Last week, while we were snowed in here in Texas, my wife and I stumbled upon a documentary on PBS called “The Black Church”, by the documentarian of documentarians, Henry “Skip” Gates. We stayed up until about 1 a.m. the next morning, absolutely riveted. There were a few times that I had tears in my eyes as I listened to the music, our music. Afterwards, we sat up, jazzed beyond belief, talking about our experiences in the Black Church. Imagine our joy when we found out that there was a first part that we had missed! Seeing the true origins...I don’t know if I even have the proper words to describe it.
Now, for my white friends who read this article, I need you to understand that I love THE Church, the Body of Christ, but Black Church, while apart of that Body, is something electric. Writing this blog does not diminish my love of the church. It’s simply apart of mt makeup that cannot be denied. I’ve never written about this before, but I owe it to the Black Church to properly pay it the requisite respect.
Here’s the truth. I haven’t always appreciated the Black Church. I grew up at Mt. Helm Baptist Church. That name might not mean much to you, but in Mississippi it has clout. In the Black Church documentary, Skip talks about the COGIC and COCHUSA denominations, but what he does not mention is that both denoms have beginnings based on doctrinal differences in the Baptist church...and they both have relationships with Mt. Helm. The founder of the Church of Christ Holiness USA, Bishop CP Jones, was a Pastor at Mt. Helm. In Jackson, the mighty Jackson State University, yes the one where Coach Prime is, held classes at the church. Mt. Helm was also very active in the Civil Rights Movement. I grew up in that church. My Dad is an usher and Deacon, while my Mom is a Deaconness and would wear white on Communion Sundays. The pomp and circumstance of Mt. Helm, where you could always hear the organ singing with glee under the gifted hands of my Uncle Calvin Thomas. The operatic structure of worship where voices soared beyond the rafters of the wood paneled, steepled ceilings. The pews (benches) with the red, plush seats. The pulpit, where the Pastors and Associate Ministers sat, felt regal and holy. Sacred. We sang hymns. None of the Gospel stuff that you heard on the radio. Our book was red, with pages rimmed in a golden color. We would sing together, and you could hear four part harmonies coming from the choir in their white robes with gold stoles, and from the congregants. I preached my very first sermon, from the book of Revelations, here.
When I was younger, I didn’t understand hymns. They felt dead to me. Our church felt like it was dying, as more and more young people left. But as I look back on it now, while there may have been signs of decay, there was no death to be had. It was an older population, but there was so much wisdom and support there. I was asked to join the adult choir as an 11 year old there. I got my first voice lessons there. I learned to love classical music and opera there. I saw the signs of the struggle for racial equality there, and while I didn’t appreciate it then, you’d better believe that I do now. Hymns feel precious. There is something so holy within every syllable. The chord structures almost appear as rungs on a ladder leading into the throne room. Songs like “Holy, Holy, Holy” and “O Sacred Head Now Wounded”...songs that made me roll my eyes as an 11 year old, are now more precious to me than any piece of jewelry. I understand now that while there were no runs or ornate arrangements, God was still there. I understand that though our numbers were sometimes small, the people there knew the struggle of having something of our own, so when they sang, they sang to a God that they knew as a Deliverer. We didn’t have “Waymaker” back then, but they knew Him as such in a way that a song could never fully capture. Now, under the leadership and stewardship of Pastor Dr. CJ Rhodes, Mt. Helm is realizing a renaissance as a bastion of leadership and service in downtown Jackson. Makes me so very proud. I love Black Church!
Much like Bishop CP Jones, I left Mt. Helm. It was for no other reason than I really felt God telling me that it was the right thing to do. Growing up, I had always thought that I would grow up to be the Pastor of Mt. Helm, but God had other plans. After I got married I decided that we would worship in COCHUSA, where my wife’s family worshiped. When I would attend with her while we were courting, I was so drawn with the outright bombastic expressions of faith and the presence of God. I had never really understood the Holy Spirit as a person until I started attending there from time to time. Toby Johnson on the organ, dressed to the nines from head to toe, tickling the keys in such a playful way. Dude is seriously gifted. While Mt. Helm educated me on the absolute beauty of tradition, Greater Mt. Bethel COCHUSA educated me on freeing myself to express my worship and adoration to God in a totally new way. I heard people “shouting”. I saw people dance, and I cut a few rugs myself. I saw people express deep emotions of sadness at the alter as they kneeled down to ask God for help With family issues or addictions. I saw hands being laid on people to ask for healing. I saw preaching where the Man of God spinned and jumped. The people responded. And emotions were okay. That church is now lead by the prolific writer, Elder Dr. Glake Hill, Jr, and they are revitalizing and reaching people for Jesus.
And that was the last time that I regularly attended a Black Church. When we moved to Joplin, we went to our first integrated church, and it was beautiful. Now we attend a church that is probably 90-93% white. And it’s fine.
But we miss the Black Church. There is something to be said for being in a place where you share the same story. A place where we all can grieve together and celebrate together. A place where we can laugh and joke, but be ready to fight together should the need arise. And yes, being in a Black Church is not always easy. It can be a place where divisions are amplified, where people feel like outcasts among their own kind. The Black Church can feel like a fashion show, or a circus. It can be overbearing and LOOOOOOOOOONNNNNGGGGG. It can be a bit much.
But there is also no feeling like somebody standing up and testifying to the goodness of God, and then the Sister in the big hat gets “happy“ or another brother gets up and starts running around the church. The symphonies of “PREACH”, YOU BETTA PREACH”, and “COME ON, PREACHA!” Will never get tired with me. The solemn moments. The ridiculous moments, and YES, we do ridiculous well in Black Church, are still valuable. And even without all of the pageantry and style of the Black Church, I love what it represents. I love HOW it represents.
I love what it speaks, because see, it DOES speak. It speaks of a people brought to distant shores with various beliefs who combined them with some form of a belief in a God who brings freedom. It speaks of slaves hearing stories about Moses and Egypt, how God ”tole Ole Pharoah” to “Let My people Go!”. It speaks of slaves meeting in private, then being allowed to meet under the supervision of their masters to make sure that they weren’t being given the “wrong impression about Jesus”. It speaks of small gatherings moving into little shacks and then into buildings that were burnt down. It speaks of resilience while facing the wrath of those who would lord status over them and grow crops from the blood of families who were separated, but never unlinked. It speaks of little brown-skinned girls killed by a bomb while at church in Birmingham, Alabama, and Bible Studying parishioners shot in South Carolina. It speaks of hangings and lynchings and offering refuge, speaking truth to power, marching in streets, screaming for JUSTICE, and weeping bitter tears when those screams go unheard. It speaks about Emmett Till, Sandra Bland, Ahmaud Arbery, Trayvon Martin. It tells the stories their cold blood can no longer tell. It speaks of conscience. It speaks of America holding up it’s end of the bargain. It speaks of Jesus, the father that many never had, the friend that all of us want, the Savior that we all need. It speaks of holiness, fully unattainable, but a goal to live everyday pursuing. It speaks of the undeniable fact that when all the chips are down, we know where we can go.
“I go to the rock of my salvation,
I go to the stone that the builder rejected.”
Yes, the Black Church has issues. It can be judgey and separatist. It can wound it’s own and cause them to leave. It can refuse to shift. It can be stuffy with a dependence on traditions that would threaten to leave it in the dust, but it is also creative beyond belief, with new leaders being raised up everyday who challenge the status quo and speak to the future while revering the past and encapsulating the present.
I will never feel like a stranger or a ”visitor” in any Black Church that I step foot in. I’ll sing the songs. I’ll tap my feet. I’ll lift my hands, because no matter where the Church is, it’s OUR Church.
And I love it.