7/6 "Tu" form

I meet Modolu at the CCCL at 8:30 and we make the 30 minute trek up to a Protestant church. Modolu tried going two weeks ago but found himself in the Korean service, which was pretty small. Having only seen the outside I have no idea what to expect. We follow in a local girl but find only empty pews leading up to a small wooden altar at the front. The walls have a decorative mat pinned up about shoulder height, surrounding the space. A small staircase on the right leads to a smattering of pews on the balcony, as well as a small sound system. The architecture of the church is probably best imagined as one of those Tattoine sand huts from Star Wars, but larger. The whole atmosphere radiates a sense of humbleness, as the main window slit above the altar shows a crisscrossed colored glass pattern (not deep enough to be called a stain), which mixes from the hidden windows of light above. A white, older gentleman pops his head out and tells Modolu and I that the service is at 9:30. The man has on pants and a cool African shirt, which buttons at the top, if you could call the small sticks holding looped strings from the opposing shirt-side, buttons. The beige microphone rung around the man’s ear tells me this is the pastor of the church. Checking my watch I see we have time for a quick bite, so my companion and I head to the café across the street for OJ and warm croissants – which is perfect as I snuck out of the house this morning on an empty stomach while everyone was sleeping.

Back at 9:30 there are more in the pews but it still isn’t even at half capacity. We start singing some classical hymns as I rationalize to myself a sad possibility that maybe these are all the practicing Christians in the area. 3 songs in I open my eyes and the congregation has multiplied like loaves and fish. The place is now packed as the pastor leads us to sing in different parts. Even one of the singers is late, I guess this is just how time works in Morocco. The sermon today is on the church being one body. The guest speaker compares it to Fruit Salad, and how individual fruits (us) must work on changing for the better in order to make a fruit salad and blend our juices, as opposed to a simple fruit basket (stubborn in pride), which far too often parishioners become. We have an introduction for visitors somewhere in the service, and I embarrass Modolu by saying we were here studying Arabic, but when asked, say we can’t say where we’re from (mainly because it was funnier to decline the demand). The parish laughs some and we both feel welcome. After the service we talk to the pastor’s wife, they have a family and have been here 8 years. She studies French and is a fiction writer. Apparently the church is French Protestant, which explains the scriptures carved into two of the window coverings.

One of the random American students I meet tells me the French service’s music is supposed to be wonderful, so I decide to stay to get a taste. Modolu stays for a bit, but speaking no French soon leaves the noise to return to his family. The French service is definitely more up beat, more people are swaying and raising their hands during the worship (also seen, though fewer, in the English service). With a drummer, electric guitar, basist, keyboarder, and piano player, as well as three singers, they definitely get a little more pump in their praise. My French allows me to join in with the songs projected on the screen, one about Jesus’s blood washing us whiter than snow, and two others about God’s love and sovereignty. On an interesting note, they use the “tu” (familiar form of the “you” pronoun) when they sing to God in the songs – I really enjoyed that point. They even have one song in Arabic, which I could actually follow, kinda. This service also has a guest speaker, a woman who annunciates her French and speaks slower. I know French must be her second language, and she even slips up and gives some English names for the people in the sermon. However, her rhythmic pronunciations really make her words clear, perfect for a foreigner like myself. She speaks of being broken, disheartened, and a stranger in the land, but God sees all and will meet us where ever we are - so look to Him. After the teaching we share communion and songs before closing announcements. During closing songs the worship team really steps up, and the entire congregation dances with the swaying song in their pews. Me and my neighbor keep up the percussion clapping as the band then moves to an encore song outside the projected tunes, that definitely wasn’t in French. As most of the congregation was black I assume it was Swahili or some other country's language, but I did catch a Halleluiah now and then. It was amazing!

Reinvigorated, I now go to the café to work more on my medical school apps.