Pastor Bonga
The past two Sundays, our teams have had the opportunity to attend two different African churches with Pastor Bonga. Each church had a different flavor- the first Sunday we were in an adobe-esk building with a thatched roof, truly in the middle of nowhere; the second Sunday we were in a concrete building with a metal roof, a 10-minute drive from Kedesh.
L: Waiting for church to begin in the shade. R: Kaitlyn sharing her story through a translator.
Through these experiences, I’ve pondered the differences between church in Africa and America. Here’s my typical experience in each country:
AFRICA
Wake up in my tent at 6:30 am, eat a bowl of oatmeal for breakfast. Pile 25 people into a chapa, a vehicle about the size of a mini-van. Drive down dirt paths, through small villages squashed like a sardine. Arrive at church and wait for people to funnel in.
The service “begins” when someone starts a chant/song and everyone joins in singing and dancing. This continues for about 20 minutes; the building continues to fill with people. The pastor will say an opening prayer and we sit down. An associate pastor (another man in the church) will read the order of the service from his 3-ring notebook and everyone will agree with an emphatic “AMENI!”
We will worship (sing and dance) for another 10 minutes and then be seated. A few members of the congregation with come forward and share their testimony of how they saw God work in the past week. The youth choir will then march in for a special song and dance number, maybe two.
By this point, we’re all drenched in sweat and our deodorant has worn off. But the service continues with the offering- congregants dance down the aisles to give their tithe at the front of the church. Then the pastor is given time to preach, which never has a time limit. Since we are visiting, the pastor gives us time to present what ever we want. Our teams put together dramas, songs and shared testimonies. More dancing, singing and prayer follow our presentation.
Three hours from the time we set foot into the building, “church” is done and we shake everyone’s hand goodbye. We gather in the shade for some traditional food made by members in the church and converse. After all is said and done, we pile (literally) back in the chapa and head home. I eat some leftover food from lunch and hope there’s hammock open to take a nap.
When I say sweat, I mean sweat. My pit sweat ran into my back sweat and the rest dripped onto the floor. Gross. But hey, when in Rome…or Mozambique!
AMERICA
Wake up in my bed at 7:30 am, eat a smoothie and granola bar for breakfast. Drive myself and maybe a roommate in my own car. Drive on the interstate for 10 minutes in air conditioning or heat, season dependent. Arrive at church- place my teaching materials in my Sunday school classroom, grab a cup of coffee from the café, receive my program and sit next to the Taylor family in the front, right section of the sanctuary.
The service begins when the worship band takes the stage and leads us in a song, which is followed by an opening prayer. Then everyone stands and sings 3-4 songs of worship; little Sarah is attached to my hip. The teaching pastor for the morning takes the stage and leads us in prayer. He gives a sermon for about 30 minutes, I take notes in my designated “sermon notes” journal.
Announcements are made. Offerings are given by passing a velvet bag down the aisles that are collected by the ushers. One or two more worship songs are sung and the benediction sends us out for the week. I turn around and say hello to those sitting around me, wave at some other friends across the sanctuary. I make my way to the coffee bar with a few adopted kids in tow for a doughnut and another cup of coffee. Then it’s off to Sunday school where I attempt to teach Biblical truths to 3 year olds.
Three hours later, I head to my car and drive myself home after running a few errands. I eat some lunch and plop on the couch for a Sunday afternoon nap, maybe turn on the football game for background noise.
I want to be clear in stating that either way of church is not better or worse than the other, they’re just different. Having these new experiences abroad has brought up some more “What ifs…” in my American church experience.
Here are a few:
What if I didn’t care about my appearance at church and broke a sweat from worshiping the Lord?
What if I started dancing up and down the aisles instead of staying in my 1’ x 1’ box in front of my chair?
What if I shouted “AMEN!” or “HALLELUJAH!” to every point the pastor made that I agreed with?
What if I cared more about connecting with the people at church than all the other errands I have to get done after service?
These are just a few thoughts. I don’t have any answers but I do have a way of finding out…
A few of my new friends… notice my sweet skirt? Well, it's really just a sheet of Kapalana, a material they use for everything here- skirts, drapes, cushions, carrying produce and children. I decided I wanted to be as "Mozambiquan" as possible so I purchased one and wore it to church. The ladies laughed when they saw how I tied it; without hesitation, they untied my skirt (good thing I had shorts on underneath) and re-tied it. I'm practically African now…except for being blindingly white and a head taller than all the women…
