One of the most beautiful sounds I’ve ever heard in my life is the sound a crystal glass makes when your wet finger glides around the rim. Some people find this ridiculously annoying, but my love for harmonies will always be amazed by the way the pitch changes the more you pour or the more you drink the liquid within.
Another one of the most beautiful sounds I’ve ever heard in my life is the sound of Chichewa worship. Chichewa is one of the main languages in Malawi. And like my teammate Mandie said, “It’s like they were born knowing how to harmonize.”
Even when you have no idea what the men and women are saying, you feel the Spirit in their voices. If you’ve ever sat in a bar and felt the blues guitar was talking to you, or sat in a theater while a symphony moved you to tears, or had your eardrums rattle in your head as blue, bald men bang on random objects; you know what I mean when I say that you don’t have to have words to know what the music means.
In Malawi there are no instruments in your average worship service. But there are many, many voices and many different pitches. As if each person was filled with a different amount and aspect of living water and the Spirit that has nothing to do with wine. The ring of vocal chords swells in the room as if their throats were made of crystal and were being touched by God.
We’ve been to five countries now and have worshiped in a lot of different places. I’ve worshiped in a pew outside of a bar. (Does a wooden bench become a pew once it enters a church or once someone prays in it?) I’ve worshipped on multiple rooves. I’ve worshipped in an orphanage and in many hostels. I’ve worshipped on busses and in a hotel room with the curtains closed and door locked. None of those worship experiences compare to worship in Africa.
God bless Ren and his fight against those uptight Baptists for the right to dance (Footloose for anyone frantically searching the Bible for the book of Ren). Here, even the Anglicans’ bodies move as their glass runneth over with the joy of the Lord.
The day of Pentecost has come and gone and it reminds us of that day when the apostles were drunk on the Spirit not spirits. Yet they were accused of having too much wine because they were speaking in languages that were not their own. Their reply was, “It’s only nine!” (Which let’s face it, probably wouldn’t stop me on a good day and deffinately not on a bad one.) The Holy Spirit had simply touched their mouths.
Everyday can be Pentecost if we let the Spirit fill our glass and if we let God touch us in a way that makes us sing. I mean, I’m just some white girl who grew up in a Baptist Church and turned into a liberal-leaning vegetarian, but in Africa… I dance. And it doesn’t even take a bottle of wine to make me do it.
