Church

In my early teens, a visiting priest graced us at St. Edward’s parish in Blawnox, PA. Unlike other priests who were from Indianola, Milvale, the Southside or the like, Father Ambrose was special. Father Ambrose was from Africa.

Father Ambrose had many unique characteristics, especially to my 13 year old, white middle-class psyche. His skin tone was a rich ebony for starters. This certainly went against the norm of the Italian and Irish priests that frequented St. Edward’s. He had a very round face, black steel wool hair that receded on his balding pate, and most notably, a trait that wasn’t phenotypic in nature: large, thick, dark, aviator frames so common in the early 1990s.

Upon speaking, however, his appearance ceased to be particularly unique. His accent was thick—so thick to my untrained ears—that I had difficulty understanding parts of mass in which I believed I had memorized. Perhaps the words of Father Ambrose that most resonate in my mind are simply: “The waaahd of the Laaaaurd,” stated matter-of-factly in a West African drawl. These are the most memorable, I theorize, because they are the last words that I can remember before being thrown into the banal trance of one of his homilies.

In one word, Father Ambrose’s sermons were epic. He was like a heaven-sent hippopotamus; he could easily go for 20 minutes without coming up for air, addressing each nicely packaged Catholic message: all of the readings (of course), the guilt each Catholic should burden, the constant reminder that Jesus died for our sins, holding Christ in our hearts even after church has concluded for the week, etc, etc, etc.  Due to his accent, my already short teenage attention span dwindled significantly and by five minutes in, my eyes were scanning the church for cute (and seemingly pious) girls. My mind meandering through soccer, summer vacation, or doughnuts—hopefully being served after church.

Before you consider me a heathen, allow me to clarify (and or, bring the whole crew down with me). The whole Janosko clan shared my sentiment about Father Ambrose’s long-winded homilies. I wasn’t the only one whose mind wandered to far-off places, patiently waiting for those three precious words that would awaken us from that dormant, stagnant state. When the words “Let us pray” were uttered, we quickly and robotically stood so that the priest couldn’t change his mind about ending the sermon. Relieved, we participated in the rote memorization that is the latter part of a Catholic mass, still needing to flare our nostrils and squint our eyes to conceal the umpteenth inappropriate yawn, but we were certainly through the worst of it.

By that point in our lives, my family members began choosing to go to separate masses.  Usually, I wanted to hang out with friends (and subsequently girls), on Saturday nights and sleepin on Sunday mornings. Therefore, 11:30 mass always seemed to be my only option. It also allowed me to obtain reconnaissance on whether Father Ambrose had already held mass—he held service once a week while our priest conducted the other two.  My father always seemed to have the worst luck; he usually alternated between Saturday night mass and early Sunday morning mass. I think once he got Father Ambrose three weeks in a row. We all laughed at his misfortune.

When I decided to go to mass for the first time this past week, I visualized a Father Ambrose in front of the altar, ‘engaging’ us in a thirty-minute homily. I know, I know, Africa is a CONTINENT and I believe that Father Ambrose was from Nigeria. I know that I shouldn’t lump all of the African countries together. But hear me out first.

Due to the religious zeal that begins on Saturday nights from the tone-deaf Christian denizens of Malindi (singing well into Sunday) and based on my experiences in Kisumu, I could only imagine sitting in the church for 5 hours on end, bored out of my skull. In other words, the decision to go was akin to shooting oneself in the foot or any other self-inflicting cliché that one can ponder.

But, I did my research first.  I walked into the gated St. Anthony’s on Thursday afternoon, surprised to see a Coke stand outside the enormous—and beautiful—edifice.  Through the large wooden doors, I spotted an out-of-place golden tabernacle to the right of the altar. There were rows and rows of pews and extremely high tin ceilings.  The building was open-air, as so many others are in Malindi, and there were Stations of the Cross painted upon the walls, labeled underneath in Kiswahili.

There was an older woman mopping the floors, so I asked about times of masses. I made sure to mention “fupi sana” (very short), and she was specific: go to the children’s mass, 4:30 on Saturday afternoon.

That Saturday, about 30 shoeless children filled the left side of the church.  A few adults sat silently in their pews—I made sure that their shoes were on before I entered with mine. At 4:30, the mass started. Let me repeat this: At 4:30, the mass started. I was beyond shocked.  Punctuality just doesn’t happen in Kenya. 

The priest was younger and most of the mass was directed towards the children. They did the readings and sang the hymns a capella (no organ here). Within 15 minutes, we were already into the homily. I braced myself.

The priest asked the children: “What did Jesus do to show that He was the Son of God?” The children answered eagerly. The gospel spoke of people doubting Jesus’ authority to spread the word of God, so he wanted to confirm to the children that Jesus’ had the authority through his miraculous works.  The priest spoke for about three minutes clarifying this and to my surprise, rose and said: “Let us pray.”

I was simple dumbfounded. This sermon was short, even in Western standards. The mass continued as any other Catholic mass would have (except, interestingly, there was no collection).  By the time communion rolled around, it had been about thirty minutes.

Following the final hymn after communion, when my family gathered jackets and purses, the priest began to say more prayers. Okay—this had to be it… this is where we stay for four more hours, reciting Hail Mary’s and Glory Be’s and every other prayer imaginable.  After about three short prayers, though, the adults began making their way to the exit. This is magnificent! A true miracle!

I move towards the exit and as I was able to step out of the church, an enormous din clattered against the tin roof. A freshet of rain fell off of it, blocking my exit. The rain came down so violently that I began to ponder the apocalypse. Incredible. A sign from above. God certainly has a sense of humor and He wanted me to suffer inside that church like any good Catholic should.

Following the pattern of the day, though, the rain lasted only a few minutes and I was home not even one hour after I left. Let us pray!