On Christmas morning I went to my friend Trace’s church, Bible Life Ministries. I’ve been there twice before with mixed feelings. The first time I went the singing was beautiful. The second time, not so much. The sermons are always a bit harsh. One woman spoke about how we must all be “watchmen for our faith.” We must watch our family, friends, and church fellows for any sign of weakness. My goodness, what work that would be! I felt tired just listening to her. I don’t want to think about anyone’s faith but my own.
This was definitely my last visit. Some women made catty comments to Trace about her three-week absence from church. Watchmen! In my three visits to this church I’ve never once heard anyone speak about God’s endless love, peace, or forgiveness. Trace also told me that another lady made fun of the length of her skirt, calling it a miniskirt. It actually covered her knees and was longer than mine.
The ladies in charge of opening the church were late and we all had to wait out in the rain for them to come. When this woman did arrive, she being the only other person there to have a car except for me and the pastor, she exclaimed loudly, “You can’t be mad at me. It’s Christmas!” Well I was upset with her because I was quite wet and so was everybody who walked from home in the rain.
Once we found seats inside I noticed two large, modern, and very comfortable looking chairs in the front row with a table in between. All the other chairs were stackable and plastic. Trace told me this was where the pastor and his wife sat. This was a new feature since the last time I had visited over a year ago. True enough the pastor’s wife came and sat herself down. She wasn’t a very large woman but had rolls of fat down her arms and around her middle. Her neck was squashed and her face a bit mannish with a very unfortunate hair do of short, uneven relaxed tresses. Or perhaps it was just a bad wig. Hard to tell sometimes. She wore a traditional lavender dress with a wide, frilly, boat-neck collar with a cursive dollar sign design around the top. In her defense, as a pastor’s wife, she may not have known it was a dollar sign.
A man started the service with a short reading about the birth of Christ then proceeded with about forty-five minutes of “praising the Lord,” or what I would call bad singing. One woman’s rendition of “Silent Night” was taken with many liberties, in both English and Setswana. Then the pastor, arriving an hour late, gave a sermon about how this was a time of celebration for Christians, and a time of trouble for our enemies. Really, what ever happened to wishing peace and love for our enemies? Then there was more singing, and by “more” I mean an hour more. The woman who came late to unlock the church doors tried to get just the poor, parentless, and hungry children in the back to sing for everyone. When they proved to be too shy (and probably hungry) the congregation stepped in again to help them but she shushed us and told us to be quiet then tried again unsuccessfully to get the children to sing. They had only come for the cake and juice to be passed out at the end.
Trace and I tried to leave after the service but everyone heckled us to stay for cake. Eventually we left and I asked Trace to please come with me to the Catholic Church next time.
