Oh My God, It's Sunday!

June 10 - Sunday in Ghana means the inevitable: Church. What's an agnostic-leaning-atheist to do? I was bored out of my mind, so I joined them, of course! And, amazingly enough, I didn't burst into flames. Hallelujah! I did get some wicked (this word will appear many, many times in this post) stomach cramps about two-thirds of the way through the service, though. That probably had more to do with a mix of indigestion and the nauseating sermon. Alas, I should start at the beginning...

"Going" to church consisted of me throwing on my jersey wrap dress, the only thing I brought with me that could be considered dressy in any way, and walking the 30 steps to the nearby outdoor classroom. I had suspected that "going" to church was not an accurate description of what we would be doing Sunday morning. And if it were, can you just imagine it? Thirty orphans walking down the dirt road in their (mostly matching) Sunday dress. What a sight that would be. Anyways, Grandpa is our minister. I know this sounds sketchy (and it kind of is, to be completely honest), but Grandpa claims to be a fully trained-and-ordained minister.

I take a seat in the plastic lawn chair. Granpa stands behind a rickety wooden altar that holds 4 bibles, a hymnal, a highlighter, and his mobile (wouldn't want to miss any important calls). It's funny, but judging from what I've seen so far throughout Ghana, I wouldn't have been surprised to see him actually answer a call in the middle of the service. Ghanaians really like their mobiles.

Service begins at about 8:40 am. Grandpa says a few opening words, then hands it off to French Teacher. They seriously refer to the French teacher as French Teacher, as though it were his name. I have never heard his actual name uttered, if he even has one. French Teacher leads the children's "Sunday School," as it were. All the adults are just sitting around, listening in, I guess. The lesson is conducted in English first, then Ewe, and finally, in French (his name is French Teacher, after all). The lesson is vaguely about not wearing your religion on the outside, but instead being a good Christian on the inside, through your thoughts and actions. I have no qualms with the meat and potatoes of this lesson, but I am bored quickly, and the service hasn't even properly begun yet. At this point, I'm not sure I'm going to make it. It's been at least eight years since I've last attended church, and Ghana church is pretty extreme.

A handful of people from the village trickle in between 9 and 10 o'clock. I guess even if you're going to to church, Africa Time is still in the works. I should have known.

The main points of Grandpa's 2 hour long sermon where (in no particular order):

- wickedness is passed through blood and DNA

- there are many descendants of Cain living among us and they are truly, permanently evil

- the culture of Ghana is wicked

- attending funerals is wicked

- "boozing" is wicked (I had to snicker a little inside at this word, I fancy it quite a bit)

- dancing, when mixed with "boozing," is wicked

- staying up late, you guessed it, is wicked

- not attending church is wicked

- if you happen to have the bad fortune to be born into the slums (Nema, an area of Accra, was named as an example), you are irreversibly destined to be wicked

- if you were born in a rural village, you're probably still wicked

- if you live at Volta Home (i.e. here), it is possible that, if you're very careful not to associate with any outsiders, you may just turn out not to be wicked

- infants and children are not exempt from God's wrath - indeed, if their parents have passed on the blood/DNA of Cain on to them, God must strike them down

- if anything bad ever happens, it is because you've done something wrong and God is punishing you (I didn't realize that God didn't have anything better to do than punish a three-year-old for pushing down her little sister)

It's all the same silliness that makes me hate fervent religiosity at home, I suppose. Ghana is not just a Christian nation, it's an evangelical Christian nation, the worst strain. I find it all depressing and sad. Grandpa preaches that the universities and the professors there are godless, that they blaspheme that the bible is the obruni's (white man's) book, not theirs. I can only hope so. For all his praise of America, Grandpa doesn't seem to comprehend that a big part of the reason America has been able to advance as far as it has is because of secularism.

Aside from that, I get very upset when religious people claim that innocent people deserved to die. Specifically, Grandpa talked about the Arab children of Iraq, how they deserved to die because they were terrorists, or the children or terrorists. Grandpa holds a special hate in his heart for Arabs, despite, or perhaps because, of his Muslim upbringing. This hatred doesn't seem very logical, or very Christian. But that's the way it usually goes. In fact, French Teacher's lesson this morning described this very phenomenon, though not in the same way). Those who profess to be the most Christian, the most faithful, turn out to be the worst offenders, using their faith as a shield against criticism. I find it despicable and disgusting.

I have suspected before that I would not be welcome here if I were to be honest, to be myself. Grandpa frequently goes off about a previous volunteer, Nadia (of Arab descent), who was not a Christian and did not just nod and smile at Grandpa's rantings. Sometimes I feel ashamed that I do not speak my mind here, but I can only imagine the loneliness I would sink into if I were to be shunned for the rest of my time here. If there was someone else here that I could talk to about all this, I don't think I would feel so bad. I doubt that Grandpa even realizes that the majority of volunteers that come through his home are liberals, secularists, agnostics, and atheists. But the people that come here, who travel to Africa, don't do it in God's name. If that was their desire, they would probably come with their church or some other religious group. The people that come with NGO's and other groups come because they want to see with their own eyes what they've previously only read about. They want to provide what little help they can in their short time here. They want to make a difference, however small.

I believe that there is good within Grandpa. There must be: he lives simply, so that he can help these children, these orphans, who most need his help. But he fails to see the holes in the lifestyle he helps to provide for these children. Some of these holes may just be cultural differences in child-rearing techniques, but there is no warmth in him for these children, who so desperately need a loving hand to touch them, a warm voice to talk to them.

I understand that the kids are sometimes just too much to handle. They are draining. Perhaps Grandpa is burned out. I am in no place to judge, I suppose. But it's hard to hear the kids being barked orders or yelled at all day.

I could really use some swashbuckling, sacrilegious humor today. If only Alison were here. Or Wendy, or Dugan, or David. Especially David. I guess it'll have to wait until I get home.