Blessed Be Thy Home Stay

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It’s not easy being a heathen…especially in a country as evangelical as Namibia. Religion - well specifically Christianity - is often a topic of conversation. Overall people are tolerant of different religions but just very curious about what denomination you are (most Namibians are Lutheran thanks to German colonization). My face usually wrinkles up when people as me that question and I tell them I’m not Christian. Then they get really excited and say “oohh you must be Muslim…you know we have Muslims in Namibia now too!” Then my face gets even more puckered as I proclaim that neither am I a Muslim. Then these poor Namibians look so confused, “Are you Jewish?” they ask as a last resort. I bite my lip and shake my head no. Finally, I let them off the hook and tell them I wasn’t raised with religion so I don’t really have one. “Ohhhh, you Americans (as they incorrectly call me) you guys don’t like religion…okay.” They nod their head as they try to understand what not having a religion means, but clearly they don’t comprehend. They let the topic drop but I know from that point, I’m viewed as peculiar.

The joke is that most Namibians (like most other people) only pay lip-service to their religion. In the three months since I’ve been here, I’ve only seen Aunty, who presents herself as extremely pious, make it to church once. The teenagers I live with (that would be six!) never go. However I did have quite the religious awakening last Thursday night at home. Do you know that religion delivers?

I was sitting in the living room watching TV alone when I heard someone come to the gate. Aunty let two men in their twenties inside and introduced one of them as her colleague from work but also from church. We exchanged greetings and then she led them away into the house. I resumed my TV watching, not without wondering though why these young men were visiting Aunty at such a late hour. I was quickly joined in the living room by all the teenagers. Seemingly our visitors had stirred them from their respective resting places and corralled them together with me. Then I saw these two men walking from room to room muttering something under their breath (I think it’s called praying) holding this little vial of ointment, flicking some off it where they deem appropriate. I asked one of the teenagers what was going on and she answered with a resounding “I dunno”. I said, “Are they blessing the house?” and she said “I guess so.” The time came to bless the living room so I retired to my newly exorcised bedroom. But five minutes later I heard Aunty calling me back. When I got there, the two men were standing in the middle of the living room. They asked me to join the family and I obliged.

Our holy visitors gave a little sermon about letting God in your life, keeping the Devil out of it, yada yada yada (or 'what, what, what' as they like to say in Namibia.) Then they said they’re going to go around and bless each person in the room…..starting with me! “Me?” I said, “Okay well I don’t know what to do.” They told me to stand up and raise my hands up just over my shoulders and I did. The first man approached and rubbed some of the ointment on my forehead while the other rested his hand on my shoulder. I closed by eyes as it seemed the natural thing to do. The first man began muttering a pray about blessing me and freeing me off the devil while the second man just ad-libbed a couple “that’s right lord”, “hear him”, “glory” to compliment the prayer. Immediately, I wanted to laugh. The ad-libbing was particularly hilarious. I entered the dreaded giggle loop. For two minutes I contorted my face in every way imaginable desperately trying not to burst out laughing. It must of appeared as if I was being exorcised (maybe I was!) If this was God’s trial he surely tasked me with the most difficult one of not laughing at the most inappropriate time.

When my blessing was over, the two men moved on. While other people where taking their turns, everyone else would bow their head, presumably to harness the power of prayer. I followed suit, but couldn’t help lifting my head to peak at the going-ons. Unfortunately, every time I looked up, one of the teenage boys would shoot me a hilarious “what the eff” kind of look. With much success, he was purposely trying to make me laugh.

With each person the men blessed, their prayer got more fiery and loud. At one point, they shouted “OUT DEVIL OUT” and starting making these fake spitting noises like “Petooo, Petooo”. With each “Petooo” the person receiving the blessing would lean backwards until they fell on the couch. I noticed only the girls fell backwards and the boys did not. The best part was when the men tried to bless the two-year girl I live with. Every time they approached her she would scream bloody murder. After several failed attempts they gave up and she remains unblessed. After living with that problem child for three months, I already suspected she was the spawn of the Devil - a fact now confirmed by a most holy night.

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