I Shall Wear A Crown

"I shall wear a crown."

It was between wine-colored pews and the melodic homilies given by robe-draped choirs where I found Jesus.

Jesus—the one familiar with the sorrows of the parishioners and the beckoning call of a better tomorrow—was preached from pulpits and presented as not only an option, but a necessity for life.

For those of us with darker hues, Jesus was introduced as the great liberator and the one who shall present a crown on the heads of those who "made it over."

The Black church served and still serves as a haven for the unspoken burdens of those wandering through a majority culture. In these spaces, I was introduced to the words of Thomas Whitfield:

"When it's all over. I am going to put on my robe and tell the story of how I made it over."

Those are the words that speak earnestly about both the uncompromising norms of being human and the added layer of being a human who is seen as “lesser than” to so many. One thing I remember is the strain of the distant voice of a church member singing these songs. The very guttural place where words like, "how I made it over" reside is the place of resistance and the hope of future glory.

This expression, “how I made it over” was normal for me and honestly assumed as a standard practice for most churches. However, it wasn't until I stepped away from the safe corridors of "kinfolk" spirituality that I saw what church looked like on the other side of the tracks.

"White spaces, white faces."

 My college years brought both an arrogance and curiosity propelled by church seats instead of pews and preaching that didn't involve an ending celebration. I was accepted into a college environment that was tailor-made for a reserved and, at times, culturally appropriating expression of spirituality. This appropriation came in the form of charismatic shouts, preachers using a distinct dialect, and worship music that was made for melanated voices. These new faces—different from mine—spoke of a Holy Spirit that didn't involve testimony services and inevitable passing out from, "catching the holy ghost."

I loved every minute of it.

These spaces contained people who conjured the intellectual notions of faith—a faith that possessed a clear exposition of Scripture and a love for doctrine. The voices that had a grip on my ears were the white, khaki-and-blazer-wearing reformers who preached personal holiness and faith that needed no personal emotion. I began to forget about the Black poets who took the pulpit each Sunday, beautifully blending intellectual and folk theology. They were now “lesser than” in my eyes. I felt as though I had reached the pinnacle of church membership. I came to see my childhood in a new light. Here, I believed, I had indeed found God.

If I were to go into ministry, I thought, I would want to mirror the efforts of this new community. I would still love the acceptance of my father and all those I grew up under; but their gaze was no longer primary—for I wanted a white-washed gospel that presented itself as the authoritative truth above all civilization, ethnicity, and race. I wanted acceptance from men who seemed to have cornered the American evangelical culture market. This, for me, would have been a much easier climb—considering the marching orders for these spaces needed Black faces to employ a semblance of diversity. Specifically, if that diversity only manifested in face and not voice. I was happily on this train—and had no intention of turning back.

I must say that the Lord was present in this season. I began to be a part of and run local Bible studies for students. I forged genuine relationships with guys who would ultimately stand with me on my wedding day. I even began to serve at a church as a youth minister. It was a pivotal time in my life.

"The separation of church and race."

I, however, could not have imagined the way in which my new ideological leanings would come crashing to a halt because Black bodies would be taken from the land of the living at the hand of a pseudo vigilante. On February 26th, 2012, the world was introduced to the name Trayvon Martin. His face was plastered on most televisions as he became the new poster child for Blackness, becoming the reason for extinction. Along with most of this country, I was forced to reckon with the buried truth of racial unrest and the ramifications of a young boy walking home from a convenience store with nothing more than Skittles and a drink in his possession.

As a society, we were simultaneously plunged into a new normal of social media activism and the mantra that would be heard across this globe: Black lives matter. These aforementioned modes of communication began a conversation across all spectrums in which race, policing, and systemic malpractice became the focus. Panels were created, books and articles were written, and the President of the United States of America was pushed to publicly grapple with racism to a self-entitled, post-racial world.

Yet, while all this conversation was happening, the mainstream white church was quiet. The spaces and faces I had become accustomed to over the years of my collegiate career were uninterested in the plight of a young man gunned down in the street. Instead, folks like me heard a lot of, "wait until the facts come out" and, "he should have cooperated." Black folks nestled in the comfortable chairs of white churches had questions, and not many people were willing even to acknowledge the questions, let alone answer them. To the majority culture, this was an isolated event and not another notch in the belt of white supremacy.

I was pushed into questioning everything that had become normal to me. The folks I worshipped with became strangers. A large portion of the people in my community did not recognize who I was in my fullness—plight and glory, gospel and grief.

The sweet melodies of those grand choirs from my childhood began to resonate in me again. For such a long time, I had forgotten that I was forged in spaces where the gospel sometimes comes across like blues music. The Church, for me and so many others who look like me, could never divorce our Blackness and spirituality. I had run from these sacred spaces believing that intellectual prowess was being wrestled within white ivory towers when, in reality, I was being prepared my whole life to tell the story: 

“when it's all over, I made it over.”

Johnny Outing is the Student Minister at Summit Orlando and also part of the Teaching Team. He’s obsessed with reading, writing, and the behind-the-scenes work of movie making. Johnny and his wife, Alicia, love spending time outdoors and dancing in the living room to Disney music with their daughter, Charlotte. You can email him here!