Harmony. It’s something that can send electric chills through
your skin. One note, one key dancing in tambre across others. Fortified by
several voice boxes. Flavored by culture. Distinct by ethnicity. My favorite
part of Africa, (really my favorite part of
anywhere), is the music.
strong African voices of the big and small create an atmosphere of joy, of
hope, in a place where one might think hope was lost. When one would think
there may not be anything to be joyful about. The beat of the djembe thumps as
the pulse of this continent. They live to sing. To praise. I am romanced by
their voices. They have made me feel more alive than ever, and the longer I am
in Africa, the more I see that music is the
oxygen of their souls.
their only instrument was a multifunction keyboard that created a Carribbean
sound that just made you want to dance. We sang songs like “I am a winner
(pronounced ‘weiner’) in the Lord Jesus. Winner, winner, winner. Jesus you are
the winner, winner, battle battle you won forever, winner!” You shake your
hips, and move your feet, do the running man. Or with the kids: “I’m tied up,
I’m tangled (tingled) up with Jesus, I’m tied up, I’m tingled up with Gaoddd!”
as we wrap our arms in and out. The
speakers, though the people sounded much better without them, were absolutely
necessary. They would screech and wale, hiss and holler, someone would run to
adjust the speaker, but they would not give up their microphones. The stage
singers, of which there would be no less than ten, would take turns passing the
microphone around, gleaming with joy at their chance to let their voice ring
out. We would sing in church. We would sing around the dinner table. We would
sing as we walked places with them. As we would go visit classrooms in the
afternoons, the children would perform for us no less than three “numbas”.
Singing was like their way of loving us, of loving God, of feeling alive.
in the half built church under the jukt fruit tree, music took on a whole new
color. They had no sound system. No mics. Really no instruments besides two
large, and I must say- hardcore, djembe. Most of the time songs would go in a
call and response fashion. The lead singer would step out of the choir pack,
begin ringing out Lugandan melodies, and the choir and congregation would
harmoniously join in with a different line seconds later. The djembe player
would join in with an unrehearsed, but brilliant and driving beat. If said
djembe player was inadequate, someone would always quickly push them aside and
take command the song with the palm of his or her hands. We would clap, dance,
and ring the service away. The pastor’s wife, Miss Beatrice, was quite
talented. She could lead the choir easily or jump on the djembe to support the
other women. As we would sit at their house waiting for our meals, she would
play us a CD she recorded. Her song was about the toll AIDS has taken in Africa. “AIDS, AIDS, what have you done to us? Hear the
cry of Uganda,
Lord. Hear our cry. Heal us, O Lord.” I would watch here lovingly and
compassionately stare into the speakers as the song, recorded both in Lugandan
and English played over and over. It made me want to cry nearly every time. On
the last Sunday we were there, they did a drama to the song where she acted out
a scene of a dying son in his mother’s arms. So powerful. When we would go to
visit schools, we would first be seated in front of all the children, and the
children’s choir would come out and sing “Welcome… our vistars!” No matter
where we went, we were greeted in song. They sing to celebrate, to pray, to
welcome.
I am learning that the sacred ritual of music only reaches deeper. They have
both
a time of worship- where they really seem to focus in on worshiping from their
hearts. Our first Sunday here we were knocked sideways by the hundreds of
voices our church lifted up. Hundreds of strong, African voices in perfect
harmony, blessing the King of Heaven. Then choir after choir rose to sing
several ‘numbas’ each. They sang and danced to recordings of themselves, some
accompanied by whistles, some by horns, often with dramatic crowd diving
solos. Little children’s choir, little
old ladies choir, the serious choir with women all dressed in black, the young,
I should say rather flavorful, adult choir, all singing as if it were there
only care in the world. Living with the Pastor, next to the church, our team to
come to find out, that for many of them, choir IS their only care in the world.
They are run nearly like military operations. All of the choirs have several
practices a week. I attended one of them to try and get in on the action, and
it lasted nearly 3 hours! Till 2 in the morning! Watching the singer’s faces,
one can easily see that this is more than just a mere hobby or extracurricular.
Tonight as I am writing this blog, the Pastor and his family
are gathered around in the living room. He leads them in song, and they sing in
response. Afterwards they all pray for a few minutes, and then scamper off to
bed. This scene caused a shift in my heart. For much of Africa,
I have thought of the choir singers and lead singers as using music as a sort
of job, the thing to look forward to in between peeling potatoes and bathing
the baby. I saw choir for them as a place to belong and a venue to find self
importance. But after this scene tonight, much awkward staring at them during
services and practices, and really much thought and consideration on the
subject, I have come to a different conclusion. Though these wonderful people
do make much ado about performing ‘numbas’, glorify the talented virtuosos, and
hog microphones, I have come to think that Africa must be just a taste of what
heaven will be like. Where we will do nothing BUT live and breathe to worship
the King. Where we will shamelessly and joyfully lift our voices in perfect
harmony, regularly praising in spirit and truth. It will be our only job, our
only aim. Worshiping Jesus will be the only thing we will have any desire to be
good at.
It has been easy to look around in Africa,
and think that because of the poverty, the warfare, the injustice, the smell of
death lurking behind each corner, that this place is hopeless. Sometimes I have
thought in my heart, “God, why can’t you just fix this place! Help them,
please!! Look how sad and pitiful!!”
But then I simply open my ears. I hear the drumbeat. I feel
the melody race in my blood. I let the harmony seep down to my bones. And
suddenly, I realize that this is what heaven must be like. This is what we will
be doing all the time up there. I
realize that God is more present, more at home among these songs, these people,
than anywhere on earth. Their voices lift up, and He descends. His Kingdom, the
Throne, are alive and well in Africa. He’s
here. We just can’t see though, because
we don’t have eyes for the dimension of sound.
