Before the first note hits the mic, the kitchenâs already in full swing. Cast iron skillets crackle with fried chicken, and the air smells like pepper, praise, and preparation. Somebodyâs auntie is working the stove like sheâs leading a choirâflipping drumsticks with rhythm and purpose. This isnât just cooking. Itâs prelude to worship.
In Black storefront churches, Sunday isnât just about the sermonâitâs a full-body experience. You get the Word, the music, and the meal. And the music? Thatâs where the magic happens. Choir members, many of them ear-trained and self-taught, come together in a kind of holy collaboration. No sheet music, no formal rehearsal hallsâjust shared spirit and sound.
These churches birthed a tradition where fried chicken dinners funded building repairs, and gospel harmonies built community. The same folks who passed the offering plate were passing down melodies, teaching each other by ear, improvising on the spot, and creating something that felt divine. It wasnât just musicâit was collaborative storytelling, a sonic version of the soul food being served in the fellowship hall.
After service, the sanctuary spills into the street. Folding tables appear. Styrofoam plates get stacked with mac and cheese, greens, and chicken so crispy it sings when you bite it. And while folks eat, the choir might still be humming, the keyboardist riffing, the tambourine shaking. The line between worship and celebration blurs.
This is what Sunday looks like in a storefront church: faith, food, and fellowship, all stitched together by music and memory. Itâs a place where collaboration isnât just a methodâitâs a ministry. And whether youâre singing in the choir or frying in the kitchen, youâre part of something bigger.
Authorâs Note (with Extra Seasoning)
This piece is slow-cooked with insights from my doctoral research, Collaborative Information Behavior: Storefront Church Gospel Communities of Musical Practice, defended at Dominican University and seasoned with firsthand love for rhythm, resilience, and community.
In short: I studied how gospel musicians build musical magic without formal sheet music, professional rehearsal halls, or record label contractsâjust ears, heart, and a whole lot of chicken grease. Yep, we're talking about sacred improvisation powered by faith, fellowship, and fried food. Whether itâs a choir that learned the setlist on the ride to church or a worship leader who directs with hand signals and Holy Ghost nudges, it's collaboration at its finest.
Turns out, information behavior isnât just for librariesâitâs alive in every side-eye cue, whispered harmony, and shared recipe passed from one soul to the next. Because in storefront churches, the curriculum is felt, not printed. And every Sunday is a masterclass in unspoken knowledge and shared intention.
If you ever thought gospel music just âhappens,â let me assure you: it's actually co-authored by the Spirit, the skillet, and the soprano in the third row.