Sunday worship was a new experience

Sunday worship was a new experience. Whether it was the sight of the lady with the four foot long stick with which she controlled the children in the row in front of her, or the male/female separation - women on the left, men on the right - or the wonderful bass resonance of the traditional drums, nothing about Church was ordinary or familiar. Well, nearly nothing. There were some of the hymns translated straight from English, most of Sankey’s Sacred Songs and Solos by the look of it, there was the creed with its borrowed terminology such as Ecclesia and Katholic and there were the odd individuals fast asleep. Mind you, sleeping on a stone bench is no mean feat so, well done I say! The Pastor is Nigerian - Pastor Amos - and Hausa is not his first language but his English is very good so he translates for me as I preach. His translation seemed to flow and, who knows, he may have preached a better sermon than I.

Music is as big a part of Nigerian culture as any other. The choir cut a strange sight with their pink robes as they shuffle into the small, dark church singing and swaying in time to the beat of the drum. The sound is distinctly African. An almost wail-like screech sound becomes melodious as the number of voices increases. The only instruments are the drums, though I'm told they are keen to add the keyboard to their instrumental collection. Somehow that doesn't seem to be a sensible aspiration. The desire, born out of that youthful passion to be modern, might be satisfied some day but I can't imagine that the standard of music will be well served. Undoubtedly there exist here the politics of power and music as real as in any church choir in Ireland. What organisation exists anywhere on God's earth in which dressing up in uniforms and the exercise of power do not go hand in hand? But if it does, come Sunday morning, the flow of the music is not disrupted.

The secretary tells us that there were 120 present last week and by the looks of things there will be just as many this week when they all get here. I believe that starting time is about 10am. It’s now 10:52 and someone else has just arrived but they haven't missed a great deal, we didn't start until 10:20 anyway. One of the most striking things as you look around is the number of children in the congregation. Nigel tells me that 50% of Niger's population is under 15 so at least this church is fairly typical of the population at large. No one speaks very loudly here, other than the young Bible college student who is helping out at the church. I hope no one introduces them to a PA system though. Better to have to cope with the straining to hear in this small building than suffer the screams and howls of electronic feedback so common in even the smallest meeting halls back home.

The whole service is conducted with dignity, yet with appropriate informality for a small congregation in a small hospital compound. I have worshipped here this morning in the company of the poor. These are my brothers and sisters but I'm not sure that I fully understand what that means. I cannot communicate with them. I do not share or comprehend their experience of life. I cannot drink the same water as they drink, I have no desire to exchange places with them yet I greeted them as 'brothers and sisters'. I'm not sure that I understand what I'm saying as I greet them, my brothers and sisters.

To next part.
To journal from Niger.