Church every Sunday

Sunday brought the delights of everyone donned in their Fijian ‘Sunday best’ – a jolly combination of vibrant colours and garish patterns that had us blending with the congregation superbly.

Our assembly, beneath the blue gable-roofed building, was a little more ‘traditional’ in style with all the women and children sat on the left side of the church, and all the men (with the choir at the front) on the right. A wooden stand at the front of the church acted as the vicar’s pulpit, behind which the village chiefs sat in their own VIP seats.

It was a hot day, as per usual, but the slated windows and a large door either side of the church let the tropical air breeze through. Better still, Haz and I had been presented with our own woven fans by our parents, which we proudly brandished to the envy of the rest of the volunteers that morning.

The service itself was conducted in Fijian, but began with an introductory greeting from Adam and Matty’s Va-va, in English: “We are very blessed to have you,’ he said. “Do not feel homesick; you have parents here, this is your new home. No matter whether you are black or white, in the Lord God’s eyes, we are one.” A thoroughly heartfelt speech that we loved all the more for its cheesiness.

The vicar did not need a microphone, even if he had been preaching in the large, cold stone buildings back in England. His voice carried with militant fervour as he called out, reached with his arms and gesticulated towards the audience, who mm-ed and arr-ed where appropriate. Near the start, I remember being so impressed by how he seemed to have memorised the whole sermon, preaching with his eyes closed and never seeming to require the notes he had brought, until half an hour in, he said ‘Ameni,’ concluded the welcome prayer, and began his actual sermon.

In the front pews, the kids were messing and giggling – no different to church back home in that respect. Except, what seemed to stick out was this religious-themed colouring book they passed between them, which, as I leaned in to get a closer look revealed a very ‘Caucasian,’ superficial-looking Jesus that seemed wholly inappropriate in that room…

Hymn books were not provided. Unlike my church in England, the choir sang mostly from memory, and the few hymn books that did appear had been brought from people’s very own houses. Not that we understood the words anyhow, but we did our best to sing along looking over the shoulders of the boys in front.

After church the TP volunteers posed for a group picture outside; squinting and blinking into the glaring sun, and returned to our separate homes for Sunday meals and a little respite for our day of rest.