Rockin my soul in the bosom of Abraham
Rockin my soul in the bosom of Abraham
Rockin my soul in the bosom of Abraham
Oh, rockin my soul…
The song blared from one of the houses in our neighborhood interrupting an otherwise quiet Saturday afternoon. I’m not sure if it was a worship team rehearsing or an impromptu worship gathering. After the sixth or seventh chorus I gave up on tuning out the inconsistent drumming and Nintendo toned keyboard and sought sanctuary and sanity inside the house. Fortunately this place is large enough that what can be heard clearly at one end of the property isn’t noticeable at all from the other (I don’t know the square footage of this place, but it’s huge).
It seems that every weekend there is at least one loud party or celebration. A few weeks ago the party came to Manse #2. The youth had asked if they could hold their semi-annual bash here and we, of course, said sure. They joked that they had waited to ask us because they knew that Mayibusa didn’t enjoy loud music (she’s often seen in church with both fingers in her ears).
But Hailey is not alone; church is very loud. The other morning we walked through the rain into the daily prayer service (which, I know I’ve mentioned before, starts at 5 am) and saw about fifteen people worshiping…with the leader singing into the mic like there were fifteen hundred in the congregation. As I walked up to preach, I was handed the same microphone, needless to say I quickly set it down.
Usually we can hear the praise team practicing from a few hundred feet away. I couldn’t imagine living any closer to the church—I’m not sure when I’d sleep between the daily devotions, Sunday services and monthly all-nighters. I know I sound like the disgruntled church neighbor that lives across the street from most churches, but I’m starting to understand that perspective…and I’m a pastor at the loud church.
Part of it is just the Malawian way. Sitting through a Chichewa church service can be like hearing a sermon from Jacob Silg. When it’s not people talking it’s roosters crowing or our turkeys squawking. Everything is louder here. On multiple occasions I have stopped on the road to notice shouting people, positive of an impending fight, and then I’m reminded that I live in a place where confrontation is about as common white pastors. Malawian’s are just loud.
When we were taking Chichewa lessons our teacher told us that voice inflection is just a part of the language. You don’t say chonde (please), because it is begging, you just lighten your voice when asking a question. The volume of your voice indicates the importance and urgency of a message. And I guess that is true everywhere, it just seems to be exaggerated here.
I know the Church believes it has an important and urgent message, but so does the guy driving down the street with a p.a. strapped to the roof of his car shouting nonsense. It’s not the sheer volume of a church’s message that is going to change a neighborhood, city or nation. Jesus actually taught quite the opposite. Instead of making our neighbors angry about our noise (no matter how unstable or nonsensical they may be), let’s love them with the quiet—yet impossible not to notice—message of the grace of Christ