[This post was written on July 1 but not posted until later due to lack of internet access.]
By the time we reached the church the first Sunday in the village, we were already an hour late. I had spent that hour sitting around in the African dress I had been lent (the family deemed my own clothes inadequate) while my host sister got ready and put on her Sunday best. Like all women in the church, she wore a skirt, matching top, and a cloth wrapped around her head. She tied a handkerchief around my hair to cover my head as well so that I would be decent for the service.
We reached the church in time to attend the last 15 minutes of Sunday school. The children had their Sunday school outside while the adults - nearly all women (my host sister explained that men do Satan activities on Sunday) - attended class in the classroom-sized sanctuary. There were actually two different classes being conducted simultaneously in two different languages (French and Goun) in the same room, making my class quite hard to follow. The Beninese, however, seem to have an ability to filter out the extraneous noise.
The pastor had our class learn a Bible verse by repeating it to us chunk by chunk over and over again. Towards the end of Sunday school, someone came around with a plastic strainer to collect the offering. I had brought 500 francs CFA, which is far more than I should contribute (the total collection for our group was 1200 francs CFA), but it was the smallest coin I had. I discovered that the man passing around the offering strainer will actually make change for you out of the change already contributed, but he would not take mine because it was too big. My host sister ended up making change for me instead.
At 10, class ended and the service began. The children joined us and each Sunday school class recited the verse it had memorized earlier. Then the pastor made announcements and reviewed the Sunday school statistics, which were posted on a chalkboard behind the altar. The board listed the number of students in each class and how many had actually shown up on time, which was less than half. The pastor admonished the whole congregation for the tardiness, saying, "Don't be late for your salvation."
The next statistic was the morning's offering. The three Sunday school classes combined had contributed just over 2900 francs CFA ($60). The pastor told us that he wanted at least 3000 francs CFA, so he cajoled us until a few members of the congregation came forward to make the difference.
The remaining two statistics were the number of Bibles brought and the number of visitors. As one of two visitors, I had to stand up in front of the entire congregation to introduce myself to the 116 attendees.
The music portion of the service lasted an hour, if not more. There were no hymnals, so we relied on song leaders to teach us the words (easy enough in French, but hard for me in Goun!). The music became more and more animated. Some boys started pounding out rhythms on tall African drums while others had other percussion instruments. The congregation was singing, clapping, shaking, and eventually started really dancing.
During the singing, church members started coming up to the altar and adding more money to the offering. Eventually, I went up as well and added some more, though I wasn't positive about what I was doing. I gave money for the offering four times that morning, which was apparently expected every time but the last.
We ended the service with a sermon about salvation. Like the announcements, this was done in French with simultaneous interpretation in Goun. The mikes and speakers were so loud that it should have been a concert hall, not a small sanctuary. This was the last part of the service. Ultimately, the service was two hours long, not counting Sunday school. This will not be my last church experience in Dangbo because I committed before the entire congregation to attending for the next two months.
By the time we reached the church the first Sunday in the village, we were already an hour late. I had spent that hour sitting around in the African dress I had been lent (the family deemed my own clothes inadequate) while my host sister got ready and put on her Sunday best. Like all women in the church, she wore a skirt, matching top, and a cloth wrapped around her head. She tied a handkerchief around my hair to cover my head as well so that I would be decent for the service.
We reached the church in time to attend the last 15 minutes of Sunday school. The children had their Sunday school outside while the adults - nearly all women (my host sister explained that men do Satan activities on Sunday) - attended class in the classroom-sized sanctuary. There were actually two different classes being conducted simultaneously in two different languages (French and Goun) in the same room, making my class quite hard to follow. The Beninese, however, seem to have an ability to filter out the extraneous noise.
The pastor had our class learn a Bible verse by repeating it to us chunk by chunk over and over again. Towards the end of Sunday school, someone came around with a plastic strainer to collect the offering. I had brought 500 francs CFA, which is far more than I should contribute (the total collection for our group was 1200 francs CFA), but it was the smallest coin I had. I discovered that the man passing around the offering strainer will actually make change for you out of the change already contributed, but he would not take mine because it was too big. My host sister ended up making change for me instead.
At 10, class ended and the service began. The children joined us and each Sunday school class recited the verse it had memorized earlier. Then the pastor made announcements and reviewed the Sunday school statistics, which were posted on a chalkboard behind the altar. The board listed the number of students in each class and how many had actually shown up on time, which was less than half. The pastor admonished the whole congregation for the tardiness, saying, "Don't be late for your salvation."
The next statistic was the morning's offering. The three Sunday school classes combined had contributed just over 2900 francs CFA ($60). The pastor told us that he wanted at least 3000 francs CFA, so he cajoled us until a few members of the congregation came forward to make the difference.
The remaining two statistics were the number of Bibles brought and the number of visitors. As one of two visitors, I had to stand up in front of the entire congregation to introduce myself to the 116 attendees.
The music portion of the service lasted an hour, if not more. There were no hymnals, so we relied on song leaders to teach us the words (easy enough in French, but hard for me in Goun!). The music became more and more animated. Some boys started pounding out rhythms on tall African drums while others had other percussion instruments. The congregation was singing, clapping, shaking, and eventually started really dancing.
During the singing, church members started coming up to the altar and adding more money to the offering. Eventually, I went up as well and added some more, though I wasn't positive about what I was doing. I gave money for the offering four times that morning, which was apparently expected every time but the last.
We ended the service with a sermon about salvation. Like the announcements, this was done in French with simultaneous interpretation in Goun. The mikes and speakers were so loud that it should have been a concert hall, not a small sanctuary. This was the last part of the service. Ultimately, the service was two hours long, not counting Sunday school. This will not be my last church experience in Dangbo because I committed before the entire congregation to attending for the next two months.
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