It's about passion, energy and stamina. That's how I felt about African American worship judged by what I'd seen in movies. But I had not an opportunity to observe it first hand. My first experience of worship with Africans was oddly enough in Nicosia, Cyprus.
When I'd gone to Cyprus for my visa interview, the day before the interview was Sunday. And it was Mother's Day in Iran. I felt very unhappy for being away from my mother and the religious places that I used to visit. In Iran, Mother's Day is observed on birth anniversary of our Lady Fatima Zahra, the beloved daughter of our Prophet and the wife of our first Imam. And I was so unhappy that a second visa interview (after the first one failed in Dubai) forced me to leave Iran on such a blessed day.
So, I thought I'd better find a religious place to pray for my mother, myself and also for my visa interview. And trivially, the religious places available to me in Nicosia were churches. So, I chose St. Paul Anglican Church as my first stop. I assumed that would be the only place with their prayers in a language understandable to me. I had a hard time at Armenian churches in Iran. Greek prayers at Greek Orthodox churches would have felt the same.
When I arrived at St. Paul, their first Mass was already over. When the second Mass began, I found it mostly populated by Africans. However, it was not an African church and I couldn't still have a completely African worship experience. Upon completion of the mass, the pastor who was Nigerian asked about me, my religious affiliation and nationality and when I explained, he found it quite interesting why I was there. He prayed for my mother, me and my visa interview. And the wording of his prayer was so moving and so simple at the same time.
As I'd already got admitted to the American Studies program at the INAES, University of Tehran (the biggest, oldest, most prestigious university in Iran), another rejection in this visa interview would had not been the end of the world to me. But I was still so angry about the first rejection in Dubai (which was totally unfair) and I badly wanted this second visa interview to be positive even if I chose to continue my graduate study in Iran. And I'd employed an army of prayer warriors with this one being the last. And apparently all those prayers in Iran and at different churches in Nicosia worked quite well.
So, when I decided to attend Bethel Apostolic Church in Toledo, I was already thinking about my experience in Nicosia. When I consulted my church roster to select churches to visit, I was curious about the words Apostolic and Temple. When I went on my reconnaissance tour to the find about church location and its worship schedule, I found it in a black neighborhood. So, this was a black church (hey, I have no racist connotation in mind; I just find African American too long a word).
When I asked about their prayer schedule and its length, I was told that "we don't have a set length in mind; we just pray as long as we feel like that; it could take one hour and half, two hours, maybe more". So, I had to dedicate myself to this service without planning about visiting other churches for the day. And when I attended the service, I understood what my black brother meant; hence, the opening statement to this post. I had already braced for a lengthy service and I found him to be true to his word. The service took more than two hours.
These people were Pentecostal, hence the word Apostolic in their name. The service consisted of almost all parts found in traditional services in any church with the exception of communion given here only 3-4 times a year (in order not to make it a habit). Instead, they have regular healing service almost every week, or as they refer to it, altar call (which is among the tenets of Pentecostal beliefs). This altar call takes a lot of time and people giving it at the altar are not limited to the ordained pastor or his associate. I was told that anybody who has the gift from Holy Spirit could do it. It constituted a very big part of the whole Sunday service (with the sermon being the biggest longest part).
Speaking in tongues is another hallmark of Pentecostalism; however, as I have difficulty understanding black accent (a problem I have to get over with sooner or later), I couldn't follow all their words to make sure how much did they speak in tongues. Almost everything I could understand and the way he spoke, sounded and looked normal to me. But something I didn't have difficulty grasping was the number of times I heard the words Jesus and Amen all over the service. And another recurrent theme was giving thanks to the Lord.
Another thing that I didn't have difficulty understanding was their passion in their worship. It should not be interpreted that I find worship at white churches passion-free, but compared to what I saw here (and what I'd seen in movies about black churches), worship in other churches is mostly a set of rituals. And here, fellowship was very important. Soon after the service began, newcomers were supposed to stand up so that regulars come to their pew and greet them.
And yes, my favorite part: music. Here, music was really passionate and lengthy. It covered most of the service one way or another. At times it was energetic and arousing and at times it was just a background to the words. Although the service was more or less traditional, the songs were mostly praise type (the sort that you would hear in contemporary worships). At times, I felt like listening to Whitney Houston or other R&B songs for that matter. Even when there was no singing (solo or chorus), you could still hear electric organ in the background for the most part. Quite an energy reserve on the side of the organist.
After I left the church, although I had done my homework for the day, I consulted my church roster again to see if I can find any afternoon services nearby. I could find two.
One was God's Family in Ministry. A very small church (or ministry) with a female black pastor. Here too, giving thanks to God was a recurring theme. The pastor was very conservative and (despite lacking seminary education) was quite comfortable giving biblical citations to back up her fiery roaring sermon condemning sins and different manifestations of desire and evil in our life and society. She was fascinated (and I found it funny) that at times I (a non-Christian) helped a young couple beside me with finding those readings in their Bible.
What I observed here was not a typical church Sunday service. As the name implied, it was more like a family gathering to worship God. And although the church was located in a poor black neighborhood with most of the attendees being poor, both pastor and her brother were sort of well-to-do and owning businesses. The clientele were dedicated in their attendance. One of them had walked about five miles to attend the worship. Impressing.
When it came to prayer, I found it quite a family ministry. Prayer was not limited to the pastor; everybody was supposed to stand up and give a prayer. And although I had explained to the pastor beforehand that I was not a Christian and my attendance there was mostly for the sake of observation and research, I was not spared. I was familiar with biblical language, but I found it hypocritical to give a biblical prayer without believing in the doctrine. So, I gave mine with a Quranic theme: May God bless people who spread His word and those who are steadfast in His straight path. Amen.
When the service concluded, I couldn't resist the temptation to play their electronic keyboard (I miss mine in Iran). Their music minister was absent, so I could entertain the people a little with my "Let there be light". I admit that cookies and keyboards are my weaknesses. Especially now that I've left my keyboard back in Iran, whenever I see one, I have a hard time stopping myself.
After this service, I proceeded to my third black worship for the day. This one was the least interesting. The pastor who was Pentecostal (and was bearded like me) had a long list of grievances against untrue Pentecostals (including the first church that I had visited in the morning). And in general, he had a lot to say about how non-Christian are the Christians in this country and how doomed and condemned they are for their infinite depravations. Judged by the name of the church (which I omit here), I expected to hear such words. But he surpassed my expectations.
I felt like I was listening to an ultra-orthodox fundamentalist Muslim. If his beard was a little longer, I could have soundly assumed that one of Bin-Laden's disciples was preaching to me. Although I found myself in the wrong place and felt a strong urge to leave the place to save my afternoon, I pressed myself to stay there to have a better sense of American fundamentalism. This was more or less the black version of the fundamentalist white church I had visited four months ago (and eventually evaded to write about it and put this post instead).
He was patriarchal not only in theory, but also in acts. He had a belt handy to teach his son some lessons in manners and behavior. And just the same way that abusing drugs would render them ineffective, his doses of discipline were very short-lived and he had to politely excuse himself every few minutes for interrupting our theological discussion to take his son to the bathroom and re-invigorate his practical lessons. Actually, his son was quite a normal active little boy for his age, curious about everything but his father thought otherwise. Those belt doses continued even during the worship. Whenever his wife (who like other women in the church had covered her hair with a scarf for the worship) couldn't keep the son from doing mischief by showing the magical belt, the pastor had to leave the stage for a short detour to the bathroom.
The worship was mostly dominated by giving thanks to God for His countless blessings and those thanksgivings words were punctuated by numerous Hallelujah and Amen interjections with tambourines embellishing it all (the pastor wielded one for the most of the service). Well, he had criticized other black churches for making their worship overwhelmed with thanksgiving and devoid of theology and thought. Even if we hold his overgeneralization true, was his service different?
To make me feel even more welcome at his church (as if his fanatical views and practical lessons were not enough), he mentioned at one point during his sermon: Buddha did not create the world, Muhammad did not create the world, Moses did not create the world, only Jesus is the Lord. Apparently, he had some misunderstandings about creation and Islamic beliefs (after the worship I explained to him that we don't hold our prophet as the Creator; there's only one God with all prophets being merely His creatures and servants).
When I'd gone to Cyprus for my visa interview, the day before the interview was Sunday. And it was Mother's Day in Iran. I felt very unhappy for being away from my mother and the religious places that I used to visit. In Iran, Mother's Day is observed on birth anniversary of our Lady Fatima Zahra, the beloved daughter of our Prophet and the wife of our first Imam. And I was so unhappy that a second visa interview (after the first one failed in Dubai) forced me to leave Iran on such a blessed day.
So, I thought I'd better find a religious place to pray for my mother, myself and also for my visa interview. And trivially, the religious places available to me in Nicosia were churches. So, I chose St. Paul Anglican Church as my first stop. I assumed that would be the only place with their prayers in a language understandable to me. I had a hard time at Armenian churches in Iran. Greek prayers at Greek Orthodox churches would have felt the same.
When I arrived at St. Paul, their first Mass was already over. When the second Mass began, I found it mostly populated by Africans. However, it was not an African church and I couldn't still have a completely African worship experience. Upon completion of the mass, the pastor who was Nigerian asked about me, my religious affiliation and nationality and when I explained, he found it quite interesting why I was there. He prayed for my mother, me and my visa interview. And the wording of his prayer was so moving and so simple at the same time.
As I'd already got admitted to the American Studies program at the INAES, University of Tehran (the biggest, oldest, most prestigious university in Iran), another rejection in this visa interview would had not been the end of the world to me. But I was still so angry about the first rejection in Dubai (which was totally unfair) and I badly wanted this second visa interview to be positive even if I chose to continue my graduate study in Iran. And I'd employed an army of prayer warriors with this one being the last. And apparently all those prayers in Iran and at different churches in Nicosia worked quite well.
So, when I decided to attend Bethel Apostolic Church in Toledo, I was already thinking about my experience in Nicosia. When I consulted my church roster to select churches to visit, I was curious about the words Apostolic and Temple. When I went on my reconnaissance tour to the find about church location and its worship schedule, I found it in a black neighborhood. So, this was a black church (hey, I have no racist connotation in mind; I just find African American too long a word).
When I asked about their prayer schedule and its length, I was told that "we don't have a set length in mind; we just pray as long as we feel like that; it could take one hour and half, two hours, maybe more". So, I had to dedicate myself to this service without planning about visiting other churches for the day. And when I attended the service, I understood what my black brother meant; hence, the opening statement to this post. I had already braced for a lengthy service and I found him to be true to his word. The service took more than two hours.
These people were Pentecostal, hence the word Apostolic in their name. The service consisted of almost all parts found in traditional services in any church with the exception of communion given here only 3-4 times a year (in order not to make it a habit). Instead, they have regular healing service almost every week, or as they refer to it, altar call (which is among the tenets of Pentecostal beliefs). This altar call takes a lot of time and people giving it at the altar are not limited to the ordained pastor or his associate. I was told that anybody who has the gift from Holy Spirit could do it. It constituted a very big part of the whole Sunday service (with the sermon being the biggest longest part).
Speaking in tongues is another hallmark of Pentecostalism; however, as I have difficulty understanding black accent (a problem I have to get over with sooner or later), I couldn't follow all their words to make sure how much did they speak in tongues. Almost everything I could understand and the way he spoke, sounded and looked normal to me. But something I didn't have difficulty grasping was the number of times I heard the words Jesus and Amen all over the service. And another recurrent theme was giving thanks to the Lord.
Another thing that I didn't have difficulty understanding was their passion in their worship. It should not be interpreted that I find worship at white churches passion-free, but compared to what I saw here (and what I'd seen in movies about black churches), worship in other churches is mostly a set of rituals. And here, fellowship was very important. Soon after the service began, newcomers were supposed to stand up so that regulars come to their pew and greet them.
And yes, my favorite part: music. Here, music was really passionate and lengthy. It covered most of the service one way or another. At times it was energetic and arousing and at times it was just a background to the words. Although the service was more or less traditional, the songs were mostly praise type (the sort that you would hear in contemporary worships). At times, I felt like listening to Whitney Houston or other R&B songs for that matter. Even when there was no singing (solo or chorus), you could still hear electric organ in the background for the most part. Quite an energy reserve on the side of the organist.
After I left the church, although I had done my homework for the day, I consulted my church roster again to see if I can find any afternoon services nearby. I could find two.
One was God's Family in Ministry. A very small church (or ministry) with a female black pastor. Here too, giving thanks to God was a recurring theme. The pastor was very conservative and (despite lacking seminary education) was quite comfortable giving biblical citations to back up her fiery roaring sermon condemning sins and different manifestations of desire and evil in our life and society. She was fascinated (and I found it funny) that at times I (a non-Christian) helped a young couple beside me with finding those readings in their Bible.
What I observed here was not a typical church Sunday service. As the name implied, it was more like a family gathering to worship God. And although the church was located in a poor black neighborhood with most of the attendees being poor, both pastor and her brother were sort of well-to-do and owning businesses. The clientele were dedicated in their attendance. One of them had walked about five miles to attend the worship. Impressing.
When it came to prayer, I found it quite a family ministry. Prayer was not limited to the pastor; everybody was supposed to stand up and give a prayer. And although I had explained to the pastor beforehand that I was not a Christian and my attendance there was mostly for the sake of observation and research, I was not spared. I was familiar with biblical language, but I found it hypocritical to give a biblical prayer without believing in the doctrine. So, I gave mine with a Quranic theme: May God bless people who spread His word and those who are steadfast in His straight path. Amen.
When the service concluded, I couldn't resist the temptation to play their electronic keyboard (I miss mine in Iran). Their music minister was absent, so I could entertain the people a little with my "Let there be light". I admit that cookies and keyboards are my weaknesses. Especially now that I've left my keyboard back in Iran, whenever I see one, I have a hard time stopping myself.
After this service, I proceeded to my third black worship for the day. This one was the least interesting. The pastor who was Pentecostal (and was bearded like me) had a long list of grievances against untrue Pentecostals (including the first church that I had visited in the morning). And in general, he had a lot to say about how non-Christian are the Christians in this country and how doomed and condemned they are for their infinite depravations. Judged by the name of the church (which I omit here), I expected to hear such words. But he surpassed my expectations.
I felt like I was listening to an ultra-orthodox fundamentalist Muslim. If his beard was a little longer, I could have soundly assumed that one of Bin-Laden's disciples was preaching to me. Although I found myself in the wrong place and felt a strong urge to leave the place to save my afternoon, I pressed myself to stay there to have a better sense of American fundamentalism. This was more or less the black version of the fundamentalist white church I had visited four months ago (and eventually evaded to write about it and put this post instead).
He was patriarchal not only in theory, but also in acts. He had a belt handy to teach his son some lessons in manners and behavior. And just the same way that abusing drugs would render them ineffective, his doses of discipline were very short-lived and he had to politely excuse himself every few minutes for interrupting our theological discussion to take his son to the bathroom and re-invigorate his practical lessons. Actually, his son was quite a normal active little boy for his age, curious about everything but his father thought otherwise. Those belt doses continued even during the worship. Whenever his wife (who like other women in the church had covered her hair with a scarf for the worship) couldn't keep the son from doing mischief by showing the magical belt, the pastor had to leave the stage for a short detour to the bathroom.
The worship was mostly dominated by giving thanks to God for His countless blessings and those thanksgivings words were punctuated by numerous Hallelujah and Amen interjections with tambourines embellishing it all (the pastor wielded one for the most of the service). Well, he had criticized other black churches for making their worship overwhelmed with thanksgiving and devoid of theology and thought. Even if we hold his overgeneralization true, was his service different?
To make me feel even more welcome at his church (as if his fanatical views and practical lessons were not enough), he mentioned at one point during his sermon: Buddha did not create the world, Muhammad did not create the world, Moses did not create the world, only Jesus is the Lord. Apparently, he had some misunderstandings about creation and Islamic beliefs (after the worship I explained to him that we don't hold our prophet as the Creator; there's only one God with all prophets being merely His creatures and servants).
Although this last church visit was not so fun and made me feel my afternoon wasted, I still prefer to think of the first church as a representative of black worship. I hope to visit more of this. They may be lengthy, but surely are invigorating and energetic.
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