Christ the King

On Sunday I go to chehch (church). I choose “Christ the King” from the options on my map. I wear my Sunday best (a blue and white polka dot dress) and arrive on time. 300 people shuffle out from the early service, and 300 more line up for the late. We swarm the back door, elbow to elbow, thigh to thigh. Men wear suits. Women wear traditional batik patterned dresses with fancy, colorful hair wraps. Some sit outside in plastic chairs to listen to the service amplified through outdoor speakers, fanning themselves with poorly photocopied passages from “Peetah and Pole” (Peter and Paul). A small child waddles his way through the purple and yellow summer skirts. His smile kisses my knee, and his soft arms and tiny chest press into my leg. I run my fingers along his fuzzy head, and he looks up at me wanting to be held. I am one of about five white faces. When it’s time to go inside, I sit toward the back next to a girl who looks about 15. She’s bald, with soft features and sad eyes. She whispers to herself and never looks at me.

Christ the King is Catholic. The ceiling has cracked planks of wood with fans that don’t spin. The Jesuses on the walls are white. The preacher is black. He wears an orange and green patterned shirt with geometric designs that I trace with my eyes. He tells us about Peetah and Pole, about sins, about Jesus, about children, about dying. Twice he mentions “the Jews.” I stare at Jesus’s face, then at the preacher’s. Then back at Jesus. Two days earlier I’d asked my co-worker, Deenie, if she imagined Jesus looking not white. She gave me a quizzical grin and said “I have nehvah seen a black Jesus. Jesus looks like you.”

Christ the King’s hymns are sung in English and Luganda. The lyrics are projected on a screen near the front of the alter for all to sing along. The choir sings pleasantly, and everyone follows in chilling unison. Some kneel. Some stand. Everyone takes communion. At the end of the service, we wish each other “Peace with Christ” which, among my pew neighbors, is a simple “Peace” or “Peace with …” before their voices trail off.

I wonder how long people have been coming to this church in their traditional African outfits. I wonder when they started believing, or if they really believe at all. I wonder when Christ the King arrived in Uganda, erected by foreign missionaries who’d never seen a black Jesus or maybe even a black preacher, but knew what they were bringing was the truth.