Anyone who has heard Gospel singing in church might totally understand why Elvis was inspired. I was lucky enough to do this and I didn’t have to sit outside.
As part of our music tour we were given the choice of attending the Pilgrim Missionary Baptist church for their Sunday service. The tour guide assured us that we would be welcome at this Sunday service and that she had done this before. There were 4 of us who were going to attend the 3 hour long service (yes, I know – my experience of church had never been quite so lengthy). As we were going to leave ¾ hour early to attend a buffet lunch which was almost the only eating option in the small town of Natchez, on a Sunday, we organised to sit in groups of 2. This idea was supposed to disguise our premature exit.
The plan seemed sound.
We dressed in our best, which did not feel ‘best enough’ once we were among the parishioners. Apparently churches have colours, much as football teams do and this one’s owned red and black. This information was not in our brief and we hoped that the autumn shades that we had chosen did not represent a rival team or make us stand out too much. (The colour of our clothes was probably not the most serious of our considerations, due to the fact that we were the only 4 white people in this meeting of 200 or more Afro-Americans.)
The experienced contrast was made more conspicuous still by the exceptional height and breadth of many of these people. This congregation was a visual feast of Mississippi church-going fashion. There were smart dresses and pleated and stretched skirts, pressed pants and tailored jackets, shiny high heels, elegant suits, sharp-looking waistcoats and perfectly knotted ties in patterns and shades of rose and ebony. And hats! They were gorgeous! Women sported feathers, flowers, sequins, jewels and swathes of fabric swirled and twirled around the crowns of turbans and wide brims alike. No wonder church starts at 11am! The ladies must take hours to get ready! If they have children, they must take even longer! Little girls and boys of all ages were dressed to perfection. There were gathered skirts and sparkly tights, tiny coats with furry trim, matching purses and hair in plaits, braids and corn rows, all highly decorated with bows, beads, ribbons and colourful ties. Young boys were in smooth formal shirts, some with ties and all with long trousers. This was no poor black Mississippi community.
We had joined the constant, moving line of people into the church from the car park and we chose to sit in the back row, near an exit door in one of the four sections of seating in the church. Two rows in front of us we could see the very broad shoulders of the local sheriff and his deputy and behind us was a church representative or warden who seemed to be guarding the exit. For what reason, I do not know – hopefully not to keep an eye on the white folk who happen along every now and again. We might have been feeling just a little uneasy at this point.
However, Will and I enjoyed the singing, of which there was much (3 hours now seemed a reasonable amount of time). Renditions were joyfully presented by the choir who made a statement of bright red in the high choir stalls behind the floor area in the front where the reverend and his six curates stood in their best Sunday suits. The band played many hymns and the choir also led the congregation who heartily joined them, rocked and moved, sometimes into the aisles and clapped in time. We could not participate as we did not know the words and there was no helpful songsheets or hymnals. This however, did give us time to listen and appreciate the feeling of community and obvious pleasure that was being gained from the music and singing.
The Reverend spoke clearly and prayed and with gusto and there was much “Aaaamen -ing” and agreement in the form of “ah hm’s and “yes sir’s”. At one point Pastor White asked one of the choir to make the announcements. A lady stood and read out times and events and then asked that any new members of the congregation to please stand now. I froze and tried without much success to shoot a look at Will without turning my head. We both sat perfectly still while there was a deafening silence and space in the proceedings. The Reverend may or may not have spotted us, but thank goodness he moved on. The warden behind us however, rose from his seat and came to the end of our row and bent over us blocking all light from the day (or perhaps it just seemed that way). He asked “Are you new here?” (- knowing perfectly well that we were). We nodded, our voices retreating into shyness. He presented us with a bookmark, with a lovely pic of the Pastor and a form to complete:
– Insert your name and address and tick your preference –
- Visitor for the first time
- Would like to unite with this church
- Would like the Pastor to call
He probably thought we needed the Pastor to call and talk about honesty!
The next item in the program was the offering. Will and I had pre-organised this. We each had a $5.00 note ready. However, seconds before we had to be directed by our tall imposing guardian to stand and follow other parishioners in a parade out to the front, the Pastor advised that there were two plates to donate to on this particular day – a Christmas plate and the regular church plate. Will and I mumbled to each other that I would do the Christmas plate and he would do the other and we felt chuffed that we looked smooth in our orchestration of this move – probably mostly in our own imaginations!
Despite the deliciously friendly proffered assistance to find a particular bible passage being read, by an about 11 year old boy who sat beside me, I was distracted for most of the remainder of the time we spent in the church as I was trying to figure out what exactly I would do when it was time to go. Should I smile and thank the warden who had looked after us with severe devotion? Should I apologise or explain our departure or just pass by him with polite determination? I was in a dilemma. Whether by divine intervention or just sheer luck, our particular warden was called away minutes before our intended departure. Will and I watched as the other two of our party left another section of the church. We waited an appropriate five minutes, gathered our coats, rose out of our seats and turned to the exit door. The older man who had stepped in to cover his colleague smiled generously and nodded at us as we walked through the doorway.
Our gospel experience was wonderful, daunting, and we did feel blessed to have attended such an authentic and entertaining event.
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