Fr John Tatah – who has served in parishes in Lanarkshire – was abducted along with another priest, as they walked home from mass earlier this month.

Four other priests and a lay person were also captured when they tried to negotiate with the gunmen, believed to be armed separatists and who are demanding money.

All but Father Tatah were released a week ago.

Speaking from Cameroon, Archbishop Andrew Nkea said: “The captors have demanded a ransom but we have made our position clear that the church never gives ransoms.

“The frequent kidnapping of our priests and mission personnel has pushed us to the wall and we say this should stop with immediate effect.

Many lay people have suffered from kidnappings, torture and violence within the Archdiocese of Bamenda.

“These people need to live in tranquility and peace.”

The archbishop says church institutions must close until further notice because security cannot be guaranteed.

He added: “If by Friday, November 28, Fr John is still in captivity, the archbishop, priests, nuns and members of the lay faithful will march to the place where he is being held and either bring him home or remain there until he is released.”

Now Bishop Joseph Toal of Motherwell Diocese is leading prayers for him.

Bishop Toal’s office said: “Fr John is well known in Motherwell Diocese, having supplied in several parishes.

“The bishop asks for prayers for his safe release.

“We pray for all people suffering because of war and violence, and especially those who do so because of their Christian faith.”

Culled from the Scottish Sun

Before we delve into Bernard Fonlon’s luminous vision for the Cameroonian priesthood, it is fitting to pause and contemplate the man himself, a soul of rare brilliance and noble bearing, whom I dare to call the greatest Cameroonian ever to have lived. He was born in the quiet obscurity of Ndzeng, a modest village cradled in the verdant hills of the Nso Kingdom, yet from those humble origins emerged a mind destined for greatness and a heart forged in the fire of faith. Bright, contemplative, disciplined, and humbly resolute, the young Fonlon believed his path was to serve God at the altar. This conviction led him to Bigard Memorial Seminary in Onitsha, Nigeria, one of the most esteemed houses of formation in West Africa. But God, in His mysterious providence, charted a different course. He was asked to leave the seminary, a decision that pierced him deeply. And yet, Fonlon responded not with rebellion or resentment, but with an extraordinary serenity of soul. As his close friend, the late Archbishop Paul Verdzekov, tenderly observed, Fonlon left the seminary without rancor, his heart unburdened by bitterness.[i] He accepted the will of his superiors with the obedience of a saint and the poise of a philosopher, entrusting his future not to chance, but to God’s inscrutable wisdom.

This moment of trial did not break him; it revealed him. On Friday, November 27, 1953, he recorded in his diary reflections so profound and searing in their sincerity that they deserve to be read by every priest, seminarian, and soul longing to discern God’s call. It is a passage carved from the heart of a man who, though never ordained, lived and breathed the priesthood in its highest essence, as a life wholly given to truth, to virtue, and the service of humanity. I wish now to share, in its entirety, that sacred entry, a spiritual jewel in the diary of a modern prophet:

“The things that are happening to me, at present, are making one idea clear and clear to my mind, from day to day: the immense value of humiliation. A man left to himself, with everything as his heart desires, with success whenever he puts his hand, will end up in pride as surely as a bubble swells and rises, and rises but to burst; for, when a man gets drunk with a sense of his own importance, his fall is inevitable; and the higher he has risen, the greater the force with which he comes crashing to the ground.

Humiliation brings you down on your knees, brings you back to yourself, and deflates you like men deflate a balloon: you see your own misery, it dawns upon you that you are nothing; and, if you respond to the touch of grace, and wonder under your humiliation in silence and gratitude, it is then you will hear the voice of God.

I see it plain today, humility is a great virtue, humiliation a great blessing, and no man can get anywhere on earth except he is prepared to lie, yes, beneath the very dust on which men trample; except he is prepared for those situations, when your head is low in innocent shame and you feel despicable even in your own eyes.

            Thorough humility is my goal from today: and from its steadfast pursuit, there shall be no turning back. I do not pray that the gall of my humiliations should be sweetened in the least; nor do I pray that the cup be taken from the lips lest it is drained to the dregs. I only beg of God to keep me far, far from that humiliation which comes through sin, when a man has become so blind, in his pride, that nothing but the shame of a great moral collapse or catastrophe can open his eyes.

Moved by these thoughts, I submit myself whole-heartedly to my present lot. Indeed, it is with sentiments of deep gratitude that I do so. For I am positive that the day will come when, seeing the good it shall have done to me, I will feel like dancing in the very street, that I had the experience I am going through today. And being so certain of this, I hasten to give thanks in the very throes of my agony; I hasten to give thanks to God before the benefits arrive.

As said elsewhere, in this diary, to become a writer is one of the clearest wishes of my heart; and now with the priesthood all but lost and gone, writing is the only ambition that is left. I have learnt, from history, that they will best who have suffered most. And I am inclined to believe that the things that I am passing through, today, are one of God’s mysterious ways of preparing me for that career, for now I see that it is by suffering and sorrow that we can acquire that power of emotion, and feeling, and compassion, so essential to effective writing. I see God wants to purify my life through deep humiliations and I submit to the buffeting.”[ii]

Indeed, God was preparing Bernard Fonlon for a far-reaching and luminous mission, not as a priest at the altar, but as a professor, statesman, and true philosopher of the soul. History would come to know him as the Socrates of Cameroon, a man whose words carried weight not just for their eloquence, but for the moral force behind them.

Though he left the seminary, he never strayed from the ideals he had once embraced within its hallowed walls. His diary contains entries that read like commandments etched upon the tablets of his heart. He called them his “Laws”, sacred principles by which he vowed to live. They were: The Law of Truth, the Law of Non-violence, the Law of Selfless Love, the Law of Silence, the Law of Simplicity, Detachment, and Discipline, the Law of Submission, the Law of Work, the Law of Fearlessness, the Law of Kindness, the Law of Self-Effacement. These were not abstract ideals. They were the living pulse of his conscience, and he sought to embody them in every thought, every word, every public action.

In a nation and indeed, in a continent too often wounded by pride, corruption, and the cult of power, Fonlon stood as a living antithesis: a man of rare humility, moral fortitude, and incorruptible integrity. He served as a minister without arrogance, a politician without guile, an intellectual without vanity. To the end, he remained faithful to the vow he once made in silence: “It is my ambition to live the life of a simple man.”[iii] And so, he died, a simple man, but one whose life was immensely consequential. Among the many tributes that poured forth upon his passing, one came from his dear friend, Richard Bjornson of Ohio State University, who wrote of him with a reverence reserved for saints and sages:

“In some ways, the very fact that he died in semi-obscurity is symbolically appropriate, for despite the accomplishments of his life, Fonlon was a humble man, who never really sought the limelight. As others gained fame and notoriety, he laboured patiently and effectively, as a government minister, as the editor of an impressive cultural journal, and as a teacher, to realize the lofty ideals he had set for himself. He always defended the highest standards of excellence, and unlike many of his successful countrymen, he was never interested in amassing a personal fortune. In fact, he became an almost legendary exemplar of integrity and the modest lifestyle in a country where conspicuous consumption is commonly regarded as a prerequisite of success.”[iv]

            Having painted the portrait of this saintly figure, I now return to the heart of his legacy, his prophetic vision for the priesthood in Cameroon. Though his own path to the altar was interrupted, Bernard Fonlon’s reverence for the Catholic priesthood never waned. As his close friend, Archbishop Paul Verdzekov, movingly observed, his dismissal from the seminary in no way diminished his deep attachment to the ideals of the Catholic priesthood for which he had consecrated the formative years of his youth.[v]

When he heard of the establishment of the lone Regional Major Seminary for Anglophone Cameroon, Fonlon was filled with joy. Ever the passionate thinker and faithful son of the Church, he took up his pen and composed a powerful Open Letter to the bishops of the Bamenda Ecclesiastical Province. In it, he outlined what he considered to be the two indispensable pillars of priestly formation in Cameroon: saintliness and learning. These two qualities, holiness and intellectual depth, form the axis of Fonlon’s vision for the priesthood. It is precisely on these that I would now like to dwell more deeply, as I reflect on his enduring legacy and how it continues to speak urgently and powerfully to the Cameroonian clergy of today.

Bernard Fonlon argued passionately and prophetically in his Open Letter that the Cameroonian priest must be a man steeped in holiness of life. For him, sanctity was not a decorative virtue, a pious accessory worn on Sundays and discarded on weekdays; it was the bedrock of priestly identity, the very core from which all authentic ministry must flow. His personal diary unveils the inner world of a man deeply convinced that holiness is a discipline, not a spontaneous emotional state, but a deliberate, hard-won pursuit, forged in the crucible of sacrifice. For Fonlon, discipline and poverty were not constraints but sacred instruments: gateways to freedom, the very conditions necessary for a priest to be truly himself before God and his people. That is why, in one of the most stirring declarations of the Open Letter, he wrote:

“In a world that is rank and rotten with materialism, where hedonism is the principal philosophy, where luxury is the summum bonum, there is a crying need for dedicated souls who would go the other extreme and espouse the spirit of genuine religion, the spirit of poverty, the spirit of austere abstemiousness, in order to wage war against the onslaught of materialist godlessness. For this, one thing is absolutely necessary, Discipline: discipline of the mind, discipline of the heart, discipline of the will; discipline not imposed from without by fear, but a free and willing discipline, welling from within, stemming from deep and unshakable convictions.” Fonlon believed that the priest must embody the countercultural witness of holiness to be a faithful minister of the Gospel. He must live in such a way that his very presence becomes a rebuke to the spirit of the age, a beacon in a world darkened by the cult of self and the seduction of comfort. In this, Fonlon’s vision harmonizes beautifully with that of G.K. Chesterton, who once wrote: “A saint is a medicine because he is an antidote. Indeed, that is why the saint is often a martyr; he is mistaken for a poison because he is an antidote. He will generally be found restoring the world to sanity by exaggerating whatever the world neglects. . . . Yet each generation seeks its saint by instinct, and he is not what the people want, but rather what they need.”[vi] And who does this age of mammon need? Who stands as the most piercing contradiction to our times, where wealth is hoarded like a god and success is measured by the weight of gold rather than the depth of the soul? It needs a priest who embodies the virtues of the revolutionary St Francis of Assisi to rebuke the world by opting for a radical opposite of what the world embraces. He again wrote: “If the world grows too worldly, it can be rebuked by the Church; but if the Church grows too worldly, it cannot be adequately rebuked for worldliness by the world. Therefore, it is a paradox of history that each generation is converted by the saint that contradicts it most.” [vii]

To grasp the weight of Bernard Fonlon’s call for a holy priesthood, one must first descend into the aching heart of Cameroonian society, a land once adorned with promise, now gasping beneath the rubble of its own broken dreams. Ours is a bruised and bleeding nation, lying prostrate by the roadside of history, like the wounded man in the Gospel of Luke, waiting in vain for a Good Samaritan who never seems to come. The trauma runs deep, like roots twisted into the soul of the land. Cameroon, unfortunately, has offered its soul on the altar of Mammon, bartering away its conscience for gold that rusts and power that devours. Greed is no longer a vice; it is a much sort after virtue. Corruption no longer hides in shadows; it dances openly in the streets. It is a god, enthroned not in shrines but in ministries, market squares, and homes, whispering to the heart of every Cameroonian: “Take what you can, while you can.” On all the streets of the towns and villages of our country, the song is the same: money first, morals later. From the roadside policeman extorting the struggling driver, to the government worker delaying service until “motivation” is received, to the judge whose gavel bows to the highest bidder, everything is up for sale, even human dignity.

The tragedy is not just that corruption reigns; it is that it has become our national catechism, repeated in classrooms, offices, and homes. No longer whispered in shame, it is preached with pride. The people cry out against it, but many have also bought into it, victims and perpetrators in a wretched dance of complicity. What remains of the seventh, eighth, and tenth commandments in a land where theft is considered wisdom, lies are seen as survival, and covetousness is celebrated as ambition? We organize parties to celebrate the fact that we bribed our way into a “famed” institution. We offer Masses of thanksgiving for a job we bought with money, denying the poor and qualified people a chance to excel and earn an income in a field where they are competent. The only virtue in Cameroon is mediocrity. The moral will to resist has been bled dry. The rule of law, a crumbling pillar, too feeble to hold the weight of justice. The courtrooms no longer defend the weak; they auction off their cries to the rich. The poor man’s voice does not echo, it is swallowed by the iron walls of bureaucracy. And so the people live like exiles in their own land, slaves to a system that protects only the powerful. And so, they say to themselves: “If we cannot beat the system, why not join it?” After all, what is there to gain by obeying the law, by clinging to honesty in a land where dishonesty is rewarded, and integrity is punished? And thus, little by little, the entire nation slides into the abyss of moral chaos, a society unmoored, where vice becomes virtue and truth is bartered for survival.

Cameroon has become a moral desert, where the only law is the survival of the strongest, and the only ethic is: get ahead or be buried. In this harsh terrain, the heart grows cold and callous. The bus driver speeds past death itself for a few more francs. The patient dies at the hospital gate while the nurse waits for “something to drink.” The teacher sells grades. The pastor sells miracles. The politician sells the nation. We lie without flinching. We cheat without shame. Every encounter becomes a negotiation of power and self-interest, a masked battle of who will exploit whom first. Trust is dead; truth is expensive and holiness is laughed at. And in this din of moral decay, those who still speak for truth are hunted with quiet violence, fired, silenced, disappeared. Their fall is meant to be a warning: “Do not dream aloud. Do not stand too tall.” We have become a people afraid of virtue, allergic to light, drunk on shadows, and contented with darkness.

This is the society the Cameroonian priest enters, not with naive hope, but with eyes wide open. It is a field of bones, and he must choose: to speak life or be buried in silence. He must not merely survive this whirlwind; he must stand against it, like an oak refusing to bow to the storm. For the priest who dares to remain holy in Cameroon must be like St. John Mary Vianney in Ars, a man who, by sheer sanctity, turned a hardened village into a haven of grace. Fonlon believed with all his soul that this is what the Cameroonian priest must become: a man of God so rooted in virtue that his presence disturbs the comfortable and comforts the disturbed. He must be vigilant, for corruption seeps not like a flood, but like dry-season dust, settling slowly and imperceptibly on the furniture of the soul. And before long, the priest may find himself buried in grime he no longer recognizes.

The only way to resist this creeping erosion is with holiness-hard, disciplined, radiant holiness-not the kind that preaches but the kind that bleeds. The type that confronts power not with shouting but with silence. The kind that shows what it means to give without cost in a society of sellers. Fonlon knew that such priests could save a nation. And we must believe it too, before the dust of this long dry season swallows us whole.

As Cameroonian priests, we have many reasons to feel discouraged, to feel the weight of sorrow pressing upon our souls, especially when we contemplate the long and tragic litany of our martyred brethren, whose blood has soaked the very soil of this nation. Priests and religious, torn from their mission with brutal cruelty, because they dared to raise their voices against the god of power, greed, and Mammon, who has built his shrine upon our land. Yet their blood is not shed in vain. Like the ancient martyrs of the Church, their sacrifice is a seed of resurrection, a crimson cry not of vengeance, but of hope. It urges us not to fall into despair, but to rise into holiness, to embrace the costly sanctity that alone can redeem and revive our society. Let us remember their names with reverence and trembling: Bishop Jean-Marie Mballa, Engelbert Mveng, Yves Plumey, Anthony Fontegh, Appollinaire Claude Ndi, Alexandre Sop, Xavier François Bikong, Albert Njama, Christophe Komla, Ola Bebe, Martin Bikoa, Joseph Mbassi, and so many more, martyrs of truth, whose witness pierces the silence of our comfort.

The holiness we are called to is not cheap. It is a holiness marked by the shadow of the Cross, by the readiness to suffer, to lose everything, even life itself, for the sake of the Gospel. When we lie prostrate before the altar at ordination, we do not merely kneel before the Church; we surrender ourselves even unto death. We must ask ourselves: Has the priesthood grown too comfortable? Are we still willing to disturb the silence of injustice? Are we still challenging ourselves, as men set apart to bear witness? These are not rhetorical questions; they must haunt our prayer, our preaching, and our posture before the people. That is why the priesthood in our beloved Cameroon must be embraced not as a profession, but as a spiritual adventure, a pilgrimage of the soul. For, as Georges Bernanos profoundly observed, “All spiritual adventures are martyrdoms.”[viii] And truly, the Cameroonian priest walks through a world refined in cruelty, sophisticated in every form of wickedness. He must absorb that wickedness, confront it face-to-face, and yet bear no trace of it.[ix] Like Christ, he becomes a lamb among wolves, bleeding silently, so that others might live.

We must never forget Baba Simon, that holy missionary who, in the plains of northern Cameroon, chose the poverty of the people as his own, lived among them, suffered with them, and radiated the quiet light of sanctity. His presence, like a hidden flame, still warms the conscience of this nation, reminding us of what the priesthood truly means. We need this holiness now more than ever, a costly holiness, a martyrdom of presence. We must entrust ourselves daily to prayer, asking the Holy Spirit for the gift of courage and fortitude so that we may walk where the martyrs walked and shine where darkness seeks to reign. Only holiness can heal this land. Bernard Fonlon saw this; he knew this, so he emphasized saintliness. And saints, as Remy Rougeau notes in his introductory note to Diary of a Country Priest, have a challenging position in society because they are ambassadors of truth in a world of illusion.[x]

The second quality Bernard Fonlon demanded of the Cameroonian priest was learning. A man of books himself, Fonlon was a scholar whose intellectual models included St. John Henry Newman, Thomas Aquinas, and Plato. In his legendary Open Letter to the Bishops, he proposed that the motto of the seminary regarding philosophical and theological studies should be captured in a single word: “Thorough.” No room, he insisted, should be given to superficiality.

Fonlon rejected the model of the priest as merely a curé de campagne, a well-meaning but unlettered country cleric. What he envisioned was a learned man, one who pursued study not as a pedestal for pride but as a tool for mission. How can a priest lift his people out of ignorance if he himself is ignorant? How can he guide his flock through the storms of modernity without the compass of intellectual clarity? Like St. John Henry Newman, Fonlon understood that the priest must first be grounded in philosophy and social realities before attempting to engage them theologically. He knew that without such grounding, the Church would be ill-equipped to respond to the moral, social, and educational challenges of our day.

A priest in Cameroon remains a moral point of reference. He is looked upon as a teacher, a guide, and a father, not only in matters of faith but in all that touches the human condition. Therefore, there should never be a false divide between sanctity and scholarship. Holiness does not mean fleeing from study, nor does study take one away from the people. Even in the most remote villages, the priest must remain a doctor of souls and the intellect. Think of the monumental work done by priests across our continent. Fr. Placide Tempels labored to systematize African philosophy, laying the groundwork for deep and lasting engagement with African thought. Or those missionary priests who documented our oral traditions, translated Scripture into local languages, and doubled as doctors, engineers, anthropologists, living out St. Paul’s words: “I have become all things to all men.” In Cameroon, we can recall the towering intellects who married priesthood and study: Engelbert Mveng, Jean-Marc Ela, Jean-Robert Bulaga, Humphrey Tata, and many others. Their voices, steeped in both prayer and rigorous thought, still echo through our seminaries, universities, and hearts.

To be great evangelizers, we must first be students of the human spirit. We must know the spirit of the age, understand the errors of the past, and propose a path forward. None of this is possible without disciplined study. Fonlon understood this, which is why he believed that the renewal of our society begins not with political revolutions but with the intellectual and moral awakening of the priesthood. Would it not be an excellent practice if priests were to read at least one good book every three weeks? Not for display, but for the quiet formation of the mind and soul. Every page we turn becomes a brick in the invisible cathedral of our vocation.

Fonlon’s vision to shape priests who are both saints and scholars remains one of the most potent roadmaps for renewal in our ministry and in our nation. We cannot give what we do not have. But if we take his counsel to heart, we will lose nothing and gain everything. May this luminary of our land, now on the path to sainthood, continue to inspire a generation of priests who lead by example and wisdom.

By Fr Denis Tameh, JCL