"Nou Kwe nan Sentespri" (we believe in the Holy Spirit): music, ecstasy, and identity in Haitian Pentecostal worship.

Since the 1920s, Haiti has witnessed an evangelical movement characterized by the rapid growth of Protestant and Pentecostal churches (Jeanty 1989, 56). Despite persecution by the Catholic Church and a brief closure (1941-43) under President Elie Lescot, Pentecostal churches in Haiti continued to flourish in the 1940s and 1950s (Louis 1998, 197-198). When Francois "Papa Doc" Duvalier came to power in 1957, he began encouraging a greater influx of evangelical missions in an attempt to undermine the power of the Catholic Church (McAlister 2000, 3; Louis 1998, 156). By 1960, Protestants and Pentecostals comprised about twenty percent of the Haitian population, compared with only three percent in 1940. (1) Despite the persistence of the misleading adage "Haiti is 90 percent Catholic and 100 percent vaudou" (Dash 2001, 51), recent figures indicate that at the turn of the twenty-first century as much as one-third of the country self-identifies as Protestant or Pentecostal (Lain 1998, 72; Louis 1998, 197). Catholic churches have found perhaps the stiffest competition among Pentecostal organizations, such as the various Churches of God (e.g., Church of God in Christ, Church of God of Prophecy), and independent Pentecostal churches scattered throughout Haiti. Nevertheless, the rise of Pentecostalism and its profound impact on Haitian expressive culture have yet to be adequately researched. Most ethnomusicological literature on Haiti examines the music of Vodou (Fleurant 1987; Wilcken 1992; Yih 1995; McAlister 2002) and, to a lesser degree, Haitian classical and popular music (Largey 1991; Averill 1993, 1997); but Haitian gospel music (mizik evanjelik) constitutes a realm of expressive culture that remains largely untapped by ethnomusicologists. (2) It seems that music made in Christian churches is assumed to lack the richness of the supposedly more "Haitian" genres. I hope to call this notion into question by examining the dynamic links among music, ecstasy, (3) and identity in Haitian Pentecostal worship.

Much of the existing ethnomusicological research on Haiti discusses mizik Vodou (Vodou music) as a means of serving the spirits (lwas). Fleurant (1987), Wilcken (1992), and Yih (1995) look at ways in which specific musical devices, such as distinct rhythms, dances, and lyrics, serve to induce spirit possession. A few Haitian writers, such as Belany (1998) and Romain (1986), offer historical and sociological treatments of Haitian Protestantism, but most scholars downplay the role of music in sustaining the evangelical revival throughout the Caribbean region. Conway's dissertation (1978) contains very little discussion of music, yet it remains the primary anthropological resource for research on Haitian Pentecostalism. Brodwin (1996, 2003) and McAlister (1995, 2000) are among the few scholars who have contributed insightful research on the topic. Brodwin (1996) deals with competition among the ethical systems of Catholicism, Protestanism, and Vodou as they relate to the practice of healing in rural Haiti. In a more recent essay, Brodwin (2003) explores Pentecostalism among Haitian migrants in Guadeloupe. Calley (1965), Toulis (1997), and Brodwin (2003) identify transnational issues surrounding Pentecostal practice, showing how marginalized Afro-Caribbean communities assert national, ethnic, and gender identities among dominant majority populations perceived as hostile. McAlister (2000) examines the influence of U.S. missions on both the historical development of Pentecostalism in Haiti and on contemporary debates concerning Haitian national identity.

The baptism of the Holy Spirit, with the initial evidence of speaking in tongues (also known as glossolalia or xenoglossy) lies at the heart of Pentecostalism and distinguishes Pentecostal churches from mainline Protestant denominations. Although Pentecostal congregations generally share this belief, the character of musical worship in Haitian Pentecostal churches varies significantly according to the type of service and church in which musical worship takes place. In this article, I will highlight the musical differences between independent "heavenly army" churches and organizational churches affiliated with a U.S.-based Pentecostal mission, both of which I attended in the town of Jacmel, located in Haiti's southeastern department. I hope to bring these musical differences into sharp relief by describing two types of Pentecostal services: prayer and fasting services (jenn or veydenwit) in independent heavenly army churches and Sunday-morning worship services (gran kilt) in organizational churches. After focusing on these two types of worship services, I will broaden the scope of analysis to encompass Haitian Pentecostal churches in Brooklyn, New York, exploring how musical worship relates to its transnational context. I contend that in facilitating an ecstatic state of Christian worship, Haitian Pentecostal music serves a threefold task: it allows Pentecostals to assert distinct religious identities in relation to denominational Protestants, Catholics, and those who practice Afro-Haitian folk religion; it distinguishes independent and organizational Pentecostal churches; and it expresses a Haitian cultural identity (4) through the use of musical style, instrumentation, and language (French and Haitian Creole). In exploring the relationship between identity and ecstatic experience, I also stress the musical, social, and ideological criteria by which Haitians distinguish mizik evanjelik (gospel music), mizik popile (popular music, containing Afro-Haitian folk rhythms), and mizik mondenn (worldly or secular music). Although at times I refer to African-American Pentecostal practice, this is not so much for the sake of direct comparison but to call attention to this project's dialogic and multi-sited (5) character and to reveal how my personal background--as an African American, a Pentecostal, and a scholar--informs my ethnographic representation of Haitian Pentecostal musical worship. (6)

Musical Worship as Weaponry in "Heavenly Army" Churches

Since its successful war against France (1791-1804) to become the first independent black republic, Haiti has witnessed a tremendous amount of political instability, characterized by a series of coups d'etat, presidential assassinations, and U.S. military interventions. Gage Averill and David Yih (2000) argue that this historical legacy contributes to an ethos of militarism in Haitian culture. Elizabeth McAlister (2000) extends this argument by showing how this ethos resonates with biblical themes of "spiritual warfare"--the story of Joshua and the battle of Jericho and accounts of the children of Israel fighting to possess the Promised Land. The rise of Pentecostalism in Haiti and its overseas diaspora may indeed be related to the fact that "evangelical language centering on the advancing of Christ's army and Christ's eventual victory could be understood in the military terms already at work in the culture" (12). Military imagery surfaces frequently in African-American Pentecostal churches through songs such as "I'm on the Battlefield" and "I'm a Soldier in the Army of the Lord."

The success of Haiti's heavenly army churches in particular may stem from the fact that Pentecostalism has been planted on cultural ground fertilized by the country's tumultuous military history. The term "heavenly army" (lame seles) usually refers to a battalion of spiritual entities empowered by God to wage war against Satanic forces. Although this battle is fought primarily in the spiritual realm, congregants who have been "filled" (ranpli) with the Holy Spirit or "have gifts of the Spirit" (gen don Sentespri) are the human vehicles through whom the power of God is manifested. These Spirit-filled individuals, known collectively as manm solda (soldiers), pwofet (prophets), or simply lame (the army), (7) have been chosen by God to perform a variety of spiritual tasks. When "the army is working" (lame ap travay), it is understood to be engaged in intense song and dance intended to facilitate an ecstatic state of worship and to evoke powerful manifestations of the Holy Spirit. The army's "work" also includes prophesying and healing during and after musical worship. Army members often serve as God's mouthpiece, prophesying in tongues to deliver messages to congregants or interpreting words spoken by God through the pastor. The heavenly army may also pray for those seeking deliverance from physical or spiritual afflictions, which can include extreme financial hardship (see Chestnut 1997).

In heavenly army churches, musical worship is a form of spiritual weaponry. Through divinely inspired singing, playing, and dancing, congregants praise God and implore him to intervene on their behalf. They may even call upon God to "attack" (atake) evil spirits and individuals who are the cause of misfortune, as in the song "Papa, Papa, Papa" (see Ex. 1). This chorus is usually repeated several times as a way of building musical intensity and emphasizing the meaning of the text. I heard it sung most often during the loudest and most intense moments of worship services, when singing and bodily movements were highly energetic and emotional. Some Pentecostals view this chorus, along with others like it, as a kind of "point song" (chan pwen) whose lyrics are inappropriate for Christian worship. Gage Averill's (1997, 15-16) definition of chan pwen is worth citing:

   Songs that censure, recriminate, criticize, and cast aspersions
   (usually indirectly) are called chan pwen, which literally means
   "point song," and singers are said to voye pwen (send a point) in
   song or simply chante pwen (sing a point).... One meaning of pwen is
   a class of "magical" spells whose power works over distances. The
   art of chan pwen--which can imply sending an "opinion" or point of
   view in the midst of an argument or conflict, as well as sending the
   power of song against someone else is part of the traditional
   musicopolitical arsenal of the musician.

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One popular technique used in chan pwen is that of targeting an unspecified "they" (yo) rather than precisely identifying the intended recipient of the pwen (Averill 1997, 181). The Pentecostal chan pwen, "Yo vann mwen nan simitye," exemplifies this technique (see Ex. 2). The references in Example 2 to Afro-Haitian folk religion (e.g., Bizango, Bawon) suggest, without specifying any single individual, that the song is directed against those who attempt to attack the "army" of God through spiritual warfare. After each line sung by the soloist, the congregation responds with the phrase "Ame a pa bay mwen" ("The army doesn't give me [to them]"), celebrating the protective power of the army over those who try to "sell" the souls of army members to practitioners of witchcraft.

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Heavenly army churches frequently use spontaneously improvised songs, most of which, as in "Yo vann mwen nan simitye," are led by the pastor (or designated songleader) in call-and-response fashion. Some slow songs express a particularly somber or plaintive mood and provide congregants a means of communicating to God feelings of despair and dependency. This type of song is sometimes called a plent (lament or "complaint" song). "Jezu Nazaret se ou menm map rele" is frequently sung in a heavenly army church that I attended in Port-au-Prince (see Ex. 3). The leader improvises a line that is repeated twice by the congregation and followed by the recurring line "Ou pa we m santi m angaje?" ("Don't you see I feel distressed?").

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While many song types are employed in heavenly army churches, they all tend to revolve around the themes of prayer, praise, and worship as a means of drawing on the power of God to combat evil spiritual forces. Moreover, heavenly army congregants use music to distinguish themselves from other religious groups and to express a Haitian cultural identity. In the following section, I discuss one of the worship services that I attended in Jacmel as a way to shed more light on how music functions in heavenly army churches.

A Jenn at Deliverance Temple

"Don't call out to Patricia. (8) She won't recognize you," cautioned Junior as we made our way toward Deliverance Temple. Junior, age eleven, is Patricia's younger brother, and on this day she had instructed him to accompany me to their church, located about a twenty-minute walk from the center of town. Just two weeks prior, I had engaged in the first of many conversations with Patricia about Pentecostalism. She spoke at length about her experiences at Deliverance: how her mother had first taken her there as a young child, how she had decided at one point to leave Deliverance and "become Catholic," and how she had only recently rejoined Deliverance and become "filled" (ranpli) with the Holy Spirit. Patricia also told me that she was one of seven "army members" (manm lame) in her church, each of whom had received spiritual "gifts" from God and was regularly expected to "work" (travay) during jenn. Scholars have explored the cultural concept of "work" as it applies to Afro-Haitian religious practice in particular (McAlister 2002, 85-111) and African diasporic spirituality in general (Murphy 1994). Most jenn at Deliverance take place during the day from 10 A.M. to 4 P.M.; however, a jenn may also begin around 8 or 9 P.M., lasting until the early morning hours, in which case it is usually referred to as a "watch-night service" (veydenwit).

Patricia's work during these services consists of spiritual warfare carried out through Holy Spirit-inspired song and dance; it was this work that Junior was now taking me to witness. As we trudged our way through sugarcane fields, sidestepped chickens and goats, and climbed up and down the rough dirt trails leading to the church, Junior's gentle but surprising warning echoed in my mind: "Don't call out to Patricia. She won't recognize you." Although Patricia and I had established a rapport based on the common ground of Pentecostal experience--and we shared a belief that God uses music to drive away evil spirits (see 1 Sam. 16:23), bring about divine healing, and spur an individual toward salvation--Junior's words and the musical worship that I saw once we arrived attested to something with which I was considerably less familiar. At Deliverance Temple, musical worship helps army members achieve a level of spiritual transcendence (9) in which they are "outside of themselves," completely undistracted by their physical environment, and temporarily free from normal bodily limitations. (10) Once this transcendent level is reached, army members are able to work effectively in the supernatural realm and may dance continuously for extended periods of time without showing signs of fatigue.

Neatly written in white chalk just above the wooden doorway to the church were the words "Nou kwe nan Sentespri. Tanpri mare tet ou anvan ou antre" ("We believe in the Holy Spirit. Please tie your head before entering"). (11) As my eyes adusted to the relative darkness of the church's interior, I noticed that of the seventy-nine congregants that I counted, over eighty percent were women. The chairs and benches had been removed, and the congregants were seated on the floor with their backs against the walls. Since the service had only just begun, they were still singing slow hymns in a musical style that Haitian Pentecostals often refer to as adorasyon (worship). Pastor Yves was leading some songs in call-and-response fashion, singing a line of text that was repeated by the congregation. Unlike the previous lament song ("Jezu Nazaret"), the lyrics of which express utter dependency on God, asking him for desperately needed help, the song "Mwen beni non ou" ("I Bless Your Name") praises God for deliverance from life's difficulties:

   Verse
   Ala bon sa bon le map sevi Bondye.
   Traka te chaje, se pou yon ti moman.
   Pa genyen barye Letenel pap kraze.
   Se pou m beni non ou pou sa ou fe pou mwen.

   Chorus
   Mwen beni non ou. Mwen beni non ou.
   Mwen beni non ou pou sa ou fe pou mwen.

   Verse
   How good is it when I am serving God.
   There was a load of trouble, but only for a moment.
   There is no barrier that God won't destroy.
   I must bless your name for what you've done for me.

   Chorus
   I bless your name. I bless your name.
   I bless your name for what you've done for me.

After nearly an hour of adorasyon, consisting of unaccompanied slow-and medium-tempo singing, Pastor Yves announced, "We're going to heat up a little." By using the phrase "to heat up" (chofe), Pastor Yves signaled the instrumentalists to take their places up front while the rest of us (12) in the congregation prepared for the more energetic singing and dancing that are part and parcel of a livelier, more up-tempo period of musical worship. At this point, the congregants still seated or lying half-asleep on the blankets were urged by the missionary ladies (danm misyone) (13) to stand up and participate in the heated musical worship about to take place.

In studies of Haitian music, the concept of "heating up" is usually applied to events such as Vodou ceremonies, rara processions, Carnival, or popular music concerts (see Averill 1994a, 1997; Wilcken 1992), whose practices conflict with the beliefs of evangelical Christians. The goals of these events center on "heating up," and the degree to which this occurs is often the criterion by which success is judged (Averill 1997, 22). In my interviews with Haitian Pentecostals, most expressed a preference for music that is cho, or "hot," as opposed to the "cold" styles traditionally favored by Baptist, Methodist, and Episcopalian churchgoers. In both independent and organizational churches, "hot" styles of Pentecostal musical worship feature lively tempos, energetic use of the body, highly emotional singing, and constant, driving rhythmic accompaniment, all of which are geared toward evoking the felt presence of the Holy Spirit.

It is intriguing to note that both Pentecostal and Vodou practitioners speak of musical intensity in terms of cho (hot) and fret (cold), while also holding in common the belief that "hot" musical participation is a highly effective means of accessing supernatural power. (14) Despite this shared emphasis on heated musical activity however, Pastor Yves and other Pentecostal pastors frequently preach against involvement in Carnival, rara processionals, and Vodou. Thus, even if Pentecostalism and Vodou can be said to converge at the level of musical intensity, (15) they diverge at the level of doctrine. Likewise, if Haitian Catholicism and Vodou tend to converge at the level of doctrine (see Greene 1993; Desmangles 1992), they diverge at the level of musical worship intensity. (Despite the indigenization of many Catholic liturgies after the second Vatican council in the 1960s, Haitians to whom I spoke regarded Catholic church music as "cold" compared with Pentecostal musical worship.) The Haitian religious landscape and its "politics of moral orders" (Austin-Broos 1997, 7-12) place Pentecostals in a somewhat peculiar position in the minds of many Episcopalians, Baptists, and other Protestants. These groups share with Pentecostals the belief that Jesus Christ is the resurrected Savior, yet they sometimes view Pentecostals with a certain discomfort and suspicion because of their heated style of worship.

The traditional musical instruments used at Deliverance Temple and in most of Haiti's heavenly army churches--graj (scraper), senbal (16) (bass drum), tambouren (tambourine), and batri (mounted frame drums)--differ from those that I saw in organizational churches, where "modern" drum kits, electric keyboards, and guitars were prominent. Example 4 shows the basic pattern played by the graj and senbal, which lay the rhythmic foundation for improvisatory parts added by the tambouren and batri, as well as the singing that these instruments accompany. The use of traditional instrumentation serves both to heat up the worship services and also to signal a critical difference between heavenly army churches such as Deliverance Temple and organizational churches affiliated with U.S.-based missions.

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As the congregants at Deliverance Temple stood up, the instrumentalists began to play, and Pastor Yves launched into a medley of songs that would continue for about forty-five minutes. Although versed hymns were sometimes sung during this portion of the service, on this occasion most songs contained only a few short lines that were sung in unison repeatedly by the congregation. The Pentecostal point song "Papa, Papa, Papa" (see Ex. 1) was among the first to be sung. It went on for about three minutes, followed by the song "Ak pouvwa ou" ("With Your Power"), which recognizes God's ability to empower worshipers to serve Him properly. As Pastor Yves led the congregational singing, he sometimes repeated songs that were sung earlier, segueing, for example, from "Papa, Papa, Papa" to "Ak pouvwa ou," followed by the short repeated chorus "Alelou, Alelou, Alelouya":

   Alelou, alelou, alelouya. (sung three times)
   Yo klouwe Jezu sou lakwa.

   Hallelu, Hallelu, Hallelujah. (sung three times)
   They nailed Jesus to the cross.

As the worship gradually reached an ecstatic state, the atmosphere grew increasingly joyous, as most of us rocked to and fro with uplifted hands. At the height of musical intensity, some of the women and girls formed small circles in groups of three or four and held hands, jumping up and down in rhythm as they sang. This celebratory atmosphere was sustained for about fifteen additional minutes before Pastor Yves shouted "Beni swa Letenel!" ("Blessed be the Lord!"), which the congregation, quite familiar with this common phrase, repeated. He followed this with equally loud cries of "Mesi Jezu!" ("Thank you, Jesus!"), "Ala ou gran, Senye!" ("How great you are, Lord!"), and "Satan, ou pedi batay la!" ("Satan, you lost the battle!"), each of which we also repeated. By this time, the senbal had ceased its driving pulse, and we began to reclaim our spaces on the blanket-covered concrete floor.

We "cooled down" by singing a Creole-language version of the slow chorus "I Have Decided to Follow Jesus." Then Pastor Yves recognized the visitors and asked each of them whether they had accepted Jesus. After a twenty-minute sermon, musical worship resumed, this time beginning with "Alelou, Alelou, Alelouya." Once again, we repeated some of the songs sung earlier (e.g., "Ak pouvwa ou" and "Papa, Papa, Papa"). The atmosphere heated up as before, although this time the period of musical worship lasted only about fifteen minutes.

When this period of heated musical worship ended, the testimony portion of the service began. When people "give a testimony" (bay temwayaj), it usually means that they recount a difficult situation from which God has delivered them. The purpose of testimonies is to give praise to God while encouraging other congregants to persevere through adversity, continue living for God, and stay strong in the faith. Five women and one man shared experiences with the congregation, after which Pastor Yves delivered another short sermon, followed by more singing.

The musical worship now took on a character similar to the adorasyon (i.e., unaccompanied slow-tempo singing) that took place at the beginning of the service. As the congregation sang, Pastor Yves called for the manm solda (army members or soldiers), all seven of whom were dressed in white, to come forward. Pastor Yves and the army members (four females and three males) then moved into the center of the space, where they joined hands, formed a circle, and began to rotate slowly in a counterclockwise direction. The service was now approaching its climax, as those of us in the congregation continued to sing songs inviting the Holy Spirit to descend (desann). It took only about five minutes of singing the chorus "Abiye mwen" ("Clothe Me") for the army members to show signs of being under the influence of the Holy Spirit, and some seemed already to have reached the level of transcendence at which the army was to do its work (see Ex. 5).

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As the music heated up, some of the army members began to make loud, high-pitched noises by rapidly vibrating their lips, while others produced accented cries of "tya, tya, tya!" or "pya, pya!" I later asked Patricia, an army member, "Why do army members make those noises?" She responded by describing them as onomatopoetic devices that resemble the sound of gunfire: "Each person has a sound that they make. When a person shoots--that means when they make noise--that's the way you know it's the Holy Spirit and not just music. It's something they do when a gift decends on a person.... When you shoot, it's like having a weapon in your hand." (17)

Patricia often used the verb "to shoot" (tire) when referring to the making of these vocal sounds, suggesting both a striking relationship between musical worship and spiritual warfare and also a sonic manifestation of Haitian militarism in a Pentecostal milieu. We sang "Abiye mwen" for about fifteen minutes, during which the army members released hands, stopped rotating in their circle formation, and began to imitate Pastor Yves as he led them in a simple, but more stylized, dance pattern. Leaning back slightly, the army members would simply kick outward with each leg as they hopped from one foot to the other in rhythm with the senbal's driving quarter-note beat. The rest of the congregation now assumed most of the singing duties, and the army members seemed focused entirely on following Pastor Yves' direction as he led them in Spirit-inspired dancing. As their dancing continued with increasing intensity, we began another medley of short choruses, beginning with "Papa Emmanuel" (see Ex. 6).

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The singing and playing continued for about ninety minutes, sometimes ceasing temporarily as the army members danced, keeping a steady, audible rhythm with their feet. Very gradually, the dance steps slowed and Pastor Yves began to speak in tongues and pray aloud for various members of the congregation. As the dancing came to a halt, the atmosphere remained spiritually charged and two of the female army members began to tire loudly once again. (During other services at Deliverance, I often saw these vocalizations accompanied by a series of impressively quick pirouette-like moves done by Pastor Yves and the army members when the Spirit fell [tonbe] on them.)

Once the musical phase of the service came to a close, the rest of the afternoon was devoted to prophesying and healing. The heavenly army had successfully used musical worship to create an atmosphere in which God's delivering power could be manifested. The high volume of the music was now replaced by an expectant silence that was quickly broken when Pastor Yves announced "There's a person here for the first time who has a stomach sickness--an intense [hot] sickness. Come forward." When a woman came forward, Pastor Yves asked her a series of questions, after which he instructed her to return next week to receive an herbal remedy that he would prepare specifically for her. Later, Pastor Yves called on army members to pray with him for a woman tormented by an evil spirit. By effectively ministering to congregants' spiritual and natural needs, Pastor Yves demonstrated the multifaceted character of his pastoral role. For the saints at Deliverance Temple, musical worship had once again served as one of the invaluable weapons against the spiritual and natural enemies causing social misery.

"Heating Up" through Songs of Hope in the Church of God

Despite the popularity of heavenly army churches, most of the Haitian Pentecostals that I interviewed claim membership in the Church of God (Legliz de Dye). (18) Members of organizational Pentecostal churches proudly describe their music as cho (hot). Like their heavenly army counterparts, they experience music as an effective means of "heating up" the atmosphere with praise so that the Holy Spirit will descend. Music in the Church of God also facilitates an ecstatic state of worship that encourages congregants to trust in God despite the daily hardships of poverty and sickness, which pose a constant threat for many Haitians.

Notwithstanding the similarities between heavenly army and organizational churches, they have significant doctrinal and musical differences. (19) For example, organizational churches tend to frown upon Pentecostal "point songs" exemplified by "Papa, Papa, Papa." During one service that I attended, Pastor Jean, who heads a Church of God in Port-au-Prince, urged his congregation, "Don't sing as though you are sending a point against somebody!" Michel, a current Church of God member and former preacher, accompanied me to the service. He interpreted Pastor Jean's remark to mean that songs should focus on praise and worship rather than on imploring God to "attack" (atake) individuals.

Another musical difference concerns instrumentation. Unlike the heavenly army churches that I visited in Jacmel and Port-au-Prince, organizational churches use musical instruments familiar to most American Pentecostals--drum set, electric keyboard, and guitars--or simply use hand clapping for accompaniment. Michel attributed this difference to the organization's desire to distance itself ideologically and musically from heavenly army churches and their style of musical worship. I let Michel hear some of my recordings of heavenly army services, including jenn at Deliverance Temple. As a musician (he sings and plays flute), he appreciated the artistry involved but found the style of music problematic because "It's like they're singing rara music." Michel (2001) elaborated:

Michel: They don't believe the same way as us. It's the way they operate, with manifestations of the Holy Spirit. There are a lot of things that they put in services that Pentecostals don't believe in. For example, heavenly armies use instruments that the Church of God has a little problem with--for example, the graj [scraperl. We don't use the graj in the Church of God.

Melvin: Why is that?

Michel: Because they say it's an instrument--they see that rara bands usually use it.

Although there is some overlap in the song repertories of both church types that I attended, the organizational churches relied more heavily on Chart desperans (1995), a popular songbook used by many Haitian Protestants and Pentecostals. In it, songs are numbered and divided into sections according to language: 335 French-language hymns and 51 choeurs francais (French choruses), followed by 145 Creole-language hymns and 80 ke kreyol (Creole choruses). Over the years, Chan desperans has expanded to include five supplementary booklets, each of which also contains both French and Haitian Creole sections. Color-coded for convenience, these supplements are titled "Melodies joyeuses" ("Joyful Melodies"), "Reveillons-nous" ("Let Us Awake"), "Haiti chante avec Radio Lumiere" ("Haiti Sings with Radio Lumiere"), "La voix du reveil" ("The Voice of Awakening"), and "Echo des elus" ("Echo of the Chosen People").

In many ways, gran kilt in Haitian Churches of God resemble Sunday-morning services in African-American Pentecostal churches, in which congregational singing is a vital element. Unlike African-American Pentecostal churches, however, Haitian Churches of God do not generally provide hymnbooks. Each person must bring a Chan desperans, sing from memory, or share a hymnal with another congregant. During most gran kilt, the dirijan (director), who leads the congregational singing and acts as an emcee, announces the number and language (along with the supplement if one is used) of each selection before it is sung. For example, a dirijan might call out "number three, French" or "one hundred twenty-three, Creole." In smaller churches where few congregants own a hymnal, selections from Chart desperans are sung from memory, and the dirijan is more likely to line out the verses.

Although most of the songs in Chan desperans are translations of European-American hymns, most Haitian Pentecostal congregations infuse them with a distinctly Haitian rhythmic feel. Containing lyrics but no musical notation, Chan desperans lends itself particularly well to multiple musical interpretations and facilitates the "Haitianization" of imported church songs. Some Haitian Pentecostals with whom I spoke assumed that popular hymns such as "Ala Bon Zanmi Se Jezu" ("What a Friend We Have in Jesus") were Haitian compositions and were surprised to learn that such songs are also sung in the United States. I asked many Pentecostals who knew about the non-Haitian origin of most Chan desperans songs how they felt about so much of their church music being imported. Most felt that their use of Haitian languages (Creole and French) and konpa (Haiti's popular dance rhythm) allows them to express a distinctly Haitian experience, even if their church music originates elsewhere. Many scholars observe that imported hymnody may even provide a means of resisting hegemonic powers. Philip Bohlman (1997, 72) calls into question the "usual historiography of missionary hymnody," in which "both religion and music assume the forms of systems, which compete for adherents and must supplant other religions and music or be totally supplanted in any given society." Hymnody, he adds,

   is not just an object or bounded repertory. Quite the contrary, it
   serves as the basis for musical practices that express individual
   and community differences. In the moment of performance, hymns
   pass from the ownership of a colonial religious institution into
   the local religious practices (Draper 1982). Ownership has passed
   from the colonizer to the colonized, who transform music into a
   means of responding to domination. It is precisely for these
   reasons that missionary hymnody becomes one of the most important
   sites for resistance in the contested domains of colonialism.

Pastor Jean, who heads a Church of God in Port-au-Prince, often encouraged my study of Haitian Pentecostal music by affirming that "it deserves much research because when you hear it, ... you can discern that there is a local color within it" (Pastor Jean 2001). Pastor Jean specifically mentioned vocal style and the use of Haitian rhythmic accompaniment as evidence that Haitian Pentecostals are doing much more than simply imitating foreign musical worship styles. Although Pastor Jean did not elaborate on the characteristics of a Haitian vocal style, I noticed two tendencies on the part of many Haitian Pentecostals and Protestants. First, singers often maintain a full-throated chest voice in the extreme upper register rather than switch to a falsetto head voice (as is more frequently done in African-American congregational singing I have heard). Second, an audible nasalization is often employed, much like that found in Haitian Creole words such as mwen, genyen, anyen, and lontan, in which the vowel preceding the letter n is nasalized. Several Haitian Pentecostals in Port-au-Prince to whom I spoke feel that the nasal style of singing is exaggerated in the countryside. Both the nasal and full-throated styles seem most commonly used by female congregants, who almost always outnumbered males in the churches that I attended. These styles are disparaged as unrefined by some members of the more elite classes, who gravitate toward the more "respectable" Catholic and Episcopalian cathedrals and mainline Protestant churches. See Austin (1983, 232) and Gmelch and Gmelch (1997) for discussions of the relationship of Pentecostalism and "respectability" in Jamaica and Barbados, respectively.

In terms of instrumental rhythmic accompaniment, the organizational churches that I attended often used the drum-set rhythm notated in Example 7, which two Haitian Pentecostal friends labeled a "march." (Upon listening to one of my recordings of this drum-set rhythm used in a Pentecostal church, another friend said that he did not know precisely what to call it; he insisted, however, that he would recognize it as mizik evanjelik [gospel music], even without the lyrics.) Often, songs are sung in medley fashion, initially in French but quickly moving to Creole. As the level of musical intensity increases (i.e., singing and playing becomes louder, and bodily movements become more energetic and emotional), the rhythmic accompaniment shown in Example 7 gradually moves toward the konpa pattern, characterized by the kata rhythm played on the cymbal, shown in Example 8. This konpa pattern differs, however, from the standard konpa-direk--performed by popular dance bands such as Tabou Combo, Skah-Shah, Tropicana, T-Vice, and Sweet Mickey--in that the tanbou (skin-covered drum) and graj are usually absent from the former. The absence of these instruments, along with the presence of gospel lyrics, has led some Haitians to use the term konpa-Jezu when referring to the use of konpa in a Christian church.

[ILLUSTRATION OMITTED]

Instrumental rhythmic accompaniment in organizational Pentecostal churches is almost always supported by hand clapping. (20) During fast-tempo songs (about eighty half-notes per minute), congregants often clap on beats one and three, especially if the "march" rhythm is being played by the drummer. As the music heats up, and people begin to feel the presence of the Spirit, hand claps emulate the kata cymbal pattern (see Ex. 8) that a drummer may or may not be playing. The song "Pa bay Satan glwa" ("Don't Give Satan Glory"), which I recorded at Good Shepherd Assembly, an organizational church in Jacmel, is an example of one such song (see Ex. 9).

[ILLUSTRATIONS OMITTED]

"Pa bay Satan glwa" is one of many Haitian-composed church songs that are not found in Chan desperans. Nevertheless, in terms of repertory and instrumentation, the organizational churches that I attended lean more heavily on "imported" styles of music than do independent heavenly army churches. Imported styles include American popular musics that some Haitians refer to as wokenwol (rock and roll) and slo (slow), as well as mizik afrikenn (African music), mizik laten (Latin music), and rege (reggae). However, the apparent hegemony of foreign missions provides a powerful means for many Haitian Pentecostals to appropriate imported songs and instruments for the purpose of heating up, achieving an ecstatic state, and experiencing a distinctly Haitian brand of musical worship.

The Gran Kilt at Good Shepherd Assembly

In summer 2000, when I first started worshiping with the saints (21) of Good Shepherd Assembly in Jacmel, the church was in a period of transition. Still awaiting the completion of a new building, Pastor Rene and his congregation were temporarily holding services in an elementary school classroom with a seating capacity of about sixty. On Sunday mornings, this classroom equipped with wooden benches, desks, a long chalkboard, and a few educational posters--was transformed into a Pentecostal sanctuary. This particular Sunday was no exception. When I arrived around 9:50 A.M. some of the missionary ladies were sitting prayerfully, waiting for the service to begin. As usual, they greeted me with a salutatory nod. After taking my seat on a bench-turned-pew in the back row, I got out the necessary "equipment": first my Bible and Chan desperans and then, as discreetly as possible, my minidisk recorder and microphone. Although Pastor Rene had given me permission to record the church services, I sometimes felt awkward recording services while participating in them. (22)

The service began with a slow hymn found in Chan desperans: "Paske L vivant," a Creole translation of "Because He Lives," with which I was familiar. (The words to this hymn are found in the "Reveillons-nous" section of the hymnal, number sixty-nine, Creole.) After eight minutes, the song ended, and a Scripture passage (John 14:1-14) was read. Another slow hymn followed, after which the dirijan recited a few verses from the book of Proverbs. We then knelt in collective prayer for about two minutes, during which each saint spoke aloud, making his or her requests known to God. This was followed by a simple chorus, "Alelouya, alelouya, alelouya, amen," which was repeated several times as congregants were told to "wave [your] hands to worship God." Next came a Creole translation of the hymn "The Blood Will Never Lose Its Power." When this hymn concluded, the dirijan read another Bible passage before introducing Pastor Rene, who gave a general welcome, made announcements concerning upcoming services, and reported on the status of the ongoing building project. Pastor Rene then prayed and turned the service back over to the dirijan, who cried out, "Ede m di 'Beni swa Letenel!'" ("Help me say 'Blessed be the Lord!'"). The additional praise phrases gradually increased in volume as each was spoken first by the dirijan and then by the entire congregation: "Alelouya!" ("Hallelujah!"), "Mesi, Senye!" ("Thank you, Lord"), "Glwa a Jezu!" ("Glory to Jesus!"), "Glwa a Sentespri de Dye!" ("Glory to the Holy Spirit of God!").

The time had now come to begin heating up the atmosphere with livelier music. With renewed vigor, the dirijan launched into a few Creole-language hymns that most congregants knew by heart. As singing grew more enthusiastic and rhythmicized, bodily movments became more demonstrative as some congregants jumped in place and waved arms back and forth while singing. Although at the time, Good Shepherd Assembly had no drummers, the congregants' hand clapping intensified to provide a driving rhythmic foundation for the musical worship. The dirijan now moved into a medley of repeated choruses, beginning with "Pa bay Satan glwa," followed by "Se Letenel ki Towo" ("It's the Lord who is the bull," the bull being symbolic of great power), "Le map pale ak Papa m" ("When I talk to my Father"), and "Amen, alelouya" ("Amen, hallelujah"). The lyrics of the latter three choruses are shown in Example 10.

[ILLUSTRATION OMITTED]

After about twenty minutes, this final phase of musical worship came to an end as the dirijan once again cried "Beni swa Letenel!" followed by a series of other praise phrases. After we took our seats, an offering was collected, and Pastor Rene began his sermon. With the felt presence of the Holy Spirit in our midst, we were now prepared to receive the Word of God.

Cultural and Religious Identities: Negotiating Haitian Pride and Christian Faith

Just before starting my fieldwork in the summer of 2000, I told Eider Armstrong, a young visiting preacher at my church in Brooklyn, New York, about my plans to do research in Haiti. As if to warn me, he immediately replied, "Oh, that's voodoo country." I suppose his response was not really unusual; for most people living in the United States, the mere mention of Haiti brings to mind Afro-Haitian folk religion, generally labeled "voodoo," if not one of Hollywood's sensationalist caricatures of it. But I continue to be disheartened that so many people are taken aback by the idea of going to Haiti to study something other than a Vodou- or Carnival-related topic. While formulating my research plan, and even during fieldwork, I met several people who openly questioned whether Haitian church music could possibly be "rich enough" to warrant serious study. Even some Haitians scoffed at the idea, doubting whether anything "truly Haitian" could be found in a Protestant or Pentecostal church. These discourses on the relationship of Haitian identity to religious practice set the stage for my initial forays into Haitian Pentecostalism and continued to shape many of my interactions in Haiti.

The unfortunate downside of the celebration of Afro-Haitian "folk" culture--which seems a necessary response to negative stereotypes perpetuated by television and film--is that it has allowed one-sided portrayals of Haitians to go uncontested. Little has been done to problematize the kinds of remarks made by Elder Armstrong, which remain typical in the United States and underscore a prevailing ignorance of the religious diversity of Haiti's seven million people. However, many Haitian evangelicals are countering the pigeonholing of Haitians as voudouwizan (Vodou worshipers) by defining, in their own ways, what it means to be Haitian. During a debate that I once sparked concerning the defining characteristics of Haitian culture, a defiant young Pentecostal man interjected, "Vodou is only part of Haitian culture!" His assertion came in response to the notion that Vodou is emblematic of the Haitian people. I asked Haitian composer Emile Desamours (his real name), (23) a Baptist, whether he saw any contradiction between self-identifying both as Haitian and Christian. In his response, Desamours (2000) echoed the sentiments of numerous Haitian Christians to whom I had posed the question:

   Some say that there is only one kind of Haitian. Cultural
   authorities would tend to have people believe that Haitians must be
   involved with lwa, vodou--things like that. No, it is not true,
   because a culture is something that starts in one place, in one
   point, but it develops; it becomes broader. Everywhere, each year,
   it gets widen.... Music also broadens ... because man doesn't live
   alone. People are citizens of the world, not isolated. It's not 1492
   anymore. Europeans didn't know America existed, understand? ... In
   Haiti, ... we can say we have all kinds of things, all kinds of
   music. Religious music has American influence, English
   influences.... This makes for enriching.... Also, the gospel has
   been preached [in Haiti] for almost two hundred years! So, it's
   normal that Christianity has now entered in Haitian culture. In
   Haitian culture, you find vodou, [but] you also find Christianity.
   So there's not a single tendency that we have--not only vodou.

During the course of my fieldwork, I quickly learned that an easy way to start conversations is to ask about the kinds of music suitable for Christian worship. My inquiries about Pentecostals' perceptions of "worldly music" and about the appropriateness of a given genre in the worship service rarely failed to yield a funny story, a spirited discussion, or a heated debate. Philippe, a Haitian Pentecostal, recounted an incident that he claims took place in his organizational church in Port-au-Prince. The story was about a former voudouwizan, who, upon converting and joining the church, was invited to sing a solo during a Sunday-morning service. Having no prior experience in church, the man began to sing the only thing that he could recall, which was a song used to evoke one of the lwa during a Vodou ceremony. The pastor, evidently caught off guard, had forgotten about the man's past involvement with Vodou and stood up in alarm after hearing the first few words of the song. He quickly motioned for the man to stop singing, after which the bewildered new convert was hurriedly escorted back to his seat. The popularity of these types of stories illustrates a Haitian tendency to toy with notions of appropriateness and to take pleasure in participating, even vicariously, in actions that disrupt or subvert societal norms. Whether Philippe's humorous account is fact or fiction is less important than what it reveals about Haitians' keen awareness of how music relates to the social and religious contexts in which it is performed and experienced. Although this story was a source of laughter, Haitian Pentecostals also expressed very serious attitudes about the styles of music that they feel are appropriate for worship services. This seriousness stems largely from the fact that Pentecostal music styles reflect more than the aesthetic preferences of worshipers. Their ability to achieve ecstasy through musical participation and to find the inspiration needed to persevere through life's hardships is at stake.

Congregations self-identifying as "Pentecostal" usually share a belief that music may be used to heat the atmosphere so that the Holy Spirit will "descend." Music also helps congregants to become emotionally involved in the service and more receptive to preaching. There are, however, strong differences of opinion regarding musical appropriateness, which account for stylistic diversity among various types of Pentecostal churches. For many Pentecostals, the use of konpa (or konpa-Jezu) and lively music is precisely what distinguishes their musical worship and lends it an undeniably Haitian character. When church music is cho, explained Stephanie (2000), a Pentecostal, age fifteen, "it goes into my blood." Nichole (2000), a choir member from a Church of God of Prophecy in Port-au-Prince, viewed the use of konpa as deeply related to her identity as a Haitian: "Konpa is the Haitian soul.... Even if [the musicians in my church] don't rehearse it, or say that the rhythm is konpa, as soon as you hear them play you sense that it is a rhythm that is more or less elevated, and it goes with the konpa rhythm.... Even if the message is not gospel, as soon as konpa is played, you feel as though you are in your skin."

Others, however, feel that konpa is too "hot" to handle, deeming it inappropriate because of its "worldly" associations with nightclubs and popular dance bands. During one spirited debate on the topic in June 2001, Jean-Claude, a man who claimed no religious affiliation, exclaimed, "As soon as I heard konpa in a church, I'll do a nice little gouyad!" The term gouyad deontes a popular dance involving a rolling of the pelvis or a grinding of the hips, and the idea of performing a gouyad in church suggests an egregious transgression of sacred space. By deliberately making such an irreverent remark, Jean-Claude succeeded in evoking laughter while underscoring a fundamental difference between Christian and non-Christian contexts. Events related to Carnival and rara are immensely popular, but Haitian Pentecostal pastors preach vehemently against involvement in them, in part because of the obscenity (betiz) with which they are associated. Objections to konpa often stem from an unwillingness to risk sexually suggestive use of the body in worship. Joseph, who grew up attending a Church of God, confirmed that, for some, konpa lends itself too easily to inappropriate types of bodily movement:

   Because konpa tends to cause people to move their bodies in a
   "vulgar" fashion, mizik rasin [roots music] is more appropriate [for
   church], perhaps, because it spurs people to jump up. It's not
   vulgar. [But] when you play konpa people have another tendency....
   People prefer another kind of body movement. Konpa isn't fast enough
   to really jump up. But with rasin or rock, you can jump up. Rap,
   too, [and] perhaps African music. We have a greater tendency in
   these musics to jump for God. It's "hot" [chore] so it makes you
   want to jump [sote]. (Joseph 2000)

It is interesting to note that the terms that Averill (1994a, 223) uses in his description of "carnival exuberance" suggest both similarities (chore, balanse, mete men nan le, sote) and differences (anraje, gwiye, souke) between the koudyay (celebratory) enthusiasm of Carnival and the ecstasy of Pentecostal musical worship:

   The peak of carnival exuberance--the ambiance of carnival in its
   final days on the road--is known as koudyay (French, coup de jaille,
   a spontaneous bursting forth).... Carnival and koudyay enthusiasm,
   an intersubjective peak experience, is described in terms such [as]
   debbde (overflowing, exuberant, furious), anraje (worked-up,
   turned-on, crazy, enraged), or the colorful anty-outyout (exuberant,
   excited). Carnival participants achieve these states in a
   progression of escalations involving music and movement. Musicians
   try to chore (heat) the crowd with exhortations to physically
   respond. Revelers are encouraged to lage ko-w! (let go of
   yourself!), mete men nan le (put hands in the air), balanse (sway),
   bobinen (spin), souke (shake), vole (fly), gwiye (grind the hips),
   and sote (jump).

Pentecostal churches affiliated with the Body of Christ (Corps de Christ), a U.S.-based mission, avoid konpa altogether in favor of styles that Haitians describe as "gospel," "slow," and "rock and roll." David, a musician in a Body of Christ church called Solid Rock, lamented the absence of konpa from his church's worship services. He saw the use of "American" music as indicative of the "adaptations" that Haiti has had to make in exchange for U.S. financial support:

   There is a problem with American influences.... It is the United
   States who is our aid.... We have made a series of adaptations to
   other nations. Some, like the United States, are closer to us than
   others. This leads to a transmission from the United States to
   Haiti. It's hard for our church music to evolve. We adapt ourselves
   more so to American music. For example, we especially sing gospel
   music; we sing rock and roll, slow.... We do not sing konpa. Konpa
   is a problem.... It is another rhythm.... We are more adapted to
   American styles.... Everything we sing is in the American style. We
   sing the same songs you sing in the United States. (David 2000)

According to David, most congregants at Solid Rock actually prefer to sing American music and are uncomfortable with konpa, which they believe is "for the world." The fact that Body of Christ churches eschew konpa and espouse "American" styles of music does not necessarily mean that they equate the terms "American" and "Haitian" with opposite ends of a moral continuum. Nevertheless, I did notice a tendency on the part of some Haitian evangelicals to see the economic prosperity of the United States as proof of God's favor. These same evengelicals tend to attribute Haiti's economic and political woes to the prevalence of Vodou. Such explanations (which are incomplete at best) continue to be perpetuated, although they not only underestimate the historical and present-day impact of global power and racism but also promote the false view that the relative lack of Vodou in the United States makes Americans morally superior to Haitians. The exclusive use of American musical styles by Pentecostal churches in Haiti may exemplify hegemony (in a Gramscian sense of the term), defined as "winning the consent" of a subordinated group (Gramsci 1971). Many Haitian Pentecostals with whom I spoke expressed a preference for "American" styles of music in church and have developed a deep emotional attachment to some English-language hymns; they saw no contradiction in stating also that they are proud to be Haitian. Rather than dismiss such sentiments as a by-product of U.S. cultural or ideological domination (see Hall 1986), I feel it important to consider the voices of Haitians who reject the notion that their use of "American" music comes at the expense of "Haitianness."David is one of a few church members who is dissatisfied with the musical worship at Solid Rock and wants to explore different styles of music. To gain musical fulfillment and professional exposure, he has recently formed his own gospel band, comprised of members from Solid Rock and another konpausing organizational Pentecostal church.

Although Body of Christ churches do not use konpa, they can still be differentiated from denominational Protestant churches. For example, Haitian Baptist churches tend to favor slow-tempo singing with absolutely no rhythmic accompaniment in the way of drums or hand clapping. One young Baptist woman in Port-au-Prince spoke to me about the frustrations of her church's teenagers, many of whom have recently left to find a church where the music is "hotter."

Henri, musical director at True Vine Assembly (another Body of Christ church), cited musical style and Pentecostal experience as the key distinguishing elements of his church:

   Our church does not sing the way other churches do. We are always
   happier in the way we praise because people in the Body of Christ
   usually have the Holy Spirit. We usually speak in other tongues. We
   don't function the same way as other churches. [For example,] we
   don't use Chan desperans. All of the songs are biblically based. We
   can take a biblical passage and do several things with it.... We
   don't use konpa, but we often have music that's hot and gay [or
   lively]. (Henri 2000)

I am intrigued that, for Henri and the saints at True Vine, the absence of konpa and the prevalence of "American" music do not prevent "heating up" from occurring. On the contrary, the introduction of konpa into the worship service would likely have a "cooling down" effect, caused by the congregants' discomfort and perceptions of inappropriateness. Although Henri stated that he is proud to be Haitian, has a deep respect for Haitian culture (kilti ayisyen), and appreciates many styles of music, he recognizes, "I cannot arrange music that I know will give the people problems and give the pastor problems." For Henri, the goal of "heating up" is too important to be compromised for the sake of more "Haitian-sounding" musical worship. Given his sense of Haitian pride, I asked him if he felt any personal dilemma in having to curb his musical creativity in order to stay within his church's musical comfort zone. His response indicated some of the fascinating complexities involved as Haitian Christians negotiate religious and cultural identities:

Henri: Even if I like some things, I can't do them. My comportment cannot lead me any place. Also, I am a musician; I cannot play anywhere, like taking my instrument into a perestil [Vodou temple] to play. I don't know what is to gain from that. God takes no pleasure in that if I do it. I know that is true.

Melvin: Is it difficult sometimes?

Henri: No. I have no problem. The Bible is greater than anything else that exists. Even if I make music professionally, ... the Bible tells me that I have a limit. Even if I know that vodou is a cultural thing--part of my culture--I know I cannot go in a perestil and play because God would not be pleased. (Henri 2000)

Henri feels his identity as a converted Christian has the most influence on his values, actions, and musical choices. Although he rejects the notion that being Pentecostal somehow makes him "less Haitian," he does feel strongly that certain aspects of Haitian culture are necessarily off-limits to him. Henri also expresses a sense of Haitian pride, but his statements imply a privileging of his religious identity as a Pentecostal over his cultural identity as a Haitian. His use of American-style music serves to foreground a Haitian Christian identity that enables him to distinguish himself from unconverted Haitians who play "worldly" dance band music.

Emile Desamours (2000) expressed similar ideas using somewhat different terms. For him, the important point is that Haitian culture has absorbed a multiplicity of elements over time, including Christianity, and is continually becoming "broader" as it develops. Desamours stressed the idea of an inclusive Haitian culture and uses church music as a means of expressing Haitian identity.

Neither individual views his Christian and Haitian identities as mutually exclusive; however, Desamours' Haitian identity subsumes his Christian faith, whereas Henri's Christian faith subsumes his Haitian identity. In a study of cultural change among Native American converts to Christianity, Luke Lassiter (2001, 348) laments, "Our scholarly descriptions and understandings of these changes ... have been largely (but certainly not entirely) dictated by academically-positioned models, models like 'assimilation' that emphasize broad sweeping changes and ignore the deeper experiential complexities that have emerged from this multidimensional encounter." Likewise, Amy Stillman (1993, 97) looks at the ways that "Polynesians have accepted and molded Christian belief and worship within uniquely Polynesian frames of experience." I consider the espousal of Pentecostalism and the use of "imported" music by Haitians like David and Henri to be more than simply unfortunate by-products of U.S. cultural hegemony. Although I regret the absence of konpa in Body of Christ churches and strongly disagree with the ethnocentric beliefs and practices of some missions, I also strive toward an understanding of the "deeper experiential complexities" of a Haitian Pentecostal practice. For me, this involves coming to grips with the Haitian capacity to appropriate (24) imported styles of church music. For the saints at True Vine Assembly, appropriating "American" music is an effective means of experiencing the ecstasy of the Holy Spirit and asserting identities as Haitians who are most fundamentally Pentecostal believers.

Haitian Nationalism and Pentecostal Musical Worship in Brooklyn

It is difficult to discuss Pentecostalism in Haiti without also examining the transnational social field in which is is embedded. The Haitian diaspora constitutes a major social, political, and cultural force, and the expressive culture of Haitians living in the United States participates--as do the people themselves--in transnational flows to and from Haiti. These transnational flows have resulted in the "Caribbeanization" of New York City (Sutton 1987, 16), while spawning no fewer than 116 Haitian Pentecostal Churches of God in the United States and Canada since the 1960s (Michel 2000, 105).

Although some scholars argue that contemporary flows of people, goods, expressive cultures, and media signal the declining significance of the nation-state, Nina Glick Schiller and Georges Fouron (2001, 270) offer a refreshing account of "subaltern long-distance nationalism" showing that nation-states, as well as nationalist discourses, continue to merit serious attention. According to Glick Schiller and Fouon, a Haitian long-distance nationalist is one who "identif[ies] with and become[s] committed to building a nation-state which extends beyond the borders of Haiti" (176). The authors also state that "wherever Haitian long-distance nation-lists think they belong, and however they identify, as transborder citizens they actually participate in both the Haitian and U.S. political systems" (20-24). The authors focus on the experiences of Haitians living both in Haiti and the United States, presenting a view of transnationalism "from below" (Guarnizo and Smith 1998, 3) and drawing on James Scott's (1990, 4)) notion of "hidden transcripts" to posit that nationalist viewpoints are expressed in multiple forms as a way of seeking social justice.

Speaking of music in this context, Bohlman (1997, 72) comments, citing Scott (1990), that "hymns afford what James Scott has called 'hidden transcripts,' an 'art of' and an 'art for' resistance. These hidden transcripts ... function because the dominant and the dominated perceive their meanings in radically different ways. Music has a particularly powerful capacity to embody radically different meanings because of its complex forms of signification." Nationlism acts as a "floating signifier" (Glick Schiller and Fouron 2001, 28), meaning different things to Haitians living in the United States and in Haiti, who share a heartfelt commitment to the Haitian transnational nation-state but employ and express nationalism in distinct ways to meet the needs of generation, class, and gender. As Martin Stokes (1994, 13) argues, "Musical styles can be made emblematic of national identities in complex and often contradictory ways. Thus, to grasp the relationship between Pentecostal musical practice and national identity, we must understand Haitian nationalism as polysemous (i.e., having multiple meanings). This term

   highlights the flexibility of nationalism that can readily encompass
   religious messages about personal or collective salvation within
   discussions about the future of the nation.... Approaching
   nationalism in this way allows us to move beyond the opposition
   between nationalist ideologies and religious beliefs that has been
   made by Western social science. Many theories of nationalism factor
   out any exploration of religion. When nationalist struggles are
   waged in the name of religious beliefs, analysts call such struggles
   "fundamentalist." This labeling does not explain how religious
   beliefs and nationalism can reinforce and define each other. (Glick
   Schiller and Fouron 2001, 28-29; my italics)

To understand fully how Haitian Pentecostals self-identify by appropriating "American" styles of music, we must see their musical worship as part of a much larger set of actions expressing love for God and church and, by extension, for nation. Many Pentecostals view salvation as a maturation process that begins with an initial conversion experience and continues as the individual strives to live victoriously on earth. From a Pentecostal standpoint, living victoriously entails being empowered by the Holy Spirit to resist sin and worldly temptations, derive joy from a personal relationship with God, and grow stronger through enduring life's adversities. Because konpa is linked to popular dance bands, nightclubs, and a "worldly" lifestyle, it represents a potential spiritual hindrance to Body of Christ Pentecostals. Thus, by opting to use musical styles other than konpa, they take a significant step toward personal salvation for themselves and national salvation for Haiti.

As Glick Schiller and Fouron point out, this linking of religion and Haitian nationalism is not a particularly new phenomenon in Haiti. For example, "in order to legitimate his regime, [Francois] Duvalier made numerous and seemingly contradictory connections between the sacred, the religious beliefs and practices of people in Haiti, and an identification with the nation" (107). Haitian president Jean-Bertrand Aristide (1990, 90) has also tied religious faith to national pride, stating, "If you are a Haitian and you have Haitian blood that runs in your veins, if you are a real Haitian, stand beneath the flag of conviction and sing the national anthem. Link your faith with your commitment ... like the proud Christians that you are."

Some Haitian Pentecostals have even "attempted to superimpose a new, evangelical story on the Haitian national narrative," as McAlister (2000, 17, 19) explains:

   Mirroring the outdoor maneuvers of the Rara bands, the Pentecostals
   marched through public space performing exorcisms at spots
   considered sacred in Vodou and recast as satanic for Pentecostals.
   In one charged "crusade" ceremony, a group of Haitian Pentecostal
   pastors launched a serious critique of the Haitian government and
   indeed of national history. The group marched on August 14th of
   1997 to the north of Haiti to Bwa Kayiman, the site of the original
   religious ritual in 1791 when the slaves of Saint Domingue vowed to
   fight for freedom. The pastors intended to exorcise the Vodou
   spirits who still governed the site, and "win" the space "for
   Jesus." ... This particular crusade was aimed at the genesis and
   essence of the Haitian nation: the foundational ceremony at Bwa
   Kayiman. The occasion that Haitian history books regarded as a
   sacralized moment of inspiration for the historic slave uprising was
   re-interpreted in Pentecostal terms.

In New York City, Haitian Pentecostals in the Church of God often conflate love of God with love of Haiti, expressing long-distance nationalism. In March 2001, during a weeklong revivial at Bethel Church of God in Brooklyn, Pastor Gerard, age sixty-three, repeatedly proclaimed "Haiti for Christ, and Christ for Haiti," a slogan promoting the 2001 National Convention of Haitian Churches of God to be held in Fort Lauderdale, Florida. On one Friday evening, he elaborated on this theme, announcing, "Any place Haitians are, the eyes of God are on them. If you are a Haitian, you belong to Christ!" Pastor Gerard's remarks assert a complementary relationship between Haitian identity and Christian faith. A few days later, however, a visiting minister, Pastor Donald, preached against mizik mondenn (worldy, or secular, music) and mizik vodou, while expressing a seemingly contradictory concept of Haitian identity: "There are some people who say they can use rara music to praise God, but we must pay attention! ... You cannot say you are a Christian, and then you serve Ezili Freda and Ezili Red Eye. I am not Haitian; I am not Jamaican. I am Christian!"

In this Pentecostal church context, Pastor Donald discursively distances himself from an exclusive Haitian identity as a means of embracing an inclusive Christian one. Like Henri at True Vine Assembly, he chooses to subsume his Haitianness under his Christianity. During interviews with Haitian transmigrants in the 1980s, Glick Schiller and Fouron (2001, 112) encountered "people who, although identified as Haitians in our research, had many other identifies as well. For these leaders, Christian, Haitian nationalist, Haitian American, American, Masonic, French, black, African, African American, and hometown identities could all be overlapping, noncontradictory public identities" (my italics).

The notion that Haitians in the United States may assert multiple identities helps explain how the seemingly contradictory remarks by Pastors Gerard and Donald are, in fact, complementary. By abstaining from worldly music and seeking personal salvation, Haitian Pentecostals at Bethel work to "save" Haiti and ensure that their homeland obtains "respect, dignity, and justice in the world of nation-states" (262).

Compared with my own church and those I attended in Haiti, the services at Bethel Church of God are usually rather low key. Although congregants do strive to achieve ecstasy through heated musical participation, Bethel lacks the kinds of intense singing and emotional bodily movements that one might expect to find more consistently in a Pentecostal church. Most of the congregational songs are found in Chan desperans, and although konpa is used, it is played less frequently than the "march" rhythm (see Ex. 7). Pastor Gerard, who founded Bethel after migrating from Haiti in the 1960s, still takes an active interest in the music, often enthusiastically leading the congregation in song. During one Friday evening service, he even came down from the podium to teach a melody to those of us who admitted, by a show of hands, to being unfamiliar with the Creole-language song that he had been trying to lead. Pastor Gerard enjoys singing mostly in French and Creole, although he will sometimes mix in an English-language song for variety. The congregation is sometimes split linguistically along generational lines. The youth, most of whom are second-generation Haitians (or Haitian Americans), have tended to favor Creole over French, even gravitating toward English when the opportunity arises. During a February youth revival, I heard Haitian youth choirs impressively perform songs by African-American gospel artists Hezekiah Walker, Richard Smallwood, and Kirk Franklin. I often heard young Haitian musicians making direct musical reference to African-American church styles of piano and bass accompaniment. In particular, I noted the use of an African-American style of rubato piano accompaniment and a "shout" bass line (C, D, E [flat], E, F, A, B [flat], B, C) that repeatedly moves from the I chord to the IV chord. The church as a whole, however, embraces Creole more than any other language, and even for the youth, the use of Haitian Creole sets them apart from Brooklyn's other black ethnic groups (see Stafford 1987).

It may be fruitful to compare the musical worship of Bethel Church of God, along with Pastor Gerard's expressions of Haitian nationalism, with what occurs at Refuge Temple, a heavenly army church also located in Brooklyn. During Friday night veydenwit (all-night services) lasting from 8 P.M. until 6 A.M., musical worship stylistically resembles that found in heavenly churches in Haiti. Although the graj and senbal are replaced by a drum kit and electronic keyboard, these more modern instruments imitate the sounds of their traditional counterparts, which are more common in Haiti. (I suspect that the traditional instruments are also used in the diaspora, although I have only seen them in Haiti.) During the services that I attended at Refuge Temple, Pastor Lionel (who is in his mid-forties) and his congregants engaged in a more charismatic style of worship, characterized by intense singing and holy dancing, usually with konpa accompaniment. Women and girls were particularly expressive, often dancing in skip-like fashion with their arms upraised. As is the case in all of the Haitian churches that I attended, men were generally more physically reserved, standing in one place but emotionally involved, nonetheless, in the singing.

Compared with Bethel, both the songs and sermons at Refuge made more explicit reference to evil spirits. For example, during one Sunday-evening service in February 2001, Pastor Lionel urged the congregation, "Leave Papa Legba at rest! Leave Ezili at rest! Leave Vodou at rest!" In his sermons at Bethel, Pastor Gerard most often focused on maintaining a holy lifestyle, making only oblique reference to those who "serve the spirits" (sevi lwa). Occasionally, he preached against "false doctrines" of Jehovah's Witnesses, Mormons, and other religious groups, but very rarely did he specifically mention any of the lwa. The most intense moments of musical worship at Refuge featured celebratory, improvised choruses sung at a quick tempo in medley fashion, one of which simply repeated the line, "The devil sees us dance and he runs." Although these types of repeated choruses were sung at Bethel, their lyrics usually incorporated direct words of praise (e.g., "Praise, praise the Lord") rather than referring explicitly to the realm of evil spirits (cf. the earlier discussion of Pentecostal point songs in heavenly army churches).

This comparison of Bethel and Refuge makes clear that a variety of Pentecostal music styles are used to achieve ecstasy and express Haitian Christian identities. In both churches, heated musical worship also serves to evoke powerful manifestations of the Holy Spirit. However, I view the lyrical and stylistic differences in musical worship as indicative of the distinct response of each church to its transnational context. At Bethel, sermons and individual spoken testimonies make frequent reference to relatives and loved ones