From the Martyrs Day mass at Namugongo yesterday.
Don't tell the folks at St. Gregory Nyssa or they'll get ideas.
Showing posts with label church. Show all posts
Showing posts with label church. Show all posts
Wednesday, June 4, 2008
Now THAT'S a Gospel procession!
This was on the front page of both The New Vision, and Bukedde online (the Luganda daily).
From the Martyrs Day mass at Namugongo yesterday.
Don't tell the folks at St. Gregory Nyssa or they'll get ideas.
From the Martyrs Day mass at Namugongo yesterday.
Don't tell the folks at St. Gregory Nyssa or they'll get ideas.
Tuesday, June 3, 2008
The Martyrs of Uganda
A friend of mine who is preaching at the midweek service at his church this week noted that today, June 3rd, is the feast of the Martyrs of Uganda. He asked if this was an important observance here.
The answer to that is that it's a friggin' HUGE observance in these parts. It's a national holiday, for one thing. Banks, post offices, government offices are all closed. MCDT is closed. Walking around the neighborhood, more of the small shops around here are closed today than were closed on Good Friday.
Here's the deal, very briefly: in the late 1800's, various pages and members of the Bugandan court became Christian converts, both RC and Anglican. In 1886, the Bugandan king, or kabaka, Mwanga II, told them to give it up. When they refused, these converts were tortured and killed in various nasty ways, leading up to a group of some 30 Christians being wrapped in straw mats and then burned at Namugongo, about 10 miles from the city center.
The observance is bigger than just Uganda, too. This event is credited as the beginning of indigenous Christianity in Africa. I read in the paper last week about a group of pilgrims from Kenya who were walking 600 km to the shrine in Namugongo. People come here from all over the continent.
Various miracles were attributed to the RC martyrs, leading to their canonization in the 1960's. I'm not sure when the Anglican martyrs were canonized; the whole process is different. But the general sense I get is that these martyrs are important, not only for their great faith and sacrifice, but because they're "some of our own." I'm not sure how many other great holy sites and pilgrimages are in sub-Saharan Africa, but this certainly is one of them.
I decided to pay my respects and make a short pilgrimage as well. Below is a picture of the shrine that I lifted from the web.
Only imagine it so thronged with people there were parts where you couldn't move. One man walking near me told me that 3 MILLION people come to the shrine. I don't know about that, but I have no doubt tens of thousands of people were there.
I took a boda boda (see below) to the base of the hill leading to Namugongo and walked over a couple of hills, following a trickle of people headed that way. Once I reached the area of Namugongo, the people filled the streets, walking on the left side, like traffic, with no cars allowed through. On either side of the street were vendors of all descriptions. Lots of them were selling paper visors with a depiction of the martyrs surrounded by flames on it. There were also some pretty graphic T-shirts with the slogan, "Martyrs of Uganda, pray for us." There was also lots of other stuff: clothing, umbrellas, cooked grasshoppers--you name it.
But as far as the religious part of it went, this seemed to be a Roman Catholic celebration. Even though the martyrs were both RC and Anglican, I didn't see any Anglican presence there at all.
I went to the shrine and walked all around the grounds. The shrine itself wasn't open, apparently, but there was a service going on from an open-sided grass thatched hut by a large rectangular pool. I couldn't quite tell because I could never see it, but my guess is that's where the service was coming from. Again, thousands upon thousands of people sitting on the grass or the muddy ground to listen to it from loudspeakers all over the grounds. I heard some of the prayers of the people, offered in all different languages: Swahili, Luganda, Luo, etc. The grounds of the shrine, too, were packed with vendors. Many were selling religious tracts, rosaries, and things of that nature. But I also saw some Manchester and Arsenal underwear for sale. Behind the toilets, there were people cooking matooke, beans, and other food.
I also saw one child with a badly burned face, sucking his thumb as a vendor tried to sell him and his mother something.
There was something about it all that was incredibly moving. I was of course reminded of Jesus' cleansing of the temple, but I also got at least an inkling of what that might have looked like, of how important it was for people to come to that one location, of what a huge windfall it was for the vendors as well as profitable for the temple.
One boy tried to sell me a certificate, signed by the bishop (I think), that certified that I had made a pilgrimage to the shrine of the Martyrs of Uganda. I was very tempted, too. But I don't actually need a certificate. I've still been there. And it was mighty powerful, too.
The answer to that is that it's a friggin' HUGE observance in these parts. It's a national holiday, for one thing. Banks, post offices, government offices are all closed. MCDT is closed. Walking around the neighborhood, more of the small shops around here are closed today than were closed on Good Friday.
Here's the deal, very briefly: in the late 1800's, various pages and members of the Bugandan court became Christian converts, both RC and Anglican. In 1886, the Bugandan king, or kabaka, Mwanga II, told them to give it up. When they refused, these converts were tortured and killed in various nasty ways, leading up to a group of some 30 Christians being wrapped in straw mats and then burned at Namugongo, about 10 miles from the city center.
The observance is bigger than just Uganda, too. This event is credited as the beginning of indigenous Christianity in Africa. I read in the paper last week about a group of pilgrims from Kenya who were walking 600 km to the shrine in Namugongo. People come here from all over the continent.
Various miracles were attributed to the RC martyrs, leading to their canonization in the 1960's. I'm not sure when the Anglican martyrs were canonized; the whole process is different. But the general sense I get is that these martyrs are important, not only for their great faith and sacrifice, but because they're "some of our own." I'm not sure how many other great holy sites and pilgrimages are in sub-Saharan Africa, but this certainly is one of them.
I decided to pay my respects and make a short pilgrimage as well. Below is a picture of the shrine that I lifted from the web.
Only imagine it so thronged with people there were parts where you couldn't move. One man walking near me told me that 3 MILLION people come to the shrine. I don't know about that, but I have no doubt tens of thousands of people were there.
I took a boda boda (see below) to the base of the hill leading to Namugongo and walked over a couple of hills, following a trickle of people headed that way. Once I reached the area of Namugongo, the people filled the streets, walking on the left side, like traffic, with no cars allowed through. On either side of the street were vendors of all descriptions. Lots of them were selling paper visors with a depiction of the martyrs surrounded by flames on it. There were also some pretty graphic T-shirts with the slogan, "Martyrs of Uganda, pray for us." There was also lots of other stuff: clothing, umbrellas, cooked grasshoppers--you name it.
But as far as the religious part of it went, this seemed to be a Roman Catholic celebration. Even though the martyrs were both RC and Anglican, I didn't see any Anglican presence there at all.
I went to the shrine and walked all around the grounds. The shrine itself wasn't open, apparently, but there was a service going on from an open-sided grass thatched hut by a large rectangular pool. I couldn't quite tell because I could never see it, but my guess is that's where the service was coming from. Again, thousands upon thousands of people sitting on the grass or the muddy ground to listen to it from loudspeakers all over the grounds. I heard some of the prayers of the people, offered in all different languages: Swahili, Luganda, Luo, etc. The grounds of the shrine, too, were packed with vendors. Many were selling religious tracts, rosaries, and things of that nature. But I also saw some Manchester and Arsenal underwear for sale. Behind the toilets, there were people cooking matooke, beans, and other food.
I also saw one child with a badly burned face, sucking his thumb as a vendor tried to sell him and his mother something.
There was something about it all that was incredibly moving. I was of course reminded of Jesus' cleansing of the temple, but I also got at least an inkling of what that might have looked like, of how important it was for people to come to that one location, of what a huge windfall it was for the vendors as well as profitable for the temple.
One boy tried to sell me a certificate, signed by the bishop (I think), that certified that I had made a pilgrimage to the shrine of the Martyrs of Uganda. I was very tempted, too. But I don't actually need a certificate. I've still been there. And it was mighty powerful, too.
Sunday, June 1, 2008
Another disappointing day at church
I haven't had communion since Easter. Did you know that? The 8:00 service at All Saints Cathedral has communion every Sunday, but otherwise it's a once a month deal, and with one thing or another, I haven't been at a service that offers communion on that one Sunday a month when they do.
But this morning, I was going to get communion. St. Andrew's Bukoto a short walk from my apartment announces on their sign that communion is on the first Sunday of the month. I was really looking forward to it.
And so I went to the 8:30 service at St. Andrews. I arrived a few minutes after 8:30, thus unfortunately missing the confession and collect for the day and arriving just in time for "Praise and Worship." Here are the words to one of the songs:
How wonderful is your name, O Lord.
How wonderful is your name, O Lord.
How wonderful is your name,
How wonderful is your name,
How wonderful is your name, O Lord.
How excellent is your name, O Lord... (marvelous, beautiful, etc.)
This music lasted for 20 minutes. At which point we had someone lead us in a prayer that lasted maybe 5 minutes but probably less, followed by our Scripture reading: Genesis 1:1-3, 26-31. That was it. That was our Scripture for the day. Then we said the Apostles' Creed, which was the one time I heard Jesus mentioned all morning.
After that, we all sat down for the notices, aka announcements. The notices were introduced by a clergyman (at least he was wearing a clergy collar) who welcomed us to St. Andrew's Bukoto on this, the second Sunday after Lent. WHAT??? No one in the congregation flickered an eyelash, though apparently someone seated behind this clergyman brought the error to his attention because he turned around, listened for a few moments, then turned back and said, "The second Sunday after Trinity."
The notices then proceeded to take--I am not exaggerating--30 minutes. Twenty minutes were spent on the building appeal, inviting people to come forward to purchase a prospectus of the new building for a minimum donation of 5,000/=. When people came forward they were to take the microphone, say their name, and announce how much they were donating towards the building fund. We kept doing this until all the prospectuses (prospecti?) had been sold. Then the head of the building fund said that now was the time for people who had questions or comments on the new building to stand up and offer them. No one did. He said, "Since no one is ready for that right now, I will conclude." The vicar then continued with more notices! He concluded with an impassioned invitation for everyone to attend Bible study at 10:00 which ended with everyone singing "My Bible and me," while holding up Bibles in the air.
The notices finished at 9:40, followed by two offertory hymns, followed by the sermon! It wasn't the worst sermon I'd heard in my time here. It actually looked at the Scripture and applied it to people's lives, for one thing. I figured he was a young seminarian, though, given the style of his preaching: "In verse 1, we see that God created the universe. That means that God is a creator..." That kind of thing. So he wandered on for a bit, making some good points about how God shares creative power with us, and some strange points about how a meat-free diet helped his backache, at which point he shared that he was in his 50's. Now, maybe he's still a newbie priest, but it becomes a question.
At 10:00, a warden in the front row passed him a note that he glanced at and quickly wrapped up the sermon. The vicar gave the benediction, we passed the peace, we sang a recessional hymn and we all left.
WHAT THE HELL HAPPENED TO COMMUNION? If I am allowed to ask. As we left, though I wasn't about to cry, my throat felt constricted and I felt once again a deep disappointment in the church here. There were many things here that I did not expect. A lack of both Word and Sacrament in the Church of Uganda is one of them. It has certainly come as a shock to me. I would never have guessed that it would be in the liberal Bay Area where I could more commonly hear stories of Jesus' life and ministry, find churches that minister to the poor, and receive the sacraments.
I asked another parishioner who was walking out at the same time I was why there wasn't communion. She said, "I think we'll be having it next week." I'm not counting on it. Assuming I can get myself up and out of bed, I'm going to the 8:00 service at the cathedral next Sunday where at the very least I might be able to partake of the sacraments. Or it may just have to wait until I'm home in two weeks.
But this morning, I was going to get communion. St. Andrew's Bukoto a short walk from my apartment announces on their sign that communion is on the first Sunday of the month. I was really looking forward to it.
And so I went to the 8:30 service at St. Andrews. I arrived a few minutes after 8:30, thus unfortunately missing the confession and collect for the day and arriving just in time for "Praise and Worship." Here are the words to one of the songs:
How wonderful is your name, O Lord.
How wonderful is your name, O Lord.
How wonderful is your name,
How wonderful is your name,
How wonderful is your name, O Lord.
How excellent is your name, O Lord... (marvelous, beautiful, etc.)
This music lasted for 20 minutes. At which point we had someone lead us in a prayer that lasted maybe 5 minutes but probably less, followed by our Scripture reading: Genesis 1:1-3, 26-31. That was it. That was our Scripture for the day. Then we said the Apostles' Creed, which was the one time I heard Jesus mentioned all morning.
After that, we all sat down for the notices, aka announcements. The notices were introduced by a clergyman (at least he was wearing a clergy collar) who welcomed us to St. Andrew's Bukoto on this, the second Sunday after Lent. WHAT??? No one in the congregation flickered an eyelash, though apparently someone seated behind this clergyman brought the error to his attention because he turned around, listened for a few moments, then turned back and said, "The second Sunday after Trinity."
The notices then proceeded to take--I am not exaggerating--30 minutes. Twenty minutes were spent on the building appeal, inviting people to come forward to purchase a prospectus of the new building for a minimum donation of 5,000/=. When people came forward they were to take the microphone, say their name, and announce how much they were donating towards the building fund. We kept doing this until all the prospectuses (prospecti?) had been sold. Then the head of the building fund said that now was the time for people who had questions or comments on the new building to stand up and offer them. No one did. He said, "Since no one is ready for that right now, I will conclude." The vicar then continued with more notices! He concluded with an impassioned invitation for everyone to attend Bible study at 10:00 which ended with everyone singing "My Bible and me," while holding up Bibles in the air.
The notices finished at 9:40, followed by two offertory hymns, followed by the sermon! It wasn't the worst sermon I'd heard in my time here. It actually looked at the Scripture and applied it to people's lives, for one thing. I figured he was a young seminarian, though, given the style of his preaching: "In verse 1, we see that God created the universe. That means that God is a creator..." That kind of thing. So he wandered on for a bit, making some good points about how God shares creative power with us, and some strange points about how a meat-free diet helped his backache, at which point he shared that he was in his 50's. Now, maybe he's still a newbie priest, but it becomes a question.
At 10:00, a warden in the front row passed him a note that he glanced at and quickly wrapped up the sermon. The vicar gave the benediction, we passed the peace, we sang a recessional hymn and we all left.
WHAT THE HELL HAPPENED TO COMMUNION? If I am allowed to ask. As we left, though I wasn't about to cry, my throat felt constricted and I felt once again a deep disappointment in the church here. There were many things here that I did not expect. A lack of both Word and Sacrament in the Church of Uganda is one of them. It has certainly come as a shock to me. I would never have guessed that it would be in the liberal Bay Area where I could more commonly hear stories of Jesus' life and ministry, find churches that minister to the poor, and receive the sacraments.
I asked another parishioner who was walking out at the same time I was why there wasn't communion. She said, "I think we'll be having it next week." I'm not counting on it. Assuming I can get myself up and out of bed, I'm going to the 8:00 service at the cathedral next Sunday where at the very least I might be able to partake of the sacraments. Or it may just have to wait until I'm home in two weeks.
Sunday, May 11, 2008
Initial thoughts on sermons
I heard a good sermon this morning at St. Andrew's Bukoto--well, let me revise that to say I heard a sermon I paid attention to through its entirety. It was about 30 minutes long, which is typical in my experience, though due to some very long announcements about the youth sports day prizes, the 8:30 service ended at 10:20. This was problematic seeing as the next service was supposed to start at 10:00.Our preacher was a woman who is a missionary now working in South Africa. She used stories and images, which I found immensely helpful, and she talked about the very practical point that the choices we make today affect what will happen tomorrow. But that does beg the question: how exactly is that a Christian message? She did tie that in with Christianity a titch, but the take-away (as we say in preacher parlance) was "make good choices," and I'm not exactly sure that's headline news.
For the second sermon in a row, I have heard the preacher say, "Christianity in Africa is a mile wide and an inch deep," once at All Saints Cathedral and here at St. Andrew's. The thing is, these sermons seem to me to be an inch deep as well. God knows I've heard lousy sermons in the U.S., no doubt, but I listened today and thought, Where exactly is the gospel? When am I actually going to hear a preacher who takes Scripture seriously? I admit I'm surprised and thus far disappointed.
Tuesday, May 6, 2008
Another party at Joseline’s, with a familiar refrain
Joseline called me up late last week to ask me over to lunch on Sunday at 1:00, which I happily accepted. I knew enough now to expect this not to be a tete-a-tete but a more raucous affair, which turned out to be the case.
It was a birthday party for three of the young women in Kings Daughters Ministries, and there must have been over 40 people there. We had a big African buffet for lunch and sat out in a circle in the yard as the chickens pecked around our feet for scraps. There were even party games of the most familiar sort: musical chairs, truth or dare (I chose dare and was asked to dance in front of everyone, causing a high degree of hilarity. Other dares included, “Climb that tree!” and “Do a somersault,” all of which people refused to do. I protested, but to no avail). We also had a cake and I got the tiny piece to which I'm growing accustomed.
Joseline sat to my right (I love this picture), and to my left I talked with a young woman named Ritha, a seventeen-year-old secondary school student who wants to study in the U.S. In Ohio, specifically. I warned her it was cold there. She wasn’t sure she would like that, so she asked about Minnesota.
She also talked about church. She’s been an altar girl at the (Anglican) cathedral in Namirembe, but she’s started going to the Pentecostal church because the cathedral is just so boring and dry. She likes the Pentecostal church because there are so many more people her age and because people actually move and dance there. Yeah, I’ve heard that tale before. I can’t say I’ve heard that many teens talking about their father’s multiple wives before, but the whole “Church is boring” thing—that was very familiar.
It was a birthday party for three of the young women in Kings Daughters Ministries, and there must have been over 40 people there. We had a big African buffet for lunch and sat out in a circle in the yard as the chickens pecked around our feet for scraps. There were even party games of the most familiar sort: musical chairs, truth or dare (I chose dare and was asked to dance in front of everyone, causing a high degree of hilarity. Other dares included, “Climb that tree!” and “Do a somersault,” all of which people refused to do. I protested, but to no avail). We also had a cake and I got the tiny piece to which I'm growing accustomed.
Joseline sat to my right (I love this picture), and to my left I talked with a young woman named Ritha, a seventeen-year-old secondary school student who wants to study in the U.S. In Ohio, specifically. I warned her it was cold there. She wasn’t sure she would like that, so she asked about Minnesota.She also talked about church. She’s been an altar girl at the (Anglican) cathedral in Namirembe, but she’s started going to the Pentecostal church because the cathedral is just so boring and dry. She likes the Pentecostal church because there are so many more people her age and because people actually move and dance there. Yeah, I’ve heard that tale before. I can’t say I’ve heard that many teens talking about their father’s multiple wives before, but the whole “Church is boring” thing—that was very familiar.
Sunday, April 20, 2008
Fire at Budo Junior, and a pastoral response
I have no idea if the news reached the States about the absolutely horrific fire that happened last Monday at Budo Junior Primary School, a very exclusive boarding school here. Bay Area folks, think Head-Royce-type reputation, only more so. I'm not clear on the details, but no one seems to be. Was there arson? Possibly. Were the doors to the dorm locked so the girls couldn't get out? Probably. Were the security guards watching the football match? Very likely. Where was the matron? No one is sure. Did someone keep those trying to help get the girls out from entering the school grounds? Reportedly. And what happened to all the school fees, since teachers haven't been paid in six months? A very good question.
With all of this, though, the fact remains that 19 girls were burned to death in their dormitory last Monday night, all but one beyond recognition. They had to do DNA testing on the remains before releasing them to the parents. It's beyind horrible. One of the girls died after pulling out several others and going in for more. Another tried to get her twin sister to leave the dorm, but she refused, saying, "Let me sleep." Stories keep emerging along with a lot of opinions, but no real answers.
This morning at church (All Saints, Nakasero), the vicar had 20 roses for the girls who had been killed (was it 20 or just 19? That's another question). She invited anyone with a connection to Budo, or simply if they wished, to come forward and take a rose as she read a poem in memory of the girls who had died; then we all sang a song. It was devastating; certainly I was crying. I can't imagine how one could handle something like this any better.
Below, I am copying the poem the vicar read (and possibly wrote; there was no author), which is quite long, but I think worth sharing with you. Please pray for those who died in the fire at Budo Junior and for their families.
To all Budo Junior Parents who lost their children
I Lost My Child
I lost my child today
People came from far and wide
Horror stricken to weep and cry
As I just sat and stared, dry eyed
They struggled to find words to say
To make the pain go away
I walked away in disbelief
I lost my child today
I lost my child on Monday
People came and went away
Some still call some still stay
I wait to wake up from this dream
This can't be real I want to scream
Yet everything is locked inside
God help me I want to die
I lost my little one on Monday
Six days ago I lost my child
The anger rages like high tide
I sit and struggle all day long
To bear the pain so deep so strong
My friends do not know how to soothe
They say a prayer and share a psalm
But nothing seems to bring me calm
Last week I lost my child
20 daughters lost one by one
The joy, the laughter, the giggles, the fun
All lost in one raging horror
All I hear is blame, blame, blame
The song is the same, as is the fear
Questions, vengeance and pursuit for answers
How on earth can we keep the balance?
Can someone stop, can someone hear
The still small voice rising up through the anguish
Up through the gloom, up through the darkness
Listen, my child I am here
Do not be afraid I am near
We lost our precious child this week
From the heavens I bow down and weep
An act so vile, repugnant to the skies
My heart is wounded for every child
Yet all is not lost
For she is a precious gift to you
Lived not in vain
Even though there is still doubt and pain
Anger, fury, guilt and rage
For the time she was for you to hold
The love you shared more precious than gold
Stronger than death, longer than life
May it live on above the turmoil & strife
Her fatal and unfortunate end
Shall however
Never upstage her beautiful smile, her laughter
Her charm, her dreams, her passion, her life
The magnitude of who she was yet so young
Let her memory still live within me
And I shall cherish it till my time
And I hold no grudge for this treacherous crime
And so for the sake of her who brought great joy
Do not despair overcome by grief
For to die inside is a worse defeat
Peace choked by anger
Joy extinguished by grief
Her gift to us must not be lost
Let this instead, be your prayer
When doubts fill your mind
When fears assail
Father O Father quieten my soul
Be so real, present in my loss
Strengthen my faith, help me bear this cross
And Father please at the end of each day
Help me remember the love not the pain
With all of this, though, the fact remains that 19 girls were burned to death in their dormitory last Monday night, all but one beyond recognition. They had to do DNA testing on the remains before releasing them to the parents. It's beyind horrible. One of the girls died after pulling out several others and going in for more. Another tried to get her twin sister to leave the dorm, but she refused, saying, "Let me sleep." Stories keep emerging along with a lot of opinions, but no real answers.
This morning at church (All Saints, Nakasero), the vicar had 20 roses for the girls who had been killed (was it 20 or just 19? That's another question). She invited anyone with a connection to Budo, or simply if they wished, to come forward and take a rose as she read a poem in memory of the girls who had died; then we all sang a song. It was devastating; certainly I was crying. I can't imagine how one could handle something like this any better.
Below, I am copying the poem the vicar read (and possibly wrote; there was no author), which is quite long, but I think worth sharing with you. Please pray for those who died in the fire at Budo Junior and for their families.
To all Budo Junior Parents who lost their children
I Lost My Child
I lost my child today
People came from far and wide
Horror stricken to weep and cry
As I just sat and stared, dry eyed
They struggled to find words to say
To make the pain go away
I walked away in disbelief
I lost my child today
I lost my child on Monday
People came and went away
Some still call some still stay
I wait to wake up from this dream
This can't be real I want to scream
Yet everything is locked inside
God help me I want to die
I lost my little one on Monday
Six days ago I lost my child
The anger rages like high tide
I sit and struggle all day long
To bear the pain so deep so strong
My friends do not know how to soothe
They say a prayer and share a psalm
But nothing seems to bring me calm
Last week I lost my child
20 daughters lost one by one
The joy, the laughter, the giggles, the fun
All lost in one raging horror
All I hear is blame, blame, blame
The song is the same, as is the fear
Questions, vengeance and pursuit for answers
How on earth can we keep the balance?
Can someone stop, can someone hear
The still small voice rising up through the anguish
Up through the gloom, up through the darkness
Listen, my child I am here
Do not be afraid I am near
We lost our precious child this week
From the heavens I bow down and weep
An act so vile, repugnant to the skies
My heart is wounded for every child
Yet all is not lost
For she is a precious gift to you
Lived not in vain
Even though there is still doubt and pain
Anger, fury, guilt and rage
For the time she was for you to hold
The love you shared more precious than gold
Stronger than death, longer than life
May it live on above the turmoil & strife
Her fatal and unfortunate end
Shall however
Never upstage her beautiful smile, her laughter
Her charm, her dreams, her passion, her life
The magnitude of who she was yet so young
Let her memory still live within me
And I shall cherish it till my time
And I hold no grudge for this treacherous crime
And so for the sake of her who brought great joy
Do not despair overcome by grief
For to die inside is a worse defeat
Peace choked by anger
Joy extinguished by grief
Her gift to us must not be lost
Let this instead, be your prayer
When doubts fill your mind
When fears assail
Father O Father quieten my soul
Be so real, present in my loss
Strengthen my faith, help me bear this cross
And Father please at the end of each day
Help me remember the love not the pain
Monday, April 14, 2008
Victory City Church
I did something yesterday that I haven't done in years and years: I brought a Bible to church.
Each Sunday I keep forgetting to do this and then feel, I don't know if the word is "stupid" so much as spiritually suspect when I have come to church and noticed that I was the only one without a book in my hands. It's not that I've seen everyone turning to the Bible passages referenced and so there's a way I think it's more of a proof of one's faith than an actual practical necessity. Still, I haven't seen any books in pews so a prayer book and Bible have their practical uses.
There weren't any pews at the Victory City Church, just stackable plastic chairs set in rows throughout the large hangar-like building. I asked Jesca, the head of Life in Africa's children's program who had brought me, if the church used to be a warehouse; no, it had been built for the church when the previous building became too small.
I'm not sure exactly what flavor of Christian I experienced; mostly it seemed LOUD! There was an hour of praise music, with two electric guitars, bass, drums, and a choir dressed in white shirts and trousers or skirts with some mighty impressive choreography. We Episcopalians may claim to have pew aerobics, but they are NOTHING compared to the leaping and shimmying I saw going on here.
The preacher, too, was LOUD. EVERYTHING NEEDED TO BE SHOUTED! He was also, remarkably, from San Diego, and how he got to Ntinda, I just don't know. He preached the first of a series called "Don't Count Me Out," about Bible characters who stage a comeback. His focus yesterday was Samson, a character I haven't heard preached about since I joined the Episcopal church. The preacher did his best to make Samson noble if misguided, but I think the truth is more that he was as dumb as a rock. And if I were preaching about Samson, I would say so. You know I would.
After an hour of praise music and an hour long sermon, I came home to have a very quiet afternoon. Though I found that holding my hands out as I would if I were saying the Eucharistic Prayer allowed me to feel prayerful rather than foolish in this more physically demonstrative service, I don't think I have the stamina to be part of Victory City Church. It's back to the Church of Uganda for me next week.
Each Sunday I keep forgetting to do this and then feel, I don't know if the word is "stupid" so much as spiritually suspect when I have come to church and noticed that I was the only one without a book in my hands. It's not that I've seen everyone turning to the Bible passages referenced and so there's a way I think it's more of a proof of one's faith than an actual practical necessity. Still, I haven't seen any books in pews so a prayer book and Bible have their practical uses.
There weren't any pews at the Victory City Church, just stackable plastic chairs set in rows throughout the large hangar-like building. I asked Jesca, the head of Life in Africa's children's program who had brought me, if the church used to be a warehouse; no, it had been built for the church when the previous building became too small.
I'm not sure exactly what flavor of Christian I experienced; mostly it seemed LOUD! There was an hour of praise music, with two electric guitars, bass, drums, and a choir dressed in white shirts and trousers or skirts with some mighty impressive choreography. We Episcopalians may claim to have pew aerobics, but they are NOTHING compared to the leaping and shimmying I saw going on here.
The preacher, too, was LOUD. EVERYTHING NEEDED TO BE SHOUTED! He was also, remarkably, from San Diego, and how he got to Ntinda, I just don't know. He preached the first of a series called "Don't Count Me Out," about Bible characters who stage a comeback. His focus yesterday was Samson, a character I haven't heard preached about since I joined the Episcopal church. The preacher did his best to make Samson noble if misguided, but I think the truth is more that he was as dumb as a rock. And if I were preaching about Samson, I would say so. You know I would.
After an hour of praise music and an hour long sermon, I came home to have a very quiet afternoon. Though I found that holding my hands out as I would if I were saying the Eucharistic Prayer allowed me to feel prayerful rather than foolish in this more physically demonstrative service, I don't think I have the stamina to be part of Victory City Church. It's back to the Church of Uganda for me next week.
Tuesday, April 1, 2008
From the bulletin of St. Andrew's, Bukoto
A message from the vicar included the following paragraph:
‘If your pastor’s arms drop from exhaustion, God will judge you, not him because you weren’t there to strengthen him. Take a moment and let that sink in!”
Yeah! Remember that!
This suggests to me a priest who had a truly exhausting Holy Week. I’m not surprised to hear it. St. Andrew’s Bukoto, my neighborhood parish, has four services every Sunday morning, at 7:00, 8:30, 10:00, and 11:30, and since each one lasts 90 minutes, they go back to back to back without any sort of break. As far as I can tell, the vicar is the only full-time and regular priest, and the 8:30 service I attended—on low Sunday—must have had a minimum of 250 people in the congregation.
Take a moment and let THAT sink in.
‘If your pastor’s arms drop from exhaustion, God will judge you, not him because you weren’t there to strengthen him. Take a moment and let that sink in!”
Yeah! Remember that!
This suggests to me a priest who had a truly exhausting Holy Week. I’m not surprised to hear it. St. Andrew’s Bukoto, my neighborhood parish, has four services every Sunday morning, at 7:00, 8:30, 10:00, and 11:30, and since each one lasts 90 minutes, they go back to back to back without any sort of break. As far as I can tell, the vicar is the only full-time and regular priest, and the 8:30 service I attended—on low Sunday—must have had a minimum of 250 people in the congregation.
Take a moment and let THAT sink in.
Thursday, March 27, 2008
Easter Sunday
“How was church? Was it boring?” Joseline asked me when we met in Wandegeya to go to Sally’s place for lunch. Truth be told, it was. I had gone to the early service—normally an 8:00 affair, but held at 7:30 for Easter Sunday—and it had indeed been dull. The best part was the Bishop’s announcement in response to Gadaffi that I mentioned in the prior post. The sermon was stodgy, the music bland (“Crown him with many crowns” to start), communion an assembly line for the 300 or so people who attended.
I was disappointed, and also in a way relieved. There’s not a miraculous place where worship is always full of life and joy. Or maybe the Anglican Church can simply wring the fun out of everyone. I’m sure it can if it tries.
Lunch, though, was a truly raucous affair. The weather did not cooperate, with the rain starting at 11:00 and lasting all day long. But the food was delicious: matoke (it's a cooked plantain dish, you see it here wrapped in the banana leaves, served with a meat sauce, surprisingly—and very good), rice, chapati, Irish (potatoes, that is), chicken AND pork, sweet plantains, beans with meat (a.k.a. chili, but not known by that here), cooked greens, and vegetables in a soy sauce, all piled on a heap on the plate (as you will see). Then, after digesting for a bit, we had bananas from a banana bouquet (in the picture at bottom). Later in the afternoon, Sally asked if I wanted tea, and so I had some of the amazingly rich milk tea they serve here: half a mug of tea, topped by half a mug of hot whole milk. And then, a cake, shaped like a heart, decorated with the words “Happy Easter,” a small slice for everyone accompanied by fresh pineapple chunks.
There must have been 30 or more people at this party. It was not only me and the residents of the boarding house, but friends, family, visitors, and guests. It was, as I said, a raucous affair. Outside, the chickens sulked out in the rain, occasionally coming on the porch and glaring in the front door. In the back I could hear kids playing at something or other. I stayed in the living room, taking lots of pictures, or letting my camera wander off to take pictures elsewhere, as people laughed and talked and I mostly let the accents and words wash over me.
At one point, though, I said I had a serious question, and everyone immediately settled down and focused to hear it. I said, “For those of you wearing trousers, how is it that you have no mud? I have mud up to my knees!” which was barely an exaggeration. I had felt very self-conscious amongst these beautifully attired people, looking like a grubby nubbin on Easter Sunday. I’m sure they just chalked it up to me being a mazungu and not knowing better, but I at least felt better, having let them know I had noticed.
I thought I should venture back at about 5 so that I could catch a matatu home before it got dark. Before that happened, though, there was singing and there was prayer. The singing came in the call and response form I had anticipated hearing here as opposed to the English hymns of the morning service, accompanied by drums played by one of the girls who lived there. The prayer was informal and probably followed some rules for construction and participation that I didn’t understand, so I just listened and prayed silently.
Overall, I’d have to say Easter was not boring. I was glad of that. But perhaps gladder still to get a ride home through the rain and the gathering dark.
I was disappointed, and also in a way relieved. There’s not a miraculous place where worship is always full of life and joy. Or maybe the Anglican Church can simply wring the fun out of everyone. I’m sure it can if it tries.
Lunch, though, was a truly raucous affair. The weather did not cooperate, with the rain starting at 11:00 and lasting all day long. But the food was delicious: matoke (it's a cooked plantain dish, you see it here wrapped in the banana leaves, served with a meat sauce, surprisingly—and very good), rice, chapati, Irish (potatoes, that is), chicken AND pork, sweet plantains, beans with meat (a.k.a. chili, but not known by that here), cooked greens, and vegetables in a soy sauce, all piled on a heap on the plate (as you will see). Then, after digesting for a bit, we had bananas from a banana bouquet (in the picture at bottom). Later in the afternoon, Sally asked if I wanted tea, and so I had some of the amazingly rich milk tea they serve here: half a mug of tea, topped by half a mug of hot whole milk. And then, a cake, shaped like a heart, decorated with the words “Happy Easter,” a small slice for everyone accompanied by fresh pineapple chunks.
There must have been 30 or more people at this party. It was not only me and the residents of the boarding house, but friends, family, visitors, and guests. It was, as I said, a raucous affair. Outside, the chickens sulked out in the rain, occasionally coming on the porch and glaring in the front door. In the back I could hear kids playing at something or other. I stayed in the living room, taking lots of pictures, or letting my camera wander off to take pictures elsewhere, as people laughed and talked and I mostly let the accents and words wash over me.
At one point, though, I said I had a serious question, and everyone immediately settled down and focused to hear it. I said, “For those of you wearing trousers, how is it that you have no mud? I have mud up to my knees!” which was barely an exaggeration. I had felt very self-conscious amongst these beautifully attired people, looking like a grubby nubbin on Easter Sunday. I’m sure they just chalked it up to me being a mazungu and not knowing better, but I at least felt better, having let them know I had noticed.
I thought I should venture back at about 5 so that I could catch a matatu home before it got dark. Before that happened, though, there was singing and there was prayer. The singing came in the call and response form I had anticipated hearing here as opposed to the English hymns of the morning service, accompanied by drums played by one of the girls who lived there. The prayer was informal and probably followed some rules for construction and participation that I didn’t understand, so I just listened and prayed silently.
Overall, I’d have to say Easter was not boring. I was glad of that. But perhaps gladder still to get a ride home through the rain and the gathering dark.
Update on Gadaffi
I love this headline from the Sunday paper! The Monitor and the New Vision are the two big newspapers here in town, and these papers were everywhere on Easter Sunday.
At the Cathedral, the Assisting Bishop of Kampala, the Rt. Rev. Zac Niringiye, actually addressed this issue as part of the announcements—the issue being that General Gadaffi insists that the Bible must be a forgery because it doesn’t include any mention of Mohammed. Bishop Zac (as he is known) spoke of the dating of Scripture, from its earliest writings to its latest, and to the acceptance of the complete canon of Scripture in the late fourth century, noting that Mohammed lived after all of these events, thereby making it chronologically impossible for Mohammed to be mentioned in Scripture. “So how should a Christian respond?” he asked. “We should love everybody.” End of story. Go, Bishop!
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