It required faith. I glanced up now at the small, second-story window of the church, imagining the old pastor inside,
drafting his sermon for the week. Where did your faith come from? he had asked. It suddenly occurred to me that I
didn’t have an answer. Perhaps, still, I had faith in myself. But faith in one’s self was never enough.
I stamped out my cigarette and started the car. I looked into my rearview mirror and, driving off, watched the old,
silent cardplayers recede from my sight.
With Johnnie handling the organization’s day-to-day activities, I met with more black ministers in the area, hoping to
convince them to join the organization. It was a slow process, for unlike their Catholic counterparts, most black pastors
were fiercely independent, secure in their congregations and with little obvious need for outside assistance. Whenever I
first reached them on the phone, they would often be suspicious or evasive, uncertain as to why this Muslim-or worse
yet, this Irishman, O’Bama-wanted a few minutes of their time. And a handful I met with conformed to the prototypes
found in Richard Wright novels or Malcolm X speeches: sanctimonious graybeards preaching pie-in-the-sky, or slick
Holy Rollers with flashy cars and a constant eye on the collection plate.
For the most part, though, once I’d had a chance to meet these men face-to-face, I would come away impressed. As a
group, they turned out to be thoughtful, hardworking men, with a confidence, a certainty of purpose, that made them by
far the best organizers in the neighborhood. They were generous with their time, interested in the issues, surprisingly
willing to open themselves to my scrutiny. One minister talked about a former gambling addiction. Another told me
about his years as a successful executive and a secret drunk. They all mentioned periods of religious doubt; the
corruption of the world and their own hearts; the striking bottom and shattering of pride; and then finally the
resurrection of self, a self alloyed to something larger. That was the source of their confidence, they insisted: their
personal fall, their subsequent redemption. It was what gave them the authority to preach the Good News.
Had I heard the Good News? some of them would ask me.
Do you know where it is that your faith is coming from?
When I asked for other pastors to talk to, several gave me the name of Reverend Wright, the same minister Reverend
Philips had mentioned that day at his church. Younger ministers seemed to regard Reverend Wright as a mentor of
sorts, his church a model for what they themselves hoped to accomplish. Older pastors were more cautious with their
praise, impressed with the rapid growth of Trinity’s congregation but somewhat scornful of its popularity among young
black professionals. (“A buppie church,” one pastor would tell me.)
Toward the end of October I finally got a chance to pay Reverend Wright a visit and see the church for myself. It sat
flush on Ninety-fifth Street in a mostly residential neighborhood a few blocks down from the Louden Home projects. I
had expected something imposing, but it turned out to be a low, modest structure of red brick and angular windows,
landscaped with evergreens and sculpted shrubs and a small sign spiked into the grass-FREE SOUTH AFRICA in
simple block letters. Inside, the church was cool and murmured with activity. A group of small children waited to be
picked up from day care. A crew of teenage girls passed by, dressed for what looked like an African dance class. Four
elderly women emerged from the sanctuary, and one of them shouted “God is good!” causing the others to respond
giddily “All the time!”