Confirmation

We, my three Protestant pastor friends and I, sat about two thirds of the way back in the large Roman Catholic sanctuary in Muhanga, which could comfortably seat 3,000. Counting all those standing and pushing in to see, there were close to 3,500 to participate in the confirmation service. We were there to support our friend Jeremy, an accountant at PIASS, as his eldest son was confirmed. He found us seats and then went to join the parents of the 300 some confirmands who were seated in the center section of the sanctuary. I could have felt out of place for a number of reasons. We were Protestant clergy – two Presbyterians, one Lutheran and an Episcopalian – in a sea of Catholics, immersed in a liturgy with which we were not familiar, in a language that neither my Lutheran colleague nor I fully understand, since she is from Tanzania. She got more of it than I did because there is some similarity between the Kinyarwanda and Swahili. Then, I was the only umuzungu (white person) in the congregation.

Oddly enough, I did not feel displaced. First, the music, traditionally Rwandan, with drums and clapping, drew me in, Even if I didn’t know the words, there was a repetition that allowed me to join in and the clapping was inviting. Even more than that was the acceptance of the little girl who sat in front of me. When we started to sing, she was fascinated with the umuzungu seated behind her. She did not shy away. When we sat down, she turned to get a good look. When I smiled at her, she quietly reached out her hand to touch mine. She left it there, running her fingers over the white skin, then she slowly wrapper her tiny hand in my very white one and just comfortably held my hand, a sign of friendship in Rwanda. When the next song began, rather than releasing my hand so she could clap along, she patted the rhythm into my hand. We clapped together, her left into my right, just as naturally as could be. She only released my hand when the service moved to the Eucharist and it was time for her to go forward with her mother to take communion. She was dressed in a lovely new, white dressing, indicating, as I learned later, that she had just taken her first communion on Sunday. We, of course, out of respect for the catholic theology, did not participate. When my young friend returned, she took my hand again and I was once again invited into the fellowship. My clergy friends just smiled at us. I, the one who was the greatest outsider, had been welcomed into the fold – and a little child shall lead them. I never even learned her name.  When the service was over, she disappeared into the crowd, but her penetrating brown eyes will remain with me, confirming fellowship.