Now he was explaining the history of churches in Chicago. There were thousands of them, and it seemed as if he
knew them all: the tiny storefronts and the large stone edifices; the high-yella congregations that sat stiff as cadets as
they sang from their stern hymnals, and the charismatics who shook as their bodies expelled God’s unintelligible
tongue. Most of the larger churches in Chicago had been a blend of these two forms, Reverend Philips explained, an
example of segregation’s hidden blessings, the way it forced the lawyer and the doctor to live and worship right next to
the maid and the laborer. Like a great pumping heart, the church had circulated goods, information, values, and ideas
back and forth and back again, between rich and poor, learned and unlearned, sinner and saved.
He wasn’t sure, he said, how much longer his church would continue to serve that function. Most of his better-off
members had moved away to tidier neighborhoods, suburban life. They still drove back every Sunday, out of loyalty or
habit. But the nature of their involvement had changed. They hesitated to volunteer for anything-a tutoring program, a
home visitation-that might keep them in the city after dark. They wanted more security around the church, a fenced-in
parking lot to protect their cars. Reverend Philips expected that once he passed on, many of those members would stop
coming back. They would start new churches, tidy like their new streets. He feared that the link to the past would be
finally broken, that the children would no longer retain the memory of that first circle, around a fire....
His voice began to trail off; I felt he was getting tired. I asked him for introductions to other pastors who might be
interested in organizing, and he mentioned a few names-there was a dynamic young pastor, he said, a Reverend
Jeremiah Wright, Jr., pastor of Trinity United Church of Christ, who might be worth talking to; his message seemed to
appeal to young people like me. Reverend Philips gave me his number, and as I got up to leave, I said, “If we could
bring just fifty churches together, we might be able to reverse some of the trends you’ve been talking about.”
Reverend Philips nodded and said, “You may be right, Mr. Obama. You have some interesting ideas. But you see, the
churches around here are used to doing things their own way. Sometimes, the congregations even more than the
pastors.” He opened the door for me, then paused. “By the way, what church do you belong to?”
“I...I attend different services.”
“But you’re not a member anywhere?”
“Still searching, I guess.”
“Well, I can understand that. It might help your mission if you had a church home, though. It doesn’t matter where,
really. What you’re asking from pastors requires us to set aside some of our more priestly concerns in favor of
prophecy. That requires a good deal of faith on our part. It makes us want to know just where you’re getting yours
from. Faith, that is.”
Outside, I put on my sunglasses and walked past a group of older men who had set out their lawn chairs on the
sidewalk for a game of bid whist. It was a gorgeous day, seventy-five in late September. Instead of driving straight to
my next appointment, I decided to linger, letting my legs hang out the open car door, watching the old men play their
game. They didn’t talk much, these men. They reminded me of the men Gramps used to play bridge with-the same
thick, stiff hands; the same thin, natty socks and improbably slender shoes; the same beads of sweat along the folds of
their necks, just beneath their flat caps. I tried to remember the names of those men back in Hawaii, what they had done
for a living, wondering what residue of themselves they’d left in me. They had been mysteries to me then, those old
barré
(Barré)
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