The Baptist church building was a big two-story building painted bright white. We guessed it sat around 400 people, and the church was packed. We arrived after the service had already begun, and Pastor Guy indicated for us to follow him to the front of the church.
This time, not only did we go to the front, but proceeded up behind the pulpit so we sat facing the 400 + congregation. Between you and me, I would have much rather squeezed into the church pew with the rest of the folks down below, but as guests, we were on display.
Today was a special day for the church—a celebration day that they have once a year. Today nine of the sister churches came together to worship and celebrate together. Although the reason for the celebration remained unclear (the translation was lost on us), everyone was in high spirits. Joining us behind the pulpit were about 10 Haitian men, all dressed in suits, shirts and ties representing the church’s leadership.
Looking out into the congregation, the seats on the floor were packed, and the balcony filled with a large group of children. I was horrified by the observation that there was no railing on the balcony… and falling would be easy for a curious child who got too close to the edge. But there was no need for the worry that balled up in my stomach seeing the potential disaster. The children sat still through the entire church service, sometimes whispering amongst each other, sometimes playfully punching, waving at us with giggles, but mostly sitting quietly listening or clapping along with the music. This is particularly astonishing since the service lasted nearly 5 hours. No, this is not a mistype. F-I-V-E hours.
The service was largely filled by music from multiple guest choirs. Most were made up of women, a few were mixed, and there was one small rag-tag group of men who lacked the numbers and the pitch of the women, but were nonetheless enthusiastic. Some of the music was incredible… full of spirit, full of harmony, full of rhythm. They needed no band, no accompaniment. Their voices filled the lofty church and the hours with music and song. We were caught up in the spirit of their music, and amazed at the powerful voices that emerged from some of the smallest-framed people.
There were also a lot of introductions, a lot of speaking, a silent moment for the people of Petionville, a sermon that sounded passionate and called for love in Haiti, but that’s the extent of what we gleamed from it.
I have to admit, I was rather proud of myself. I sat on stage, relatively fidget free during the entirety of the program. Of course as the hours ticked on I began to fight the internal jitterbug. Maybe it was being on display that kept us sitting quietly in our seats, or the fact that despite the many windows, the afternoon sun still found a way of heating up the air around us, leaving us feeling slow and foggy. Although Patrick was told he wasn’t going to have to preach today, he was right in preparing ahead to speak in front of the congregation. We were eventually introduced and he was asked to come up front and say a few words. He spoke beautifully. I was so proud.
Towards the end of the service, music started to get livelier, and a band behind us took over. Then a group of church members came out with heaping plates of food: beans, rice, chicken, plantains and salad. They started passing out bowls and plates to each person in the congregation one by one. We were served early, and I began to worry that not everyone could be fed. There was so many people—hundreds—that I doubted there would be enough food for every mouth. And I balked at having to eat a plate of food while children stared up at me with hungry eyes. But the pastor to my left smiled and reassured me that there was enough for all. To my amazement, he was right. It was a celebration, he said. Everyone would eat today. “Its HAITIAN food,” he said in English, “You like?” His eyes sparkled, pride shone for the heaping plate in front of me. Of course I liked it. A huge grin spread over his face when I admitted it was delicious.
So as the music played on, dancing in the pews took on a new fervor as delicious Haitian food found it’s way to the palate and into bellies. Smiles broadened. The communal sugar high was spreading pew by pew. It was a beautiful sight.
After church, we shook many hands. The young men wanted to talk about Obama—they are thrilled with the election results. “We are happy so many lights voted for a black!” one told me. Little girls reached up to hold our hands for a little while, shy smiles looking up at us. Leaving, we passed a shack leaning up against the church, an old toothless woman smiled out at us. Three children who were scantily clothed surrounded her. One had the reddish tint to his hair that signaled malnutrition. I prayed as we waved to them that they had shared in the church’s meal.
No radio show tonight. There is no one to translate, and it’s just as well. Our bellies are uncomfortably full, our bodies cooked with heat. We take enjoyment tonight in the refuge of our little room, reveling in the quiet.
I’m struggling tonight with the fact that we are placed front and center at most public gatherings we attend. I had imagined church being a time where we could sit WITH the people, not above them. And I hope our presence in the community evolves into such as we better immerse ourselves in the culture with time. I know the people bring us to the front, give us the first plate of food to welcome us, to celebrate our time with them. But I struggle with the additional privilege to bear. I don’t know how to choke down a meal given to me by thin hands, while gaunt faces smile back at me. And to refuse to do so would be to dishonor the gift. So we eat. And I am left to struggle with my own privilege—that which I was born into, that which I have been graced with all my life, and continues to grace me every day. My privilege is something to grapple with when I am surrounded by people whose day-to-day survival is a struggle.
Today, the preacher celebrated the fact that all in the church were alive, were able to be there together to worship. He spoke of Petionville and the fact that lives are fragile. The fragility, the unpredictability of life crosses all cultural and socioeconomic boundaries, but Haitians live with death all around them everyday. Yet they find within themselves strong voices to rise up and sing. They find the will to get up and move on, putting together a new day. And the miracle of their powerful will, of their tireless perseverance is inspiring, and humbling. We can learn from them.
No comments:
Post a Comment