balm for the broken. And perhaps, if we learn again to pray with the forest, to sing with the rivers, to mourn with the mountains, then the Congo will not be remembered as the heart of darkness—but as the cradle of a new dawn.

Conclusion: A Lament, A Litany, A Last Warning

The Congo weeps. And her weeping is a liturgy—a psalm without words, composed in the language of rustling leaves, cracked riverbeds, and silent altars. Her lament is not merely for what has been lost, but for what we are still willing to lose. In the oil-slicked silence of state halls and church pews, in the gold-rimmed contracts and the bulldozers that follow them, a slow apocalypse unfolds—not only of species and soil, but of soul.

“When a child is sold for a coin, it is not only the mother who grieves—it is the whole village that is cursed.” —Lugbara proverb

This is not simply a Congolese tragedy—it is a mirror for us all. For every forest desecrated in the name of development, there is a cathedral built on compromise. For every gorilla lost, a page torn from the book of life. For every river poisoned, a baptism turned bitter. And for every prophet silenced, a warning unheard.

The litany rises, aching and unrelenting:

For the trees felled with no libation poured,

For the children of Ituri born coughing blood,

For the elders displaced from the graves they once guarded,

For the oil that will light no lamps in the homes of the poor,

For the pastors who blessed bulldozers with oily hands,

For the ancestors whose names we no longer speak,

For the waters that remember every injustice—

Lord, have mercy.

“The drum that sounds in the night is not always calling dancers—it may be warning the dead.” —Lomwe proverb

And so, we offer this inquiry not as an academic conclusion, but as a theological alarm. The oil beneath the Congo is not cursed, but the hands that defile it without reverence risk unleashing curses they cannot contain. The Church must repent. The state must reckon. The world must rethink what it means to profit at the expense of paradise.

But all is not lost. The set apart is resilient. Even in Virunga, new seedlings stretch skyward. Even in poisoned rivers, catfish still fight to breathe. Even in displaced communities, stories are told by firelight—of a day when justice will run like a mighty river and the forest will be healed not by machines, but by memory, prayer, and song.

“A wound that sings is already healing.” —Kikuyu proverb

I say the Church should sing again—not for empire, but for Eden. Then theology must descend from towers and kneel beside uprooted stumps. Let every prophet rise, every pulpit roar, every villager dance beneath trees uncut. For the forest has spoken. And the Spirit still broods over the deep, still calls us back to the garden—before it is paved over, once and for all.