Sins, prayers and miracles...

This Sunday, having turned down my exceedingly kind and well-meaning neighbour Hilda on all four previous Sundays in November, I buckled under my own callousness and curiosity and by 10am arrived at church. Not just any church, mind. This was the Pentecostal Potter’s House church, a million miles from the quiet restraint of the traditional Church of England, and from my own vague memories of Sunday school spent drinking squash and eating biscuits while absent-mindedly colouring in pictures of Jesus being nailed to a cross. Though one of the more recent denominations to arrive in the Solomons, imported from the U.S south, it is apparently increasing rapidly in popularity. And from the laughs and raised eyebrows of those people to whom I mentioned I was going, I gathered it is pretty full-on. I pictured myself walking into a lion’s den of fire and brimstone, everyone keen to convert the poor lost waetman. In at the deep end, I thought; my first adult experience of church akin to a first time drug-user opting for a hard hit of crack.

Of course, it wasn’t as extreme as all that, but was in parts genuinely uplifting, in parts interesting and in others simply very funny to my unaccustomed eyes. As I hurried into the full church thinking I was late, I in fact joined the last 10 minutes of the pre-service bible session, and the first words from the pastor that I caught were along the lines of “evolution is the worst case of non-science to be found, it just doesn’t make sense”. Hmm, I thought. Once the service itself began and the pikininis dressed in their best were packed off to a back room for Sunday school, things got more lively. Standing up, we launched into a swift and rousing rendition of various Christian pop-songs, starting with “Celebrate, Jesus Christ, Celebrate”, followed in quick succession by “Lord, We Come in Faith”, “We Sing Praises to Your Name, Oh Lord” and various others whose names escape me. All this was accompanied by an 8 person band on the stage at the front, including Max, my fish-hunting instructor from last week, on a full drum kit. I happily joined in the clapping, and even indulged in a bit of body-swaying, but couldn’t quite bring myself to sing along.

Next came a sermon from a visiting pastor (Australian, like the regular pastor) on the theme of “things that crush our spirit”, which was for the most part interesting and nicely expressed. I was taught that adultery, deaths in the family, drug use, and borrowing money from my wantak will all crush my spirit (hear that last one Dad, you’re crushing my spirit, man!), though I didn’t quite catch the connection between recognising these things, and giving myself over to the lamb of God.

The next part was the bit I was anticipating slightly nervously; a lengthy prayer session with our eyes closed. First, any among us who knew we were sinners were invited up to the front to receive a special prayer. Hmm, I thought again; a sinner in my eyes or theirs? Actually, probably both, but I kept my bum firmly on my seat and instead sneakily opened one eye to gauge the number of sinners lurking among us. Just three, I was relieved to note, though perhaps the sinners had a special sinning penchant for lying. Soon after came the call to the front for everyone who willingly opened their heart to Jesus Christ, this time accompanied by much greater shuffling of feet. Uh oh, no place to hide for the lone waetman now. This time, when I again did a quick scan around me, I found that the front of the tiny church was a sea of prostrate bodies, the pews entirely empty, except, I was surprised to note, the seats just around me! Strange.

But not as strange as the next little trick; the miracle of healing in front of my very own eyes. Not something you see every Sunday morning. I had a bit of a hangover so I did consider stepping up myself, but was soon glad I hadn’t. The first to seek assistance was an oldish fellah, who said he’d had a bad back for a few weeks and mumbled something about an accident. Undeterred by the obvious pain the poor fellah was in and the risk of making things worse, the pastor fearlessly grabbed him by the head, gave him a brisk shake, then cried out “Out, you evil spirit of infirmity, out” and other impressively dramatic words. When asked if the pain was gone, the man bravely mumbled “no” to his feet, only for the same routine to be repeated (as someone with back problems in the past I shuddered at the sight, and particularly at the windmills and back-bending he was made to do afterwards). This time when asked if the pain had gone, with a whole church waiting expectantly, the guy cracked under the pressure and managed a small nod. But I caught a glimpse of his face as he returned to his seat rubbing his evidently still sore back, and I could see written all over his face that the only person less convinced than me that the pain had gone was the lucky recipient of the miracle himself.

The service ended, two hours after starting, with another song from The Band, and after having my hand shaked by all those around me, we shuffled out into the dazzle of the midday sun. I chatted briefly with the two white pastors, then headed off for some dim sum.

But wait! This Potter House tale may yet have another twist. In the course of my conversation with the touring pastor I discovered that he had recently visited their only church in London, which just so happens to be in good old Archway. North Londoners among you take heed: next time you wake up on a Sunday feeling the effects of the night before, forget the small (but wondrous) miracle of a hair-of-the-dog in The Mother Red Cap and instead get yourself down to church for spiritual healing on a far grander scale.