Hillsong

He told her he would go, so he had to. This he regretted. He was just coming to enjoy surfing the charity and book shops of Kensington High street, when it was time to dash off into the underground tube station.

And so he came to find himself strolling into Hillsong Church, held at the Dominion Theatre in the centre of London that Sunday evening. He was late.

The promise had been made when he was in the best of moods, on a Friday night, surrounded by friends, girls and beer. That Friday night, the music got louder, the drinks did not run out, and London looked ever so pretty across the dark river, bright as a Christmas tree.

The theatre was sucking people off the pavement through all doors, with the aid of awfully friendly youth, positioned outside to welcome you to church. He was ushered upstairs to the upper most rafters, by smiling believers, well practiced in getting the church/theatre uniformly full with hand-waving-sing-a-long god fearing folk.

The stage was alive and full of color with guitarists, keyboards, drummer and a front line of singers. The lights on the crowd were dull, forcing you to look to the brightly lit stage. The hall was swathed in soothing contemporary hymns, carried by the guitarists and keyboards. The words to the songs projected on to giant screens. The sound was building to a gentle climax  – whispering and teasing you with mentions of Jesus and spirit – as the theatre came to full capacity. It was wonderful.

He was showed his place, by the ever efficient smiling ushers, between Jamie and Amie (he got to know their names because everyone was made to greet their neighbors). Next to Amie and Jamie, who were singing along and soaking up every moment in with glee, he already felt judged and revealed to be an imposter, which he was. He did not clap as much, did not raise his hands in praise and did not close his eyes. But who would notice that, but Jesus?

“Good evening ladies and gentleman. Thank you for coming this wonderful, wonderful evening. Looking at all your wonderful faces, I can see that god is great!” called the master of ceremony (MC) on stage.

“Amen” replied some of the crowd.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t here that” the MC teased.

“Amen!” shouted the whole crowd, all together this time.

The air was now palpably jovial. The lead guitarist, a neat handsome young Caucasian male, was in his element strumming on his instrument and singing a love song to Jesus into the microphone. The backup singers were smiling beaming smiles. Hands were raised in the crowd, eyes closed tightly, lips moving and whispering praise.

The MC lead the evening, saying a greeting out of every language represented in the crowd. H, to much cheering. A slim and lean man, with long curly hair that came down beside his dimpled cheeks. He could be Jesus, but for his jeans and trendy shoes. He straddles up and down the stage making holy wise cracks, as the band maintains a low spiritual dirge. A real church heart-throb.

He had accepted the invitation to church knowing that half the service was live, good quality, well produced soft rock songs that equate love and Jesus. The drums and guitars  keep the young people coming by the numbers. Indeed, this was the third service that day. In contrast to those other events held at this theatre outside Sunday, this performance is free.

However, perhaps it keeps the older crowd out, noticing their absence from the ranks. Maybe they go to the theatre on other days of the week.

On to the stage hops an animated Barbie doll, Charlotte Scanlon-Gambil. Above her are three huge screen color projections advertising a women’s conference.

“This goes out to all the young ladies out there” she oozed through a permanent smile, high heels and trendy flared trousers. “Come to the 2007 Colour Conference at the Royal Albert Hall.” The advert for which was projected above, large and colorful.

“Imagine Colour 2007. Imagine what one company of women, united and devoted could achieve.” She charmed, walking up and down the stage in her gaunt frame.

“The worship will be magnificent, the teaching from the Hillsong team and internationally renowned guests such as Lisa Bevere will inspire and our labour will be to bless, encourage, serve and bring hope and life to all.”

We were then informed of the glossy color post card size application forms under out seats. “Our young ladies” were encouraged to attend and to bring along a friend, mother, daughter or just some one who could do with a friend.

He could not fathom the objective of such a ‘conference’.

Only then did it occur to him, seeing the sample application form blown up on the treble screens as big as 2 basketball courts, that registration for this ‘colorconference’ cost 90 pounds each! No wonder they were going through the part payment procedures in detail (cheque, credid card, cash).

From here, all cheesy good Christian jokes from the stage were the patronizing sort about young shy men asking a lady to the color conference (not the other way around, mind you). “If there is that wonderful somebody who” – big cheesy smile and a pause – “you just wish to praise and sit next  to and share an arm rest with while too shy to talk,….. ask her to the color conference.” The crowd returned an equally plastic laugh, each time.

Then comes on Pastor Ray Macaulay, just as things are beginning to get repetitious, with the routine of stand up, sit down, sing with me, pray, hold hands and stand up and sing. Macaulay is the guest Pastor.

Macaulay is a tubby man with a greasy affable smile and a nose as wide as spade. His name is familiar and so is the freckled nose. Macaulay is South African, he should have known.

“There are some great people in the crowd tonight” calls Macaulay, touching his sweaty balding patch. “You know who I am talking about, come on stand up….” Walking up and down the stage like an excited lion in a cage. “Everyone who is from South Africa please stand up”.

A good third of my section rises, giddy with pride and caution. I remain seated, ever unsure of my identity. Jamie and Amie are not South African it seems. But the pretty colored little thing with straightened hair in black, across the aisle is. Why didn’t he get seated next to her?

Macaulay’s sermon is a long pondering watery tale that he spins off First Samuel, verse 20, where some ‘boy’ is sent to pick up arrows by Jonathan to warn David appropriately about trouble. Macaulay’s hang up is that the ‘boy’ (he gets no name in the holy book) was never told what the purpose of his errands, picking up random arrows in the bush.

“Imagine this guy? Running up and down picking up arrows” Macaulay called, feigning frustration.

“Why must he keh(care)? ‘What is it to me’” Macaulay shouted, faking a boys accent comically. But the boy, did as he was told, he explained. You never know what God is up to, so you best get up to even the mundane stuff, even if you don’t see why you are doing it. That was the message. To serve the church unquestioningly. And it was repeated, over and over again. And again, with a different example each time.

He boasted being in the company of de Klerk, when de Klerk was president of South Africa. Macaulay claimed to be the one that suggested to de Klerk to use an analogy with Joshua of the bible, in some famous speech that referred to Afrikaaners.

From here Macaulay turned to semantics. “‘Pastor you don’t know what I am going through?’” he said, mimicking a winging church member. “I say ‘praise God.’ But you say ‘you don’t know what I am going through’ but I say again ‘God is great.’ Then you complain ‘But why do you say that’……..” he leaves a pause.

“Because you are going through it!” Macaulay charges at the crowd, under his pasty and greasy thin hair. The crowd is amused and applauds. The logic is proof of Gods love.

Of course there was the mandatory “raise your hands if you are going through trouble in your life so we can pray for you”. This was asked for when our heads were bowed and eyes closed, to allow for the privacy to help people come out with their sorrows. However, the ordeal takes so long, out of fatigue we are soon freely looking upon the raised hands. Their appeals for spiritual guidance is exposed and in the open, but they keep their hands raised never the less.

After Macaulay, it was the pretty Jesus MC again, making us stand up, sing, clap, pray and wave our hands.

There were more closing prayers and speeches than there were opening ones.

Outside there was an elated spirit on the banks of Oxford street, like after school. Scores of people lingering, chatting and looking for friends and family.

Out came Nalishebo, after a call to her phone. She was glad to see him, and he, her.

“I am so glad you came” she said wearing one of those smiles he had seen on the stage. In fact, half the posters had her pretty face. The church has more posters than a rock concert. “Did you like it” she inquired, squeezing his hand with good Christian enthusiasm.

“It was pretty good” he said with a smile, lying.