The Pentecostals

I awoke to the sounds of pattering rain and the bass line of Pachelbel’s Canon, so I turned off my fan and listened for a few enchanted moments.


Then an organ began pounding out the tune to “I Surrender All” and the screaming began.


Next door to my guest house in Africa there was a Pentecostal church. The people walking down the dirt road to the church were well-dressed and appeared happy to be there, which is a good thing because attendees were always in it for the long haul with services sometimes lasting until 3 or 4 in the morning. At this church there was a lot of singing, clapping, preaching, and cheering. And the casting out of demons. There must have been a considerable number of real and/or imagined demons around there because they hosted exorcisms almost every night.

I’m no demonologist but after 3 weeks of listening from my bed in Africa, I know that demons are hard of hearing because the Pentecostals felt the need to yell at them loudly and frequently. They started with a rhythmic cadence of alternating yelling in which the demon-possessed person shrieked like he/she was in pain and the demon caster-outer shouted authoritatively at the demon. There was a glorious crescendo of noise and enthusiasm and then inexplicably there would be instant silence—like everyone needed to catch their breath or something.

It sounds pretty gruesome- I know-- and more than once my friend Theresa has had terrified volunteers come to her room in the middle of the night saying “someone is being killed out there.” She assures them it is simply a friendly neighborhood exorcism, then she distributes earplugs and everyone goes back to sleep.

So one Sunday I walked over to the gated entrance of the outdoor Pentecostal church and peeked discreetly into the compound. I must have been spotted because they sent a smiling man out to talk with me.

“I’m just listening to the music” I said to assure him I wasn’t a church-wrecker.
“You are welcome” he said.
Thinking this meant I was welcome, I clarified “Can I go inside?”

This was a bold move on my part because God only knows how many demons were hitching a ride on this white woman from America, but as a past theology major I was intrigued by their beliefs and as a former charismatic I was interested in their practice.

He squirmed, shoved his hands in his pockets, and looked at the ground. “They are praying….” he shrugged.

“Ah, ok. Praying is private. I understand” I said, kindly letting him off the hook. I guess they didn’t want to be scrutinized in the middle of an exorcism—and I don’t blame them for that. So I went about my day thinking about how differently they do church from how I do “church” and humming a catchy tune that a white missionary must have brought years ago to the Africans.

“I surrender all…I surrender all… all to Thee my precious Savior…I surrender all.”