Hayestack

Mary came for us in her old, battered, dusty, red car. She was a self-confessed missionary with  Inland Africa Mission.  Looking for all the world like everyone’s maiden aunt, she inspected our clothes. Good, I was wearing long trousers (God doesn’t like shorts, apparently) and stout shoes. We may have to trek halfway across Namibia. When she looked at Georgina’s clothes she frowned. This, in fact was the same look our children give when they disapprove of her choice of garment. Though her skirt descended well below the knee (Georgina’s knees have not seen daylight since circa 1975), Mary thought this might offend the elders. Maybe Linda had a cloth…..? Linda didn’t. Georgina would have to do. When women greet men they are supposed to give a little “bob” (curtsy) and offer their arm, not their hand.

As we drove along wondering what sort of National Socialist Rally we would be attending, Mary attempted to assuage our fears by explaining that the elders considered themselves as important men and we should respect them. I was a little skeptical about this but decided to go along with it in the meantime.

In the event our concerns were ill-founded. No-one frowned at Georgina’s calf muscles (mighty fine, I should add) and all seemed happy that we were there. The elders seemed good, if somewhat misguided men.

The church was built in a complex of traditional mud huts and made of traditional breeze blocks and corrugated iron. It looked like somewhere you would keep the cows. By co-incidence Mary said, “They do a wonderful nativity at Christmas”. I looked around at this pseudo cowshed. “Very realistic,” I thought. They had started laying a concrete floor but had only done a quarter before the money ran out. I thought the sandy floor was preferable. There is enough concrete in the world already.

This was Africa in the raw. Mary had explained that the service would commence once sufficient people were there. So no-one knew the exact time of the service. But if you were late you were in big trouble. A large pit had been dug at the entrance of the church. Maybe this was for latecomers?

Fortunately, we arrived just before the choir processed in. They looked very smart in grey skirts/trousers, white blouses/shirts, and red hats/ties. They swayed and they swaggered in true African style. The African drumming was superb. We had brought our own picnic chairs and were surrounded by mothers and little children who looked at us as though we were from out of space. They were mostly refugees from Angola and I’m still not sure what language they were speaking . Fortunately, the proceedings were translated by Zac, who appeared to have the Holy Spirit about him. (It transpired he was a student at the local Bible Seminary and was someone I would trust).

The Psalm 117 was read:

Praise the Lord, all you nations;

Extol you all you peoples.

For great is his love towards us,

And the faithfulness of the Lord endures for ever.

I looked up at the translator. He seemed to be looking directly at me. I glanced behind to make sure. The acoustics were such that I could hardly make out what he was saying. I heard the words, “new”, “friend” “thanks” “psalm”. There was silence. I looked at Georgina. What was i supposed to do? “ You have to stand up and give thanks for the psalm,” she urged. I stood up. At least they give you 30 second warning at EFCC, “ I thought. I babbled something, no doubt incoherent, and was answered by a resounding “amen” in unison. Everyone seemed happy.

A second choir began to sing. They, too, stood with their backs to the congregation, so all you could see were synchronised posteriors swaying to the rhythm of the music. The effect, I have to admit, was strangely unnerving. Then the young men from the first choir stood up. This was a warriors’ song and I could picture the spears in their hands. For all I knew they could have been singing about frilly underwear, but when they had finished I wanted to go hunt impala with them. The ladies choir stood up. This was turning into an eisteddfod. They shuffled their feet in the sand in time to the music and the effect was mesmerising. These were women scrubbing their clothes on the river bank, their song very reminiscent of the work songs of the Outer Hebrides. Though technically not the best choir there, they would have got my vote for the foot shuffle alone.

One of the deacons gave the sermon. “You have to be born again” he kept repeating, becoming louder each time. This was looking hopeful. “To be born again is to be merciful to the whole world,” and he demonstrated this by sweeping his arms wide apart. He stared at us in silence. Was he expecting a reply? He didn’t get one, so he started again. “To be born again is to do good works.” Again he stopped. “Faith without works is nothing.” My cynical mind momentarily wondered if he were building up to asking someone to do his laundry. That washing song may have had something to do with it and he was addressing a lot of his remarks to the ladies.

I had the impression that in a valiant attempt to hit the bulls eye he had missed the target altogether. He carried on in like vein and lost a lot of arrows. But what he lacked in theology he made up for in fervour. He confronted the ladies choir and I heard the word “condemnation”. They quaked in their shoes but did not reply. Maybe, like me, they just did not understand the question? The main minister stood up at the end and added his own thoughts about being born again, but, by now my brain was so addled that a child of six reciting nursery rhymes would not have made sense. The church with its corrugated iron roof was one giant oven, the temperature of which had been increasing the three hours since morning. I was now medium rare. By the end of the service I would be done to a crisp. The temperature was not lost on the minister. “You can feel the heat of the sun on this corrugated roof. Imagine how much hotter it will be in the bowels of hell.” He, no doubt, was assuming this was to be our ultimate destination.

After the service we shook hands with some of the members.

“Oops, I keep forgetting to curtsey,” said Georgina.

“You curtsey to anyone and I’ll disown you” I replied.

My mind went back to our visit to the ELCIN church the previous week, so different and yet so similar. Both were run by good and sincere people but I wanted more. I wanted to listen to listen to someone like Rich at the Epping Forest Community Church who knew God in his heart, would expound the whole Gospel and reveal the true glory of God.

It’s an old adage, I know, but nevertheless true, that you can search the whole world for something only to discover you had it at home all the time. I’m going to stop there before this over-sentimentality makes me want to vom……..oops, too late. B-R-E-N-D-A……..!!!! Where is our cleaner?

Tags: Brenda, church | 101 views

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