How pleasant and beautiful it is to behold Africans praising their God. It is like fragrant aroma flowing upwards to heaven. No other group of people is more pleasantly exuberant or effusive in praise of their God. And among Africans, the Oscar in Praise go to Nigerians – if the Congoslese/Zaireans don’t show up with their throbbing Lingala songs.
But when it comes to worship, nobody beats the Hawaiians. Their dance, hula, is God’s gift to the world for graceful worship. I can’t think of anything more awe-inspiring than worshippers spotting exotic colours and flowers dancing and chanting to their Maker. If you visualise hula dancers set in the picturesque Hawaiian landscape, you will most likely recall the line in the popular hymn that invites us to “join nature’s manifold witness” to proclaim His great faithfulness (intelligent design) and debunk Evolution. Okay, let’s just have a world-wide Praisathon and you will see that my many evidence-based assertions will be proven right.
And a Praisathon would be more life-enriching than the secular music shows whose scripts call for participants to constantly push the envelope in theatrics and offensives in order to make waves. We, the more civilised ones among the American population, don’t have to stoop that low. We only have to stay focused on Him that sitteth upon the throne, and praise and worship flow effortlessly out of our lips and our limbs.
One day, the world will see the light and pay more attention to gospelfests (like McDonald’s) than to secular music shows. When I watch music award shows and hear the names of the winners, I usually ask with a dose of incredulity: who buys their music? A lot of people I don’t know, it appears. I don’t buy their music and don’t know anybody who does. Their melody may be good, but their lyrics will tie men’s souls to hell. I like some of the secular music I hear on the radio or from the contraptions of those with less-evolved music tastes. I still love classical music. I have always loved secular African music. Their lyrics are usually philosophical or eulological. I am more tolerant of Nigerian music with naughty lyrics (e.g, the ageless song that features the shhh word) than I am of Western pop or rap music which features foul language and behaviour too lewd for my African sensibilities.
Anyway, I find myself taking you along on this my sudden musical excursion today because I just returned from a Nigerian-style Praisathon organised by Pastor Suleman’s Omega ministries. The praise and worship in many African languages (Igbo, Lingala and Pidgin English) was awesome.
My friend, Flo, confirmed a few hours before the event was to start that she would go again for the event and that it would be good for me to come along, so I can receive prayers for healing. We are both adventurous and edgy when it comes to things of the Lord. I didn’t want her to go alone, so I agreed to embark on the adventure despite the forecast of snow – but first I had to go for chemotherapy.
There was no time to head back home and grab the little bag I had packed, so we had to stop at Walmart to get a few essentials. It was dark by the time we emerged from Walmart and that prompted me to reconsider the wisdom of the two-hour (in good weather) trip. Flo was in no mood for a reassessment. I was still primed to go and I had good vibes about the trip. The chemo nurses did not advise me not to go as they have done in the past. We were not sure about where we would sleep. The road was treacherous, but Flo held steady on steering wheel. We missed our way a couple of times. We started to think: After all this, it would all be over by the time we get there. Who knows, maybe the event was even cancelled. And if it was not cancelled, we would meet only a few people there.
We arrived at the venue by almost 10pm and found a hall packed full with people seemingly oblivious of the inclement weather outside. The spill-over crowd hovered around the doorway. Seeing my walking stick, they made room for me and someone brought me a chair. Flo packed the car and came in to the hall. “Why are you sitting there?” she asked when she came in. She hissed. “We did not come this far for you not to be prayed for.” She made me get up and she carried my chair and set it up at the best spot we could find. After a while, she pushed further to the front with me in tow, but we were stopped by vigilant ushers who insisted the aisle could not be blocked. But Flo pressed on, telling them her friend has cancer and has to be prayed for. They said: Just grab your healing from wherever you are when the prophet calls out your condition. And that’s just what we had to do. Recall the Biblical story of the friends who made a way on the rooftop, so they could place their sick friend right before Jesus Christ.
Where are we going to sleep? Flo whispered into my ears as the event drew to an end. Now she’s asking. It was my turn to be the one throwing worry aside: Let’s worry about that at the end of this. Let’s focus on the prayers. The Lord will provide.
And that’s just what happened. One of the organisers of the event said we could stay at her place. She had to stay somewhere else closer to the event venue. Best of all, she declared over me: You are healed. Go tell your doctors that.
