When I was in college I had a friend who was convinced I had African American blood in me. He used to tell me, "you gotta be black." My friend, Tommy Jewell, who is now Judge Tommy Jewell, a graduate of UNM Law School, used to play the trap set (drums) and I, the Conga Drums, for a group that met formally as a class at NMSU. It was a cultural enrichment class stared through the Music Department and the Office of African American Affairs. Every once in a while we'd break from the "negro spirituals" into playing a little bit of Ramsey Lewis or Earth, Wind, and Fire. Tommy loved the way I played the congas, and since that time many years ago I have continued to play them from time to time. I even accompanied one of my son's guitar recitals playing an old Santana tune. I've always loved the way African and Caribbean beats stir the soul. It's a kind of sensuality that is at once sensual, but pure; it is dance that could lead you in different directions all simultaneously, but in the end the kind of rhythms that lifted the spirit up and up.
To understand what I'm trying to say you have to listen to what used to be called Negro Spiritual music. I have no idea what that genre would be called in today's "politically correct-ese". To me, it used to be called "black music" because it represented the culture, people and their life experience. This was the experience which gave birth to the music, reared it like a baby, improved it, labored over it, suffered over it, and sculpted it so that it would become a kind of magic that could electrify rubber or anything else that would otherwise be boring.
I remember once going to a lecture by the great Dr. Benjamin Hooks in the early 80's during a visit to the Las Cruces, NM, area. I was never so electrified as when I heard him speak. There were "Amens" and "I hear yas" and "Talk to me Doctor" audience encouragement flying all over the place -- and his speech was political, not a spiritual sermon. But while his speech was jam packed with emotional tonalities, Dr. Hooks was completely under control. We were his symphony and he was conducting. I wanted to be black after that speech. But alas, other than Tommy Jewell's acceptance of me, I'd have a hard time convincing a black audience that I was black. But then I remembered my friend's sense that I must have "black blood" in me and also remembered he had me as an honorary member of Omega Psi Phi, the on campus black fraternity. I even knew their really cool smooth handshake.
Not bad for a white dork who wore glasses. Something comes over me when I have a pair of conga drums in front of me. I don't quite know what it is. I don't quite understand it. I don't try t be anyone else but me, but nevertheless, I go into ecstasy as I finesse the cow hide with subtle taps and resonant palm contact and drum rolls in a syncopated serenade that spoke to a part of me I don't think was primitive but rather quite advanced. It was not your typical "primal scream" experience. It was synthetic, and beyond anything primal or even civilized (as we consider what the word "primal" implies.) At that time in my life, I wore thick glasses, was so white no one would ever believe I was Mexican American. In the marketplace, I was a white gangly dude who some might say "has no soul" in the colloquial sense. But my conga antics would prove that not only did I have "soul" in the rhythmic sense, but that I have a "soul."
Now you are very curious where I am going with this aren't you? Let me just say that in order for someone to appreciate a sermon by Dr. Benjamin Hooks or being able to play the conga drums when you look like I do, is an out of body experience. For me to transform myself into a rhythmic marvel, there had to be a "soul" deeeeeep inside me that was open to the music as well as the message, (notwithstanding that I might disagree with the intellectual content.)
Well this past weekend, as part of my brotherhood with a group of permanent deacons, I attended a regional conference here in Las Cruces. The conference brought together 300 plus permanent deacons from as far away as Yuma, Arizona, Farmington, NM, and Colorado Springs, Co. The keynote speaker was Deacon. Alex Jones. (Google Him and you will find him fascinating.) Deacon Jones is a permanent deacon in Detroit, Michigan, a well travelled author, and is known for having been a Pentecostal minister for 30 years before discovering the Catholic faith. Not only did he have his own conversion story but he brought as many as 30 members of his congregation with him from Pentecostal to Catholic during the same Easter Vigil celebration. That's almost the same as a boring over intellectual white guy like me (albeit Mexican American) being able to play the conga drums. Pentecostal to Catholic? That's almost an oxymoron!
If my old college friend Tommy Jewell could have seen me listening to Deacon Jones, Tommy would probably still say, "Tom, there's black blood in there somewhere inside." Listening to Deacon Jones preach took me into my "primal self" and I was swaying back and forth to his every move of his baton-like voice. He had overpowered me....no....He had empowered my primal self to see that the truth of Jesus Christ is so deep inside my atomic structure that when the sense of emotive strength matches with the intellectual complexity, I have such a reaction as to be in at the very gates of heaven. This was preaching with a fever and with a reverence; with emotional power and intellectual prowess; filled with deep understandings of the truths of a faith that goes back to the early church fathers....the early ones who knew the apostles. This is the fervor of a St. Paul that can preach "neither height nor depth nor powers or principalities can separate us from the love of God that is Jesus Christ." And I can see Paul, a Asia Minor Jew, preaching like Dr. Benjamin Hooks, or Martin Luther King, or Deacon Alex Jones.
I so want to preach like that, but unfortunately, if I did, it might appear unauthentic in the eyes of those who are looking at a white guy, or it might look like I was mimicking someone as though in fun. But that would be further from the truth. I so want to speak with the spirit and fervor so that the baton of the spirit of God uses my weak voice to conduct the minds and hearts and souls into a rhapsody of truth causing them to move and sway and even to show their pleasure in their Amens, and Alleluias. And ultimately, that they would leave and change their lives.
Why does truth have to be told to us so boringly? I don't know. I suppose in my own sermons and homilies, I've tried to be measured, deliberate, engaging, but ended up being no more effective than "musak." How I would love to be emotive and be authentic. But you know, I have heard good preaching from non black pastors that are authentic and emotive. I can recall my speech teacher in the seminary being one such person. His name is Fr. Aubert Greiser, O.F.M. My lord he could move you with his "spit" as he emphasized points and yet not be "in your face" while he is literally in your face. He was the director of our Seminary Glee Club and took us to three State Championships earning us (a school with a total population of 104) a "#1 Rating" by the Ohio Music Educators Association because he could move us to get down deep into our souls and pull out what we really were meant to be as expressed in the nuances and expressiveness of our singing. And he preached the same way he directed his choir. Then there was the magic ability of Archbishop Fulton J. Sheen. Another white guy from near Peoria, Ill. Fr. Aubert was from Streator. Maybe there something in having to call hogs or raise chickens that caused these two white guys to be able to preach "with soul."
Well, to cut it to the quick -- I wanna be like that. I wanna be able to be the instrument of the Holy Spirit in my preaching so that my preaching is at least as good as my Conga playing. What's funny is last night I had this dream that Deacon Jones asked me to preach at the church where he serves in Michigan. Perhaps it's the conversation he and I had about Detroit as I had gone to college there for a year and knew the "Motown" like it was my own turf. In my dream I saw that Deacon Jones' secret was to "preach from the pulpit" not away from it. It would be like trying to play the conga drums away from the Conga drums. That makes no sense unless you have long arms.
But the dream brought to mind that many preachers decide they are going to make themselves more available to their congregations by leaving the pulpit and getting up close and personal. Unfortunately, all that does is take you away from the very instrument that gives you power. The pulpit. I notice that Dr. Hooks, Dr. King, Archbishop Sheen, Fr. Aubert, and Deacon Jones preach from the pulpit or podium in the secular setting. In the dream, I began to preach from the pulpit and Oh my! In the dream, I began to levitate and the congregation began to levitate and when I talked to them about the law and the prophets, about Jesus, about our ancient deep soulful faith, they swayed with me, they cried with me, they raised up their arms in praise to heaven. Unfortunately, the dream abruptly ended.
Nevertheless, the dream confirmed that down deep within me and in everyone is the authentic soul that it takes to "have soul" and enthusiasm for our faith. If not in preaching, certainly in living Christian lives. Perhaps that is what a sermon is supposed to do as Deacon Jones said very clearly: "The message must move you to do something. It is not entertainment. It is not meant to please or to anger, but rather the preacher knows he said something right if in fact it causes some to feel a bit uncomfortable." A sermon has to get us to move away from our old ways of doing things so that we truly no longer "conform ourselves to this world," but rather "transform ourselves by the renewal of our minds." (Romans 12:2) In that way we will no longer be "lukewarm" but "on fire", controlled explosions of the truth spilling forth as it did from the Galileans looking drunk after the coming of the holy spirit but causing those who heard to become what they up to that moment were not. (Acts 2:14-36) I hope I can be a fraction of effective behind the pulpit as Deacon Alex Jones. Moved by the spirit. Be moved. Be fundamentally, audaciously, unmistakably, syncopatedly, moved.
I gotta go home and listen to my Santana records.
To understand what I'm trying to say you have to listen to what used to be called Negro Spiritual music. I have no idea what that genre would be called in today's "politically correct-ese". To me, it used to be called "black music" because it represented the culture, people and their life experience. This was the experience which gave birth to the music, reared it like a baby, improved it, labored over it, suffered over it, and sculpted it so that it would become a kind of magic that could electrify rubber or anything else that would otherwise be boring.
I remember once going to a lecture by the great Dr. Benjamin Hooks in the early 80's during a visit to the Las Cruces, NM, area. I was never so electrified as when I heard him speak. There were "Amens" and "I hear yas" and "Talk to me Doctor" audience encouragement flying all over the place -- and his speech was political, not a spiritual sermon. But while his speech was jam packed with emotional tonalities, Dr. Hooks was completely under control. We were his symphony and he was conducting. I wanted to be black after that speech. But alas, other than Tommy Jewell's acceptance of me, I'd have a hard time convincing a black audience that I was black. But then I remembered my friend's sense that I must have "black blood" in me and also remembered he had me as an honorary member of Omega Psi Phi, the on campus black fraternity. I even knew their really cool smooth handshake.
Not bad for a white dork who wore glasses. Something comes over me when I have a pair of conga drums in front of me. I don't quite know what it is. I don't quite understand it. I don't try t be anyone else but me, but nevertheless, I go into ecstasy as I finesse the cow hide with subtle taps and resonant palm contact and drum rolls in a syncopated serenade that spoke to a part of me I don't think was primitive but rather quite advanced. It was not your typical "primal scream" experience. It was synthetic, and beyond anything primal or even civilized (as we consider what the word "primal" implies.) At that time in my life, I wore thick glasses, was so white no one would ever believe I was Mexican American. In the marketplace, I was a white gangly dude who some might say "has no soul" in the colloquial sense. But my conga antics would prove that not only did I have "soul" in the rhythmic sense, but that I have a "soul."
Now you are very curious where I am going with this aren't you? Let me just say that in order for someone to appreciate a sermon by Dr. Benjamin Hooks or being able to play the conga drums when you look like I do, is an out of body experience. For me to transform myself into a rhythmic marvel, there had to be a "soul" deeeeeep inside me that was open to the music as well as the message, (notwithstanding that I might disagree with the intellectual content.)
Well this past weekend, as part of my brotherhood with a group of permanent deacons, I attended a regional conference here in Las Cruces. The conference brought together 300 plus permanent deacons from as far away as Yuma, Arizona, Farmington, NM, and Colorado Springs, Co. The keynote speaker was Deacon. Alex Jones. (Google Him and you will find him fascinating.) Deacon Jones is a permanent deacon in Detroit, Michigan, a well travelled author, and is known for having been a Pentecostal minister for 30 years before discovering the Catholic faith. Not only did he have his own conversion story but he brought as many as 30 members of his congregation with him from Pentecostal to Catholic during the same Easter Vigil celebration. That's almost the same as a boring over intellectual white guy like me (albeit Mexican American) being able to play the conga drums. Pentecostal to Catholic? That's almost an oxymoron!
If my old college friend Tommy Jewell could have seen me listening to Deacon Jones, Tommy would probably still say, "Tom, there's black blood in there somewhere inside." Listening to Deacon Jones preach took me into my "primal self" and I was swaying back and forth to his every move of his baton-like voice. He had overpowered me....no....He had empowered my primal self to see that the truth of Jesus Christ is so deep inside my atomic structure that when the sense of emotive strength matches with the intellectual complexity, I have such a reaction as to be in at the very gates of heaven. This was preaching with a fever and with a reverence; with emotional power and intellectual prowess; filled with deep understandings of the truths of a faith that goes back to the early church fathers....the early ones who knew the apostles. This is the fervor of a St. Paul that can preach "neither height nor depth nor powers or principalities can separate us from the love of God that is Jesus Christ." And I can see Paul, a Asia Minor Jew, preaching like Dr. Benjamin Hooks, or Martin Luther King, or Deacon Alex Jones.
I so want to preach like that, but unfortunately, if I did, it might appear unauthentic in the eyes of those who are looking at a white guy, or it might look like I was mimicking someone as though in fun. But that would be further from the truth. I so want to speak with the spirit and fervor so that the baton of the spirit of God uses my weak voice to conduct the minds and hearts and souls into a rhapsody of truth causing them to move and sway and even to show their pleasure in their Amens, and Alleluias. And ultimately, that they would leave and change their lives.
Why does truth have to be told to us so boringly? I don't know. I suppose in my own sermons and homilies, I've tried to be measured, deliberate, engaging, but ended up being no more effective than "musak." How I would love to be emotive and be authentic. But you know, I have heard good preaching from non black pastors that are authentic and emotive. I can recall my speech teacher in the seminary being one such person. His name is Fr. Aubert Greiser, O.F.M. My lord he could move you with his "spit" as he emphasized points and yet not be "in your face" while he is literally in your face. He was the director of our Seminary Glee Club and took us to three State Championships earning us (a school with a total population of 104) a "#1 Rating" by the Ohio Music Educators Association because he could move us to get down deep into our souls and pull out what we really were meant to be as expressed in the nuances and expressiveness of our singing. And he preached the same way he directed his choir. Then there was the magic ability of Archbishop Fulton J. Sheen. Another white guy from near Peoria, Ill. Fr. Aubert was from Streator. Maybe there something in having to call hogs or raise chickens that caused these two white guys to be able to preach "with soul."
Well, to cut it to the quick -- I wanna be like that. I wanna be able to be the instrument of the Holy Spirit in my preaching so that my preaching is at least as good as my Conga playing. What's funny is last night I had this dream that Deacon Jones asked me to preach at the church where he serves in Michigan. Perhaps it's the conversation he and I had about Detroit as I had gone to college there for a year and knew the "Motown" like it was my own turf. In my dream I saw that Deacon Jones' secret was to "preach from the pulpit" not away from it. It would be like trying to play the conga drums away from the Conga drums. That makes no sense unless you have long arms.
But the dream brought to mind that many preachers decide they are going to make themselves more available to their congregations by leaving the pulpit and getting up close and personal. Unfortunately, all that does is take you away from the very instrument that gives you power. The pulpit. I notice that Dr. Hooks, Dr. King, Archbishop Sheen, Fr. Aubert, and Deacon Jones preach from the pulpit or podium in the secular setting. In the dream, I began to preach from the pulpit and Oh my! In the dream, I began to levitate and the congregation began to levitate and when I talked to them about the law and the prophets, about Jesus, about our ancient deep soulful faith, they swayed with me, they cried with me, they raised up their arms in praise to heaven. Unfortunately, the dream abruptly ended.
Nevertheless, the dream confirmed that down deep within me and in everyone is the authentic soul that it takes to "have soul" and enthusiasm for our faith. If not in preaching, certainly in living Christian lives. Perhaps that is what a sermon is supposed to do as Deacon Jones said very clearly: "The message must move you to do something. It is not entertainment. It is not meant to please or to anger, but rather the preacher knows he said something right if in fact it causes some to feel a bit uncomfortable." A sermon has to get us to move away from our old ways of doing things so that we truly no longer "conform ourselves to this world," but rather "transform ourselves by the renewal of our minds." (Romans 12:2) In that way we will no longer be "lukewarm" but "on fire", controlled explosions of the truth spilling forth as it did from the Galileans looking drunk after the coming of the holy spirit but causing those who heard to become what they up to that moment were not. (Acts 2:14-36) I hope I can be a fraction of effective behind the pulpit as Deacon Alex Jones. Moved by the spirit. Be moved. Be fundamentally, audaciously, unmistakably, syncopatedly, moved.
I gotta go home and listen to my Santana records.
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