The Rock

Sunday, March 22, 2009
The Rock Church, While Dad Preaches (Worringham, Zimbabwe)
Day

"The songs are in our eyes, gonna wear them like a crown. Walk out
into the sunburned street, sing your heart out, sing my heart out. I
found grace inside a sound."

Dad speaks as Pastor James translates into Ndebele. And I study the
church. The delightfully innocent children sit in the front on the
cement floor. Half have and half do not have shoes. A boy sits in a
broken wheel chair with a generic Old Navy imprinted jacket, without
legs. A baby boy is in an orange Halloween jacket and jeans, he
wanders around the floor aimlessly. He keeps eyeing me. In fact, all
the kids in their colorful array of hand-me-down clothing eye me
hesitantly. They peer through their fingers at me, or over and between
their friends. I keep smiling and waving, distracting them from the
speakers, and they just smile back bashfully embarrassed.

Earlier, the service begins with a six-person choir – three women and
three men stand behind them – singing harmonious songs to God, moving
and dancing to their own organic rhythm. I cannot understand a word
that they are singing in Ndebele but the rhythm is nonetheless
galvanizing. We clap, we dance, we smile, and they sing glorious.

After introducing us, Pastor James says that they are going to sing
two more songs before Dad is going to give the sermon. He stops
speaking and there is a few moments of pause. Then a woman from the
congregation begins to shout. Soon someone is clapping and then off
everyone goes. Everyone seems to know the song by heart, and they know
the beats and the repetitions and the appropriate harmonies. I
continue to clap and dance along. The song is fun. I can make out a
"Jesu" here and there, but that is all. At one point I recognize that
it is not just the percussion of the human hand clapping rhythm that
is supporting us, there is some unseen drum as well. I start to look
around for it but cannot find it anywhere. It shouldn't be hard to
find, this church building is sparse. Calling it a building is in fact
being generous. It is four peeling cement walls, a ceiling of
aluminum, tall grass with cows and goats grazing right outside the
window, a few plastic chairs for some of the congregants, a tall
lecturer that comes up to James' shoulders, and the rest people. So
far it's my favorite church that I have been in, but I digress. I then
realize that in the corner, behind a group of people against the wall
is a very old woman. She is eighty years old (I later find out from
her son), and she is the one banging the drum that she is sitting on.
I start to laugh to myself at this new sight as she is perfectly
keeping the beat with her aging hands for the entire congregation.
It's pretty cool.

There is a little girl who watches Dad with intensity. She won't let
go of her stare. She is at his feet, listening to every word he says
as if he language is nectar. And I realize that they all give Dad and
I such awesome respect. In fact most of the amazing Ndebele people do;
and I just start to wonder why? It feels unequaled and incongruous.
Maybe it is more of an unjustified feeling, or something? I don't know
to be honest. Dad and I have been talking about it, and we can't come
up with the equation. But Dad opens up his sermon and says how much he
loves everyone's smile. And I could not agree more.