Keep on Moving…

The days after my mother returns to the UK, my flat feels especially cavernous. That’s usually how it is after I’ve hosted a visitor. Around New Year’s, I’m even more susceptible to feelings of isolation than most other moments.

My mind turns to my plans for New Year’s Eve; La Reveillon. After two years in a row, the novelty has faded of a quiet one at home in prayer and reflection over the past year. I miss the Watch Night services at my church in London. For some nebulous reason, my French church doesn’t organise any special festive services; neither on Christmas morning nor New Year’s Eve. Something to do with building regulations or noise control in a residential area.

I am aware of a predominantly African/Caribbean congregation also in the La Meinau vicinity. Some members of my church attend their activities. In the final days of December, it occurs to me to check their website for any NYE activity. Bingo. My spirits perk up at the thought of spending 31 December worshipping and praying with others; albeit in a room full of strangers. Once I am assured that there’ll be public transport to get me home, my mind is made up.

I wear my Sunday best and head out that frosty evening to The International Christian Centre. When I arrive I’m handed an envelope and a form. I ask what it’s for. A pointless question, really. I am already very familiar with this particular African Christian tradition of writing prayer requests ahead of the New Year. I haven’t been inclined for a good while, after too many disappointments. I take the form anyway and follow the ushers obediently to a seat at the far end of my room.

There's more diversity amongst those in attendance than expected, to be fair. I’m sat next to an especially disruptive family whose children (some of them old enough to know much better) can’t sit still. At least I can see a familiar face. Seated two rows in front, I spot Katie who attends some of the events at my regular church. She flirted with membership before settling at ICC. I can’t get her attention without disturbing others. I’ll eventually work up the nerve to ask someone to tap her on the shoulder. For now, I hope she turns around.

ICC’s HQ is in Paris but has several branches across the globe. The main NYE service is conducted remotely via live stream.

I’m apprehensive. I have had enough exposure to both the good and (too often) the bad of West African church custom to have given it a wide berth for a long time. I watch with scepticism a video update on an extremely ambitious building project. The pastors say the vision is Heaven sent. I can’t obviously attest either way to the veracity of such a claim. Nevertheless, I seriously ponder the wisdom of building a multiplex when, to my mind, there are other more effective ways those funds could be used to reach the Community for Christ.

I become even more wary when the senior pastor approaches that evening’s theme; Welcome to the Decade of Dominion. I brace myself for some variation on the prosperity Gospel; building the Kingdom of God a mere pretext for self-agrandissement. This proves to be a hasty and unfair judgement. The message is refreshingly even-handed. The pastor extols Christian virtues like selflessness and humility, adding these need to be demonstrated in whichever domain the Faithful find themselves. He speaks of the Holy Spirit equipping the church to help bring solutions to the big problems facing Society today. He eschews selfish ambition, insisting that it betrays spiritual immaturity. The message ends half an hour or so before midnight as we pray, sing and dance into the New Year. By then I have scribbled down some prayer requests and am galvanised by a strong sense of hope and purpose. The countdown arrives. I still can’t get Katie’s attention. I have no-one to embrace at midnight.

Never mind. Good riddance 2010s. I won’t miss ya. I allow myself some not-so-cautious optimism looking ahead to the 2020s.

Shortly after midnight, we are politely asked to leave as the welcome team prepare the hall for the second round of festivities, including food and entertainment. It’s scheduled to last long into the wee small hours.

A few of us seize the opportunity to go home, however. Katie has the same idea as does Stacee from my church, whom I bump into at the exit. As I'm deciding the best way to kill time before the next bus, Katie offers me a lift home. The conversation is in-depth for a relatively short car ride. We speak of our similar backgrounds (her family were part of a wave of migration from Ghana to France in the 70s and 80s, of which I was not aware before living in Strasbourg). She explains how she came to faith living in the UK. We speak about the short-comings and advantages of various church cultures as well as reflect on the past and forthcoming decade. At the cusp of her 30s, Katie considers her 20s to have been a preparation period.  She uses the oft-visited cocoon analogy. A wave of melancholy sweeps over me. Coming to the end of my 30s, I recall the sense of optimism I felt at the beginning; once I had overcome certain neuroses. Much of that is yet to be fulfilled. I open up, nonetheless trying not to dampen Katie's enthusiasm. I reassure her she’ll flourish as anticipated. Inshallah.