We’re talking deep stuff here, so please forgive me for trivializing; it makes me smile to remember . . .
When I was a little boy, 5 or 6 at the most, my Aunt Alice lived across the street from the black Baptist church outside Milford, Delaware. They sang loud there. I could hear them clapping and singing and, sometimes, shouting the good news. They seemed a lot happier there than in the Baptist church my grandparents took me to three or four times a week. At Milford Baptist church, I remember the songs and the singing, but nobody ever clapped or shouted. The Old Rugged Cross was about as rambunctious as our choir ever got, and certainly, the parishioners never jumped up and waved their arms. They lacked “soul,” that’s for sure.
So, for a while, I grew up thinking your “soul” lived at the black church on the outskirts of town, across from Aunt Alice’s.
The “soul music” I love is happy music, even when the lyrics are soul-rending. I enjoy gospel music sung by an ex-church choir soloist screaming her heart out. You may think Jessica Sanchez out-sang Phillip Phillips on American Idol, but they are both “soul” singers. His soul is just a little south of hers.
As far as the actual location of your soul is concerned, it’s not in your heart (except perhaps, metaphorically). It may be in your brain (unless your brain is damaged), or it may be, like mine, in the black church outside Milford.
