The theology of the ‘big mout’

By Fr Robert Christo

Vicar for Communications

It was during 2025 priests’ retreat themed Call to be an Apostle, that my meditation took an unexpected turn—toward the throat. The retreat master invited us to ponder the journey of God’s Word through the human body: lungs, heart, throat.

But it was the throat that stayed with me—maybe because of my own ‘pepper mout’. He asked, “What passes through your throat—in and out?” The question went deeper than vocal cords and voice box.

For clergy, ministers, and singers across the Caribbean, the throat is not merely an organ—it is an instrument of grace, the channel where the Word of God meets a noisy world. It carries our preaching, our laughter, our cries for mercy, and our sighs of exhaustion.

In Caribbean life, the throat is more than anatomy—it’s an instrument of rhythm, resistance, and revelation. From Calypso to Carnival, from pulpit to panyard, from marketplace to rum shop, the throat is where heart becomes sound and emotion becomes word. The sacred and the secular wrestle for control there.

The panman’s chant, the preacher’s cry, and the singer’s lament all rise from this same well of sound. It is here that the Caribbean voice carries its theology—loud, lyrical, and living.

The divine bridge between spirit and flesh

Theologically, the throat is a bridge—a corridor where spirit meets flesh. US Bishop Robert Barron reminds us that the Word of God does not remain an idea or bunch of rules from Heaven; it takes flesh and sound.

When a minister preaches, a mother cries alone aloud, or an Extempo calypsonian calls out corruption with rhythm and wit, the divine Word passes through human throats—imperfect, wounded, yet grace-filled.

The same God who spoke through our ancestors, prophets and psalms now speaks through Trinbagonian tamboo bamboo, St Lucian jazz, and Bajan creativity.

But let’s be honest—the same throat that sings ‘Alleluia’ on Sunday can ‘buss a cuss’  in traffic on the same day. The same voice that blesses in church can gossip over rum and roti. And from the pulpit, that same voice can throw shade instead of light.

Once, a vagrant walked into weekday Mass. He dropped a few red notes in the collection baskets not used during weekdays and wept loudly during Communion. We, uneasy, escorted him out. Nobody spoke up. I struggled with tears. Our throats stayed silent, maybe afraid of what people might say.

That silence exposed a deep festering wound. We had lost a true mark of success for the Church—the courage to defend the dignity of the poor, even when it ‘stinks’ up our system.

The theology of the throat calls us to reclaim our prophetic voice for God rather than popular silence—to make our speech missionary, not malicious; musical, not mischievous; healing, not harmful.

A missionary throat must echo justice, truth, and compassion—even when it trembles.

In the Mass, the priest’s  throat becomes a tabernacle of sound, a vessel of divine encounter. Through that throat, the words “This is my Body” transform bread and wine into the living Christ. In the pews, every “Amen” and “Lord, have mercy” becomes a harmony of faith.

Even the sno cone vendor’s cry, the school child’s giggle, and the teacher’s roll call can be consecrated sounds when spoken in love. Evangelisation doesn’t begin with a microphone; it begins with a purified heart and a disciplined throat.

Healing the Caribbean voice

The Church in the Caribbean is being called to a new Pentecost as missionaries of Hope—a healing of our collective throat. The same Spirit who once gave fiery tongues to timid disciples 2,000 years ago now calls us to speak hope where despair reigns.

Let our throats carry not despair but deliverance, not gossip but gospel, not noise but praise, not scorn but song.

In the rhythm of our islands, let the Word become music—and may every breath we take echo the harmony of Heaven.

When next you sing, speak, shout, or preach, remember: God’s Word longs to find a throat—especially one tuned to the rhythm of the Caribbean heart. Because in the end, the question isn’t just what passes through your throat— it’s who speaks through it.

Prayer:

Lord, purify my throat—the bridge between breath and word.

May every syllable/utter be soaked in mercy, every shout transformed into praise, and every silence filled with Your Spirit. Amen.