criticized my Christianity.
“Black Christianity,” they’d argued, “is a source of oppression. This is a party of freedom fighters—and atheists.”
I dug the freedom part, but could never get with the atheism. Besides, the Panthers, for all their good intentions, were caught in a paradox—and I’d be the first to run it down to them.
“Y’all be knocking the church up in here,” I’d say, “but every time I come ’round you got Aretha on the box. You got Marvin, you got Curtis, you got Stevie. You got James Brown.”
The Panthers would laugh and say, “We ain’t going nowhere without Brother James.”
“I hear you,” I’d say, “but these are church folk. They were raised Christian and stayed Christian. Way I see it, the music that’s driving your revolution is Christian music. Now ain’t that something!”
“They’re Christians who’ve been led astray.”
“But their music is leading you . And under their music is the love of God.”
“Who doesn’t exist.”
I’d come back with, “Well, his music sure exists. And you’re supporting it. And it’s supporting you.”
These discussions got hot, but my feelings about the Panthers stayed warm. I stayed close to the party, even if the atheism requirement kept me from joining. I liked the black leather outfits and the cool berets; even got me a black leather Panther-styled jacket of my own. But it would take a whole lot more than a political organization sporting hip outfits to separate me from Jesus, especially when the right-here right-now reality of Jesus’s spirit was such a palpable force in my own family.
I would discuss the Panthers with my mom and dad who, most naturally, had their reservations. I’d explain to my parents that, even as Christians, we could learn from the Panthers. “We Christians,” I’d say, “are backwards when it comes to the social analysis of capitalism.”
Mom and Dad were open-minded enough to accompany me to a lecture by Eldridge Cleaver. Cleaver had just published Soul on Ice , a hot book in the black community, and I was hoping he’d make a good impression on my folks. Unfortunately, the brother was off the wall. His entire talk was aimed at the sisters. He told them to hold back all sexual favors until the brothers became bona fide revolutionaries. If the brothers didn’t support the party line, the brothers didn’t deserve no loving.
I was flabbergasted. Eldridge spent the entire hour talking about employing sex as a recruitment ploy. Dad looked at me as if to say, Is this Negro crazy ?
I think he was. I think that the Panthers, even though they would continue to influence me in high school and college, suffered from the absence of a spiritual base. The more I read, the more I realized that black revolutionary nationalism didn’t work for me. No nationalism did. My understanding of Jesus Christ went like this: Everything comes beneath the cross—nationalism, tribalism, patriotism, networks, even kinships. The cross is that critical juncture where catastrophe defines our condition and offers salvation, not in the name of a specific ideology or theology, but in the simple name of love. It is love that saves us from the tyranny of chauvinism and its many manifestations.
A CONCRETE EXPRESSION OF THE TRUTH of love happened to me during a field trip to an Indian reservation. I had never seen such abject poverty in the face of children. These red brothers and sisters were living in squalor. It was shocking and heartbreaking. Right then and there, I promised that I would never forget the suffering of indigenous people—I would never allow black suffering to blind me from the suffering of others, no matter what color, culture, or civilization. I was saved from the mistake of devaluing other people’s suffering. Later in life, I would never give a speech about the struggle for freedom without acknowledging the dignity and determination of Native Americans.
A NY WAY YOU LOOK AT IT, I got
“Black Christianity,” they’d argued, “is a source of oppression. This is a party of freedom fighters—and atheists.”
I dug the freedom part, but could never get with the atheism. Besides, the Panthers, for all their good intentions, were caught in a paradox—and I’d be the first to run it down to them.
“Y’all be knocking the church up in here,” I’d say, “but every time I come ’round you got Aretha on the box. You got Marvin, you got Curtis, you got Stevie. You got James Brown.”
The Panthers would laugh and say, “We ain’t going nowhere without Brother James.”
“I hear you,” I’d say, “but these are church folk. They were raised Christian and stayed Christian. Way I see it, the music that’s driving your revolution is Christian music. Now ain’t that something!”
“They’re Christians who’ve been led astray.”
“But their music is leading you . And under their music is the love of God.”
“Who doesn’t exist.”
I’d come back with, “Well, his music sure exists. And you’re supporting it. And it’s supporting you.”
These discussions got hot, but my feelings about the Panthers stayed warm. I stayed close to the party, even if the atheism requirement kept me from joining. I liked the black leather outfits and the cool berets; even got me a black leather Panther-styled jacket of my own. But it would take a whole lot more than a political organization sporting hip outfits to separate me from Jesus, especially when the right-here right-now reality of Jesus’s spirit was such a palpable force in my own family.
I would discuss the Panthers with my mom and dad who, most naturally, had their reservations. I’d explain to my parents that, even as Christians, we could learn from the Panthers. “We Christians,” I’d say, “are backwards when it comes to the social analysis of capitalism.”
Mom and Dad were open-minded enough to accompany me to a lecture by Eldridge Cleaver. Cleaver had just published Soul on Ice , a hot book in the black community, and I was hoping he’d make a good impression on my folks. Unfortunately, the brother was off the wall. His entire talk was aimed at the sisters. He told them to hold back all sexual favors until the brothers became bona fide revolutionaries. If the brothers didn’t support the party line, the brothers didn’t deserve no loving.
I was flabbergasted. Eldridge spent the entire hour talking about employing sex as a recruitment ploy. Dad looked at me as if to say, Is this Negro crazy ?
I think he was. I think that the Panthers, even though they would continue to influence me in high school and college, suffered from the absence of a spiritual base. The more I read, the more I realized that black revolutionary nationalism didn’t work for me. No nationalism did. My understanding of Jesus Christ went like this: Everything comes beneath the cross—nationalism, tribalism, patriotism, networks, even kinships. The cross is that critical juncture where catastrophe defines our condition and offers salvation, not in the name of a specific ideology or theology, but in the simple name of love. It is love that saves us from the tyranny of chauvinism and its many manifestations.
A CONCRETE EXPRESSION OF THE TRUTH of love happened to me during a field trip to an Indian reservation. I had never seen such abject poverty in the face of children. These red brothers and sisters were living in squalor. It was shocking and heartbreaking. Right then and there, I promised that I would never forget the suffering of indigenous people—I would never allow black suffering to blind me from the suffering of others, no matter what color, culture, or civilization. I was saved from the mistake of devaluing other people’s suffering. Later in life, I would never give a speech about the struggle for freedom without acknowledging the dignity and determination of Native Americans.
A NY WAY YOU LOOK AT IT, I got
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