Surrounded by about a thousand other worshippers, it seemed like I was the only one who wasn’t feeling the vibes that seemed to be continuously sweeping through the church on Hoe Street. Voices were raised mid song, hands outstretched for the embrace of the Holy Spirit, tongues wagged as lips formed what to my untrained ears seemed to be gibberish. The congregation bounced on feet that refused to be grounded for the joy of their experience. Heads shook in awesome wonder, limbs quivered as the spirit filled their beings. They were believers. And I?
Well, I stood there trying to connect to what the collection of them was experiencing, but my mind seemed to be more interested in having an out of body experience. It watched amusedly as I futilely raised my palm upward as if to seize something before me, trying to imitate the grasping motion I saw some people making, only I didn’t know what I was trying to take hold of. I tried to shake my head, giving my mind the permission to embrace the wondrous emotion I should be feeling, but compared to these connoisseurs even that movement seemed watered down. I resorted to clasping my hands together before me, as if in prayer but rather than being a participant, I became an observer.
I wondered if it was just me in this mass of people who didn’t have it in me to be taken over by the spirit or if there were a few others like me who wondered with some longing what it was like to be moved in this way. I questioned yet if it was learnt behaviour, that maybe because it was my first time of being there and consciously trying, I hadn’t yet perfected the motions. I imagined that just like me, many of them had tried unsuccessfully to will their sane tongues to yammer away, their bodies to quiver anxiously and their voices to tremble in awe before finally having it down pat. The lady pastor who led the worship songs on the podium was a sight to behold, any more movement and she would have bounced against the wall and ricocheted into the un-noticing congregation of the spirit filled.
Even as I wished to believe that all this was real, I lacked the conviction that it was anything but show, that this act wasn’t some holy garment to be worn within the four walls of the church and then discarded as soon as those same worshippers saw daylight outside. Meanwhile, the pastor sauntered in with an assistant behind him bearing his notes. There seemed to be a wave of anticipation sweeping through the church as he made his way to the podium and positioned himself for full effect before them. Then reigned silence as I imagined every one turned to him, willing him to cross gazes with them, his presence in the eyes of this crowd was larger than life. He stood there in silence for a few more seconds, the better to enable them appreciate his unfathomable aura, before proceeding with the day’s sermon.
He was good, I hung on every word and forgot to observe. My attention was fixed on him as his words seeped into my mind and made enormous impact. when I could tear my gaze away from his arresting presence, I noticed they all hung on his every word, parroted his phrases and that many of them had whipped out little notebook and pens to jot every verse he recited and every word he spoke. The most accomplished of lecturers could never have achieved the kind of rapt attention he commanded. And when he made a self deprecating remark or some particularly funny illustration of something, the crowd laughed, too loud; grateful that he deemed it fit to exchange with them this small unflattering confidence or brief humour. And he in turn rewarded them with the briefest of smiles, a quick flash of dentition.
I wasn’t such a pessimist, I wasn’t one to disregard the awesome power of God but I disagreed with the showmanship. God is awesome, He was present in the congregation but He wasn’t a presence that required meaningful pauses, and agitated arrest. I liked to imagine him calm, all powerful, all seeing, not the flashy existence that the pastor and his disciples made him out to be. I thought there to be more merit in a quiet, peaceful contemplation of Him, but then we Nigerians knew how to create a spectacle and milk it for all it’s worth. I didn’t necessarily think they were a fraudulent crowd putting up an act, I just thought they weren’t more holy than those who received the spirit with calm. They seemed to be trying too hard to convince others and maybe themselves that they were spirit filled but I didn’t see why that was necessary, I thought the spirit was something to quietly receive and cleave to, so I marvelled at the show.
For the sight they made, this crowd of believers, you would have been hard pressed to think there’d be any wickedness in their part of the world ever again, but out they would be turned, and they would cast off their cloaks of honour. I could almost imagine an invisible layer of piousness discarded outside the church, shrugged off quickly in a hurry to catch the bus away from church or proceed with the rest of the day’s business; and hence would continue the spate of wickedness from this same Godly group. Husbands would proceed to be snatched, girlfriends jilted, people’s efforts undermined, jobs sabotaged, everything that could go wrong would be made to go wrong till next Sunday, or till the midweek service when again piousness would be donned like a previously peeled off sock.
The hypocrisy I observed is not exclusive to Christian worship, under bilious gowns and solemn expressions many muslim women hide intolerance, hate and corrupt hearts; and even as on the outside their men sport beards meters long and prayer burns on their foreheads from observing every zakat since they were born, malice continues to command the mind within. Exam malpractices, adultery, religious clashes, genocide and other sins continue to be rife amongst the most religious of people, would you blame me then in suspecting that even as I sat surrounded by people who with every other breath proclaim hallelujah, envious glances were being traded, hateful words being hauled silently at others, lewd visions being entertained of the nubile beauties within the congregation.
Simply put, we cannot stop being imperfect people, we can only keep trying to imbibe the spirit of God and improve our lives and our thoughts. We do not have holiness down pat and there’s no need to pretend to ourselves or to others that we do. It is an unending journey to Godliness, hardly ever totally accomplished so we can only try with real sincerity of heart to achieve it, and if we are lucky enough to, we do not need high-strung acts, nuances or exaggeration to ensure that others acknowledge this change; they’ll just see it in our attitudes and actions. That at least is the truth I believe in.
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