Hayestack

The English service at the ELCIN Church begins at 7am or sometime thereafter. Linda, Georgina and I arrived at 7am with Nico and Margaarith in their Toyota 4 by 4. Nico and Margaarith are an elderly, Dutch couple who have finished one 2 year stint with VSO and have extended for a further 18 months. Nico is a biologist and can tell you which snakes and spiders are poisonous. This can be useful to some but not so much to people like me who work on the principle that all snakes and spiders are poisonous. This is akin to the HIV principle of “If in doubt don’t do it”. I am very abstemious when it comes to snakes and spiders, and dogs, if it comes to that.

Once in the church Nico took out his organ and erected it facing the pews in the chancel. Nico is big in the church and without his organ the congregation would have to sing “a capella” (without hats). We sit on one of the pews at the front. There are a handful of people behind us.

“Don’t worry,” Margaarith reassures me,” the pews will be full once we start”. She is either over optimistic or believes in miracles.

The church was as empty and as reverberant as a large warehouse. We faced a huge mural painted in bold colours seemingly executed by a class of above averagely artistic 9 year olds, telling the gospel from Adam and Eve to the Resurrection. One stood amazed how the whole Bible could be condensed onto one wall.

A face appeared at the doorway at the front of the church. Then the rest of a man emerged. H e was tall, thin and wore a black coat that nearly touched his toes. The most astounding part of his wardrobe, however, was his long, white shoes. He looked like a vampire who had been to a disco all night. He shrugged his shoulders and Margaarith nodded as if giving her approval that it was safe to start. The acoustics of the building were such that they succeeded in mixing all the ministers’ words into one incomprehensible blur. The words that stood more chance of being understood occurred at the beginning of sentence since the minister’s voice trailed off at the end allowing his words to escape and evaporate towards the roof. This was accompanied with much gesticulation as if signing to crazy deaf people at the back of the church. Nico warmed up his organ and we had a hymn. I think it was in Africaans as it looked like dyslexic German (or even Dutch), but I wasn’t sure. At any rate, I contorted my mouth into all sorts of impossible shapes to try and approximate the sound, if not the meaning. I could have been singing the telephone directory for all I knew except that I recognised the word “God” mentioned twice so it may have been the telephone directory for the Vatican.

The acoustics deceived me into thinking that only Margaarith and I were singing. It was then that I had an unusual feeling of being watched. I glanced behind and, to my astonishment, saw that the church was packed behind me. They stood stock still and made no sound. The effect was eerie. Some responses followed and, for a moment, I was back in an English Parish Church, except the sun was shining outside.

We sang a song in the local language, Rutwangalli. Still no-one sang. It later transpired that it was in the wrong local language.

“These hymns are rubbish”, Margaarith suddenly announced in disgust. I had to agree. “Who chose them?” I asked. “I did,” she replied. I had to admire her candour. “They wouldn’t sing them in Holland,” she continued. “Especially if they’re in Rutwangali,” I thought but kept it to myself.

The Old Testament and Gospels were read. Then came the best song, the words of which show a distinctly Calvinist influence. I was so delighted here are the first 2 verses:

Work, for the night is coming,

Work through the morning hours.

Work while the dew is sparking (sic),

Work ‘mid the springing flowers.

Work when the days grow brighter,

Work in the glowing sun,

Work for the night is coming,

When man’s work is done.

Work for the night is coming,

Work through the sunny noon

Fill brightest hours with labour

Rest cones sure and soon.

Give every flying minute

Something to keep in store,

Work for the night is coming,

When man works no more.

One particularly intriguing line occurred in the fourth verse. We were exhorted to:

Work for daylight flies.

This was a new concept for me as my predilection is to swat them, night-time ones, too, if it came to that. I, for one was exhausted after all that work.

At last some meat. It was time for the sermon. I assumed the most comfortable posture possible on that hard, wooden pew and waited expectantly. Would it be 15 minutes, 30, an hour? An hour might be a bit much when we could only make out one word in ten, so we prayed for 15. Our prayers were answered and in abundance. The minister stopped at three. Alleluia.

“He hasn’t prepared anything this week”, Margaarith whispered in my ear.

“You surprise me”, I thought, joyfully.

“The worst one yet,” was the general consensus in the car afterwards. It was pretty dire, I had to admit, though hugely amusing. What I could not poke fun at, however, was the sincerity and hard work of those struggling against great odds to make their worship meaningful. The mountain they had to climb, however, seemed truly daunting. If nothing else it would be a testament to Man’s persistence against impossible odds. Their main handicap it seemed to me was a complete lack of spiritual leadership. I have been only once to this church so my judgement may be a little hasty and unfair. The minister seemed nice enough and well-meaning. But there lurks in the back of my mind the uncharitable suspicion that he had been the seminary cleaner when the degrees had been given out and he somehow joined the wrong queue. This, it was pointed out to me, could not have been true as the church had not been cleaned for weeks. May God forgive me.

Tags: church

This entry was posted on Saturday, October 4th, 2008 at 1:56 pm and is filed under Namibia. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.