Brenklin Collective

This week, I’ve been reflecting on the works of  Ashon Crawley ,  Claudrena Harold , and  Kevin Quashie , particularly on the quiet parts of music—the ontology of sound, the being within the person who creates it. How does one separate their religious self—not just spiritual, but deeply religious—from their sonic self? Can such a distinction even exist? The readings suggest an ongoing tension in gospel music: the negotiation between pleasing the church, one's peers, oneself, God, and the broader public. If God exists, does God have a preference for which notes carry reverence? Does divinity dictate form, or is the offering itself what matters? I grew up in a predominantly Black church, one that was once alive with the voices of young people. On one particular Youth Day, it was standing room only—shouts, soaring harmonies, music that filled every inch of the sanctuary. But over time, the same church became a space of judgment, resistance to change, and generational rifts. ...