The calm waters of the Oubangui have again received the blessing of the Holy Spirit that often makes the rivers of Africa look like the Jordan. The Ecuadorian sun gives its glow to the river, increasing the heat, permanent in the Impfondo. Seated at the roots (literally) of a huge tree, some thirty or so Pygmies, young and old, sing their expectation of baptism. I arrived there by bicycle carrying the Gospel, the vestments, the crosses. Soon the others, catechumens and faithful, from our parish arrived. An important step in their lives. With baptism, they commit themselves to a place in eternity. It is a joy for the church, too, as it increases its Orthodox flock.
The baptism lasted about three hours, with the diving beside the pirogue of twenty-seven souls, who emerged from the waters bright, brighter than their surroundings. Large ones, like the elderly Erietta, wife of Peter the Pygmy president, and small ones like Anna, who left Katerina’s motherly embrace only for the triple dive, returning to breastfeeding immediately afterwards. She endured the fatigue, and little Mark, defying the temptation that, in the form of a serpent, bit him and burst his leg on the eve, trying to prevent him from walking in the way of the Lord. They then shone in their white shirts with crosses gleaming on their chests and white candles in their hands, twenty from the village of Pygmies and seven inhabitants of the city. So they came and the next day, Tyrrhenian Sunday, to receive the body and blood of the Lord at Mass, most of them after a two-hour march. Later three triangles of melted cheese “la vache qui rit” and two pieces of boiled fish mboka from the river helped to observe the ritual of the day.
Clean Monday in pure African nature. Towards the afternoon, after the rain, we took the bicycles with Joachim, the catechist of our parish, riding slowly the ten kilometres or so that separated us from the village of Pygmies. ‘I wanted to say goodbye to them before I left. In the distance we heard their songs. We found them gathered around a hut, young and old, about one hundred and fifty of them. In the evening an old woman had fallen asleep. She was lying on her deathbed, her face uncovered among her companions seated all around her, while a woman was chasing away insects with a fan of grass. The men stood outside the perforated hut. Joachim and I searched for a trisagion for her soul, who, familiar with the tropical paradise, was marching to the heavenly one. She was accompanied by a small icon of our Lady. Several women had adorned their waists with skirts of leaves or fish to dance and sing in the funeral service, which was like a feast. I gave a little help to buy a few boards for the coffin. Then we gathered with our congregants and catechumens in the courtyard of Peter’s hut handing out children’s clothes, medicine and cookies. We talked together about our common dream: a small church in their village, near the school. I left before nightfall loaded with their love, wishes, greetings and gratitude to you, who have “adopted” them.
Love in Christ has always, but especially today, an object. The poorest is always “our neighbour”. These few of our brothers and sisters have nothing but hope in the Love of Christ, in your love.
π. Theologos Chrysanthakopoulos
