Studying the history of Christianity in Africa, a professor is reminded that “church” means neither a building nor institution,
but rather “people gathering in the presence of God.”—by Bill Cook ’66
The priest is lost. We are on the “backest” of back roads, and there are no signs or obvious markers in a truly desolate place. Finally we spot a farm, but the directions appear to be hopelessly complicated.
Would Father Chris arrive at the church for mass? Finally the farmer’s teenage son hops into our already hopelessly crowded van to be our guide. His only ‘reward’ after guiding us to our destination: a long walk home.
This is southern Kenya, where the word “road” is used for what me might call a trail. In the diocese of Machakos, priests must go to the most isolated areas because the people living there have no means of transportation to come to town for mass.
Father Chris had the task of saying mass at three of the many satellite churches, receiving his assignment that morning from the cathedral in Machakos.
The church was full when we arrived. We were late, but no one was surprised or impatient. The building was cement blocks with a corrugated metal roof. The seats were rough tree branches propped a few inches off the ground by rocks. The floor was dirt. There was nothing on the walls, not any sort of image or picture. The altar was on a raised platform of dirt. Father Chris vested while he was standing behind the altar.
But soon the drums began to beat, and a long and elaborate procession of dancers entered from the back. There were other dances during the liturgy, including at the presentation of the book, the Alleluia before the gospel was read, and the offertory. Everyone knew the songs, and they all had many verses. Clapping and the waving of hands is standard. Here the focus was God, not brunch at Denny’s or the pre-game show.
The mass was in Akamba because that is the tribal language of the people. Most, but not all, speak Swahili, and generally only the young speak any English at all. It is clear that these folks have little.
I looked at the faces of the old. They have lived through the Mau Mau movement and the fight for independence. Most have buried at least one child. All have often gone to bed hungry. But they were a community, and together they celebrated what they had. They also welcomed their seven guests — six young men from Wabash, and me.
People processed to the front of the church to present their offerings. I got toward the back of the line. When I looked in the box to make a gift from my students and me, there was not a single bill there, only coins. Kenyans have schillings, about 85 to the dollar. The smallest bill is 50 schillings, about 60 cents. Most of the coins were 10 and 20 schillings. These were generous gifts from people who probably live on $1 a day or less: the parable of the poor widow’s mite.
Before the final prayer, Father Chris introduced us and asked me to speak. Of course, I spoke in English and could tell from reactions to what I said how many understood. Father Chris translated.
Then we were asked to dance and sing! The drummer began a beat, and we just danced, I, the way an old man thinks he danced in the 1960s, the students in more contemporary manners.
We were entertaining, I think. Talk about the stereotype that white men can’t dance!
Afterward, some of the elders greeted us while others stood in the background. The children seemed afraid of us. Had they ever been in physical contact with white people? I don’t know, but I am reasonably certain that rarely if ever had whites come to their village in recent years.
I got down on the ground and tried to coax the children to come to me. One finally timidly shook hands with me and whispered his name. Within seconds, I was mobbed by kids who wanted to shake my hand.
They are beautiful. Their names always surprise me because it is almost impossible to distinguish boys from girls because their haircuts are exactly the same, and their clothes offer few clues. A few have shirts with American logos. I wonder if one boy (?) knows what the Toronto Maple Leafs are.
We attended two other rural masses that day. One church had a cement floor, while another had a dirt floor and no windows. These churches will not be finished for many years. But the celebrations were, indeed, joyous and holy.
These people remind us that “church” means neither building nor institution but rather “assembly.” Church is people gathering in the presence of God. The churches I attended that day were as holy as the gatherings in a great Gothic cathedral or St. Peter’s in Rome or West-minster Abbey.
People in rural Kenya need our help to obtain clean water and medical care. They need our support of their schools. They need assistance in order to produce more food.
But, we who listlessly sit in church and check our watches, we who moan about not being able to buy a new Buick, we who waste and throw away food grown in our good soil, we who are embarrassed to express our faith publicly—we need the help of those folks I prayed with in the diocese of Machakos.
Bill Cook is Distinguished Teaching Professor at the State University of New York–Geneseo and was Visiting Professor of History and Religion at Wabash from 2008 to 2010. Last June he co-led, with Professor Rick Warner, The History of Christianity in Africa immersion experience in Kenya, from which this story is drawn.