Yesterday, Liz and I accompanied the girls to mass and a special post-service event. Imagine, if you will, a dala dala filled with 59 young women and 4 adults (Maristela, the Head Mistress, and Christina, the orphanage's major domo, were also there, although they attended a service at a different church). That's right -- we managed to fit 63 people on a single vehicle. See if you can beat that, Abbotsford berry farm owners!
Mass was entirely in Kiswahili, but it didn't really matter because there was so much else to experience. In fact, the only time I really missed not being able to speak the language was when the monsignor, who was an engaging speaker even if one does not understand Kiswahili, made humourous points to illustrate his homily.
Singing was led -- perhaps "dominated" is the better word -- by a choir of nearly 30 people attired in a plum/burgundy colour combination that looks much better in real life than it sounds when written on the page. One of the really cool things about church music in East Africa is that it is not the staid, "bums in seat" singing that one often gets in North America. Nope, church singing is meant to express joy, and joy can only be expressed by dancing or making wild and high pitched shouts or, in the case of one older gentleman in the choir, blowing into a trumpet made of a cow's horn whenever the spirit moves you, even if it does not strictly fit in within the flow of the song.
I enjoyed the church music, as I always do, but once it was over I settled back -- in my seat and in time -- and concentrated on the sensory experience that is the mass. Sometimes I closed my eyes and concentrated on the smell of incense. Other times, I looked at the paintings of familiar Bible stories and unfamiliar stories of the saints. Often, I looked at the congregation.
Mass was entirely in Kiswahili, but it didn't really matter because there was so much else to experience. In fact, the only time I really missed not being able to speak the language was when the monsignor, who was an engaging speaker even if one does not understand Kiswahili, made humourous points to illustrate his homily.
Singing was led -- perhaps "dominated" is the better word -- by a choir of nearly 30 people attired in a plum/burgundy colour combination that looks much better in real life than it sounds when written on the page. One of the really cool things about church music in East Africa is that it is not the staid, "bums in seat" singing that one often gets in North America. Nope, church singing is meant to express joy, and joy can only be expressed by dancing or making wild and high pitched shouts or, in the case of one older gentleman in the choir, blowing into a trumpet made of a cow's horn whenever the spirit moves you, even if it does not strictly fit in within the flow of the song.
I enjoyed the church music, as I always do, but once it was over I settled back -- in my seat and in time -- and concentrated on the sensory experience that is the mass. Sometimes I closed my eyes and concentrated on the smell of incense. Other times, I looked at the paintings of familiar Bible stories and unfamiliar stories of the saints. Often, I looked at the congregation.
Some of the things I saw are played out in any church in any country: little girls in pretty white dresses; little boys swimming in over-sized suits; men and women dressed in their finest to praise the Lord. Other sights were less familiar to me: elders in bright yellow sashes patrolling the aisles and ensuring that communion and the offering went smoothly; a row of nuns singing the liturgy from the pews; men in short-sleeved suit coats.
At times, I could not help but concentrate on individual people, like the young novice nun in the light purple habit who could not have been any older than some of the girls I had accompanied. Or the woman sitting two rows ahead of me, whose simple gold chain highlighted and was highlighted by the rich, dark brown of her skin. Or the grandmother, bent with age, who shepherded her two young grandchildren between pew and washroom several times during the service.
But my favourite person to watch was the elderly woman -- old even by North American standardss -- in kimtambaa chakichwani (a piece of cloth matching that of the skirt that is wrapped around the head). For a moment, I wished I had brought my camera, even if it would have been entirely inappropriate to take her photograph during a church service. Then I realized that no photograph could ever capture the sublime beauty of the way the lines and folds of the cloth on her head mirrored and honoured the lines and folds on the skin of her face.
Humans, however, were not the only creatures attending mass yesterday. Because of the climate, churches in Tanzania are built out of hollow cement blocks, resulting in a strong structure with plenty of holes through which light and air -- and sparrows -- enter. As the sparrows flew about the altar, adding their chirps to the voices of the choir, my mind went back to the Gospel story of Jesus talking of God's eye being on the sparrow.
At times, I could not help but concentrate on individual people, like the young novice nun in the light purple habit who could not have been any older than some of the girls I had accompanied. Or the woman sitting two rows ahead of me, whose simple gold chain highlighted and was highlighted by the rich, dark brown of her skin. Or the grandmother, bent with age, who shepherded her two young grandchildren between pew and washroom several times during the service.
But my favourite person to watch was the elderly woman -- old even by North American standardss -- in kimtambaa chakichwani (a piece of cloth matching that of the skirt that is wrapped around the head). For a moment, I wished I had brought my camera, even if it would have been entirely inappropriate to take her photograph during a church service. Then I realized that no photograph could ever capture the sublime beauty of the way the lines and folds of the cloth on her head mirrored and honoured the lines and folds on the skin of her face.
Humans, however, were not the only creatures attending mass yesterday. Because of the climate, churches in Tanzania are built out of hollow cement blocks, resulting in a strong structure with plenty of holes through which light and air -- and sparrows -- enter. As the sparrows flew about the altar, adding their chirps to the voices of the choir, my mind went back to the Gospel story of Jesus talking of God's eye being on the sparrow.
Now, I don't know what heaven will be like. (If you have followed this blog for any amount of time, you know I don't even know if heaven exists.) I suspect, however, that I glimpsed a preview of heaven: a group of people gathering together and joyfully praising God with singing and dancing and sounding of trumpets, while birds sing and fly all around them. And even though I didn't understand a word of the service beyond Mungu (God), Yesu (Jesus), penda (love), and asante (thanks), I found it a very moving spiritual experience, for it gave me a chance to contemplate God and man and creation and worship in the presence of others. By the time the service ended, I was both happy and tired, for I had been comtemplating God and existence throughout the entire service. It was as if I had been alone with God in a crowded room.
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