Feeling the warmth of a community church

Decisions for the good or the bad

We had a decision to make about where to attend a church service today without making the mistake of visiting a church with a self-absorbed worship team entertaining a congregation that was failed out of not being spiritually fed. At least that was our impression of the Hillsong Church in June.

We dared think of returning hoping that our first attendance was an off day, but we wrote to both the Cape Town campus and the mother church in Australia, and we received neither an acknowledgement nor a response. We had better go to a place where they are courteous and welcoming.

Blog - Between haughty Hillsong and bounty biltong

Planning without yawning

From Muizenberg to the St. George’s Cathedral, quite unlikely; when getting Brian out of bed on a Sunday morning is a herculean task at best, just perish the thought. So, I did a survey of churches in Muizenberg and two evangelical churches caught my interest, small, out-of-city, new, and growing. We set our minds on staying in Muizenberg.

It would have been a 45-minute walk or thereabouts, but we called an Uber taxicab to convey us to the Main Road of which there might be hundreds in South Africa, we had to be specific before I repeated the mistake of finding myself 33 kilometres from where I intended in Johannesburg, some 9 years ago.

Welcoming warmth and feeling

On arrival, we saw the church flagpole, but unsure of ourselves, we waited outside before someone came to the door. They were friendly and welcoming, and as she invited us inside, introductions followed. They all came to welcome and greet us.

Interest and engagement were evident in a small community church that espoused our Pentecostal beliefs. It was there that we learnt that a priest we knew at St. George’s Cathedral, the cousin of a congregant, had passed away last year.

As we were similarly attired, they wondered if we were band or choir members, we tend to turn heads on Sundays. I said we were partners, but they heard brothers even as I repeated myself. We eventually acquiesced to whatever they wanted to identify us as.

Simple yet impactful

It was low-key, intimate, and friendly. I was called forward to be prayed for, and the sermon was informal and easy-going with contributions from other members of the congregation. I began wilting later in the service but survived to the end before needing the use of the gents.

I took the offer of rooibos tea which I rarely have, sweetened without milk, it tasted good enough, I however do not intend to form a habit of it. We had a splendid time at church before walking back home. We will probably be returning next Sunday.

Sundays of willing to will

Missing from church

Last Sunday, I had a lie-in. It would have been one church service to attend as it represented the beginning of the judicial year, a civic service with the High Sheriff of Manchester being the main celebrant ahead of the judges, lawyers, officers and officials of the law, the civil service, the mayoralty, along with county and council officials.

As a church steward, apart from ushering in the congregants, some lead the officials in procession at the beginning and end of the service. I would have been no use in the setup as I would not have had the strength out of fatigue and other discomforts.

Selling funny remedies

Yesterday, I was up quite early and had at first wondered if I would attend the sung eucharist at church, but with the force of will over the concerns about my ability, I got up, showered, dressed up and hailed an Uber taxicab to take me to church.

As my voice was in the spectral end of waned, as I explained to the driver the apparent predicament, I was regaled with a tale of a black Frenchman who had herbal cures for cancer. A friend of his had refused medical treatment and shelled out about £1,500 for these medicinal goods that were packaged in something to make you draw a sharp breath that he had been conned.

It transpired that his friend having cut out meat, changed his diet and ingested these snake oil concoctions on presenting himself for new medical tests had not eradicated prostate cancer, however, it seemed contained and stable for years after, and his doctor advised he continued whatever was helping this non-progression of the cancer.

Making the medical case

All through, I had my misgivings, no effective medicine for prostate cancer sits in a backwater grotto to be purveyed on YouTube channels where the spirit of hypochondria can so easily possess you and you believe you have any ailment that presents without an effective diagnosis.

I took his word for it but made the case that if medical science has clearly diagnosed a condition, medical science must have the last say on whether that condition persists or has been cured. Whatever route you choose to procure a cure is left to you by miraculous intervention, medical treatment, or some herbal remedy that seems efficacious even if not subject to any peer review, just the positive reviews of patrons of that service.

The more pertinent issue is that we should all get tested and be assured of our situation, knowing there is nothing to worry about or that something demands immediate attention.

Easy does it

I arrived at church to a hearty welcome from everyone as I took my seat and well, sat through the service except for the reading of the gospel and when I went for communion. In the end, I was offered decaffeinated coffee, and chatted to other friends, before I was given a lift back home.

I realise there is a lot I desire to do, but much of it cannot be done because the strength and capacity are not there. Sometimes, it is just the thought of a journey that wearies me that my better judgement is to abort the idea. The side effects are still a bother, it might take a while to fully recover.

The Village Church I did not even bother to attend, though, I must send them a note about the end of my treatment and my recuperation.

A Traditional Mothering Sunday

And off to church, I go

Being on the steward’s rota today, I left for church early having checked if the weather, though cold, would also be affected by rain. The prognosticators and readers of the tea leaves had surmised that the times to expect rain would coincide with when I was fully sheltered at church, however, it being Manchester, you should always be prepared.

As I walked to church, I took the opportunity to conduct a video conversation with Brian and we pleasantly bantered until I was about to step through the south door main entrance to the cathedral.

It being Mothering Sunday and I have much of an affinity to the traditional than the emerging trend of Mother’s Day, it was one or the other part, I needed to fulfil. Essentially, Mothering Sunday is the Sunday you go to worship in the church wherein you were baptised, failing which you make a beeline to attend the cathedral or mother church of the diocese.

The baptisms of note

Now, I was first baptised the Anglican way with the sprinkling of water at a baptismal font just 3 weeks short of 49 years ago at St. Luke’s (Anglican) Church in Jos. Suffice it to say, that is a long way from here and quite a distant past in my memory, I was just over 8 years old and it was an activity initiated by my parents than one I understood the significance of. Apart from the certificate of baptism preserved and intact from that long ago, I recall nothing more.

12 years later, there was a river, and I was among charismatic Christians. Then I had a better understanding of what the purpose of a baptism was apart from being fully persuaded of the significance of it. I was fully immersed in water as I pinched my nose, then pulled up out of the water in a symbolic demonstration of Romans 6:4 “Therefore we are buried with Him by baptism into death, that just as Christ was raised up from the dead by the glory of the Father, even so we also should walk in newness of life.”

Whilst the new birth is instantaneous in terms of whoever shall call upon the name of the Lord shall be saved Romans 10:13, the realisation of walking in the newness of life is a process of learning, failing, relearning, appreciating human frailty and the preponderance of grace, along with jettisoning the bondage to the law through moving from works to receiving and accepting the free gift of life-affirming grace. It has been harder for me than the words seem to state, the mercifulness and lovingkindness of God assures me, it is possible.

In the second instance of my baptism without contemning the purpose of the first, we had a gathering of believers without a building in the traditional sense of a church as we are in school. Unlike in the Anglican Communion or the Established Church, Mothering Sunday in terms of revisiting a church where one was baptised is impossible. It was contemporaneously attached to time, manner, and place, the rest is recalled from memory.

On duty and then discussion

Welcoming worshippers into the cathedral, I handed out the service pamphlets before taking my seat at the start of the processional hymn and then at the offertory hymn, I took up my assigned aisle to take the collection. Later, I ushered the congregants to receive the communion and my duties were completed after I helped an old lady who had some issues with tickets, she thought she had purchased, but could not find evidence of the transaction being completed.

The weekly Lenten talks started soon after the social gathering to have tea and coffee with biscuits. The gathering allows us to meet people we know and new attendees with all the general conversation that ensues.

We are using the Archbishop of Canterbury’s Lent Book 2024, titled Tarry Awhile by Dr Selina Stone which comes in book, Kindle (electronic book), and Audible (audio book) format. It is a study of black spirituality that inspires quite engaging conversation and discussion in the Lenten talks group.

I have read and listened to some challenging and insightful bits of perspective and theological discourse that I cannot adequately cover in this blog. If you can get the book, you will be mightily blessed by what you learn in the process.

The Village Church

Getting home, I did not have more than 90 minutes to spare before heading out for the bimonthly Village Church around the corner from mine that takes place on the second and fourth Sunday of the month. Even though I felt like I should get on my bed and snuggle under my duvet, this community service that attends to the spiritual needs of the LGBTQ++ cohort under the auspices of the Church of England and supported by our bishops is a wonderfully enriching experience with an intimate feel that allows me the participation in the Holy Communion, twice on Sunday.

If anything, it is better recognised by the church that has in the past persecuted and castigated minority groups that Jesus Christ died for all and the purpose of the church is to give everyone access and facility to exercise their Christianity and spirituality without condemnation or judgement, and in particular, those that had before been hurt by traditions, denominations, churches, or the modern-day equivalent of the Pharisaic class. 

Sunday at the American Church in Berlin

A different Sunday

If I did move to Berlin as has been a desire for as long as I can remember, I have wondered what church will be like. Amazing, wonderful, interesting and different.

I as returned from watching the revelling crowds yesterday, from the comfort of my seat on the metro I saw the sign on a church “American Church in Berlin” it read with services commencing at 11:00AM.

In all my time of visiting Berlin, I have never had the pleasure of doing church and so this was an opportunity to attend and get a feel of the community spirit the church contains.

Claiming it was ecumenical meant I will find the service familiar though from a distant past since I have for decades had a more Pentecostal bent to my faith. I have at times lamented the absence of liturgy and solemnity in our somewhat rambunctious services but I realise I need to lose some of my stodginess too.

Familiar familiarity

A traditional church with spire, bells peeling as the call to service, I crossed the road as I saw other congregants walk towards the entrance so already identifiable with head-ties that redolent of Nigeria ladies but without the flashy ostentation of the Yoruba of the South-West, I will suppose they will attend the more Pentecostal variety somewhere else in Berlin – mixed couples, not a few and of all races from many places.

At the door, I was greeted and ushered in, given a hefty hymnal which contained the order of service, we were celebrating the birth of John the Baptist that scripture says was 6 months older than Jesus Christ and acknowledging the work of the choirs in the church.

Looking up to the ceilings and rafters, the craftsmanship of church buildings of old were evident in how they inspired awe and to the front were stained glass windows after some modernist design and in the nave were pews. Pews, with kneeling planks, rests for books and on backs of the pews in front were hooks for bag straps to which I hung my hat, knowing that men don’t don hats in church apart from the bishopric with mitres and other clergy with their cloth caps.

Tradition flowed without any of the assumed lifelessness the Pentecostals had consigned to the established church. I was back in the familiar High-Church Anglican settings of my childhood.

Welcomes in difference

A welcome greeting was given by the pastor who did not go by title or letters and visitors were asked to introduce themselves. We were given the microphone to tell a little about ourselves, our names, where were from, what brought us to Berlin and what we plan to do next after which each visitor was applauded and the call to worship was made read alternately by the pastor and the congregants from the Psalms.

We shared the peace by shaking hands with each other and sang the first hymn to the music of the pipe organ. The hymnal was a bit difficult to get used to because the words were sent within the musical scores as if we were readers of words and music alike, though readers of music will automatically know how to sing the hymns.

Peculiar things

The reading of words of prayer as alternate acts between the pastor and the congregants made for engagement and interaction before the children were called forward for their portion of the service called Children’s Time – a mini Sunday School session where a teacher engaged the kids in conversation, shared a story and then they prayed together before the kids returned to the company of their parents or guardians.

The contemporary choir then stepped forward to sing a song in a traditional arrangement accompanied by piano and we clapped after that performance, which I felt unusual but interesting.

The first lesson we read from the lectern by a member of the laity with all the evidence to my hearing of a South-Eastern Nigerian English accent at the end of which we all chorused – Thanks be to God.

The chamber choir which I think is the main choir of the church then stepped forward to sing in canticles the Psalm that was the call to worship accompanied by flute and piano to the music of JS Bach’s Sheep May Safely Graze, even I was amazed at my recollection of the title of this classical piece.

John the Baptist

The second lesson was read before the gospel was read announcing the circumcision and naming of John the Baptist to which we all intoned at the end. Praise to you, O Christ.

The sermon was delivered with the title Living in the Spirit and with it came interesting insights I had never considered before. The fact that John the Baptist who came to announce the coming of Jesus Christ was born of a woman, Elizabeth who was well past child-bearing age and Jesus Christ who was born of a virgin, Mary, a cousin of Elizabeth juxtaposing the old and to be done away ushering in the new.

He also dwelt on the life of John, his message and then the doubts he encountered when he sent his disciples to ask Jesus even after the great episode of the baptism where Jesus was the one to come or that there was another to come, with Jesus giving assurances that He was the one.

John had witnessed before that Jesus Christ must increase and he, John the Baptist must decrease.

After the sermon, the chamber choir stepped forward again and with the congregants we sang each alternate verse of Jesus Shall Reign.

More recitations

The apostle’s creed we recited using the Church of England – Common Worship version, it is amazing how many of the creeds exist in variation for liturgical and catechism reasons. To think I intend to visit Wittenberg-Lutherstadt where Martin Luther’s 95 theses created the schism that brought forth the Reformation and Protestantism will be interesting.

For the offering and offertory, the Gospel Choir stepped forward and this is quite different, accompanied by piano that appeared to lag the singing, it was uplifting and joyful. Three different choirs in the church and the pastor seemed to have a part in all of them.

At prayer, we all read prayers and then the microphone was offered for people to step forward and announce what prayers they wanted us to be in agreement with after which we said the Lord’s Prayer and heard the benediction.

In closing

The chamber choir sang another hymn and all the leaders of the choirs, the music ministry coordinators and all involved in music were acknowledged, appreciated and thanked before the service closed.

The pastor received us as we stepped out of church and amidst the tradition, you could sense a strong community spirit though the extreme contrariness of my host attempting to clear rationality will suggest the church was isolated – I could only differ but his forcefulness did make him a rather fascinating person quite steeped in interesting preconception I could hardly identify with.

This could quite well be a church for me, if I did move to Berlin.

The American Church in Berlin - The Luther Church on Bülowstrasse at Dennewitzplatz in 10783 Berlin-Schöneberg. Services at 11:00AM on Sundays.

How to get there.

I heard no Hosannas

Ancient & Modern

Sometimes, I crave for a particular religious past, one stated, written and regimented with uniformity.

Sundays with tongue-twisting names like Sexagesimal and Quinquagesimal rather than the well known Palm Sunday where the Common Book of Prayer was opened to a particular page as you followed the vicar in the prelude and response of worship.

The sound of the pipe organ in readiness for traditional hymns in English at times or in Yoruba when I was in Nigeria; the solemnity of it all.

The loud sound of the band

The difference is a band, a keyboardist rather than an organist, two box guitars, two acoustic guitars and the percussionist - a drummer doing the drums.

Cue the music with the beating of the drumsticks and the music begins loud and ready for our voices singing to the text displayed on the screen in the front.

Even in my quiet times, I cannot maintain the consistency of a beat over time, the percussionist starts easy and before you know it, a riot of beats descends on us, I thinking surely this can go wrong but it all works out beautiful.

You are left in awe and praise of the drummer who is quite exposed, almost extrovert to a fault and basically commanding the flow of worship even though you have the lead vocalist and at least 2 backing vocals in the band, none of what might be called free-styling ever comes close to the daring-do of the drummer.

A Protestant to Pentecostalism?

As I grow older, loud is betraying the possibility that I might be able to confidently pass off as youth anymore, the jumping to the beat is almost an excess to the High Church Anglican eye.

The service was enlightening and insightful but we had left behind tradition as I knew it, the Palm Sundays of old where we sat in pews and if I had dozed off as I sometimes have done in church lately, the lovely ushers would have caressed the back of my neck with the exhilarating barbs of a palm frond leaf.

Honestly, I do miss the Hosannas; talk less of the overkill of dramatising Jesus on an ass of a colt riding into Jerusalem.

For all said and done, the journey is mine to travel and in every place, blessed still is he that cometh in the name of the Lord.

On the 8th day, the shop opened

Times are moving

One might just venture the idea that progress of sorts has come to my neighbourhood and that is in my local supermarket, 7 floors below my apartment and round the side to its entrance.

When I moved here just over 8 years ago, the supermarket opened for 6 days and closed at 19:00 hours, then a few years after it closed at 8:00 PM and soon after it closed at 9 ‘o clock.

The shelves were probably most empty on a Saturday night just as people rushed in for last minute shopping only to realise the goods had been cleared by those who shopped earlier in the day.

A different competition

If you found you had to shop for morning goods, you had to wait till Sunday morning for a shop opening 4 tram stops away.

Just about 2 months ago, a Turkish corner shop opened its doors on a Sunday and whilst you could not get the great variety of goods, it was nice to see that what you could get there was much different from the Dutch fare you got from the supermarket chain.

If I could muster the energy, I made the 500 metre walk to that store to feast my eyes of high capsicum factor peppers and other tropical foods I would have no idea how to for eating.

The look and the taste

The other day, I picked up what I thought were sweet potatoes only to peel them and find they were orange in colour, I was in two minds between binning or potting them, in the end they went in the pot and disintegrated into a pudding of sorts.

It reminded me of seeing “coco-yams” in an English supermarket and on cooking them they fell apart disastrously that the bin got well fed and I had an empty stomach, they were in fact dasheens.

Appearances are so deceptive, the grapes from my supermarket taste so different from the grapes in the corner shop, so synthetic as plastic behoves the beauty of supermarket chains over corner shops – food does not necessarily come from the farms without scientific intervention that changes it into something different and probably cheap too.

Open for the Sabbath

The perception of any of the Western European countries being Christian is slowly but surely gaining the spectre of secularism, very few shops except in tourist prone areas tend to open on Sundays and then we have Sunday-shopping days, usually once a month.

The Sabbath is losing its significance to Mammon, on the 18^th of April 2010 my local supermarket 7 floors below will be open on Sunday for the first time – I do wonder how many people in my neighbourhood would postpone their late Saturday shopping to brunch-time shopping on Sunday.

Forget the idea that Sabbath might be the Friday evening to Saturday evening, the Saturday or even the Sunday – man never seems to rest on any of the 7 days of the week, maybe we need an eighth day.

Is this progress or what?