The Soul Man

Middle-class suburbia is not the first place people seeking the spirit and soul of a black gospel choir might look. But on a cool November evening in a suburban Chicago auditorium, about 2,000 normally sedate and proper citizens are helping themselves to a hearty offering of real soul food.

The musical feast is being served up by about 120 African-American youth ranging in age from 7 to 17. Clad in dazzling blue-and-white robes, their clapping hands, choreographed moves, and impassioned voices sing, hum, chant, and shout.

Their spirit is immediately contagious, and the suburban crowd, normally stiffened by suits and ties, is loosening up; routinely somber and reverent faces give way to smiles of joy; children and adults alike unabashedly dance in the aisles.

And, most intriguingly, at least for this evening, a cosmopolitan brew of Christians—black, white, Asian, and Hispanic—are worshiping together in a fashion that arguably could well be a primer for heaven itself

A little child shall lead them

The Soul Children of Chicago seem to have the same effect just about everywhere they go. The group’s founder, Walter Whitman, says these little children see soul as more than music and emotion—it’s a call from above.

Every Saturday morning the group gathers in a haven of sorts from the stark, inner-city woes of Chicago’s rough South Side. In the basement of Saint Sabina Church, soul may come naturally, but good music takes practice.

Mister Whitman, as he is known by his choir, darts to and fro at the front of the rehearsal hall. One moment he is teaching new choreography, the next he is plunking out a tune on the piano for the aid of his musicians, and the next he is pulling every ounce of sound out of his choir’s adolescent lungs.

Classically trained at the Chicago Conservatory of Music and broadly exposed to many cultures as an air force child in Greece, Ireland, Italy, and Holland, the slender, energetic Whitman, 32, is the minister of music for Saint Sabina’s racially blended congregation.

He formed the choir in 1981 as an extracurricular activity at Chicago’s Saint John De LaSalle Elementary School, where he taught music for four years. He had no clue that his curious after-school activity would quickly outgrow its original purpose and mushroom into a full-time mission. “I didn’t even like kids,” he playfully recalls, “but God had a different plan.”

Excitement is almost palpable during Saturday’s rehearsal, which, like most others, begins with choruses, intense prayer, testimonies, and simple sharing. The atmosphere is candid. Though many of the children don’t have personal relationships with God when they join the choir, its whole structure is designed to nurture a “total commitment,” says Whitman.

This Saturday morning, as many other teens are still sleeping off a hangover from the night before, or just “hanging” on an adjacent street corner, 17-year-old James Simond, a veteran choir member, leads off the choir’s sharing: “I just want to thank God for waking us up this morning and giving us another day.”

A 15-year-old alto chimes in. “When I’m riding on the el [elevated commuter train], I see a lot of cold people,” she says, motioning with her hands as if she is seeking the right words. “How can I tell them about the Lord without looking crazy?”

Then a small, young man wearing glasses and looking barely in his teens timidly stands. “Last night one of my best friends, who’s in a gang, was shot. I just thank God that he’s okay.” For a moment the room is utterly still, before suddenly bursting into an applause of praise.

The Soul Children are family. Requirements for joining are firm: no drugs, gang involvement, teen pregnancies, or truancies—not the easiest prerequisites in the Windy City.

But every June hundreds of kids from all over the city audition for fewer than 30 openings. Whitman alone makes the final selection of new members, and he is not just listening for smooth voices; parental support is also a large factor. “If I don’t sense the parents are going to be with us, I won’t take the child,” he says. “Without the parents’ involvement, we wouldn’t be where we are today.”

Choir practices reflect the group’s close-knit character. An assortment of moms and dads inhabit the rehearsal, taking attendance, passing out music scores, quieting chattering kids, or simply waiting at the back of the hall for their sons or daughters. (For some parents, says Whitman, this is the only “church” they attend.) Whitman relies heavily on parents and volunteers for donations, and parents also serve as secretaries, chaperons, and tutors, among other things.

Given such complete family involvement, it may not be surprising to discover that Whitman monitors his children’s study habits. Choir members with grades of C or lower are subject to probation and must attend tutoring sessions after each rehearsal. “Sure they can sing,” says the choir’s conductor, “but can they think? I want to show people that there are black kids out here that are doing something. Kids who are capable of becoming mature contributors to their communities.”

Kia Hartfield is one of them. “When I go to school now,” says the 13-year-old soprano and honor-roll student, “I have a reason to get good grades.” Hartfield has her eyes set on college. More than two-thirds of the 300 kids who have graduated from the choir in the last 11 years have done so.

“If you’re going to be in this organization, God is going to change you,” Whitman declares to the choir during one practice break. “You have to live what you’re singing.”

To his kids, this bachelor assumes all at once the roles of father, teacher, drill sergeant, and friend. His manner suggests a maestro leading an orchestra, coupled with the showmanship of a ringmaster beneath the big top. The control he exerts appears at first uncanny. One swift wave of the arm can instantly shift choir members about-face or spin them 360 degrees. A vertical slice through the air turns the host of voices on and off, up or down, like a human light switch.

And when the choir is unleashed in its fullness, the effect is both stirring and wonderful:

This is the day that the Lord hath made;

This is the day to be joyful, joyful, oh yes!

Their voices ring out with exuberance, flooding the air in a brilliant sound that is dramatic and sometimes overpowering, but that always calls for praise and response. “We don’t just want to sing to people,” says one 16-year-old tenor, Cinque Cullar, “we want God’s Spirit to overflow on them.”

Whitman recalls an older Jewish man approaching him after a concert and wanting to adopt him as his godson. “You helped me to see God in a new way,” the man said.

At another concert in St. Louis, a female gang leader accepted Christ as a result of the Soul Children’s ministry. The following Sunday, she returned to the church with 30 members of her former gang.

And on one particular cool night in the suburbs of Chicago, a mostly white-collared group with little expertise in singing “with soul” joins hearts in worship. Whitman’s choir is not a household name around the country, although it has performed on television and twice during Christmas at the White House. But one need look no further than this suburban gathering to gauge the group’s success. The Soul Children implore in one of their closing songs:

Use me, have thine own way.

Use me, as an instrument of praise.

Perhaps they are not even aware of God’s prompt reply.

By Edward Gilbreath, a free-lance writer living in Wheaton, Jllinois.

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