A Mozambican Easter

Uma Pescoa Moçambicana

I don't write about God that much, but I feel like it today, so you know in advance what this post is about. This Sunday was Easter, as many of you probably know. And for the first time since I got to Vilankulo, I dragged myself to church in the morning. As someone who is quick to profess her Christian faith as the singular most important thing in her life, I hate that in the last few months I officially was/am one of those people who goes to church on Christmas and Easter, but these six months or so in Mozambique have been quite the interesting spiritual journey for me. Out here in Moz, I have been trying to rely solely on God and place my ultimate trust in Him—things that sound easy in happy Christian theory, but in practice are incredibly difficult. I am only human, and therefore I am affected by the ego, the pride, and the selfishness that afflicts pretty much every one of our kind. Yet, I have been searching to explore ways of communion with God that allow me to live my faith in practice, and am learning to see God everywhere.

That being said, there is still something to say for the importance of fellowship, and church attendance. I have always subscribed to the “spiritual, but not religious” mentality, but sometime this liberalism can make it easy to write off certain practices that are not so much obligations, but provisions from God to benefit you personally. And one of these is church. My reluctance to get involved with a church here has been based on many petty issues, including how ostracized and singled out I felt at the one time I have attended church in this country, the fact that many churches are conducted only in dialect, and probably most significantly of all in my selfish mind, the fact that my normal brand of mass-market, hippie-chic liberal Christianity has caused me to expect my church services to come with shiny programs, thousands of people, dudes jamming on their guitars, dancing and singing, concert-style light shows, social events galore, professionally-made comedic videos and easy-to-understand, watered-down sermons that appeal to just about everyone and are likely to include some self-deprecating quips and some analogies between biblical faith and modern pop culture. (If you think I am kidding, think again.) But then I pause to reflect on how silly this all is, and worshiping God is worshiping God. And since it is really the most important thing I am meant to do here on Earth, I need to get over myself. (Easier said than done, eh?)

I attended Easter mass with some friends at the Catholic Church in my town. I grew up attending a contemporary catholic church, but have avoided it since then in favor of my previously mentioned let’s-all-love-each-other, nondenominational cookie-cutter Christianity. What I remembered about mass as a child still held true this year at 22—I never know when I am supposed to be standing up, or sitting down, or kneeling, or what! But regardless, it was a great experience. One of my favorite parts of church is worship music… now I do not have a nice voice, mind you, or even one I would consider decent, but singing to God in a “heavenly chorus” (ha, ha) is just the best. And this service was no exception. The songs were all in Xitswa, so I was unable to sing even a word, but instead just listen to the hundreds of voices blending together into a beautiful melody to God. I could not sing along with them, but it was worship in its own way. It just overwhelmed me with the beauty of Easter and this amazing gift that God has given each and every one of us—whether we are at Bayside Church in Granite Bay, or a catholic church in a tiny Mozambican town.

Later that day, on my lazy Sunday afternoon, the tide was out. And in Vilankulo, the tide being out is no small thing. There is about 10K of ocean separating us (the mainland) from the Bazaruto Archipelago, but for at least the first several miles, the ocean is incredibly shallow. So while at high tide, the water comes literally right up to my beach gate, low tide is a different story. When the tide fully recedes, strips of sandbars and tiny pools of water drift out for miles. It is one of the most beautiful things I have ever seen, and is still a sight that takes my breath away every single time. So, the tide was out, and I decided to go for a “swim” (which, at low tide, is pretty much just wading through a little water and then walking out on the beach for a very long distance). Simba decided to come with me, so we ventured out. The deepest part at low tide, weirdly, is right offshore, so I actually had to wade for a few minutes. Simba followed me willingly, soon needing to start dog-paddling. I didn’t want him to get too tired, so I just kind of hooked him under my arm after a little and glided him through the water. Soon, we were on solid land again—which is weird when you are a quarter mile offshore. But anyways, there we were. On Easter Sunday, half a world away from nearly everything and everyone that I hold dear. But here I was, walking on a sandbar, far from the shore, with my furry friend tagging along dutifully, the sun shining overhead in a beautiful bright blue sky, the islands shining in the near distance. I was just overwhelmed by the beauty of God’s creation, stunned by the realization of Easter, the fact that He would make the ultimate sacrifice to give ME, little old, selfish prideful me, and every other person on this planet, something bigger to live for, the greatest gift of Grace that can never ever be repaid. Completely overcome by God’s beauty and the fact that I could be so alone, but that yet I was NEVER alone, that He will never leave me or forsake me… well, I burst out into Amazing Grace right there. I didn’t care if the far off fishermen could maybe hear me, or that no one was worshiping with me. It was me and God, and that is all I needed. I can find God in a church of hundreds of people, singing songs in a language I do not understand. Or I can find Him on a sandbar in the Indian Ocean with only my dog for company. All I really know is that wherever we seek Him, He is there. And his love is steadfast, and that His mercy endures forever. And that even in solitude, or difficult times, or moments where we struggle to believe, we are still blessed. Sometimes it just takes a little more work—or a little more faith—to see it.