Pentacost, Pastors and Palava Sauce

As an agnostic undecided in what exactly I do or do not believe in, I have always been intrigued by religion, and happy to join in on religious events/festivals of my friends in the States or around the world. During my time in Jamaica, I would go every weekend with Mummy (my host mother) to her tiny church in the mountains. As a Seventh Day Adventist, her church brethren and sistren spent much of their time being “taken by the spirit,” which I found quite intriguing and a little bit disturbing. I always managed to dodge the weekly attempt by the pastor to convert me by singing for the church members one of the religious songs I had burned in my memory from years of choir.

I suppose Easter in the Philippines last year would have to take the cake for the most insane and extreme of my religious spectating, where I watched the town drunkard allow himself to be nailed to a giant cross and paraded though the town as Jesus (which he apparently does every year on condition that the town will feed his alcohol addiction for the coming year).

Today I had another wonderful opportunity to witness a religious celebration. Auntie Lydia, one of our two wonderful translators and a still-practicing nurse-midwife, invited us all to attend her church’s Pentecost celebration. I am still a bit foggy as to exactly how it works, but I think the gist is that she is Pentecostal, and therefore attends church on Saturdays, but because today marked the Pentecost – the time when Jesus rose to heaven 50 days after his death – there was an all-day festival today (Sunday) as well.

We arrived around 10:45 and it was clear the sermon had been going on for a while. The “assembly hall” is typical for third world countries- a bare cement structure with no walls (it’s waay to hot for them) and plenty of wooden benches and plastic chairs to sit on. We sat down and I managed to pay attention to the pastor for the next 45 minutes, despite not understanding anything he said as it was in the local Twi language (with the exception of “Amen!”).

But then the uniquely Ghanaian sermon turned to something I’ve been trying to escape – American religious doctrine. An American preacher with a very strong southern drawl appearing to be about 90 years old stood up to present the key sermon. He tried to convince the church that the idea of all its members being “taken by the spirit” is “hogwash.” His incomprehensible stories about Kansas in the 1800’s were lost not only on all the church members, but those of us Americans in the audience, and felt like they dragged on as many hours as he is old. The only thing that kept my attention was that a church member had to translate everything he said from English to Twi. And somehow his Americanisms didn’t quite make it in the translations (“It’s hogwash that any person can be taken by the spirit.”) This was indeed the case, as Auntie Lydia leaned over and explained that the reason the members kept laughing was that the translator was prefacing most of his translations with “Now I don’t really have any idea what he saying, but it’s something like…”).

I was beyond thrilled when he finished the hour sermon and it was time for lunch. The next hour and a half was probably the best time I’ve had here in Ghana. We spent it playing with the approximately 100 children ages 2-12, taking photos together, playing clapping games, and hanging out. Auntie Lydia served us a delicious lunch of one of our favorite traditional Ghanaian foods – Ampesi, which is boiled yams and green plantains with Palava sauce (a spinach sauté with garden egg, which resembles a small zucchini).

After our wonderful time with the kids, we went back into the church for the singing and dancing portion of the festival. I swear, their songs last an average of 40 minutes. That’s forty minutes of dancing and swaying and yelling and parading in front of the congregation and then throwing some money in the pot and then dancing again. I thought I was going to pass out form the heat and sweat. But it was very entertaining and far better than the morning half for sure. During this loud and crazed hour, I noticed the floor covered with sleeping toddlers, which were placed on top of blankets on the floor by their mothers. I can’t imagine how tired they must have been to sleep through all the singing, stomping and clapping.

It was actually sad to leave. Everyone – especially Auntie Lydia – was so generous and inviting, and the kids were such a joy to be with after the last few weeks of intensity at the hospital. However, after the praying session I was ready to go: the four pastors took us into a back room and we stood in a circle as the four of them prayed out loud all at once, sometimes yelling out suddenly as if about to be taken by spirits (while they were praying for me, I was praying that they wouldn’t start speaking in tongues). It actually made me really nervous to be shouted at in prayers by these four men, and I certainly did not feel more relaxed afterwards. But it was a very heartfelt gesture nonetheless – although they failed, once again, to convert this pagan.

I find religion to be fascinating, absurd, and dangerous. Its ability to simultaneously instill love and hate between people has always filled me with awe. I have been fortunate in my life to have only directly experienced religion in a positive and inclusive light through the people I know and meet.