Reverend Otto and the Angels of soul

Deep soulful tones of the church organ fill the roomy interiors at St. Ebenezer’s with reverential stillness. The faithful in full attendance today, greet each other in muffled silence; the more pious ones sit motionless gaping at the facade of the ornate inner sanctum, stirring occasionally from their meditative somnolence as the church bell begins to clang.

Outside, the streets of St. John’s erupt in joyous cacophony, as vendors sell Rastafarian skull caps in bright mismatched colours and T shirts with ‘Antigua Nice’ printed proud. Trucks carrying huge bass speakers negotiate the capital’s maze of alleys distributing reggae vibes to onlookers while shirtless men in dreadlocks stretch languidly under the shade of coconut trees.

Seated next to me, in a pew for two is an elderly rotund woman.
She flaps the cover of a hymn book earnestly around her sweat encrusted face, extracting only morsels of cool air, ineffective against searing heat.

The choir, encased in a gallery above the altar of the inner sanctum, looks like a host of angels cascading from heaven. Their oversized gowns drown even its most cherubic members; the incandescence of light bulbs casting halos around their heads.

On the third peal of the church bell, the organist takes a break and Reverend Otto, a tiny man with grey sideburns and a thin dictatorial moustache glides onto the stage. Baton in hand, he raises the choir to its feet with a simple nod of the head.

Theatrical silence follows as the Reverend raises his wand high above his head.

Then, with just the slightest flick of the wrist, he starts a revolution.

The soprano sisters unleash a flurry of high octave notes as the bass trio counters with a choice from its lowest range. Otto drums his fingers in the air teasing the altos and tenors into existence as the quartet of soul reaches a crescendo. The congregation get involved. A lanky chap in the front row starts a foot tapping shuffle as the choir lick their index fingers with harmonic precision and turn a page in their choral books. Otto now signals for the congregation to stand –this tempo requires the use of every part of the body. One of the tenors starts a rhythmic sway of the hips and a snap of the fingers. This spreads infectiously across the congregation and soon the entire church is pulsating to the tune of a Caribbean beat.

They begin to form a human chain of raised clasped hands -this music is for sharing. Grown men raise hands with grown men, old ladies with little lads; where the aisle threatens to break this human bond Otto steps in and restores ecumenical equilibrium

The chain gets closer to where I’m standing - a rising Caribbean wave of camaraderie that is inviting. But I’m too bashful to accept and begin to make my way out. The elderly woman next to me notices and grabs my hand, raising it like a boxing referee
declaring the new champion of the world.