SETTING: Abetifi, Ghana.
Steepled stone church with balconies and soaring ceilings. Painted murals along the front of the sanctuary. On the right, an elevated, dark-wood pulpit; on the left, a polished brass (or is it gold?) lectern shaped like an eagle. Centre-front, a lace-covered altar and three rows of chairs facing the congregation. Clergy in heavy gowns. Choir in gowns and tasseled mortarboards. Overhead screen and sound system. Cool breeze blowing through the open doors.
We sit in the front row, a large expanse of marble floor separating us from the clergy-packed front. The overhead screen flashes, “Get Jesus.” An unexpected drumroll and the praise selection is announced. The congregation rises.
The clergy vacate their seats on the podium and swirl around the open area in front of us. Ladies in brightly coloured dresses and men in traditional cloth boogie to the front. The choir sweeps down from the balcony, joining the excitement. Ladies wave white hankies. Men kick up their heels. The drums thunder.
We’ve been alerted to the possibility of people dancing in church, but being a staid Canadian Presbyterian, I envisioned a modest shuffle. Not gowned clergy lifting their hands and shouting to the Lord.
It reminds me of King David dancing before the Ark of the Covenant while his wife, Michal, grumbled. How inappropriate. How irreverent, she had whined.
How marvelous! They dance through the praise song. They later dance through the offering. And by then we have mastered the rhythm and dance with them.
During his moderatorial address, Right Rev. Dr. Yaw Frimpong-Manso, Moderator of the Presbyterian Church of Ghana, challenges his church to abandon its long-held traditions.
“Let us do a new thing,” he declares. “Let us embrace the new dances of our youth.”
Didn’t I hear something like that at our General Assembly?
SETTING: Gambaga.
Wood smoke and the aroma of roasted peanuts. Rain-soaked red earth, round grass-roofed huts connected by four-foot high mud walls, trickling stream that weaves between buildings. Ducks, chickens, goats, and kids. Lots of beautiful, eager, smiling kids.
I pull out my camera and begin snapping photos. Karen Plater, our Presbyterian Church chaperone, warns me I could take too many pictures of random kids. But this was day six of our two-week visit to Ghana, and everything I see fascinates me. I must record it.
After several hours stuck in a car bumping along a twisty mud road, we arrive at Gambaga, my first authentic African village. A wizened woman sits under a grass-roofed canopy, cooking a mixture of peanuts. She forms the paste into balls the size of marbles and bags them. A little girl – she’s small enough to walk under the work table – pays the woman a coin for a bag. She then rips it open and pops peanut balls into her mouth. The other kids under the canopy ham it up for my camera. They giggle delightedly when I show them their digital images.
An old man hurries past us, not even bothering to stop. “That’s the chief,” says Dan Opong-Wereko, director of development and social services in the Presbyterian Church of Ghana.
“He’s going to change his clothes,” he explained. “A chief can’t receive visitors in his farm clothes. He needs to dress up.”
A few minutes later we are welcomed into a stuffy room and told to sit on plastic lawn chairs. The chief sits on a cowhide on the floor. He wears a traditional woven smock and holds a wooden staff in his hand. When he nods I snap his picture. Rain drips through the grass roof and runs down my back.
“I prayed and God has sent you to me,” he says huskily. Wood smoke is everywhere in Ghana and most northerners we meet speak with a raspy, smoker’s voice. “Why have you stopped sending us money?”
We learn that Gambaga has not received any financial support from the Presbyterian Church in Canada in over a year, and his village is in desperate straits. Roofs leak – I can attest to that – and the community is in jeopardy of losing its clean water because the chief cannot afford the water tariffs. Most importantly though, he must scrimp on his care for the women.
Gambaga is a refugee community where women who have been evicted from their own villages can live in safety. These women have been charged with witchcraft and if the chief does not take them in, they have nowhere to go. While in Gambaga they are given homes, trained to be self-supporting – they are taught to sew – and learn about God’s love. Through the ministry they receive, most become Christians and later return to their home villages as living witnesses to God’s saving grace.
Sometime in the last year or two the person responsible for tabulating Gambaga’s reports died before he could mail the paperwork. Without the appropriate documentation, this vital ministry might not continue. (Fortunately the forms are found and we bring them back to Canada with us.)
SETTING: Garu.
Community-based rehabilitation centre. Vocational skills training block. “Presbyterian World Service and Development” painted on the wall. New, warehouse-style church, classrooms. Cashew trees. Mahogany trees. Rice field. Guinea hens and goats. CBR staff, women and kids.
Our mornings in Ghana start with a hearty bowl of porridge. It fortifies us for the busy day ahead, and in Garu our days are especially busy. CBR director John Olo escorts us to numerous projects he oversees.
At the vocational skills training block, youth aged 15 to 26 (many of them with disabilities) are taught hair-dressing, weaving, batik, soap-making and sewing. Training lasts three years and once graduated, the youth are equipped to run their own cottage industries and train others.
We visit Georgina and her two apprentices. Georgina is a new bride. Thanks to her lucrative career as a seamstress, she had her pick of the village men. A woman choosing her husband is uncommon in Georgina’s world.
Atul and Dora Asam suffer from an unimaginable disability. Both mother and daughter share a rare congenital condition which has left them with tiny, twisted legs. Only two feet tall, they travel together on a specially made three-wheeled bike which they peddle by hand. Yet these courageous women are independent. Atul is a potter. Dora is a seamstress.
Michael is blind. He teaches other blind children to read and write at the CBR’s school.
Lamisi is deaf. Until coming to Garu, she was trapped in a world of silence. Although sign language is not practiced in Ghana, Lamisi is now learning to communicate as she acquires self-supporting skills.
One morning during devotions they discuss the story of Jesus walking on water.
“Can we walk on water too?” asks one youth.
“You do it every day,” he is told. “As you overcome your disabilities and create futures for yourselves, you are walking on the waters of poverty and hardship. You are showing others that Jesus is here. And that he still changes lives.”
SETTING: Navrongo.
HIV women’s self-help project. Late afternoon. A cement block building on the edge of town. A slim tree encircled with bricks. A goat. Thirty women on benches.
Screaming down bumpy dirt roads – to put it mildly – does not agree with my stomach, so we are late. The sun slips behind the building, creating a sliver of shade. We are introduced to the waiting women. Benches are shifted and we’re given the precious place out of the sun. The ladies form a circle and dance for us. They sing and, cupping hands around their mouths, make a loud, shrill noise. My camera lens is foggy after coming from the air-conditioned car into the muggy African afternoon. I wipe it on my t-shirt and madly snap pictures. The circle breaks up and the ladies dance individually.
We’ve been told dancing is vigorous in the north. This is more than vigorous. It’s authentic, tribal. I am enthralled. John Olo dances with them and I note the difference between his dance and theirs. Hands up. Hands out. Hands down. Where you come from defines how you dance, like Celtic vs. Scot. Only we’re not in the highlands here.
In time the dancing subsides and we are told about the women’s income-generating project. Originally 20 women formed this co-operative. Now there are more than 60 women in their group. They make soap from palm oil. It’s a labour-intensive industry that isn’t providing the income they need.
These women are HIV-positive. AIDS may not be as devastating an epidemic in Ghana as in other parts of Africa, but it is still a major concern. We soon learn it is not their only concern. Hepatitis B, a virulent blood-borne disease that affects the liver, dominates their conversation.
“Can we be immunized?”
“What if we get sick?”
These women are frightened. They know that Hep B can overwhelm their already weakened immune systems and the results will be catastrophic. Helpless, I sit and listen. I can do nothing except pray that God will somehow provide for them.
At St. Paul’s Presbyterian in Cape Coast, the congregation is hosting a Hep B clinic. Come before the service and have your blood tested. If you are Hep B positive, the church will help provide treatment. If you are Hep B negative, you will be immunized. A doctor teaches about Hepatitis B and answers questions.
St. Paul’s is a wealthy congregation hundreds of miles from Navrongo. Its members share the same fears as the ladies of Navrongo, but what can they do for the women? Their time and resources are already stretched.
I confess that I’ve been one of those Christians who sees more value in evangelism than social action. In Canada, where the government meets most of our basic needs, the social gospel hasn’t seemed important to me. We have food, health care, and education – our physical needs are well met. It’s spiritual hunger that haunts Canadians. We should focus on the spiritual poverty of our communities.
In Ghana, it’s hard to draw that line. Needs are greater than any I’ve seen in Canada. Apart from a few wealthy donors, resources are slim. No one wants to turn their back on a brother in need, but how much can a few ministries do?
Vastly more than I could ever have thought or imagined.
Armed with God’s love and a commitment to value every person, no matter how seemingly unlovable, they reach out. They help meet people’s physical needs. They acknowledge everyone’s worth. They train people to care for themselves and their families. These ministries opened the doors to people’s hearts.
I’m home from Ghana, back in my comfortable Orangeville manse. If it weren’t for my reams of pictures, I wonder, would the trip even feel real? I lie awake at night and relive my memories. I ask myself, “What is God calling me to do?”
