Muzungu Goes to Church

Posted on May 3rd, 2010 under Rwanda

Gahini, Rwanda

My timing for coming to Rwanda has been good for some and bad for others. Yesterday, my timing could not have been better for the Anglican Students Union. Some students of the Rukara College of Education organized a dual church service, one in Kinya-rwanda, and the other in English. I was invited along with some other mezungus to attend this first service. We accepted gladly and were gladly accepted.

Sunday morning, John (a US missionary) and I walked up the hill to the archdeacon’s home to wait for a ride. The archdeacon, a stocky dark-black man with a smooth shaved head and rasp voice was talking on his cell phone as we came through his gate. He was trying to buy gasoline from a friend down the road for the van. A morning rain came the moment we set foot on his porch, then stopped moments before stepping off.

Eighteen of us filled a van with makeshift seating and drove to the college. Before going on, I should say, this college would not fit the image of an American college. It is a series of red-orange brick and black mortar buildings, each one story, some with only one room, all-sitting around a red-dirt courtyard. A few other buildings laid further back but all-in-all that was it and the students were obviously proud of it, despite the fact that it is not even a credited college. This was the place for church.

Banana trees marked the doorway to one of the one-room buildings where the service was held. Someone told me banana trees are planted as signs of welcoming, marking the way to go. When students graduate they are strapped along roads, or on weddings they make way for the newlyweds. As a foreigner who stands out in every way and speaks no Kinya-rwanda I can say it is good to know I am welcomed.

Bit by bit the classroom filled. School desks for seating, benches for the four different choirs, and 6’ 3” ceiling, it is easy to imagine it felt somewhat crowded. It was great. Eventually the room filled so Rwandans began crowding the windows from outside. (The window behind me filled with children. They were a cute silly mob of gigglers. I could feel their eyes for the four hours I was there.) Now, even though I was a guest and had only heard of this place yesterday, I found myself being ushered to the front. We whiteys were recognized guests. We speak English, after all.

The beginning of the service: my favorite part. Some 5’ 6” man with a subtle goatee wearing a fly-fishing vest over a polo-shirt walked into the open space between the choirs and the congregation. He lifted up a microphone and sung out a one-liner of worship. The congregation sang back. Again he calls. Again they respond. Two keyboardists jump right into that bright African beat you would expect and this worship leader wasted no more time. He was bouncing up and down the instant he was given a beat. Men and women broke from their seats and filled the floor. He calls. We respond. We clap. He dances. More come to dance their own jovial dance. More start to jump. I saw no reservations. This is how it is done. The adults hopped from foot to foot and raised their arms. Kids did the same. Grownups dance like kids. Kids dance like Grownups. The man cried, “Hallelujah!” and we’d cry it back. This is how worship is done. The congregation was mixed with the leader and those who were still at their seats clapped and waved hands.

At some moment during this I the worship leader popped out near the edge of the mix. Arms jutting to and from his shoulders, I saw two stark spots of white on this man: round gladdened eyes and his teeth spread in a smile wider than his eyes. This struck me in an odd way but it was when I noticed drops of sweat covering his baldhead dripping over these eyes and this smile, my eyes were gladdened and filled with tears. Where did that come from? I was shocked. I was sabotaged. I was excited.

The archdeacon was no different. He used every inch of the floor to give his sermon. I did not understand any of it. (Apparently, this was the initiation and announcement of an English service; bits of it were in English today but not many. Next week was the real thing. No matter.) His deep raspy voice and dark black body covered in a bleached white robe strode across the floor. His finger poking the air. The congregation laughs at something all of a sudden. (Sure, I don’t know at what but I laugh anyway.) About an hour into the sermon I notice the archdeacon is mentioning us in his sermon. “Something something something [then pointing at us] meh-zoon-goos…” Now this was something to laugh at: even the archdeacon is calling us whiteys in his sermon. One of the few times he paused to let us know what he was talking about to the rest of the congregation, he let us know he mentioned our kinship to everyone else. In Christ there is neither Jew nor Gentile, Mezungus nor Rwandans.

After some more songs, testimonies and announcements the service was over. Four hours. It was two o’clock and I still had not eaten since yesterday. Lo and behold, their hospitality had not failed. We were sat at the front of the classroom at a long table and served lunch. The pastors and deacon sat at another long table and some others from the congregation sat at the desks. I ate lunch while talking to the principal and the president of the Anglican Students Union. Friendliness and kindness ensued. A mini-photo shoot with them, the pastors and archdeacon, then back into the van.

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