My missus is a Grey's Anatomy fan which pretty much makes me a fan too because I did, after all, say I was in it, in sickness and in series. A few years ago I heard what I thought was a fascinating line in one of the episodes: “I go to church because it's the only place you can talk to yourself out loud without people thinking you're crazy.”
Please ignore the barb aimed at believers and pray for that scriptwriter's soul to be saved from eternal damnation. I remember hearing that and immediately thinking: "That's such a white privilege thing to say!" Now, before you report me to Helen, allow me to explain.
You see, black people and white people approach church very differently, in general. And this seems to be a universal phenomenon. Across all denominations. I'll bet you R1,000 in this Ramaconomy that a white South African Catholic woman from Parktown would be more comfortable in a Methodist service in Toronto than in a Catholic Holy Mass in Thembisa. And your average black Catholic woman will be more of a fit in a Southern Baptist Convention church in New Orleans.
This is a case of religion putting a spin on the nature versus nurture debate. This difference in approach to church is nothing like comparing Arsenal to Orlando Pirates. It's a different sporting code altogether. Here, you're comparing the Blue Bulls to the Atlanta Braves. You hear it even in the verbs we use to describe the exercise.
White people attend church services. They go to church. My people and I don't go to church. We don't attend service or Holy Mass. We church. That's a verb. And churching is a vastly different proposition from attending services.
The first difference between a church service and churching is that the former can be slotted into Outlook Calendar as an event. And, typically, an event has start and end times. The latter has neither and therefore has no time limitations. Just block out your day from 5am until whatever time you run out of glucose. Churching starts whatever time the priest/pastor decides there are enough bums on seats for him to not look ridiculous at the pulpit. The end is also determined according to the worshippers with the most stamina. It’s not a space for the faint-hearted and Type II diabetes sufferers.
In my rocky Catholic journey I have left the house at 7.30am only to return at from churching at 4.30pm. Dozens of times. On a stomach with only a bowl of Maltabella to protect my lining from the hydrochloric acid in my digestive juices.
The second major difference is that the Jesus in the services is a lot less demanding than the Jesus who shows up during churching. And it starts with the dress code. I’ve attended a church service and Holy Mass in a vest, shorts and flops. I’ve never churched in anything but closed leather shoes, long pants and a shirt with buttons and collar.
Apparently, when our ancestors were given “the Word” by the missionaries, the 11th Commandment was “And thou shalt not be comfortable while churching”.
To ensure that no-one is comfortable or has any fun during churching, black parishes employ a gang of men called ushers to control human movement. Oh, I’m aware that the ushers system exists across the globe. But ours do it differently. Our ushers tend to come from a pool of former jailbirds, outcasts and disgruntled members of society with an axe to grind with everyone.
When the pastor came to them, she gave him a stern lecture: 'Ngabe kudaaala sihambile la, manje ave ulaanda Pastor!' (We should have left a long time ago but you love the sound of your own voice, Pastor!)
The last time the missus and I attended Easter service we got there early enough to get seats at the back, within earshot of the backstage chatter between the ushers. After 15 minutes listening to their sarcastic jabber about “part-time churchers” taking up space for the regulars, I told the missus that I was going to the car to get a beer, a cannabis blunt or whichever one I would find first.
The missus and I were raised Catholic. The pressure to do right by the children is palpable. That comes with its interesting challenges. From an early age they could count. “Regular” church from home was usually done in 45 minutes. But churching at the grandparents’ parish was anything between two and four hours. Prime time Sunday afternoon hours before school the following day.
So, there was a hastily assembled family meeting one Monday evening after a visit to my in-laws. They weren’t denouncing their faith; they would only participate in Holy Mass. No more churching. We sheepishly acceded to their demands.
I’m glad they did not embarrass me in front of the priest like my mate's four-year-old. He took her upfront during a blessing ceremony. When the pastor came to them, she gave him a stern lecture: “Ngabe kudaaala sihambile la, manje ave ulaanda Pastor!” (We should have left a long time ago but you love the sound of your own voice, Pastor!)
Would you like to comment on this article?
Sign up (it's quick and free) or sign in now.
Please read our Comment Policy before commenting.