"Shopping" for a Church Home in Lusaka

Abbie and I took our first foray into churchgoing since arriving in Lusaka early last month.  A colleague from the embassy and his wife have been doing the circuit of protestant churches around the area and invited us to join them in their “church shopping” adventures.  We have similar theological stances and backgrounds—somewhat liberal, with a solid reform background.  But with Abbie and my Chennai experience in mind—which featured a broad gap between stodgy Roman Catholic congregations and Tamil-language mega-churches—we were skeptical.

Lusaka boasts many churches and even a few mosques, temples (B’hai and Hindu), and other places of worship.  Seventh Day Adventists and Jehovah Witnesses—denominations that one of my previous countries heavily repressed—both operate openly in Lusaka.  Methodist seminary (and several churches), several community churches (think Willow Creek), and a large number of Pentecostal churches.  TV displays a brand of evangelical Christianity that strikes us as a mixture of 1920s tent revivals and Steve Martin’s “Leap of Faith.”  Imploring, sweating white pastors conducting faith healings, spitting, shaking, and exorcising form some of the more salacious programs on the Christian TV network (which all of them are, at their root).  Not quite our speed.

We aren’t picky, nor are we that into interdenominational spats over when a baptism should be performed or which hymns congregations should sing.  That said, we wanted to avoid the sad situation of many U.S. churches:  that Sunday morning was the most segregated time in the country.  We wanted a church that Zambians ran, supported, and tended.  Expats were fine, but we didn’t want to cloister ourselves off in mini-America.

Up first was St. Columba’s Presbyterian Church, about two-thirds of the way to downtown Lusaka; it was an easy drive on a Sunday.  St. Columba’s falls on the slightly more liberal side of Zambia’s protestant, even Presbyterian spectrum.  According to another colleague who regularly attends the church, it’s a member of the United Church of Zambia, which is closer to our PCUSA.  A separate strain is more of an “emerging church”—slightly more conservative, in the vein of PCA.  Both claim explorer David Livingstone, who allegedly brought Presbyterianism to Zambia.

The church itself was small, with the sanctuary holding around 100-120 people (depending on how many stood in the back).  We sat with our colleagues on some hard, but not entirely uncomfortable portable wood pews about four rows back from the pulpit.  Ahead of us stood a small electric piano/organ, a small area for a six-person choir (several older women and one man in gold-trimmed purple robes), a podium, a backbench, and a few other chairs.  On the walls were faded felt banners exclaiming “Jehovah Jireh:  God Provides” and “Elohim, our Adonai!” and a tilted hymnboard with about five hymn numbers.  In the center was a sparse, very Calvinistic wooden cross, looking benignly over the congregation.

The congregation itself was around ninety percent Zambian, with a few Western missionaries, American aid workers, and ourselves interspersed around the cozy sanctuary.  Abbie and I noticed a curious collection of teenagers sitting in the first and second rows—a very rare sight back in the States.  They wore sheer white robes over their normal clothes.  Perhaps acolytes?  We’d soon find out.

Our colleague noted that the United Church ordained women, an important aspect of community we found lacking in our otherwise great D.C. church.  A retired female pastor was sitting across the church from us, we found later.  Along the back of the pulpit wall and speckled around the congregation were women in what I can only describe as modern-day Mayflower pilgrim outfits—black dresses with big white collars and light, white bonnets.  They were elders and deacons.

The service began with a litany of hymns mainline Presbyterians would know well:  Just as I am; Holy, Holy, Holy; I Will Enter his Gates; Take my Life and Let it Be” among others.  This was another welcome change from Grace, which tried to push its more traditional congregation through contemporary hymns few people knew.  I prefer the classics, so this suited me fine.  We soon found that the songs printed on the upside-down program were only the tip of the iceberg, disguising hidden songs most of the congregation knew reflexively.  This is good, because the projector-minder was not exactly on his game.

From the muddle of street noise outside, a few flies, and some chattering babies raised a clear, loud voice singing “You are the Alpha and Omega.”  Abbie and I looked around—was there a CD player with a young Beyonce cutting through the congregation?  After a short while, Abbie nudged me and pointed to a somewhat distracted looking teenage girl in the first row.  She was singing in a voice that, even when hampered by her seated position and facing away from the congregation, rose de profundis to fill the church with an antiphonal call to join her.  It was surprising, beautiful, and effortless.  This girl would later join her “junior choir” in another hymn that would have put much larger, better trained choirs to shame.  Her male equal sang in a clear tenor across from her, held together by perfectly balanced, crystalline four-part harmony from the other teenagers who formed the “junior choir”.  It very nearly brought me to tears.  The “senior choir”—those five ladies and the (usual) one man—presided over this younger group with well-meaning, but tinny and off tune warblings.  You could tell they felt it though, and that was what mattered.

The pastor then embarked on a Scripture-embroidered sermon focusing on the analogy running through the Bible of the vine and the branches.  It was well-rooted and well-voiced, but lacked a “so what” at times.  Still, the theology was solid, if slightly more conservative than what we were used to.  In the panoply of churches, though, we felt it was probably very close to the middle of the road.  The reverend punctuated his sermon with Africa-focused tidbits, including a tesseracted version of our “storm and boat” analogy, featuring a man trapped by a lion who ignores the tree God provides him in his obstinacy.  The lion eats the man, thanking God for providing.  I forgot how it related to the sermon, but it was entertaining.  We rode the reverend’s rounded r’s and deep vowels through an eloquent, if a bit rambling sermon.  Not bad, altogether.

After the sermon (and after a few more secret hymns, Lord’s Prayer, and Apostle’s Creed), we reached a heartfelt communion, featuring pre-squared bread and actual wine.  Well, rosé.  Rosé blood of Christ.  Still, I thought it was a good bit of adherence to the actual last supper (and way better than rosemary ciabatta body-of-Christ bread we got one week at Grace)!

The service wrapped up with a few more prayers and a rousing, surprising Nyanja hymn that sent the whole congregation out to tea and cakes on the tips of their toes.  Mini-Beyonce led this, too.  Not unsurprisingly, I met a Davidson grad, who claimed a long pedigree of Davidsonians in his bloodline, including a daughter who graduated just two years after me (though I couldn’t place her).  Small world.

We’ll continue our church search, but I have a good feeling about this one.  When my colleague invited me last night to come with him today, he mentioned that the church was “conservative, but with a good community.” After the service, we met an nearly toothless, 87-year old church member who warmly greeted us, wrote down my place of work, and promised she and her church would treat her like their own “babies.”  I could get used to her fellowship; the rest of the congregation brought the same warmth and hospitality to members and visitors alike—something we’ve come to expect and anticipate about the lovely Zambian public.  I think we’ll be back.