Photo: The old church building of St. Peter's Cathedral Rugarama, Kabaare on Tuesday December 26, 2017.
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Christmas Day will be a day of Christian worship in Uganda, followed by consumption of delicious food washed down with beverages that will leave some giddy with joy and visual challenges. Sermons and homilies about love, peace and joy will touch some and change their hearts. Some will engage in quarrels, and scheming to hurt others. Politicians will greet congregations with cash and recycled promises.
In Canada, most churches will be empty. Shut in fact. Canadian Christmas is a day of family festivities, complete with opening of gifts, overindulgence in food and drink, and admiration of lights and other decorations. Christmas lights and white snow ease the pain of the biting cold that is common on that day. Happily, the weather forecast for Christmas Day this year in my part of Toronto calls for a mild temperature of minus 1°centigrade.
I miss Christmas worship with my people in Kigyezi. Memories of my early childhood Christmas experiences are indelible. Singing carols on Christmas eve, unbothered by the key in which we sang, and the safety of the village paths we walked in pitch darkness, is a lost world remembered by my generation. Early morning drums, whose sounds wafted down the hill to our home, summoning us to worship, brought smiles on our innocent faces.
The Anglican Cathedral at Kabira (Rugarama) in Kabaare was a beautiful building, with a grand presence that was enhanced by its charcoal grey walls, its black wooden windows assisting large wooden black double doors. The ugliness of "burglar-proofing" with metal bars, glass windows, and unruly power cables was in the distant future.
The old little church building at Kihanga in Mparo was a humble affair, very much in accord with the original purpose of its species. Why do I think that its cosiness enhanced Christian fellowship better than modern monster buildings that we are told represent progress?
Freshly tailored “Christmas clothes” signalled a new beginning. They also meant that one had behaved reasonably well throughout the year and had passed the end of year examinations to the satisfaction of one’s parents. It was a perfect world in which our sheltered selves blissfully lived.
The road to the church, decorated with freshly cut banana plants, was an easy stroll in the friendly company of folks that walked with gaiety. People turned out in their finest threads. Women with multi-colored dresses and shoulder throws were a pleasure to behold. The men, many of of them in shorts and short-sleeved shirts, inquired about our health and our academic progress with sincere concern about our future.
Except for a handful of adults, most of us presented ourselves on bare feet, coated with dust that gave them the appearance of brown socks. We would slow down at the threshold of the sanctuary, a habit born of subconscious fear. A brisk walk down the aisle was mighty sinful. I faithfully avoided doing so, though I never asked why. A serious demeanor, a slow walk, with head slightly bowed, in complete silence, were mandatory demonstrations of one’s reverence for God. Laughing, talking, even whispering, were strictly forbidden.
I do not recall any socio-economic segregation inside the church sanctuary. Politicians were not handed microphones to “greet us.” To paraphrase Paul in Galatians 3:28, there was neither VIP nor peasant, neither honourable nor layman, neither rich nor poor, for all were one in Christ Jesus.
The songs of praise, recitation of the creeds, and the sit-and-stand rituals of Anglican worship, were a joyful part of Christmas. My joints were still in perfect condition, and my muscles would spring me up and down without any accompanying grunts or wincing. My alto voice was a chorister’s joy, and I sung without worry about my breath betraying me.
One of the great preachers of the East African Revival Movement was almost always on hand to minister to us. I can almost hear the booming eloquence of some of my favourite preachers, among them Rev. Ezekiel Balaba, Rev. Abraham Zaaribugire, Rev. Wilson Komunda, and Rev. Festo Kivengere. The latter would go on to become our bishop, and a famous evangelist whose divinely inspired messages would be life changing. But in my early years, I had no clue what these preachers were saying, though it was clear that I was expected to fear and love God, and to behave like one for whom Jesus Christ had died.
I was lucky to have been born of a Roman Catholic mother and a Native Anglican father. It gave me frequent opportunities to experience worship rituals in both churches. The ritual of making akabonero k’omusharaba (the four-point sign of the cross) the moment we entered the sanctuary, and throughout the Catholic celebration of mass, was fascinating. I learnt that it was an unspoken surrender to the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit, acknowledged with Amen.
The casual worshipper made the sign of the cross during mass and before their meals. The committed practitioner, such as my maternal grandmother Polina Nyinakyangwa Keitindani, performed this ancient ritual as part of daily living. They lived in the spirit of the early Christians, as was described in 200 A.D. by Tertullian, the North African scholar, author and theologian. “At every forward step and movement; at every going in and out; when we put on our clothes and shoes; when we bathe; when we sit at the table; when we light the lamps; on couch, on seats; and all the ordinary actions of daily life, we trace upon the forehead, the sign of the Cross.”
So, while my dominant upbringing was in the Anglican tradition, I became a hybrid version of the two main Christian factions. I was as comfortable at the great Anglican cathedral at Rugarama as I was at its counterpart at Rusorooza. This may be what spared me from mixing politics with religion. With few exceptions, the Anglicans in Kigyezi were supporters of the Uganda People’s Congress (UPC). The Roman Catholics supported the Democratic Party (DP). Many expressed their support with animosity that did not escape the attention of my very immature but discerning mind.
It was a bit confusing. Most of my Anglican and Roman Catholic relatives were loving, gracious, and happy people that spoiled us with love. Sadly, a few who took exception to my parents’ sacrilegious marriage did not hide their resentment. My parents taught us to love and respect them still.
With time, I discovered that Christ’s name was exploited by politicians to serve personal interest. Christ was a commodity with which they manipulated the gullible and wreaked havoc on people who gained nothing from the foolish fights. I rejected and despised that business. I reject and despise it today.
It was not until 1975 that I became a Christian by my choice. However, the seeds of that Gospel had been sown through the messages that I had heard from the great preachers of my early years. It was a simple message. Christ was born to die, so that whoever believed in him would live well on Earth and enjoy eternal life after bodily death.
It is the essence of Christmas, the celebration of a birth unlike any other, one that invites us to the cross upon which He died, so that our hearts and minds and lives may be transformed into people who seek to be like Him, notwithstanding our sinful nature. Christmas reminds us that we should live with the sign of the cross, not through the ritual of touching our foreheads, and chest and shoulders, but through our words, and deeds, and faith. Everyday.
© Muniini K. Mulera