5 Hour Mass!!

I Kid you not!!!! I have been to 6 masses here and the shortest one was 2.5 hours. Last week I walked into the church at 8:45 and left at 1:30. I am talking 5 hours on a hard wooden plank, with a skinny slab for a back that hits you right below the shoulder blades and kneeling on the cement floor.

I was unaware that it was the first harvest of the rice season and every rice farmer brings in his first harvest to donate to the church.  Farmers of all sizes, big and small, go up in groups and place their first harvest of rice at the altar, then they stand together and sing a song of praise.

Some of the large farm owners hired men to carry in huge sacks of rice.  At times taking 4 men to carry one bag.  But the most touching was an older woman in her 70’s, barefoot and practically in rags who filled her worn out straw hat with rice and took it to the alter.  It was just like the bible story in the temple. Where Jesus talks about the one who gave a small portion of his great wealth and the poor women who gave a few cents – but it was all she had.  The rice helps feed the priest, nuns and the poor.

Even without all special events the masses are close to 3 hours.  What takes them so long?  To begin with, they sing – a lot.  The singing is beautiful, again the men seem to know when to come in with the deep harmony parts.  I do not understand the words yet, but the songs all seem to be joyous and uplifting.

They sing a song, after each petition!  In the USA we normally just reply  “Lord hear our prayer.”  But they lift up their voices singing after each one.

It feels like more than the normal three readings, old testament, new testament and gospel – but I could be wrong.  By the end of the sermon I am getting a little antsy, a good hour has passed by.

When it is time for the collection, they don’t pass a basket around, everyone, all 300-400 people, get up, pew by pew and slowly walk to the front of the alter where there is a basket and place an offering. Usually 100 or 200 ArAri (about 0.05 or 0.10 cents) While this is happening the priest is just sitting there and I am thinking “What is going on?” Why isn’t he preparing the communion table, where is the chalice, communion host?” 

Finally, the last person walks up and makes his monetary donation in the basket and walks ever so leisurely back to his pew.  Only after he is seated, do one of the nuns stand up and walks at a turtle’s pace to the tabernacle off to the side of the alter, she fumbles with her keys, she fumbles with the curtain on the tabernacle, she fumbles with the lock and finally takes out the chalice and communion host.  Then walks at the pace of the turtle who lost the race to the alter to deliver them to the priest.

 Meanwhile every cell in my American, fast paced, time is money, brain is exploding.  I am thinking “For the love of God can this mass go any slower?”  The answer is, yes it can!

We finally get to communion and everyone takes communion and every child gets a blessing, but at least the nuns help to serve. When everyone is finished and seated, the same nun walks at the same pace back to the tabernacle, fumbles again with the keys to put the chalice and communion host away and walks back to her seat so slowly I am convinced she has had a stroke on her way and is having a very difficult time moving her feet.

THEN – we have another offering.  I am not sure what this one is for, but there are two offerings at every mass. Again, everyone gets out of their pew, one pew at a time and walks, more like a crawl, to the alter and places more money in the basket.  I try to control my rising blood pressure with some deep breaths. 

THEN we have at least 99 more songs, that is a bit of an exaggeration, but believe me at this point that is what it feels like.

THEN we have announcements which are sometimes 30 minutes long!  Back home we would have a riot in the church if someone made announcements at the end of mass for 30 minutes.

I am thinking what is wrong with these people don’t they want to get home, go shopping, hit the sales at the mall, take in a movie, watch the game, go to brunch.  Then I remind myself I am in a small village in Madagascar.  Mass is the event of the day.  There will be a local soccer game at the school around 2 or 3 and some Chinese kung foo pirated films at the little shack where everyone sits on the floor and watches in amazement.  That will be it, so there really is no hurry at all.

 

VAZAHA

A slang word for a foreigner, who is assumed almost always to be French is “vazaha.”  It is a little bit derogatory and can carry a negative connotation. Many people here blame the French for the economic conditions.  The French colonized the country in the late 1800’s and took valuable resources that really only benefited the French.  They did not leave much development behind. When people see me they immediately assume I am French.  The start speaking French to me ( their second language) and/or call me a Vazaha.  Depending on their voice or feelings about the French it  is either an OK word or a negative word.

I hear it a lot when I walk around and I handle it is two ways. I simply say” I am not a vazaha, I am American” or I look around, act surprised and say “ Vazaha – where ? where is the vazaha?”  This usually makes them laugh, especially if I point to them, indicating they must be the vazaha.

Some children have been told that if they are not good a VAZAHA will eat them, or take their hearts out.  It is a cruel thing to tell a child and I assume this story has been told from many years ago when the French treated the Malagasy people cruelly. I try to carry small pieces of candy and tell them “No, I am not a vazaha, I am American and we give all children candy”.

During one of my first church visits, a young boy of about 3 turned around and noticed me, his jaw drops, his eyes widen and he had a look of complete terror on his sweet little face.  He stares at me so long that he forgets to swallow and a slow trickle of drool begins to form.  His mother notices and wipes his mouth and tries to turn his head, but he will not take his eyes off me and each time his head is turned away from me he whips it back to make sure I have not moved. No amount of smiling at him ends his terror.

Another time when I went for a walk through town I heard a man yelling in Malagasy “There, over there, it is a Vazaha!”  when I turned around he was standing outside his house with his three children pointing to me and showing them a real live, walking, talking, vazaha.  I felt like a rare exotic animal they had only ever heard about in stories or read about in books.  I smiled and waved and shouted hello and they hesitated and cautiously waved and smiled back.

One day in the crowded market in my banking town, I hear a woman yell “VAZAHA!” I turn around to see an elderly woman in her 70’s, who looked like she may have dementia, running after me, fist raised above her head, she pushes me, just enough to make me stumble slightly before a group of people gently take her arms and lead her away apologizing.

No harm done.  99% of the time everyone is very friendly, especially when they find out I am American.

 

A Country of Machines

I am asked to give a presentation about the USA to a senior high school English class at the local school.  For most of them it is the first time to hear a real native English speaker speak in English.

As is the custom here, the very first thing that happens is that a “Kabary” is given. A short speech by one of the better students in English.  The student stands and welcomes me on behalf of the class and thanks me for helping them learn English. They are very sincere and once again I am touched.

They want to know what a typical day in the USA is like. I start by saying, it is not unlike yours, we are all people and have a lot of the same needs and habits. I describe my mornings in the USA.  “ When I wake up in the morning the first thing I do is I start the coffee maker and then go back into my …– a hand shoots up, I call on him “Please miss, what means coffee maker?’” 

Oh, that is a small machine that makes the coffee.  They all look at each other, then at me, then giggle, as if it is a joke. I say “We have a lot of machines in the United States.  We have a machine that washes our clothes.”  They are amazed and want the details of how it works.  After taking a few minutes to explain about the wash machine I tell them that after the clothes are washed and cleaned we take them out and put them in a machine that dries them.  They gasp in astonishment that there is such a thing.

When I explain a dish washer, there is a palpable frenzy approaching near hysteria in the room, a vacuum cleaner sends everyone over the top.

I think about telling them about a small box that cooks food in 3 minutes or less – a microwave oven, but I am afraid that the frenzy would reach such a level that someone would faint and hurt themselves, so I stop before things get out of hand.

I go to bed every night that week thinking to myself, it is 2017 how is it possible that these young teenagers in a village in Madagascar do not know about dishwasher, vacuum cleaners, washing machines.  I realize most do not have TV’s, many have never been out of this small village. There is not one person in this town that has indoor running water or a flush toilet. I am sure there are small villages all over developing countries like India, Central America, Asia, Africa in the same situation.

Once again it takes me back to some letters I wrote home back in 1980 when I first went to Honduras to teach a Prevention of Blindness course. The situation was essentially the same. No running water or electricity in many small villages throughout. I wondered in my letters about where their inventors, engineers, entrepreneurs were. Someone who could put together an old fashion wringer washer that needed no electricity.

I found no answers back in 1980 and have no answers today. But I know from previous experience, working in Central America, that the problem is not simple, won’t be fixed by more money, and there are no easy solutions.

My biggest challenge here in Madagascar is to remain hopeful.  Hope is powerful, it is different from optimism or a Hollywood ending, it is being open to the possibilities of surprise.  When a situation appears hopeless there is always room for surprise.

Matthew Kelly, a spiritual leader once said:  “As Christians, we are called to be people of possibility, who are filled with hope. Positive thinking is a natural way of life. Hold on to your hope, no matter how messy life seems. 

 

A few of you noticed I forgot the quotes at the end of the last blog. So here are a few:

When you feel lost in life, drop the map and use the compass, the compass will keep you in the right direction. The general direction is what is important. 

To be wronged is nothing, unless you insist on remembering it. 

A very talented writer, Nicole Flood, wrote an article about me in a local magazine.  you can read it here and will my friends back home save me a copy!