Last Wednesday I returned to an African church for the first time in many months. I fed and dressed my girls, and we drove to the evening prayer service. I was eager to pray with my fellow Pentecostals and to join the fervent worship I remembered. Finding the venue took some effort. The church sat on a busy street in Saint Paul and was squeezed between two buildings, leaving no street parking. I drove around the block to the back, where I found enough space to park.
We unloaded the children and headed for a door that was clearly the rear entrance. Two sisters were entering as we approached and gave me a quick, appraising look. A high wall by the door bore a large banner with plenty of details I couldn’t read at a glance. The church’s name stood out — for privacy I’ll refer to it as “the fire church.” A bold slogan declared, “Power must change hands.” I smiled; gatherings like this promise battles with spiritual forces, breakthroughs and dramatic reclaiming of blessings.
The back entry looked every bit like a back entrance. Worn rugs lay over uneven flooring, their patterns flattened by years of footsteps. It seemed the congregation had been too busy fighting spiritual battles to worry about sprucing up the entry. The walls showed similar wear. Yet stepping into the hall changed everything. The altar was draped in beautifully pleated, colorful satin that felt familiar and welcoming. Chairs were lined in neat rows, newer ones up front and older ones toward the back. A familiar, soul-stirring worship filled the room:
Jesus, Jeeeeeeesooooos, Jeeeyeyeeeeeye soz!
Sing to Jesus!
Nostalgia washed over me and I joined in the well-known chorus. After the slow, soulful songs we moved into a faster tempo — the kind of upbeat praise typical of Pentecostal services. I encouraged my older girls to stand and dance with me. My eldest found the rhythm easily; the younger struggled. She moved awkwardly, like someone not in step with the beat, but smiled at me with delight. Perhaps she was following a different tune in her head; her energy was joyful even if her feet lagged behind the music.
As we worshipped, I observed the congregation. Women made up the majority. Many wore headscarves tied in a way that suggested modesty and tradition rather than fashion, and several had pale skirts despite the chill in the air. The worship leader and her lone backup singer held the service together with fervent voices. Only a few wore no scarves and had on trousers. One woman ahead of me paced in time with the music, wearing well-worn jeans and a heavy weave that seemed a little too voluminous. Her bright red lipstick contrasted sharply with the rest of her appearance.
We moved through familiar choruses until the worship leader launched into what I’ll call the “song of the day.” She shouted, “Satan don fall for gutter!” and the congregation roared back, “Mash am! Mash am!” We stamped our feet in unison, as if standing on the enemy itself and determined to crush it by sheer will and worship.
When the music calmed, the pastor took the microphone for a time of exhortation and focused prayer. He led songs and chants aimed at spiritual warfare — lines like “Break the yoke,” “Back to sender,” and “I drink the blood of Jesus” echoed through the hall. His sermon centered on breaking curses, and the congregation punctuated key statements with thunderous amens. During a prayer segment he invited everyone to “ask the Holy Ghost vitamin to enter your bloodstream,” and the people responded enthusiastically: “Holy Ghost Vitamin, enter my bloodstream! Enter! Enter! Enter my bloodstream!” At times the congregation affirmed amen seven times in a row at the close of certain prayer points.
Before leaving, we participated in what the church called “sharing the grace” and were instructed to shout a set number of Hallelujahs. The night was full of nostalgia, new impressions, and a fair amount of noise — my younger daughter kept covering her ears at the loudest moments. Despite that, the experience was meaningful, and I plan to return to the fire church when the invitation comes again.
Have you ever attended a service like this? Going to the fire church is an experience — unique, lively, and deeply rooted in communal faith. Feel free to share your own experiences below.
Enjoy your Sunday!
P.S. If you liked this post, you might also be interested in other church journey stories.