A Black Manifesto :
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As a child, I used to sit on Sunday mornings and listen to the minister
speak eloquently about this world, heaven, and hell. With his mastery
of the Bible, he was able to weave a certain truth that was affirmed by
a comforting consensus of "Amen!" offered up from the congregation.
This was possible because we all believed in that textual absolute known
as the Good Book and in the solace it offered. We were able to suspend
concern about the threats inherent to life—a life existing just beyond
the pulpit.
While holding the Good Book aloft in his right hand and pounding it with his left, this voice, this black voice, admonished self-interest, spoke of pride of self as if it were the worst of evils, and cautioned members of the congregation not to partake in activities, just beyond the pulpit, unbecoming of Christians. And the congregation, with a great many black voices, all concurred with a resounding "Amen!" He then slammed the book closed with resolute force while quoting scripture:
"The meek shall inherit the earth" reinforced this blinding contradiction.
It seemed fair that those who had suffered some great historical tragedy
should get During his sermons, the minister would preface his references to the scripture with "the Gospel according to Matthew" or "the Gospel according to John." I didn't have any problems with Matthew or John or any of the others—it was the "according to" that bothered me, for it allowed the minister to speak without speaking for himself. And it followed that the more adept he was at citing analogies or references with the legitimizing authority of the Good Book, the more easily he could "say" just about anything he wanted without fear of retribution from us and our meek souls. All that was necessary was to find refuge in the pulpit, in the Good Book, and in the authority of the church. It seemed to me that the pulpit was quite a place—a place where one
could conceal one's self, both practically and figuratively. I began to
despise not the minister or the church, but this place—a place or space
that could offer a man, a black man, such vast and unlimited authority
while silencing him at the same moment. This blinding silence was so pervasive
because we, the congregation, heard the words but could not see the space
that made them possible. To this very day, when visiting that church and
those people, I wait until the sanctuary is empty and go to that place
and face an audience that is no longer there—an audience, a black audience,
that has dissolved into the complex and daily contingencies required of
each of its members just beyond the pulpit. |
something for their suffering, and I believed this line of thinking to
be consistent with the church's "you reap what you sow" theory. However,
the "earth" that the meek were supposed to inherit had a master that we
were taught fiercely not to serve. I began to wonder how our meekness,
at this historical moment, could wrench the earth from that other master;
what made us think, what made the minister think, that the master of the
other world would relinquish an acre (let alone forty) without a fight?
