The Sacred and the Simple

Sometimes in Niger there seems to be little distinction between the sacred and the simple. The everyday walks hand in hand with the extraordinary. I know that the significance of events depends largely on the cultural lens through which you view them. Just because I regard certain moments and events as more important than others doesn’t mean they necessarily are. But even after four months I still am struck with how often the sacred is found in the simple and vice versa. Sometimes you find a burning bush when you go looking for berries and other times you take off your sandals in reverence to find you are standing in a field of cow pies.

My first Christmas in Niger was a perfect example of that sort of uncanny juxtaposition. I slept over at Chez Johannson so that I could wake up and have Christmas morning with my Virginia family. After opening presents and playing with Sam’s new toys, I met up with Djibo and Hassan to go to a concert downtown. A number of churches from Niger and Burkina had gotten together for a giant Christmas service. I had a wonderful time listening, worshipping, and at times even dancing with the rest of the audience. There was, however, one practice that struck me as odd every time it happened. Just when the musicians had worked themselves to a frenzy and the singer was dancing and singing with all their might, someone from the audience would walk up and stick a dollar bill on the singer’s forehead. Because of their sweat, the bill would stay for just a moment before falling into the singer’s waiting hands. It didn’t matter if their was a pause or not, people would come and stick their bills on the singer, and the singer would never miss a note. I turned and asked Djibo and Hassan about it because, through my American eyes, it looked grotesquely similar to throwing money at a stripper. They told me that it usually means something similar here in Niger. But this crowd of new believers and unchurched passerbys knew of no better way to show their appreciation. They felt compelled to give and did so the only way they knew how, appropriate or not.

The Sunday after Christmas I helped Boureima lead a group of his church’s youth for a three-day Christmas campaign in Hassan’s villages. There were 18 of us altogether, and in true African style we crammed them all into two cars. Boureima drove his Suzuki 4 runner and I drove Saber’s Nissan Sunny hatchback. Let me just say, that was the most stressful drive of my life. The roads I had navigated with difficulty on my motorbike a few weeks earlier I had to drive in a 4-cylinder, 2-door FWD hatchback filled with 5 other passengers and their luggage. With every ravine and sandy floodplain I thought for sure his car was going to break down in the middle of the Nigerien bush. But, the Lord provided and we made it to Alambare without issue.

Alambare is a village that has won a special place in my heart. It’s a village I claim as my own not just for the amount of time I have spent there, but the events I have been a part of. I’ve shopped in their market, danced with them under the stars, slept in their huts and attended their weddings. I’ve watched as their thatched church has grown in size and numbers and twice I have preached from its pulpit. The visit with Boureima only increased my feeling of attachment to this village as, once again, I was a part of important milestones in the church’s history.

During the morning service we baptized eight new church members. They had dug a giant hole just outside the church and covered it with plastic. The women from the village slowly filled the hole with water bourn from the well. When the hole had been filled, everyone gathered around and watched as, one by one, eight men and women climbed into the watery grave. The drums and the cheers resounded as each successive person who was submersed in the tomb-like baptismal was lifted out of its depths into a new life in Christ.

That evening I preached on the significance of Emmanuel, God with us. To conclude the service there were four couples who wished to dedicate their children to God. Boureima explained the significance of the event then asked for the other pastors to come up and bless the babies. Much to my surprise, he asked me to come up and bless one of the babies, named Isaac. It was the first time I had ever dedicated a baby, and the only way I can describe it is as a terribly awesome privilege. It was terrible because, as I held a five-day-old bundle of pure innocence in my hands, I was confronted with all of my corruption that should disqualify me from giving any blessing. How can I, who am so sinful, hope to add anything good to something that was so fearfully and wonderfully made? But, at the same time, it was awesome because the Christ in me rose above all my inadequacy to bring that child before his Creator and ask for His blessing. I don’t remember what I prayed out loud, but my heart was bursting with hopes and wishes for this child I had just met: that he would grow up into a man of wisdom and integrity, that he would pursue righteousness all his days, and that the Lord would bless his every step. Before I could finish I was brought back to reality by a warm, wet sensation. The little guy had peed all over me. Boureima, who began to laugh hysterically, said it was the mark of a good blessing. Eventually the whole village began laughing at the white guy who was covered in baby urine. I guess it’s appropriate, since Isaac means “she laughs.”

After three days in Alambare with Boureima and his church I came home for 12 hours, only to turn around and go back with the American mission. We spent new years at a hotel near Park W, just a little way up the road from Alambare. After a day looking for lions and elephants we rejoined Hassan for three more days of services in his villages. Rodrigo and Brent took care of the preaching, so I was able to sit back, play soccer, and just enjoy being amongst my friends there. At the end of one of the services, Hassan asked me to pray as we closed. When I came up to the front, one of the villagers suggested that since I was spending so much time in their village that I needed a true Gremanche name. So right then the congregation began debating what to call me. Eventually they decided on “Yampabo” which means “God’s Gift.” Because I had spent so much time in those villages, I had begun to take ownership of them. Little did I know that the people were also starting to take ownership of me. It was such a simple gesture, but one with tremendous meaning. With a new name they claimed me as their own.

Since coming back to Niamey, I’ve spent a lot of time reflecting on these moments. What makes them remarkable to me is not the incredibility of the experiences, but their simplicity. It’s remarkable that the things that appeared so simple, if not vulgar, could be so full of significance. The secular tradition of tossing money became an act of worship, a hole in the ground became a baptismal, and a new nickname became a claim to a people. And sometimes the things that appear so meaningful end with you covered in pee.