The traditional service for Clarkston United Methodist was a gathering of just thirty friends, and the service gave the sense that the glory days of the congregation were behind them. The pastor was out sick, and there was a supply pastor there to preach. There may have been some concern as to how this church was able to keep the lights on until we were ushered into the other services, each bigger and more vivacious than the last.
We were then escorted behind to a door at the front of the sanctuary where a hall led us to the Eritrean service in the chapel. The leader of this service was Rev. Dawit Habtemichael who graciously translated some 
of his sermon so that we were able to keep up. There were only about 10 people in the small chapel. The kids were rolling on the floor until the back door was opened and they were shooed out. He made a very interesting comparison from the older son in the story to the story of Hagar in Genesis 21:8-21. In the story, Hagar and Ishmael nearly die from thirst until she sees as spring nearby. Rev. Habtemichael cleverly argued that in case of the older son and Hagar, both people had access to good things but were covered by spiritual blindness so that they could not see what was right in front of them. He exhorted his small congregation to refrain from complaining and negativity, calling their attention to the blessings right in front of them. He pointed out the blindness of everyday people who do not take advantage of God’s grace, and he called on the congregation to open their eyes and be joyful. I was impressed by the pastor’s preaching, and I found out later that he was a published author on the Eritrean worship experience.
The rest of the service was conducted in a familiar fashion until it came time for the closing prayer. Rev. Habtemichael called on one of the women in the congregation to pray, and we were all given the signal to stand with bowed heads. The woman’s prayer, conducted in her native tongue, ebbed and flowed with volume and passion for a very long time. It is difficult to say how long she was praying, but it must have been ten minutes. As she concluded the congregation joined her in a satisfying “amen!”
After that service we joined the Nepalese Free Methodist Believers Church worshiping just across the narrow street in a converted house. As we entered children were gathered with a few young adults in the foyer of the house coloring and playing with toys. We guided to through the old kitchen to a connecting room which may have been a dining room in a former life. The space was cramped and congregants sat in folding chairs with men on the left and women on the right. Most of the women had small triangles of fabric resting atop their heads, and some people had left their shoes at the door. We found out later that the unstructured care for the children was main shared characteristic of between all refugee services. Two chairs were quickly procured for us at the back where we sat side by side with me awkwardly straddling the men and women’s sides in the middle of a narrow aisle.
The music struck up and the people joined with guitar, drums, tambourine, and keyboard in a selection of unfamiliar but lively melodies. Their voices has shuddered when they sang in a fashion pointedly Himalayan. They clapped their hands in 3/4th time as the music was expressive of a staccato waltz. The songs were full of movement hinted at their Nepalese Heritage, and one song in particular seemed to conjure up smooth are arm gesticulations and swaying around the room. Their hands would flit gracefully through the air as they closed their eyes lost in movement. The display pointed to a deeply spiritual expression of their culture. For these worshipers, each turn of the wrists represented a connection the Triune God. Many songs were concluded with a shout of “Alleluia” into the microphone which was met with a chorus of “Alleluia” from the crowd of worshipers. However, the last few songs did not end in shouts but in an eruption of voices praying and calling out to God hands raised and eyes closed. These ecstatic cries would go on for several minutes before reaching a crescendo and being concluded.
We sat through the sermon mostly clueless except for when fellow worshipers would give us hints as to what text was being preached. I gathered at one point that the text was Hebrews 12:1-12. Every so often, a child would emerge from the back room and wander around looking for attention or candy from one of the women. At the end of the sermon, some announcement was made concerning us and one other Nepalese woman as visitors. With no idea what was being said, took the preacher’s body language to mean that we should stand up. When we did, a few of the young women draped cream colored shawls around our necks. It was such a moving gift, and we were told (or made to understand) that we were to keep them as a gift from the community.
Bellow is a audio recording from the Nepalese service.
To be continued in another post…
larkston United Methodist Church is microcosm of the diversity and complexity that characterizes this little town. In 2014 the congregation was approached, by a Burundian Pentecostal group asking if they could rent space. Before this congregation moved out, they were approached by five other congregations requesting space.
word in the Latin rendering of the text. Our students remembered this from our class time, but it’s important to understand that belief is different than knowledge.
…and they were amazed at His teaching, for His message was with authority.
However, one of my favorite memories of our Russia adventure was our visit to the Church of the Savior on Spilled Blood. The church is named in memory the Russian Tsar who was assassinated in the very location the church was built.
I had a desire to come to Russia because I am convinced that this is an area of the world in dire need of Spiritual support. There are people that struggle with hunger and shelter. There are nations at war. There are neighborhoods in turmoil.
Kena Hawkins Newkirk 