With Friends

Neal and I are sitting on the right side of the church, with the men.  We are clearly outnumbered by the women on the left side, many of whom sit on the floor in traditional Aymara dress: the bowler hat, colorful skirts, long braids and aprons.  One of the women is breastfeeding.  All the way up front, seated sideways so I can see her face, is a miraculously old looking woman, with a child-like grin. Emma and Annie sit on benches; even Emma looks a bit out of place, even though this is the church she grew up in.   

A few moments ago the four of us travelers had been called to the front while the congregation sang a song of welcome.  We sang along from our Spanish/Aymara hymnbooks, not sure what else to do.  At the end of the song, in what seemed a spontaneous gesture, a few men came forward to shake our hands.  Soon, the whole church was up.  After the first few, I started to get the hang of the “handshake-shoulder pat-handshake” greeting.  I found myself moved by this moment, especially shaking the last hand, that of the grinning woman, who wouldn’t let go as she whispered a long greeting in Aymara.

The lead pastor is now on the mic.  We have been in the chilly room for two hours already, and Neal and I are both thinking about lunch.  I find it hard to follow the sermon, especially as it is unfolding in both Spanish and Aymara.  Instead, I distract myself by trying to decipher the plastic wall hanging behind the pastor, whose voice is gaining speed and volume.  The wall hanging is titled El Plan de los Edades (The Plan of the Ages).  It begins on the left with Eternity, and works its way through generation and degeneration to the present day.  From there, it begins to follow the book of revelations, depicting the arrival of the Anti-Christ, and a final battle between good and evil.  The final age is one of regeneration, followed again by Eternity.  Perhaps we are meant to imagine a full circle loop at this point, though there is no arrow to guide us there.

The chapter and verse quotations, mostly from Paul’s letter to the Romans and Revelations (apocalipsis in Spanish) become fewer and farther between, and the pastor begins to speak less from notes.  He is speaking more in Aymara now, but he’s also repeating himself in Spanish so I find myself focusing in.  He is drawing a picture of the paradise that awaits those of us hear the Holy Spirit in our souls.  He entreats us to listen closely to the voice inside of us.  “We don’t listen to our hearts in this world, not enough.  This is how it is.  Instead, we are tranquil; we go along on our way.”  His words hit me, harder than I was expecting.

One of the seated women in traditional Chula dress walks forward and kneels on the floor in front of the stage, her elbows resting on the bench in front of her.  Another does the same, then the man seated to my right.  A woman moves forward and I can hear her praying even over the pastor’s microphoned voice.  Soon about half of the church is down on their knees, and the pastor is audibly emotional, little sobs entering his speech.  He is mostly speaking in Aymara now.  Soon almost everyone is on their knees, either up front or on the floor next to the benches.  Neal whispers “When in Rome…” and drops down also.  I look over at Annie who is still seated, and I feel torn by a pressure to fit in and a desire not to leave Annie as the only one seated.  I take the middle path and bend down, placing my head on the back of the bench in front of me, my hands together.  I close my eyes and take in the sounds.  Clearly there is some suffering being let out in this room, voices rising and falling together, a mumble and hum of emotionally charged speech.

I think about how private the Aymara culture usually is, how emotionally reticent they are from day to day.  People's lives are kept mostly separate.  It isn't until our last day in Batallas that Neal and I will see the inside of Annie's house, and then only the courtyard.  This moment of shared suffering seems to respond to a cultural need for release, for sharing, along with a spiritual need.

Above Batallas

I find myself silently praying, “Our Father, who art in heaven…” a prayer my mom taught me when I was young.  I can see her there, standing beside my bed.  I remember her reaching out to demonstrate the “lead us not into temptation” part, to help me remember it.  This visual cue comes back even now whenever I say this prayer.

Slowly, the congregants finish their prayers and move back to their seats.  The Pastor gestures to a young man who comes forward to play the keyboard.  It is set to “organ.”  There is a sense of winding down.  Most everyone is back to their seats.  I begin to reflect on this scene, pretty different from any Quaker Meeting I have attended before, and to think again about lunch.  But now a woman is on her feet, speaking out in prayer.  While the kneeling prayers blended together, this one becomes the center of attention.  I don’t know what she’s saying, but it is clearly an entreaty.  Is she asking for strength in the face of something tragic, or is it simply for the day-to-day hardships in this cold, dry place:  waking up, boiling water for tea with bread, elbowing onto a mini-bus to La Paz with your recently harvested potatoes, trying to sell them, coming home, cooking, washing in cold water, drinking more tea, eating some bread, going to bed under seven blankets, waking up, boiling water.

Three women pray like this, and then the organ dies down and the pastor says a few concluding words.  Next thing I know we are standing up and heading to the back of the church.  After the service we share an aptapi (Aymara for potluck) with a number of the congregants.  It is a great meal, interrupted by a rain storm that sends us inside.  We brought the food with us.  It was lovely to meet so many people who were a part of Emma's spiritual community growing up.

After fleeing the rain.  That's Rosa across from me, a very sassy lady.