Anglican church service in Nairobi…HOLY HECK!
 
In an SIM meeting, an acquaintance of mine mentioned having a husband who is the rector at Holy Trinity Church in Kibera, a slum of Nairobi. Poor woman. After learning of her church background, I directed question after question toward her: husband? family? the church? the congregation? Etc? etc? etc. So, naturally, I asked for her number and arranged to attend with her the following Sunday.

WOW different, but WOW the same:) The Sunday I attended, we celebrated mothering Sunday, not the most traditional of liturgies. We celebrated in both English and Swahili, my attention rapt, during prayers and liturgy, for words I could recognize. Very unusual for Kenyans. The women, especially mothers, were CELEBRATED with intention and vigor! Women led the entire service, preached, offered skits, song and dance in thanksgiving to their mothers after the readings. All of this to recognize the underappreciated (in Kenyan culture).

 

Prior to the service, the rector (the husband of the co-worker) welcomed me into his office for tea and mendazi, Kenya's donut. We sat in his small, austere cell and discussed being Anglican. He was very curious about Church of the Incarnation, so I gave him Bishop Burton’s name at the close of our conversation. I learned he studied at Wheaton and Mennonite Eastern in VA and had travelled far and wide for the Church! As we chatted and laughed deep from our bellies, Kenyans have very big laughs, the choir voices welled up in practice in the adjacent room. I started tearing up (he didn't notice. dark room, whew). The moment, the music, the donuts, this man’s familiar collar were all so Good and so distinctly Kenyan.

The choir was on fire during the service and a rail thin baritone led the congregation when we all sang together. Funny that such a thin person produces something so low. During the offering, someone presented a chicken as a tithe. They made me, the muzungu=white girl, stand up at one point and introduce myself to the congregation. Before the Kenyan faces, I felt so foreign and so familiar.

Afterwards, the mammas swept me out to the courtyard for chai hour. In a flurry of hospitality, I soon had more chai and mendazis in my hands along with a gaggle of ladies pecking at me and my story. While still digesting the mendazi and eagerness of the blue dressed women, I was led to a lunch cooked in honor of those who served. Steamy stew, orange rice, and cabbage slaw shoved into my mouth. Yet, the rector and wife would not let me leave unless I took 3 bananas.

Good people.