Praises

My friend Pierre is dating a girl who lives in Jersey City. He comes down from Framingham, Mass, every other weekend to see her and crashes at my place when he does. It’s a free place to stay and a good excuse to see an old friend.

Pierre and Jackie are Egyptian and they worship in the Coptic church. Yesterday the three of us were hanging out and last night we went to their church for a service that in English means “praises.” Once before I’ve had the opportunity to go with Pierre to a Coptic service, and it is quite an interesting experience for the English speaking protestant.

The last time I accompanied Pierre, it was during Holy week, the Tuesday before Easter. Consequently, the sanctuary was packed, and out of all the people in attendance, I may have been the only one that didn’t speak Arabic. Most of the liturgy was laid out side by side in Coptic, Arabic, and English. All in all, my biggest language barrier came from the priest who gave the lecture and would jump back and forth between Arabic and English, not always translating himself, but often in one stream of consciousness. At one point he hopped back into English and made a statement that by itself would amount to heresy; Pierre saw the look on my face and quickly explained the preceding Arabic.

This time my experience was vastly different. The Saturday evening praises are sparsely attended, mostly by young males. When we walked in (in typical Pierre fashion: late) to the nearly empty sanctuary, there were a handful of females on their side of the aisle, one man on the other, and several men standing on the platform singing and chanting. Pierre and I split from Jackie and slid between the pews a few rows back.

I tried to follow along, but again, I speak no Arabic and have forgotten most of the Coptic I picked up last time. Then I noticed one of the young men on the platform motioning in our direction. Naturally, I assumed he was signaling someone else and I focused on the screen where the words were posted. A moment later, I glanced behind me and realized there was no one there for the young man to have been signaling. Then I saw him say something to one of the others, who then walked off the platform. And right into our row. And right up to Pierre.

The next thing I know I’m kicking off my shoes and joining the others on the platform. Luckily, about half the singing was in English, so I wasn’t just standing there with my hands in my pocket the whole time. It was a bit surreal, but these experiences are always a blessing, both culturally and spiritually.