Church in City Solei

OUR CHRISTMAS TREE--at least an abstract representation~

December 14, 2008

Today we went to a church in City Solei--the notorious neighborhood that has some of the most extreme poverty, harbors gangs that do most of the kidnappings, and where rumors run abound. A pastor we met Friday at the HACNAPH meeting invited us there. So we went with Patrick, Francois and their children.

City Solei is devastatingly poor-- the kind of place that causes your heart to sink as you drive through. You want to rescue everyone you see, but instead you are resign yourself to observing a world with realities so different from your own. Our realities don't fit in a place like this. City Solei is so poor that it doesn't have walls. I didn’t notice that on my first drive through last week. It felt strangely intimate in its suffering and poverty, but today I realized it was because I was looking INTO homes, looking into shops and neighborhoods. There weren't walls blocking my view of life. The realization made me appreciate the lack of barriers while struggling with feelings of trespassing somehow on the intimacies of peoples’ days. Life and hardship are exposed to all passersby.

The little church we came to was simple. Tin roof, one open room filled with pews. A few artificial flowers were nailed to the walls. No big ornate cross, no pictures or stained glass. Essentially we walked into a large plain room. No electricity, no fans, no synthesizer, no microphone. The faces were its only decorations, voices its only music. And it was all the more beautiful for it. I think it was God's most perfect church... an assembly of people passionate in prayer, not shy in song. No organ was needed, no amplified voice. All music, all sound, all energy came from each individual on their own accord, with their own strength. It was all so incredibly real.

The minister came alive. He led most of the service and we quickly fell in love. The prayers were real and carried a political edge. He prayed to a God who understands hunger, illness, the tragedy that afflicts these peoples’ lives every minute of every day. He didn't mince words or try to flower up reality. He prayed to a God who walks in the dirt, who can't afford to go to the hospital, who has lost a child, who hasn't eaten in days. Yet he did so not with anger, but with hope. And the people prayed with equal hope, with joy. I was completely overwhelmed.

The music was less a celebration and more a form of heart-felt prayer. Some songs unmistakably carried pain, lifted sorry out of hearts into the room, cleansed. During the time of prayer, people got on their knees. The pastor lead a prayer, but refrained from speaking for the individuals. Each person spoke their own prayer in whatever voice they needed to speak. Some sobbed, others cried out. Words came in whispers, others came in song. The discordant sound of hundreds of voices talking to God was jarring and deeply spiritual. And in the white noise of the community prayer, I found my own need to speak with God.

In honesty, church hasn't yet been a spiritual place for me here. The worship style isn't my own. I've enjoyed the dance with a new culture, the observation of faith practices. The music has made me happy and smiling at new faces is always my favorite part. But my own conversations with God, my own nurturing of spirit happens elsewhere... often on the roof at night, or in my room, or on a drive through the country. But this morning, my spirit stirred in church. I was pulled in, I felt connected. I was no longer the observer, but felt a whole body need to send my prayers up at that very moment. Mine were sent through my thoughts, silently, in the way I've most often prayed. But they were sincere, and felt safe in the moment of such spiritual honesty, such a moment of sharing. It was a time when the air between God and people was thinned.

The voices slowly died down. People returned to their seat. Eyes flipped open. The minister, his voice a bit softer, started to speak. And the church quietly listened. Then from somewhere in the back, a woman was sobbing. Maybe she was still in the middle of her most intimate prayer, maybe she had more need. But I was amazed at the minister’s instincts. He acknowledged her, not by calling her name out or asking what was the matter. He stopped himself mid sentence and listened, looked, an expression of understanding came over him... and then he turned to the congregation and started a new song. It started slowly. I think it was a way of giving the woman some privacy. She could cry out in the comfort of song rising around her. I think it was an effort at wrapping the community around her, giving her strength in the noise to let go of the pain that was wrenching her body. And the congregation sang, they sang loud, they sang in love.

The song had a life of its own. Although starting slowly and with a mournful tone, it quickly gathered tempo. A few men picked up drums, tambourines and a rhythm stick and started accentuating the rhythm with a new beat. The tone of the song went from somber to joyful. And then pastor started leading the congregation in a dance of sort. Clapping together for a while.... raising hands straight above the head, to the right, leaning forward, leaning back, spinning around. It was one massive accapella line dance. And we couldn't help but join in.

Again, I always have been an observer in church. When people raise their hands in the air, I bow my head in respect. But today the spirit and the fun of the moment took hold. Patrick and I were dancing to the Simon-says song in minutes, much to the delight of the congregation. Francois and Patrick were joining our laughter. We didn't understand the words of the song, but felt the meaning, and were able to celebrate as a community. It was liberating, it was exercise for the body and spirit, it was communal. It was the most fun we've had.

Patrick gave a sermon. I can't speak about it, because I was pulled into a room full of children during the sermon. They wanted me to meet them, greet them. Then the children sang for me. I can't help but wonder what I've done to earn such beautiful gifts. I didn't have my doctor's bag, I didn't bring food or candy, our offering was a token at best. But everywhere we go, we are given something for our presence by people who have so little. Today the children sang for me. One little boy reached up and dusted off the back of my shirt. He smiled. I had just been thinking how I wanted to wrap children up and take it home and feed them until they no longer looked like they existed in a daze of hunger. But mid-thought, a child reached up and instead took care of me.

After church, we got in the Villier's car, but the battery was dead. I'd like to say that a little healthy fear came over me. A stalled car in city solei should instill some healthy fear. But I had none. A large group of men (and boys) from church surrounded the car, and started pushing it to the main road. Popping the clutch didn't work, so we had to hail a tap-tap to try to get a jump-start.

The fixing of the car quickly became an activity for many a man. Francois and I walked along the street, between houses, finding shade. Our first rest stop in a shady alley wasn't ideal as it was filled with poop. So we ventured into the yard of a woman and sat on her porch. She came out and greeted us, asked if we'd like chairs or something to drink. She told us about recently loosing her husband and the challenges of raising her six kids alone. The fact that we were strangers taking advantage of the shade of her porch didn’t seem to phase her. She recounted the difficulty of her days with courage and a smile. Children from the street quickly surrounded us. After we disappointed them by telling them we had no money to dole out or sweets to give, they found ways of amusing themselves with us anyway. Patrick entertained them with showing them his thumb trick and at the freakish flexibility of his joints. I showed them how to whistle with their knuckles and how to a snap clap gallop with their hands. The kids were joining in with our "how to make fun sounds with your body" session. It was too funny. A man from the street wandered up and greeted us. "Bad car?" He asked. "Yah, think we'd be better off with a donkey." Patrick said. The man laughed. "I'll let you ride mine!"

Its hard to be intimidated when people embrace your presence so easily, when they make you feel like you belong on their front porch, that you are at home in their streets playing with their children. Maybe it was the church service that did it for me... the undeniable feeling of connectedness that happened today... and lingered with me into the streets in the hot afternoon sun. Whatever it was, I was intensely happy. I wasn't nervous about the car, wasn't impatient to get home. We were in good hands, and the day was unfolding in remarkable ways.

Eventually the men got the truck roaring back to life. We all piled back into the cab, and the bed of the truck suddenly was filled with precious cargo--men, women and children who desired a ride in the direction we were going. We obliged our new friends... they'd given us so much today, a free ride was the least we could do. So off we went bustling down the streets. The children in the back peered in at us through the window. We made faces at each other and laughed. I was having a ball. When we came to our car and had to get out, I felt a little sad waving good-bye to this amazing community of people. I hope to play with them again someday; I hope to pray with them soon.