Before I began listening to gospel music about 12 years ago, I was not the most obvious candidate to become a fan of the genre. Raised by divorced parents who were not particularly religious, I didn’t give much consideration to faith. Though my father was a longtime member of the Christ Temple Baptist Church — a Black congregation in Ypsilanti, Mich. — he wasn’t a regular presence at Sunday service nor did he pressure me to join him when he did go. My mother, who was a nonobservant Jewish woman, spent much of her adult life criticizing what she viewed as a patriarchal religion; we never attended synagogue, and I didn’t have a bar mitzvah.
My mother’s iconoclasm shaped my attitude toward life, including my taste in music. As a teenager I was drawn to punk rock — loud, fast, angry music that reflected my vague and indeterminate outrage at the world. I defied authority, ranting and raving against the powers that be, including cops, politicians, security guards and my teachers at school, though my defiance usually involved little more than cutting holes in my clothes and quoting song lyrics. I was a perpetually cynical and distrustful young man who believed the world’s problems could be solved by my music and clothing preferences, not by organized religion.
As I matured and entered my 30s, my father and I grew closer. We bonded over Donny Hathaway, Curtis Mayfield and Aretha Franklin, artists who sang love songs distinctly informed by their respective backgrounds in the Black church. These singers were my conduit to gospel. After hearing the Swan Silvertones sing “Mary Don’t You Weep” on a compilation album of early R&B and gospel groups, I was instantly hooked, and I sought out their LPs as well as records by the Davis Sisters, Marion Williams, Brother Joe May and the Blind Boys of Alabama. I was drawn to the music not because of its religious lyrics but because its rhythms and vocal harmonies moved something deep in my core. I felt the music in my soul before I had even acknowledged the existence of a soul. Each minor chord on the piano, each impassioned cry from the singer broke through my cynicism. I was carried away — if only for a few minutes.
I came to understand that the music’s religious spirit was inseparable from the music: Each served the other, to help us express our connection to and yearning for the ineffable, to give form to that which is unseen. When a gospel vocalist sings of faith and love of Jesus, it sounds to my ears like a higher power is pouring out of them, using the artist as an instrument. At the top of the Staple Singers’ 1965 song “Let Jesus Lead You,” for example, the band leader, Pops Staples, launches into the opening and his three children follow, creating a simple call-and-response: “Let Jesus lead you/Let Jesus lead you/Let Jesus lead you/All the way/All the way/All the way from Earth to glory,” before Mavis Staples takes over, her voice slowly building, from mortal earth to the heavenly realms.
The sound of the Staple Singers’ early records is blues-influenced, trading church organs and a large chorus for a small band, stripping the music down to its raw core. But like much gospel, the Staple Singers’ music hinges on a buoyant joyfulness that invites the listener to share in their exaltation. Listening to this song, I clap my hands and stomp a foot on the backbeat. My heart swells with each repetition of the refrain, and I feel myself transported to places I’ve never visited but that the music conjures for me: some storefront church or a down-home revival. I’m connected to a history, to a not-so-distant past that is not a part of my personal experience but is bound up in my cultural heritage.
It reached into the hidden, malnourished and underserved parts of my spirit that I so often tried to repress. To paraphrase Mahalia Jackson’s memorable description of gospel, the music brought good tidings and good news to my life. In a world that increasingly fosters self-interest and social isolation, gospel points me toward something more intimate, more collective. Though I don’t subscribe to any particular denomination, I aspire to lead a life of curiosity, generosity and compassion — all the best hallmarks of any faith and of great gospel music.
It has also helped me negotiate loss by giving me permission to grieve. When my father passed away in 2021, my relationship with the music changed. It brought me not only joy and exultation but also comfort. I found solace in these singers and in their assurance — their blessed assurance — that he and I would meet again in the sweet by-and-by.
That year I returned to the Christ Temple Baptist Church for my father’s homegoing. I sat in the same pews he and I once sat in together, and I wept as the choir sang: “Precious Lord, take my hand and lead me on/I am tired, I am weak, Lord, I’m worn.” As the voices of the singers filled the church, blending with the sound of our mourning, it doubled me over in sorrow but also in gladness and love. I was carried to a place that no record ever brought me. I realized then that the power of gospel music is not found in the records but in the community it brings together in worship and witness. Together we carried my father’s casket out of the church and said a prayer of thanksgiving as we committed his body to the ground.
Santi Elijah Holley is an award-winning journalist and the author of “An Amerikan Family: The Shakurs and the Nation They Created” (Mariner Books, 2023).
The post I Don’t Know if I Believe in God, but I Believe in Gospel Music appeared first on New York Times.
