It being Sunday, I went to church today, to a lovely Anglican Church that I often go to when in Uganda. The teaching is good, the worship is good, and thankfully they have two of their services in English as I’m sad to say that despite having visited this country many many times, I still don’t speak the local language (yes, I can definitely be accused of being a lazy / linguistically-challenged Brit on that front).
Ahead of Ugandan Independence Day tomorrow, the service today was a cultural celebration and many of the congregation turned up in their traditional dress. How splendid they looked. The cultural celebration continued in the worship which was in local language and not in English. For all those present it was clearly a beautiful celebration of life, their heritage, and their faith in the one God who loves all tribes and tongues equally.
For me though, it just didn’t quite work. I didn’t understand the words being sung, although Bwana and Jesu featured enough to know that there was a lot of praise to God and Jesus, and the volume on every mike and instrument had been whacked up so super high that the church vibrated with drum beats and that distortion you get when the balance of over-loud sound is totally wrong. I’m not a natural at making up my own worship songs, and so whilst I tried to do my own thing, the sensory overload just got in the way.
I also found myself reflecting on how wonderful it must be to have such a strong cultural heritage and bond, and how in the UK we just don’t have anything like it. To be honest I find myself feeling ashamed to be British a lot at the moment due to the appalling nature of our government and their decisions. But I’ll not digress down that path. However, the comparison between the pride and joy of the Ugandans in their nation, and the shame that many Brits feel about our nation left me feeling very sad.
So that, plus the intense sensory overload, and I reached the conclusion that church just wasn’t the place for me today. Today was a day for Ugandans to celebrate their culture, and it was absolutely right to do so in their own language rather than in the language of their previous colonisers. So I snuck out, feeling somewhat unsettled and sad, and missing church at home.
As I walked along, a little child, maybe 5 years old, was sitting on the pavement. He looked up at me plaintively, motioning that he wanted some food. I’ve seen a few street kids around and have been feeling very challenged by what my response should be. I don’t tend to have food on me to give them, and I don’t like to give money as it can get spent on glue and drugs, or get stolen from them by bigger kids. What to do? I can’t help them all, so should I help any?
Today, as I walked along and saw this little lad all alone and looking very dejected and vulnerable, my heart went out to him. I walked up to the nearby popcorn store and bought a decent size bag of popcorn (50p). I then went back to him and crouched down by him and handed it over. The look on his face as he realised that the popcorn was for him was so precious. He just kept looking between me and the popcorn, and a big smile spread across his face. I grinned back and we high-fived (universal language!) and then I left him to it, slowly savouring one piece at a time.
It was such a simple thing to do, and didn't incur much inconvenience on my part, but as I walked away I felt like that had been my real church moment.
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