Worshippers at the Action Chapel International in Accra, Ghana“Are you writing your prayer request?” I looked up from my scribbling to take in the pretty, grinning young woman in camouflage trucker hat, reflective sunglasses, rolled-up jeans, and canvas trainers. Most everyone around her was either writing on scraps of paper, or, having already done so, was now standing in place, arms pitched heavenward, hips swaying, shuddering to a junior pastor who stamped the concrete and shouted, “Die! Die! Die, demons!” Some of the congregants jitterbugged vigorously, as though trying to shake off a shroud of dust. A few stood solemn, waiting for a breeze to lift them.
“No, I’m just taking some notes,” I told the woman.
“Well, please enjoy the service. May I have a piece of paper?”
I pulled one from my notebook.
“Can I ask you what you’re praying for?”
“By the grace of God,” she said, “I’m hoping I will get a visa to visit relatives in London.”
It wasn’t an unusual request. Most of the worshippers were happy to share their deepest wishes with me: a passport or a visa, money, a job, protection from witchcraft, a cure for whatever ailed their bodies. They jotted down their requests, sealed them in white envelopes, and tossed them onstage. This paper mountain of human desires grew steadily for more than half an hour, until a guest preacher arrived. He began by grabbing a handful of the envelopes and holding them aloft. “Your miracle awaits you . . . Today your world will change!”
The regular Thursday-morning service at Action Chapel International, one of the most prominent charismatic churches in Accra, Ghana, had yet to begin in earnest. This was only the setup, a cataclysm of emotion at first swell. Hundreds more worshippers would yet stream into the hangarlike auditorium, packing the main floor, the mezzanine, and the upper terraces, until the congregation neared a thousand strong. Befitting Pentecostal orthodoxy, no crosses or other iconography could be seen — just a billboard-sized banner behind the stage, proclaiming, “Theme Divine Acceleration.”
For the next three hours, sermons that promised healing and prosperity alternated with cloying gospel power ballads, gyrating high-life shuffles, and feverish incantations that descended into glossolalia. Early on, the preacher introduced a woman in a traditional blouse. She was Linda Wendy Asante, the recent mother of three “miracle” babies. Only after seven years of daily prayer had she been able to conceive.
Later, I spotted my new acquaintance, the girl in the trucker hat and reflective sunglasses, now at the lip of the stage and in full, frenzied grip of the moment. She was performing what appeared to be stomach crunches while standing upright, some kind of spiritual calisthenics. I was reminded of another Pentecostal service I had witnessed, in Guatemala City, in another full auditorium. A young man engaged in a similarly furious ab-busting exercise while a Casio keyboard–led band droned on and the preacher exhorted the assembly to give up drink, give up adultery, give up their sinning. The trappings were different — the music, the atmosphere, the preacher’s emphasis on social ills — but the ecstasies palpably the same.
