Canaan Baptish Church

                      Canaan Baptist Church (Feb.28, 2010)

     Still reverberating from last Sunday’s spiritual extravaganza at the Shiloh Baptist Church in Harlem, we decided to give Jesus another go. I selected the Canaan Baptist Church at 116th and Lenox (Malcolm X).

     We arrived early, and I immediately made friends with a nattily dressed man guarding the entrance; he said he liked my tie and addressed me as “cousin.” That got us ushered in immediately—as his “special guests”--so that we could partake of the “Bible Study” before the main service at 11:00. The teacher stood in front of the congregation and read verses from scripture and then ventured explicacion du texte, often helped out by the participants. Let’s say that her exegetical principles would have put a big smile on Derrida’s face; she could also probably snag a tenured chair in Literary Theory at Yale.

     One woman ventured that she found it difficult to understand how Jesus and God were “the same.” I sympathized and was sorry that she backed down so easily in the face of the advice to read more scripture and meditate. As the Bible lesson draws to a close, people continue to file in for the main service.

     The assembled congregation provides an incredibly variegated visual spectacle. The sisters generally wear vibrantly colored dresses or robes, and almost all of them sport magnificent headgear (fur, feathers, turbans, etc.) The majority are on the large side, thus providing an extensive canvas for their display of scarlets, magentas, pinks, violets, and pistachios. I felt as if I’d been transported into the midst of a flock of exotic toucans, parrots, and peacocks. A number wore full length mink coats. Middle aged matrons mingled with wizened matriarchs, while scrubbed children in starched white shirts and pressed pants or skirts carried out their duties with precision and enthusiasm. Across the aisle from us there was a woman of absolutely classic beauty: tall, svelte, statuesque, perhaps 25. She was dressed in a bright green flowing African costume, complete with traditional headdress. On her narrow fingers gleamed long, thin rings made of precious stones. Her skin was café au lait. She emitted a warm sensuality that made it hard for both me and Blanca to take our eyes off her. Some of the men wore traditional western suits, others African robes and dashikis.

     There were several choirs, one of older people and also a “youth” group. In one of the letter’s numbers, a young woman with an operatic voice did a number—“I Am God”-- that was pure “soul.” One sees immediately how the church has been a laboratory for the production of generations of secular black singers and musicians.

     The Pastor is Rev. Dr. Thomas D. Johnson, Sr. He is wearing a vibrant yellow embroidered African ensemble, complete with matching fez type beanie. He alternates the direction of the proceedings with a number of others, who speak about Black History Month, read announcements, recite Scripture, and perform various ceremonial offices. Several members receive recognition for community service. The program contains a list of sick and shut in parishioners as well as families in mourning.

     The sermon is entitled “under the shadow of God’s wing.” The main conceit here is God as a mother hen, spreading her wings to protect her “chicklets” (“or whatever you want to call them”). Somehow, in a kind of rhetorical free fall, the theme of wings gets Pastor Johnson onto a jet plane, struggling to take off and then beset by turbulence. But not to worry; Jesus is the pilot. The flow of the words coheres solely via images; there is no attempt at providing logical connections. Whatever conviction is produced comes from the transfer of pure emotion rather than by the giving of reasons. The content remains bewilderingly indeterminate. (I found myself admiring the signing translators standing dutifully beside the preacher. They reminded me of the poor young woman who was assigned to my logic class for several weeks. I will never forget her attempting to render, with great animation and lightning speed, my exposition of the Ontological Argument into deft movements of arms and fingers. I seriously doubt whether she succeeded, and I will never know, since the student she was helping dropped the class soon afterward.)

     Johnson is a masterly speaker. He modulates from almost a whisper to a stentorian shout, his rhythm often approximating that of a song or chant. His voice is his instrument, played confidently with all the virtuosity of Miles Davis’ trumpet, Coltrane’s sax, or Art Tatum’s piano. He knows he holds his audience completely in thrall, a fact attested by the frequent cries of “amen,” “yes,” and “hallelujah.” The Pastor reminded me of a guy I used to go and see in Washington Square Park when I lived on 20th Street many years ago. He showed up every Sunday, and he usually gave a harangue, standing up on the top of a bench, that would last at least an hour. I never had the slightest idea what he said; I have no clue what his “position” was. (The only theme that seemed to be constant from week to week was an impassioned denunciation of “rubber titties.” But his delivery was mesmerizing; I felt as if I could listen to him for ever.

     I was glad to discover that the congregation included others beside the “poor in spirit.” The agenda was interrupted: “will the owner of a white Mercedes, license XXX, please move the vehicle.”

     Late in the service, the visitors were recognized. Perhaps 10 pasty faced tourists were asked to stand (as if we didn’t already stand out enough!), and several congregants came over and warmly shook our hands. Their welcome was totally sincere. One of the “greeters” was an older man who sat right behind us and continually shouted fortissimo: “Hallelujah, glory, Jesus I love you.” After the sermon came the benediction: “Keep the faith, baby!” As things wound down, the “deacons” and other persons of note formed a procession that circled the auditorium, accompanied by a rousing chorus and clapping hands.

     As we left, people greeted us and smiled. After the two hour service, we were hungry and, after being discouraged by crowds at Amy Ruth’s and Sylvia’s, we walked to 125th street and found Manna’s Soul Food Restaurant, where we had delicious southern style buffet.

     We arrived home in a daze, our senses having had a long and exhausting workout. But it had been one of the most amazing spectacles I’ve ever been privileged to witness, and I know that we’ll go back again. Hallelujah! Yes!