There are moments in history
when God does not descend with thunder,
but rises through the voice of a humble soul.
He does not speak from heaven;
He speaks from a heart fully surrendered to Him.
Maman Hallelujah is not merely the name of a woman.
It is the name of a cry filled with meaning—
an ancient, sacred word
that crosses centuries
and carries within it the purest form of praise.
Hallelujah comes from two Hebrew words:
Hallel—to praise, to celebrate with fervor,
and Yah—the holy and abbreviated Name of the Eternal.
To say Hallelujah
is not simply to exclaim;
it is to proclaim:
“Praise the LORD—He alone is worthy!”
This word does not describe God;
it invites Him.
It does not recount victory;
it announces it before it becomes visible.
Scripture reminds us:
“God inhabits the praises of His people.”
Where the Hallelujah is genuine,
God takes His place.
And where God takes His place,
fear loses its throne.
October 1993.
Burundi is submerged in blood.
After the assassination of President Ndadaye,
ethnic hatred sweeps across the hills.
In Buhoro, in Gitega Province,
death moves about without shame.
Françoise Kangabe had just arrived there.
Only two days in a Rwandan family living near the parish and the dispensary.
Two days—
and already, from early morning,
the rumor of an attack was spreading:
“Hide yourselves… they are coming.”
They came.
Men armed with machetes,
their blades still marked with the blood
of Tutsi families slaughtered before.
They shouted vengeance:
“They must be killed.
Their brothers in Rwanda are killing ours.”
Human words failed.
Pleadings were silenced.
Death believed it ruled the moment.
Then, in the heart of this daylight night,
a woman rose within herself.
No weapon.
No strategy.
Only a life inhabited by the Spirit.
And from her mouth burst forth:
“Hallelujaaaaaaaah!”
It was not a random word.
It was a confession of faith.
An act of worship in the midst of slaughter.
A refusal to acknowledge death as sovereign.
And heaven answered.
The leader of the attackers stopped.
The machete was lowered.
The decision changed.
The words changed:
“These people do not deserve to be killed.
They deserve to be protected and fed.”
That day, in Buhoro,
Hallelujah saved lives—
not by its sound,
but by the Presence it carried.
This is the spiritual power of Hallelujah:
it shifts authority.
It tears power away from fear
and hands it back to God.
It proclaims the lordship of God
where everything seemed lost.
From that day on,
this Hallelujah has never faded.
In assemblies,
under the anointing of the Holy Spirit,
it still bursts forth
through the voice of Maman Hallelujah.
And every time, something changes.
Because Hallelujah is not a religious habit;
it is a spiritual posture.
Maman Hallelujah teaches us this:
to praise God
is not to deny reality,
but to proclaim a higher reality.
Even today,
God is still searching for voices
that will say Hallelujah
when everything calls for silence.
For when Hallelujah rises from the earth,
heaven comes down.
PRAYER:
Lord,
place within us a Hallelujah
that does not depend on our circumstances,
but on Your sovereignty.
When fear cries out,
may our voices praise You.
When death threatens,
may our worship enthrone You.
Make our lives
places where Your glory dwells,
and our voices
instruments of salvation.
Amen.
Apostle Dr. Jean-Claude SINDAYIGAYA