save
nobody,
” she’d say. We would wait for the ushers to call us forward for the offering, and instead of returning to our seats afterward, we’d break for the door. She dared not leave in the middle of the sermon, lest God take it as disrespect. She reminded us of the story that Mam’ Grace told her about a man who had cursed at a preacher and thrown a Bible. “He shook till the day he died!”
When we got home from church, my mother opened the windows and cleaned the house to done-me-wrong, baby-come-back, ghetto-love anthems from her small collection of scratched records—Marvin Gaye, Gladys Knight, Al Green, Otis Redding, and Johnnie Taylor. This Sunday morning-to-afternoon musical switch would reflect the framework of my faith—an ever-swirling mix of the orthodox and the secular.
Although religion, with all its talk of dying and blood and burning, scared me, I was fascinated by God’s use of fouled-up men and fallen women to extend His message; by His liberation of the poor, the outcast, and the infirm; and by His obsession with improbable transformations and inappropriate ascensions. If ever a body needed a savior, I did.
In the fall after Chester’s betrayal, I walked the aisle to give myself over. But by then Shiloh wasn’t the same Shiloh. The congregation had built itself a new building next door to the old one. It was a handsome brick church on a concrete slab, with crimson-upholstered pews and crimson-carpeted floors. It had a professional sound system, a beautifully lit, glassed-in baptismal pool, and an ornate pulpit. It had high vaulted ceilings and arches, wooden ribs with golden chandeliers hanging from their bosses. It was impressive but hollow—like a vanity. We no longer attended services in the building so full of life that it spoke to people’s eyes, but in a building that sat cold and hushed.
The walk of redemption now felt more theatrical. Still, I was determined to make it. When Reverend Brown finished his sermon, he made his way around to the front of the pulpit, wiped sweat from his brow, and invited the unsaved to come forward.
“Won’t sumbidy come dis moaning? Tamorr’ MIGHT be too late!”
I rose from my seat to an outburst of clapping and an outpouring of amens and thank-you-Jesuses. My mother, surprised and proud, smiled at me as I made my way down the aisle, which that day seemed a mile long. When I reached Reverend Brown, he put his large hand on my small shoulder and turned me around to face the congregation.
“What’s ya name, young man?”
“Charles McRay Blow,” I said into the microphone he’d thrust in my face.
(When I was born, Nathan pleaded with my mother to name me Ray Charles, after the singer. Charles McRay was her compromise. She insisted we have the most traditional first names possible, to balance such an odd last one.)
“Do you believe that Jesus is the Son of God?” the preacher continued.
“Yes,” I said, embarrassed and nervous.
“Do you believe that he died fa yo’ sins?”
“Yes.”
“Do you want to be baptized?”
I hesitated. Reverend Brown was big and burly and shined with the unctuous look of a man who’d just eaten half a ham. I was afraid of him. The times I’d seen him baptize someone, it had seemed to me a violent affair. And I couldn’t swim. I didn’t want to drown in church to keep from burning in hell.
“Well,” I said, “I don’t know ’bout
all that.
”
The congregation burst into laughter as my mother slinked down in the pew. I made my way back to my seat. I was going to have to solve my problems on my own.
The Thursday before the first Sunday in August was Graveyard Working Day at the black cemetery in the historic hamlet of Mount Lebanon, three miles south of town, beyond the sweet potato farms. Mount Lebanon was an all-white community of folks who lived in a small cluster of well-maintained Greek Revival houses that hinted at a proud history. The community had been the center of wealth
nobody,
” she’d say. We would wait for the ushers to call us forward for the offering, and instead of returning to our seats afterward, we’d break for the door. She dared not leave in the middle of the sermon, lest God take it as disrespect. She reminded us of the story that Mam’ Grace told her about a man who had cursed at a preacher and thrown a Bible. “He shook till the day he died!”
When we got home from church, my mother opened the windows and cleaned the house to done-me-wrong, baby-come-back, ghetto-love anthems from her small collection of scratched records—Marvin Gaye, Gladys Knight, Al Green, Otis Redding, and Johnnie Taylor. This Sunday morning-to-afternoon musical switch would reflect the framework of my faith—an ever-swirling mix of the orthodox and the secular.
Although religion, with all its talk of dying and blood and burning, scared me, I was fascinated by God’s use of fouled-up men and fallen women to extend His message; by His liberation of the poor, the outcast, and the infirm; and by His obsession with improbable transformations and inappropriate ascensions. If ever a body needed a savior, I did.
In the fall after Chester’s betrayal, I walked the aisle to give myself over. But by then Shiloh wasn’t the same Shiloh. The congregation had built itself a new building next door to the old one. It was a handsome brick church on a concrete slab, with crimson-upholstered pews and crimson-carpeted floors. It had a professional sound system, a beautifully lit, glassed-in baptismal pool, and an ornate pulpit. It had high vaulted ceilings and arches, wooden ribs with golden chandeliers hanging from their bosses. It was impressive but hollow—like a vanity. We no longer attended services in the building so full of life that it spoke to people’s eyes, but in a building that sat cold and hushed.
The walk of redemption now felt more theatrical. Still, I was determined to make it. When Reverend Brown finished his sermon, he made his way around to the front of the pulpit, wiped sweat from his brow, and invited the unsaved to come forward.
“Won’t sumbidy come dis moaning? Tamorr’ MIGHT be too late!”
I rose from my seat to an outburst of clapping and an outpouring of amens and thank-you-Jesuses. My mother, surprised and proud, smiled at me as I made my way down the aisle, which that day seemed a mile long. When I reached Reverend Brown, he put his large hand on my small shoulder and turned me around to face the congregation.
“What’s ya name, young man?”
“Charles McRay Blow,” I said into the microphone he’d thrust in my face.
(When I was born, Nathan pleaded with my mother to name me Ray Charles, after the singer. Charles McRay was her compromise. She insisted we have the most traditional first names possible, to balance such an odd last one.)
“Do you believe that Jesus is the Son of God?” the preacher continued.
“Yes,” I said, embarrassed and nervous.
“Do you believe that he died fa yo’ sins?”
“Yes.”
“Do you want to be baptized?”
I hesitated. Reverend Brown was big and burly and shined with the unctuous look of a man who’d just eaten half a ham. I was afraid of him. The times I’d seen him baptize someone, it had seemed to me a violent affair. And I couldn’t swim. I didn’t want to drown in church to keep from burning in hell.
“Well,” I said, “I don’t know ’bout
all that.
”
The congregation burst into laughter as my mother slinked down in the pew. I made my way back to my seat. I was going to have to solve my problems on my own.
The Thursday before the first Sunday in August was Graveyard Working Day at the black cemetery in the historic hamlet of Mount Lebanon, three miles south of town, beyond the sweet potato farms. Mount Lebanon was an all-white community of folks who lived in a small cluster of well-maintained Greek Revival houses that hinted at a proud history. The community had been the center of wealth
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