John W. Fountain
Driving into Evergreen was like driving through a cloud of smoke into the past. The roads looked strangely familiar, as the events of 1979 seemed to come back to life. There was the police station uptown where Mama, my stepfather, Net, and I had gone to get a copy of the police report.
We discovered that some women's hair is falling out, they suspect, for washing in toxic water, of from not being able to
I am aware that some things still haven't changed; that being smart or a schoolboy still ain't cool; that rude boys and gangsters still get the girl; and that the groveling, often hard-to-understand ghetto talk still embraced by one world can cripple a child in another.
Far from the plight of the children who remain in harm's way, even as they resume play, making cold mud pies beneath sun
A preacher and his wife, plainly dressed, wearing no vestments, neither bathed in pomp and circumstance, administer the Lord's Supper. They lift the bread and cup to the mouths of some of those gathered here for a morning service.
She was a fierce Bible believer and demanded that we memorize scriptures, pray, and say grace before we touched one morsel
Long before hashtags, before Black Lives Matter marches and social media campaigns, the names of Chicago murder victims have been etched into the hearts, psyches and souls of family members and friends. Among them was Frances Colon, 18. I promised her mother I would not forget.
Even in an age of preacher as celebrity, it is not the evolution of a Bling Bling Gospel that most disheartens me. It is the loss of the church's heart and soul: the mission to seek and to save lost souls through the power of the Gospel and a risen savior.
Somewhere along the way, for us, for me, the church--the collective of black churches of the Christian faith, regardless of denomination--lost its meaning, its relevance. It seems to have no discernible message for what ails the 21st-century black male soul.