On my first Sunday in a Malawian village, I attended church with my abambo for the cultural experience. While there were things I found interesting (e.g. men and women sit in different sections), I spent most of the time waiting for it to be over. I felt awkward about how many times they called people up for the offering when I gave my only bill the first time, and I don't know why I did not foresee that the service would be three hours and all in Chichewa. For the next 15 weeks or so, I decided to avoid a rerun of the experience.
But last weekend, when my neighbors asked me to join them for church on Sunday, and I really had nothing better to do, I decided to go just to make the day go by. I figured it might be interesting to see how another denomination was different. And boy was it interesting.
At 9:05 the three of us walk into Charismatic Church. It is a dusty one-room building with two chairs at the end for the preacher and his wife, and tarps on the floor for the congregation. I am amused by the large sign in the back reading, "WELCOME ALL VISITORs." In typical Malawian style, they clearly did not measure out the lettering before hand. I'm glad, however, that they had the foresight to leave as many open windows on the side of this brick and tin building as possible, because its going to be a hot day. There are around ten other people present when we arrive, and I am warmly (but without too much ado) greeted by the couple in the chairs. We remove our shoes and join the women on the floor on the right side of the room. There is only one man besides the pastor and the worship leader, so he sits alone on the other side. Eventually both sides of the room fill up as amayis come and bring their little boys and girls.
The service begins with a call and response (led by a man wearing gold shoes and jeans that clearly belonged to a tall preteen girl in their previous life). "Alleluia!" "AMEN!" "Alleluia!" "AMEN!" "Up,up Jesus!" "UP, UP JESUS!" "Down, down devil!" "DOWN, DOWN DEVIL!" And so on. Then it is time for dancing. We sing (or hum in my case since I don't know the words) and move the beat of the drum. It is the restrained dancing I have come to expect in Malawi, but as far as the young church ladies are concerned, they are dancing their hearts out.
After a few songs, my friend tells me it is time for confession. This makes me a little nervous, as I have no idea what it entails. The next thing I know, everyone is speaking their prayers aloud, individually, and simultaneously. The result is a cacophony of voices, all feeling the Holy Spirit, which I personally find very unnerving. In the following three hours, this ritual will repeat itself three times, separated by the offering, more singing and dancing, some charming musical performances by a group of 5 women, and a very lively sermon (which I could only vaguely follow because my friends brought English bibles). The final prayer session directly follows the sermon, and the preacher is still walking the aisle. He yells over the drone of voices the way I imagine only a black preacher can. It's the same key phrases, alternating between English and Chichewa, "FIRE, FIRE, FIRE! FEEL THE HOLY SPIRIT! FEEL THE HOLY SPIRIT! SUBMIT TO JESUS! FIRE!" I am standing, like everyone else with my hands outstretched, trying not to call attention to myself, but he is standing facing our row and yelling so loud it physically hurts my ears. I feel sorry for the woman immediately in front of him, but figure Malawians listen to their music that loud, so hopefully she is okay with it. Then he puts his hand on her head and starts shaking it. Shouting the whole while, he makes his way around the room, shaking heads. As the women grow more intense in their murmuring, my shock gives way to a very real threat: hysterics. I think, "This is hilarious! I can't believe this is really happening. Oh my God, if he comes over here I am going to loose it. Good thing Mom and Kat aren't here; they would be crying with the power of the Holy Spirit, or something of that nature. Oh no, he's coming my way!" Fortunately, he only momentarily touches my head and does so from behind me, so no one observes my expression. After a few more minutes of chaos, everything calms down, and the drum calls the congregation back into unison with a hymn.
When we leave at noon, the service is still going, but we are hungry and tired. We head to the market so I can buy a chicken and an afternoon's entertainment of watching my friend kill, pluck, dismember, and cook said chicken. We end the day with the first shared meal I've had at home in a long time.
But last weekend, when my neighbors asked me to join them for church on Sunday, and I really had nothing better to do, I decided to go just to make the day go by. I figured it might be interesting to see how another denomination was different. And boy was it interesting.
At 9:05 the three of us walk into Charismatic Church. It is a dusty one-room building with two chairs at the end for the preacher and his wife, and tarps on the floor for the congregation. I am amused by the large sign in the back reading, "WELCOME ALL VISITORs." In typical Malawian style, they clearly did not measure out the lettering before hand. I'm glad, however, that they had the foresight to leave as many open windows on the side of this brick and tin building as possible, because its going to be a hot day. There are around ten other people present when we arrive, and I am warmly (but without too much ado) greeted by the couple in the chairs. We remove our shoes and join the women on the floor on the right side of the room. There is only one man besides the pastor and the worship leader, so he sits alone on the other side. Eventually both sides of the room fill up as amayis come and bring their little boys and girls.
The service begins with a call and response (led by a man wearing gold shoes and jeans that clearly belonged to a tall preteen girl in their previous life). "Alleluia!" "AMEN!" "Alleluia!" "AMEN!" "Up,up Jesus!" "UP, UP JESUS!" "Down, down devil!" "DOWN, DOWN DEVIL!" And so on. Then it is time for dancing. We sing (or hum in my case since I don't know the words) and move the beat of the drum. It is the restrained dancing I have come to expect in Malawi, but as far as the young church ladies are concerned, they are dancing their hearts out.
After a few songs, my friend tells me it is time for confession. This makes me a little nervous, as I have no idea what it entails. The next thing I know, everyone is speaking their prayers aloud, individually, and simultaneously. The result is a cacophony of voices, all feeling the Holy Spirit, which I personally find very unnerving. In the following three hours, this ritual will repeat itself three times, separated by the offering, more singing and dancing, some charming musical performances by a group of 5 women, and a very lively sermon (which I could only vaguely follow because my friends brought English bibles). The final prayer session directly follows the sermon, and the preacher is still walking the aisle. He yells over the drone of voices the way I imagine only a black preacher can. It's the same key phrases, alternating between English and Chichewa, "FIRE, FIRE, FIRE! FEEL THE HOLY SPIRIT! FEEL THE HOLY SPIRIT! SUBMIT TO JESUS! FIRE!" I am standing, like everyone else with my hands outstretched, trying not to call attention to myself, but he is standing facing our row and yelling so loud it physically hurts my ears. I feel sorry for the woman immediately in front of him, but figure Malawians listen to their music that loud, so hopefully she is okay with it. Then he puts his hand on her head and starts shaking it. Shouting the whole while, he makes his way around the room, shaking heads. As the women grow more intense in their murmuring, my shock gives way to a very real threat: hysterics. I think, "This is hilarious! I can't believe this is really happening. Oh my God, if he comes over here I am going to loose it. Good thing Mom and Kat aren't here; they would be crying with the power of the Holy Spirit, or something of that nature. Oh no, he's coming my way!" Fortunately, he only momentarily touches my head and does so from behind me, so no one observes my expression. After a few more minutes of chaos, everything calms down, and the drum calls the congregation back into unison with a hymn.
When we leave at noon, the service is still going, but we are hungry and tired. We head to the market so I can buy a chicken and an afternoon's entertainment of watching my friend kill, pluck, dismember, and cook said chicken. We end the day with the first shared meal I've had at home in a long time.
A friend recently showed us pictures from and told us about his daughter's marriage to a man from Togo/Ghana. The traditional ceremony was in one country and the Christian one in the other country. In many ways it sounds like your service especially in how long both services were.
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