[BretLudwig]

What Obama wrote about Wright in 1995

"Over the last week, there has been much speculation about why Barack
Obama closely associated himself with Rev. Dr. Jeremiah A. Wright, Jr. for
two decades. Much of the speculation has been ill-informed.

So, for the purpose of better informing the American electorate, I'm going
to quote below, at great length, from Chapter 14, pp. 274-295, of Obama's
1995 autobiography, Dreams from My Father: A Story of Race and
Inheritance. I'll leave out only the less Wright-related passages about
Harold Washington's death, Obama's acceptance into Harvard Law School, and
similar less germane matters.

I've tried to be more inclusive than exclusive, so that the public has a
convenient opportunity to inform itself of exactly -- and in context --
what the Presidential candidate wrote in 1995 about his pastor.

Has Obama changed his mind since 1995? Possibly, yet in the Preface to the
2004 edition of Dreams from My Father, Obama denies, in his
characteristically graceful yet obscure prose style, that he has changed
much:

"I cannot honestly say, however, that the voice in this book is not
mine€”that I would tell the story much differently today than I did ten
years ago, even if certain passages have proven to be inconvenient
politically, the grist for pundit commentary and opposition research."

Quoting about 6,000 words of Obama's 442 page memoir raises obvious
copyright questions. I would contend that, in the context of the tens of
thousands of words I've written about Obama and Wright, this qualifies as
"fair use." I would also argue a public policy justification, since
Obama's relationship with Wright is widely considered to be a question of
substantial political importance in determining who will be the next
President of the United States.

If the copyright holder objects, however, I will take this down.

(To my readers uninterested in this topic, I'll just advise that holding
down the Page Down key will take you to my earlier posts.)

The implied timeframe of the following chapter is September 1987 to
February 1988, although I wouldn't be surprised if Obama compressed a
series of events straggling over several years for the purpose of the
dramatic unity. I don't see that it's terribly important one way or
another.

Chapter 14 comprises the last and climactic part of the mid-section of the
book: "Chicago."

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

IT WAS AN OLD BUILDING, in one of the South Sides older
neighborhoods, still sound but badly in need of tuckpointing and perhaps a
new roof. The sanctuary was dark, with several pews that had cracked and
splintered; the reddish carpet gave off a musty, damp odor; and at various
points the floorboards beneath bucked and dipped like welts in a meadow.
Reverend Philipss office had this same chipped, worn quality, lit only
by an antique desk lamp that cast the room in a dull, amber glow. And
Reverend Philips himself-he was old. With the window shades drawn,
surrounded by stacks of dusty old books, he seemed now to be receding into
the wall, as still as a portrait, only his snow-white hair clearly visible,
his voice sonorous and disembodied, like the voice of a dream.

We had been talking for close to an hour, mostly about the church. Not
his church so much as the church, the historically black church, the church
as an institution, the church as an idea. He was an erudite man and began
our conversation with a history of slave religion, telling me about the
Africans who, newly landed on hostile shores, had sat circled around a
fire mixing newfound myths with ancient rhythms, their songs becoming a
vessel for those most radical of ideas-survival, and freedom, and hope.
The reverend went on to recall the Southern church of his own youth, a
small, whitewashed wooden place, he said, built with sweat and pennies
saved from share-cropping, where on bright, hot Sunday mornings all the
quiet terror and open wounds of the week drained away in tears and shouts
of gratitude; the clapping, waving, fanning hands reddening the embers of
those same stubborn ideas-survival, and freedom, and hope. He discussed
Martin Luther Kings visit to Chicago and the jealousy he had witnessed
among some of Kings fellow ministers, their fear of being usurped; and
the emergence of the Muslims, whose anger Reverend Philips understood: It
was his own anger, he said, an anger that he didnt expect he would ever
entirely escape but that through prayer he had learned to control-and that
he had tried not to pass down to his children.

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 Gods unintelligible
tongue. Most of the larger churches in Chicago had been a blend of these
two forms, Reverend Philips explained, an example of segregations
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 wasnt 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, €œIf we could bring just fifty churches together, we might
be able to reverse some of the trends youve been talking about."

Reverend Philips nodded and said, €œYou 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. €œBy the way,
what church do you belong to?€�

€œI€¦I attend different services."

€œBut youre not a member anywhere?€�

€œStill searching, I guess."

€œWell, I can understand that. It might help your mission if you had
a church home, though. It doesnt matter where, really. What youre
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 youre 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 didnt
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 theyd left in me. They had been mysteries to me then,
those old black men; that mystery was part of what had brought me to
Chicago. And now, now that I was leaving Chicago, I wondered if I
understood them any better than before.

I hadnt told anyone except Johnnie [Obama's right hand man in his
community organizing group] about my decision. I figured there would be
time for an announcement later; I wouldnt even hear back from the law
schools until January. €¦

And I had things to learn in law school, things that would help me
bring about real change. I would learn about interest rates, corporate
mergers, the legislative process; about the way businesses and banks were
put together; how real estate ventures succeeded or failed. I would learn
powers currency in all its intricacy and detail, knowledge that would
have compromised me before coming to Chicago but that I could now bring
back to where it was needed, back to Roseland, back to Altgeld; bring it
back like Promethean fire.

Thats the story I had been telling myself, the same story I
imagined my father telling himself twenty-eight years before, as he had
boarded the plane to America, the land of dreams. He, too, had probably
believed he was acting out some grand design, that he wasnt simply
fleeing from possible inconsequence. And, in fact, he had returned to
Kenya, hadnt he? But only as a divided man, his plans, his dreams, soon
turned to dust€¦. [ellipses in the original]

Would the same thing happen to me? Maybe Johnnie was right; maybe once
you stripped away the rationalizations, it always came down to a simple
matter of escape. An escape from poverty or boredom or crime or the
shackles of your skin. Maybe, by going to law school, Id be repeating a
pattern that had been set in motion centuries before, the moment white men,
themselves spurred on by their own fears of inconsequence, had landed on
Africas shores, bringing with them their guns and blind hunger, to drag
away the conquered in chains. That first encounter had redrawn the map of
black life, recentered its universe, created the very idea of escape-an
idea that lived on in Frank and those other old black men who had found
refuge in Hawaii; in green-eyed Joyce back at Occidental, just wanting to
be an individual; in Auma, torn between Germany and Kenya; in Roy, finding
out that he couldnt start over. And here, in the South Side, among
members of Reverend Philipss church, some of whom had probably marched
alongside Dr. King, believing then that they marched for a higher purpose,
for rights and for principles and for all Gods children, but who at some
point had realized that power was unyielding and principles unstable, and
that even after laws were passed and lynchings ceased, the closest thing
to freedom would still involve escape, emotional if not physical, away
from ourselves, away from what we knew, flight into the outer reaches of
the white mans empire-or closer into its bosom.

The analogies werent exactly right. The relationship between black
and white, the meaning of escape, would never be quite the same for me as
it had been for Frank, or for the Old Man, or even for Roy. And as
segregated as Chicago was, as strained as race relations were, the success
of the civil rights movement had at least created some overlap between
communities, more room to maneuver for people like me. I could work in the
black community as an organizer or a lawyer and still live in a high rise
downtown. Or the other way around: I could work in a blue-chip law firm
but live in the South Side and buy a big house, drive a nice car, make my
donations to the NAACP and Harolds campaign, speak at local high
schools. A role model, theyd call me, an example of black male
success.

Was there anything wrong with that? Johnnie obviously didnt think
so. He had smiled, I realized now, not because he judged me but precisely
because he didnt; because he, like my leaders, didnt see anything
wrong with such success.

That was one of the lessons Id learned these past two and a half
years, wasnt it?-that most black folks werent like the father of my
dreams, the man in my mothers stories, full of high-blown ideals and
quick to pass judgment. They were more like my stepfather, Lolo, practical
people who knew life was too hard to judge each others choices, too
messy to live according to abstract ideals. No one expected self-sacrifice
from me-not Rafiq, who of late had been pestering me about helping him
raise money from white foundations for his latest scheme; not Reverend
Smalls, who had decided to run for the state senators seat and was
anxious for our support. As far as they were concerned, my color had
always been a sufficient criterion for community membership, enough of a
cross to bear.

Was that all that had brought me to Chicago, I wondered-the desire for
such simple acceptance? That had been part of it, certainly, one meaning to
community. But there had been another meaning, too, a more demanding
impulse. Sure, you could be black and still not give a damn about what
happened in Altgeld or Roseland. You didnt have to care about boys like
Kyle, young mothers like Bernadette or Sadie. But to be right with
yourself, to do right by others, to lend meaning to a communitys
suffering and take part in its healing-that required something more. It
required the kind of commitment that Dr. Collier made every day out in
Altgeld. It required the kind of sacrifices a man like Asante had been
willing to make with his students.

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 didnt have an answer. Perhaps, still, I had faith
in myself. But faith in ones 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 organizations 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,
OBama-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 Id 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 Trinitys congregation but somewhat scornful of
its popularity among young black professionals. (€œA 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 €œGod is good!€� causing the
others to respond giddily €œAll the time!€�

Eventually a pretty woman with a brisk, cheerful manner came up and
introduced herself as Tracy, one of Reverend Wrights assistants. She
said that the reverend was running a few minutes late and asked if I
wanted some coffee. As I followed her back into a kitchen toward the rear
of the church, we began to chat, about the church mostly, but also a
little about her. It had been a difficult year, she said: Her husband had
recently died, and in just a few weeks shed be moving out to the
suburbs. She had wrestled long and hard with the decision, for she had
lived most of her life in the city. But she had decided the move would be
best for her teenage son. She began to explain how there were a lot more
black families in the suburbs these days; how her son would be free to
walk down the street without getting harassed; how the school hed be
attending had music courses, a full band, free instruments and uniforms.

€œHes always wanted to be in a band,€� she said softly.

As we were talking, I noticed a man in his late forties walking toward
us. He had silver hair, a silver mustache and goatee; he was dressed in a
gray three-piece suit. He moved slowly, methodically, as if conserving
energy, sorting through his mail as he walked, humming a simple tune to
himself.

€œBarack,€� he said as if we were old friends, €œlets see if
Tracy here will let me have a minute of your time."

€œDont pay him no mind, Barack,€� Tracy said, standing up and
straightening out her skirt. €œI should have warned you that Rev likes to
act silly sometimes."

Reverend Wright smiled and led me into a small, cluttered office.
€œSorry for being late,€� he said, closing the door behind him.
€œWere trying to build a new sanctuary, and I had to meet with the
bankers. Im telling you, doc, they always want something else from you.
Latest thing is another life insurance policy on me. In case I drop dead
tomorrow. They figure the whole churchll collapse without me."

€œIs it true?€�

Reverend Wright shook his head. €œIm not the church, Barack. If I
die tomorrow, I hope the congregation will give me a decent burial. I like
to think a few tears will be shed. But as soon as Im six feet under,
theyll be right back on the case, figuring out how to make this church
live up to its mission."

He had grown up in Philadelphia, the son of a Baptist minister. He had
resisted his fathers vocation at first, joining the Marines out of
college, dabbling with liquor, Islam, and black nationalism in the
sixties. But the call of his faith had apparently remained, a steady tug
on his heart, and eventually hed entered Howard, then the University of
Chicago, where he spent six years studying for a Ph.D. in the history of
religion. He learned Hebrew and Greek, read the literature of Tillich and
Niebuhr and the black liberation theologians. The anger and humor of the
streets, the book learning and occasional twenty-five-cent word, all this
he had brought with him to Trinity almost two decades ago. And although it
was only later that I would learn much of this biography, it became clear
in that very first meeting that, despite the reverends frequent
disclaimers, it was this capacious talent of his-this ability to hold
together, if not reconcile, the conflicting strains of black
experience-upon which Trinitys success had ultimately been built.

€œWe got a lot of different personalities here,€� he told me. €œGot
the Africanist over here. The traditionalist over here. Once in a while, I
have to stick my hand in the pot-smooth things over before stuff gets
ugly. But thats rare. Usually, if somebodys got an idea for a new
ministry, I just tell em to run with it and get outta their way."

His approach had obviously worked: the church had grown from two
hundred to four thousand members during his tenure; there were
organizations for every taste, from yoga classes to Caribbean clubs. He
was especially pleased with the churchs progress in getting more men
involved, although he admitted that they still had a way to go.

€œNothings harder than reaching young brothers like yourself,€�
he said. €œThey worry about looking soft. They worry about what their
buddies are gonna say about em. They tell themselves church is a
womans thing-that its a sign of weakness for a man to admit that
hes got spiritual needs."

The reverend looked up at me then, a look that made me nervous. I
decided to shift the conversation to more familiar ground, telling him
about DCP and the issues we were working on, explaining the need for
involvement from larger churches like his. He sat patiently and listened
to my pitch, and when I was finished he gave a small nod.

€œIll try to help you if I can,€� he said. €œBut you should know
that having us involved in your effort isnt necessarily a feather in
your cap."

€œWhys that?€� Reverend Wright shrugged. €œSome of my fellow
clergy dont appreciate what were about. They feel like were too
radical. Others, we aint radical enough. Too emotional. Not emotional
enough. Our emphasis on African history, on scholarship-€�

€œSome people say,€� I interrupted, €œthat the church is too
upwardly mobile."

The reverends smile faded. €œThats a lot of bull,€� he said
sharply. €œPeople who talk that mess reflect their own confusion.
Theyve bought into the whole business of class that keeps us from
working together. Half of em think that the former gang-banger or the
former Muslim got no business in a Christian church. Other half think any
black man with an education or a job, or any church that respects
scholarship, is somehow suspect.

€œWe dont buy into these false divisions here. Its not about
income, Barack. Cops dont check my bank account when they pull me over
and make me spread-eagle against the car. These miseducated brothers, like
that sociologist at the University of Chicago, talking about €˜the
declining significance of race. Now, what country is he living in?€�

But wasnt there a reality to the class divisions, I wondered? I
mentioned the conversation Id had with his assistant, the tendency of
those with means to move out of the line of fire. He took off his glasses
and rubbed what I now saw to be a pair of tired eyes.

€œIve given Tracy my opinion about moving out of the city,€� he
said quietly. €œThat boy of hers is gonna get out there and wont have
a clue about where, or who, he is."

€œIts tough to take chances with your childs safety."

€œLifes not safe for a black man in this country, Barack. Never
has been. Probably never will be."

A secretary buzzed, reminding Reverend Wright of his next appointment.
We shook hands, and he agreed to have Tracy prepare a list of members for
me to meet. Afterward, in the parking lot, I sat in my car and thumbed
through a silver brochure that Id picked up in the reception area. It
contained a set of guiding principles-a €œBlack Value System€�-that the
congregation had adopted in 1979. At the top of the list was a commitment
to God, €œwho will give us the strength to give up prayerful passivism
and become Black Christian activists, soldiers for Black freedom and the
dignity of all humankind.€� Then a commitment to the black community and
black family, education, the work ethic, discipline, and self-respect.

A sensible, heartfelt list-not so different, I suspected, from the
values old Reverend Philips might have learned in his whitewashed country
church two generations before. There was one particular passage in
Trinitys brochure that stood out, though, a commandment more
self-conscious in its tone, requiring greater elaboration. €œA Disavowal
of the Pursuit of Middleclassness,€� the heading read. €œWhile it is
permissible to chase €˜middleincomeness with all our might,€� the
text stated, those blessed with the talent or good fortune to achieve
success in the American mainstream must avoid the €œpsychological
entrapment of Black €˜middleclassness that hypnotizes the successful
brother or sister into believing they are better than the rest and teaches
them to think in terms of €˜we and €˜they instead of €˜US!€�

[It's informative to quote that "value" in full from Trinity's website:

8. Disavowal of the Pursuit of €œMiddleclassness.€� Classic methodology
on control of captives teaches that captors must be able to identify the
€œtalented tenth€� of those subjugated, especially those who show
promise of providing the kind of leadership that might threaten the
captors control.

Those so identified are separated from the rest of the people by:

1. Killing them off directly, and/or fostering a social system that
encourages them to kill off one another.
2. Placing them in concentration camps, and/or structuring an economic
environment that induces captive youth to fill the jails and prisons.
3. Seducing them into a socioeconomic class system which, while
training them to earn more dollars, hypnotizes them into believing they
are better than others and teaches them to think in terms of €œwe€� and
€œthey€� instead of €œus.€�
4. So, while it is permissible to chase €œmiddleclassness€� with all
our might, we must avoid the third separation method €“ the psychological
entrapment of Black €œmiddleclassness.€� If we avoid this snare, we will
also diminish our €œvoluntary€� contributions to methods A and B. And
more importantly, Black people no longer will be deprived of their
birthright: the leadership, resourcefulness and example of their own
talented persons.]

My thoughts would often return to that declaration in the weeks that
followed as I met with various members of Trinity. I decided that Reverend
Wright was at least partly justified in dismissing the churchs critics,
for the bulk of its membership was solidly working class, the same
teachers and secretaries and government workers one found in other big
black churches throughout the city. Residents from the nearby housing
project had been actively recruited, and programs designed to meet the
needs of the poor-legal aid, tutorials, drug programs-took up a
substantial amount of the churchs resources.

Still, there was no denying that the church had a disproportionate
number of black professionals in its ranks: engineers, doctors,
accountants, and corporate managers. Some of them had been raised in
Trinity; others had transferred in from other denominations. Many
confessed to a long absence from any religious practice-a conscious choice
for some, part of a political or intellectual awakening, but more often
because church had seemed irrelevant to them as theyd pursued their
careers in largely white institutions.

At some point, though, they all told me of having reached a spiritual
dead end; a feeling, at once inchoate and oppressive, that theyd been
cut off from themselves. Intermittently, then more regularly, they had
returned to the church, finding in Trinity some of the same things every
religion hopes to offer its converts: a spiritual harbor and the chance to
see ones gifts appreciated and acknowledged in a way that a paycheck
never can; an assurance, as bones stiffened and hair began to gray, that
they belonged to something that would outlast their own lives-and that,
when their time finally came, a community would be there to remember.

But not all of what these people sought was strictly religious, I
thought; it wasnt just Jesus they were coming home to. It occurred to
me that Trinity, with its African themes, its emphasis on black history,
continued the role that Reverend Philips had described earlier as a
redistributor of values and circulator of ideas. Only now the
redistribution didnt run in just a single direction from the
schoolteacher or the physician who saw it as a Christian duty to help the
sharecropper or the young man fresh from the South adapt to big-city life.
The flow of culture now ran in reverse as well; the former gang-banger, the
teenage mother, had their own forms of validation-claims of greater
deprivation, and hence authenticity, their presence in the church
providing the lawyer or doctor with an education from the streets. By
widening its doors to allow all who would enter, a church like Trinity
assured its members that their fates remained inseparably bound, that an
intelligible €œus€� still remained.

It was a powerful program, this cultural community, one more pliant
than simple nationalism, more sustaining than my own brand of organizing.
Still, I couldnt help wondering whether it would be enough to keep more
people from leaving the city or young men out of jail. Would the Christian
fellowship between a black school administrator, say, and a black school
parent change the way the schools were run? Would the interest in
maintaining such unity allow Reverend Wright to take a forceful stand on
the latest proposals to reform public housing? And if men like Reverend
Wright failed to take a stand, if churches like Trinity refused to engage
with real power and risk genuine conflict, then what chance would there be
of holding the larger community intact?

Sometimes I would put such questions to the people I met with. They
would respond with the same bemused look Reverend Philips and Reverend
Wright had given me. For them, the principles in Trinitys brochure were
articles of faith no less than belief in the Resurrection. You have some
good ideas, they would tell me. Maybe if you joined the church you could
help us start a community program. Why dont you come by on Sunday?

And I would shrug and play the question off, unable to confess that I
could no longer distinguish between faith and mere folly, between faith
and simple endurance; that while I believed in the sincerity I heard in
their voices, I remained a reluctant skeptic, doubtful of my own motives,
wary of expedient conversion, having too many quarrels with God to accept
a salvation too easily won.

The day before Thanksgiving, [Chicago mayor] Harold Washington died.

In February, I received my acceptance from Harvard. €¦

I had scheduled a luncheon that week at our office for the twenty or
so ministers whose churches had agreed to join the organization. €¦

I woke up at six A.M. that Sunday. It was still dark outside. I
shaved, brushed the lint from my only suit, and arrived at the church by
seven-thirty. Most of the pews were already filled. A white-gloved usher
led me past elderly matrons in wide plumaged hats, tall unsmiling men in
suits and ties and mud-cloth kufis, children in their Sunday best. A
parent from Dr. Colliers school waved at me; an official from the CHA
with whom Id had several run-ins nodded curtly. I shunted through to
the center of a row and stuffed myself between a plump older woman who
failed to scoot over and a young family of four, the father already
sweating in his coarse woolen jacket, the mother telling the two young
boys beside her to stop kicking each other.

€œWheres God?€� I overheard the toddler ask his brother.

€œShut up,€� the older boy replied.

€œBoth of you settle down right now,€� the mother said.

Trinitys associate pastor, a middle-aged woman with graying hair
and a no-nonsense demeanor, read the bulletin and led sleepy voices
through a few traditional hymns. Then the choir filed down the aisle
dressed in white robes and kentecloth shawls, clapping and singing as they
fanned out behind the altar, an organ following the quickening drums:

Im so glad, Jesus lifted me!
Im so glad, Jesus lifted me!
Im so glad, Jesus lifted me!
Singing Glory, Ha-le-lu-yah!
Jesus lifted me!

As the congregation joined in, the deacons, then Reverend Wright,
appeared beneath the large cross that hung from the rafters. The reverend
remained silent while devotions were read, scanning the faces in front of
him, watching the collection basket pass from hand to hand. When the
collection was over, he stepped up to the pulpit and read the names of
those who had passed away that week, those who were ailing, each name
causing a flutter somewhere in the crowd, the murmur of recognition.

€œLet us join hands,€� the reverend said, €œas we kneel and pray at
the foot of an old rugged cross-€�

€œYes€¦€�

€œLord, we come first to thank you for what youve already done for
us€¦. We come to thank you most of all for Jesus. Lord, we come from
different walks of life. Some considered high, and some low€¦but all on
equal ground at the foot of this cross. Lord, thank you! For Jesus,
Lord€¦our burden bearer and heavy load sharer, we thank you€¦."

The title of Reverend Wrights sermon that morning was €œThe
Audacity of Hope.€� He began with a passage from the Book of Samuel-the
story of Hannah, who, barren and taunted by her rivals, had wept and
shaken in prayer before her God. The story reminded him, he said, of a
sermon a fellow pastor had preached at a conference some years before, in
which the pastor described going to a museum and being confronted by a
painting titled Hope.

€œThe painting depicts a harpist,€� Reverend Wright explained, €œa
woman who at first glance appears to be sitting atop a great mountain.
Until you take a closer look and see that the woman is bruised and
bloodied, dressed in tattered rags, the harp reduced to a single frayed
string. Your eye is then drawn down to the scene below, down to the valley
below, where everywhere are the ravages of famine, the drumbeat of war, a
world groaning under strife and deprivation.

€œIt is this world, a world where cruise ships throw away more food
in a day than most residents of Port-au-Prince see in a year, where white
folks greed runs a world in need, apartheid in one hemisphere, apathy
in another hemisphere€¦Thats the world! On which hope sits!€�

And so it went, a meditation on a fallen world. While the boys next to
me doodled on their church bulletin, Reverend Wright spoke of Sharpsville
and Hiroshima, the callousness of policy makers in the White House and in
the State House. As the sermon unfolded, though, the stories of strife
became more prosaic, the pain more immediate. The reverend spoke of the
hardship that the congregation would face tomorrow, the pain of those far
from the mountain-top, worrying about paying the light bill. But also the
pain of those closer to the metaphorical summit: the middle-class woman
who seems to have all her worldly needs taken care of but whose husband is
treating her like €œthe maid, the household service, the jitney service,
and the escort service all rolled into one€�; the child whose wealthy
parents worry more about €œthe texture of hair on the outside of the head
than the quality of education inside the head."

€œIsnt that€¦the world that each of us stands on?€�

€œYessuh!€�

€œLike Hannah, we have known bitter times! Daily, we face rejection
and despair!€�

€œSay it!€�

€œAnd yet consider once again the painting before us. Hope! Like
Hannah, that harpist is looking upwards, a few faint notes floating
upwards towards the heavens. She dares to hope€¦. She has the
audacity€¦to make music€¦and praise God€¦on the one string€¦she has
left!€�

People began to shout, to rise from their seats and clap and cry out,
a forceful wind carrying the reverends voice up into the rafters. As I
watched and listened from my seat, I began to hear all the notes from the
past three years swirl about me. The courage and fear of Ruby and Will.
The race pride and anger of men like Rafiq. The desire to let go, the
desire to escape, the desire to give oneself up to a God that could
somehow put a floor on despair.

And in that single note-hope!-I heard something else; at the foot of
that cross, inside the thousands of churches across the city, I imagined
the stories of ordinary black people merging with the stories of David and
Goliath, Moses and Pharaoh, the Christians in the lions den, Ezekiels
field of dry bones. Those stories-of survival, and freedom, and hope-became
our story, my story; the blood that had spilled was our blood, the tears
our tears; until this black church, on this bright day, seemed once more a
vessel carrying the story of a people into future generations and into a
larger world. Our trials and triumphs became at once unique and universal,
black and more than black; in chronicling our journey, the stories and
songs gave us a means to reclaim memories that we didnt need to feel
shamed about, memories more accessible than those of ancient Egypt,
memories that all people might study and cherish-and with which we could
start to rebuild. And if a part of me continued to feel that this Sunday
communion sometimes simplified our condition, that it could sometimes
disguise or suppress the very real conflicts among us and would fulfill
its promise only through action, I also felt for the first time how that
spirit carried within it, nascent, incomplete, the possibility of moving
beyond our narrow dreams.

€œThe audacity of hope! I still remember my grandmother, singing in
the house, €˜Theres a bright side somewhere€¦dont rest till you
find it€¦.€�

€œThats right!€�

€œThe audacity of hope! Times when we couldnt pay the bills. Times
when it looked like I wasnt ever going to amount to anything€¦at the
age of fifteen, busted for grand larceny auto theft€¦and yet and still my
momma and daddy would break into a song€¦ Thank you, Jesus. Thank you,
Jesus.

Thank you, Jesus. Thank you, Jesus.
Thank you, Je-sus, Thank you, Lo-ord.
You brought me fro-om
A mighty long way, mighty long way.

€œAnd it made no sense to me, this singing! Why were they thanking
Him for all of their troubles? Id ask myself. But see, I was only
looking at the horizontal dimension of their lives!€�

€œTell it now!€�

€œI didnt understand that they were talking about the vertical
dimension! About their relationship to God! I didnt understand that
they were thanking Him in advance for all that they dared to hope for in
me! Oh, I thank you, Jesus, for not letting go of me when I let go of you!
Oh yes, Jesus, I thank you€¦."

As the choir lifted back up into song, as the congregation began to
applaud those who were walking to the altar to accept Reverend Wrights
call, I felt a light touch on the top of my hand. I looked down to see the
older of the two boys sitting beside me, his face slightly apprehensive as
he handed me a pocket tissue. Beside him, his mother glanced at me with a
faint smile before turning back toward the altar. It was only as I thanked
the boy that I felt the tears running down my cheeks.

€œOh, Jesus,€� I heard the older woman beside me whisper softly.
€œThank you for carrying us this far."

The third section of the book, "Kenya," covers pp. 297-430. It describes
Obama's visit to his father's country later in 1988. This is followed by
an Epilogue, briefly covering the period up through Obama's 1992 wedding.
Rev. Wright is only mentioned once more in the book, on pp. 440, as
presiding at the wedding.

As far as I can tell, Jesus doesn't come up at all after pp. 295."


http://isteve.blogspot.com/2008/05/w...t-in-1995.html


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