Bringing the house of God to the house, literally

This past weekend was an eventful one. I designated Saturday to being an all-out self-care extravaganza; I got a blissful 45-minute massage for about $15, ate an absurdly beautiful pastry in an upscale coffee shop, and lavished in the solitude of getting work done on my laptop for a few hours.

My tasty little mango, mousse, something-or-other from Brioche Cafe in Kacryiru, Kigali.

Sunday was a different story.

The day started off like any other, I ate breakfast: a piece of white bread, a cup of tea, and a malaria pill (before anyone starts to think I’ve contracted malaria, IT IS STRICTLY A PREVENTION TABLET THAT I TAKE WEEKLY, PEOPLE). Around noon, Daddy left and returned with a massive stack of red and green plastic chairs. He informed me that we were to be hosting around a dozen guests later in the day.

“They are friends from our church, they are Christians,” he said a little too matter-of-factly. Not that I had anything against that, I just didn’t even know that my family went to church; my host parents hadn’t so much as mentioned attending a service within the past month. Before letting my anxious mind run wild, I reassured myself internally: okay don’t worry, it’s not like religious people can only participate in religious activities, right? Everyone’s probably just coming over to catch up, say grace, have dinner and skedaddle.

Boy was I wrong.

As usual in regard to the Rwandan schedule, people starting filtering in about two hours later than anticipated––something that would drive me to insanity, but seemed a minor change of plans to my host parents. Sham and Pacific were the first people to show up. They were dressed in ironed button downs, smooth pants, and clean sneakers. I couldn’t have looked more out of place in my faded Levi’s, tank top and flip-flops.

Sham and Pacific asked me in English (which of course was impeccable) about the usual mzungu topics while my host mother poured homemade pineapple-beet juice and distributed soda bottles around the coffee table.

“What do you think of Rwanda?”

“What do you study?”

“When will you have children?” *Okay arguably this isn’t a common question that I’ve been asked in Rwanda, but it threw me a tad off-guard so I had to toss it in with the bunch.

“What do you miss from home?”

“How long have you been here?”

“I’ve heard that [insert Hollywood stereotype about America], is it true in your country?” This one’s usually a question about guns, police, university, or Texas.

After about an hour, more people began to show up. A woman named Mama, (who perhaps not-so-coincidentally brought her two kids) wore a traditional orange, kitenge dress and greeted me warmly, but said she would only opt to speak English if she were in the United States. It was almost comforting to have someone finally not treat me like precious cargo, so I didn't protest. David, Favor, and Jemima were all closer to my age. Favor told me she was a tour guide and Jemima, like me, was in her third year of university. Unlike me, she studied electrical engineering. Phillip was the last to show––I hadn’t asked how old he was, but looking back, I'd guess mid-thirties. He worked in management at a mining company in Kigali and spoke the best English of the crew.

The evening started out harmlessly. We drank African tea and traded stories of cultural differences. For long periods of time, the conversations around me were fully in Kinyarwanda. This was frustrating because I could only understand about the 50th word everyone said, but I felt lucky to witness such a beautiful cultural exchange nonetheless. People must have begun to notice my lack of participation because Philip started translating for me and the conversation temporarily returned to English. The only downside is that Rwandans seem to derive a great amount of joy from watching me attempt to pronounce Kinyarwandan names and objects, so reciting vocabulary to a group of laughing Rwandans has sort of become my schtick. While I wouldn't recommend it as my favorite ice-breaker activity, I didn't take it to heart too much.

A little while afterwards, the tone of the living room shifted to one of religion. Prayers began to circulate and before long, everyone was belting out traditional Swahili church songs and clapping their hands. Unable to partake in the pious melodies––I sat awkwardly on the couch and smiled encouragingly at the guests swaying around me.

“This is how we worship,” said Pacific after successfully leading the pack in singing a dozen hymns.

“I think it’s beautiful, you all have incredible voices,” I replied. They seemed skeptical of my endorsement, but appreciative too.

I honestly did think it was beautiful... the singing anyway. It takes a special kind of harmonizing to enjoy music that you can’t understand. After a few more songs, the group’s vocals shifted from peaceful choruses to nonsensical dialogue. It took about ten seconds for me to realize everyone was speaking in tongues. For anyone who hasn’t watched the 2006 documentary Jesus Camp, this phenomenon also known as “Glossolalia,” occurs when ordinary people interpret the holy spirit through an unknown language. Maybe it's because I watched too many paranormal movies growing up, but the whole ordeal comes across a little too exorcism-esque for my liking.

For those of you who live under rocks and weren't scarred for life by the startling documentary: ta-da!

I’m aware that this kind of evangelical behavior isn’t exclusive to Rwanda, I’ve watched enough American cult series on Netflix to know better than that. But still, I felt a lot of things in those moments. I felt isolated, as if there was some elephant in the room that everyone had access to except for me. I felt rude for staring at people in such vulnerable states, but most of all, I felt intrigued, like I had a VIP pass to the true inner-workings of Rwanda behind closed doors.

The speaking-in-tongues lasted for about 25 minutes which seems like an excessive amount of time to me. How do people speak with such velocity about anything for 25 minutes straight? I might have been more impressed than uncomfortable to be honest.

The observer in me was most intrigued by everyone's idiosyncrasies throughout the reverent ordeal. Each person had their own distinct mannerisms; some paced, some clapped, some rocked back and forth, some cried, some even sang. Almost everyone spoke in Kinyarwanda, or Kinyarwanda-gibberish rather, but I did hear the occasional “his presence in this house” behind me which was just a little unnerving. Once that exciting venture came to a close, we broke for dinner. Our house helpers had put together a delicious ensemble of crispy potatoes, rice, cooked vegetables, and a meat stew. When we all sat down to eat together on the couches, everyone carried on with harmless conversation. But it wasn’t long before my religious views became the topic of discussion. I knew the question was coming, but I still fumbled to answer the “are you a Christian?” probe. Normally I avoid the religious schmooze by saying that I was raised Catholic by my parents and simply hadn’t found the time for church in a while, but this time I decided to be a little more candid.

“Technically, I was baptized by my parents and raised Catholic. We used to attend church services on Christmas, but I never made much of an effort to learn about my religion and as I got older, eventually stopped associating with Christianity entirely.” I said confidently, feeling like that was a safe answer.

I still 100% stand behind my reasonings for a lack of belief, but I’d be lying if I said that response didn’t practically plaster an upside-down cross to my forehead. David started hounding me with his life-story and relationship with God. He repeatedly advised me that I needed to have a “master savior, Jesus Christ” in my life because "you can’t predict the tomorrow." I tried to explain that I felt I was in control of most aspects of my life and had made peace with the ones that I wasn’t. This seemed an unsatisfactory retaliation. After asking me a couple of times if I wanted to be "saved" then and there, David relented and Philip picked up where he left off. I enjoyed talking to Philip. He came across as more flexible and understanding in his views and asked me broader philosophical questions about life and death that truly made me think. I actually found myself relating to him on a few things such as transformable human-energy and the unknowns beyond the grave.

Pacific interrupted the conversation to say a few (many) words about my host father and his involvement in the church. Philip translated everything quietly next to me which I was eternally grateful for. After Daddy reciprocated with a short speech, my host mom grabbed my hand and motioned for me to sit on my knees on the floor next to her, Daddy, and Roland. While everyone else stood around, David preached above our heads in Kinyarwanda (none of which I understood aside from the occasional mention of my name). A few more minutes of speaking-in-tongues and eight songs later, I once again retired to the couch as things seemed to be winding down. That is until someone broke out a speaker and the after-party commenced.

My poor attempt at capturing a photo of the evening (it felt a slightly inconsiderate to try and snap photo of the more... eventful festivities).

The rain had been pouring relentlessly since 4 p.m. and even five hours later, it showed no signs of letting up. Our guests seemed to take the weather as a sign from above to stay longer. I could still hear the dancing and singing from my bedroom after I went to bed around 11 p.m.

The word that comes to mind when I reflect on the entire experience, is phenomenal. Not in the way your dad says "Phenomenal!" when you ace your physics exam, but the kind of soft-spoken"phenomenal," you whisper to yourself after witnessing something truly cathartic like a play or a Wes Anderson film.

It was tense and at times, even disturbing, but it was so unlike anything I’d ever beheld. The window I’d been authorized to peer into Rwandan society through was a privilege, albeit a strange one. Here was a group of people with views that couldn’t have been farther from mine, yet we managed to spend six hours together, sharing food, drink, and kind words. I was accepted both in my language and religious perspective in a way that I’ve never seen in the United States and that has to count for something.

While I don’t think I’ll be delivering my soul from sins anytime soon, I do feel a newfound admiration for the human right to practice, question, and criticize spiritual thinking both here and at home.