Today’s post is the fourth in a listening series, where I get the amazing opportunity to amplify the voices of my black and African brothers and sisters. Read the first post, “A Common Enemy,” here, and the second post, “Coming to America,” here, and “Have You Not Always Practiced Love?” here. Each post will demonstrate an array of viewpoints that will help us be in true community.

This beautiful and vulnerable post is written by my brother in Christ Brad Smith. Brad works for the Department of Defense and is active in his community in education, youth and veteran advocacy, criminal justice reform, and mediation. Outside of his day, job he works to foster food security and combat food and land apartheid as a board member of a local community ubran green space, Downtown Greens, and manages a small urban farmsted, Creekmur Smallhold, where he practices relational agriculture. He wrote this piece just for Being in Community.

By Brad Smith

I was recently challenged with a question that felt at once exhausting and overwhelming: “What are you most thankful for right now?” These past few months have shown me the most hopeful and most challenging aspects of my community. But, I think, even as we hear the echoed cry “I can’t breathe” in the midst of a pandemic that often takes our breath away, I am most thankful that there are those that still hope in a redeemed America.

Hope is one of the most sacred gifts God has given us. I have wept, and hoped, with my adopted siblings in the Coptic Orthodox Church as we have mourned Easter bombings and honored martyrs killed on the shores of Libya. I have wondered at the hope that maintained the faith in the hearts of so many babushkas as so many countries in Eastern Europe, for decades, were unable to celebrate Liturgy without persecution or trust that their clergy hadn’t been co-opted by the state. Those grandmothers preserved Orthodox Christianity in Russia, Eastern Europe, and beyond. 

As an African American, I wonder at the hope of my people, too—we too know what it’s like to have our churches desecrated and to wonder if clergy truly hold our interests over those of the state. 

My grandmother is one of the most devout individuals I know. Her devotion is not so much a visible piety, but an understanding of reality that is permeated by the divine—nothing is explainable without God. In the South especially, black matriarchs constantly had to draw distinctions between the Christianity they knew, and the Christianity their children experienced in the streets: that other Christians could hang them from trees, that they could spit on them, that they could light their churches on fire. When their churches were in ashes, their faith still remained. When laws were passed to limit black public gatherings, still they found ways to be in communion.

From the time of the first colonists, America was seen as religious refuge. For many it was a place where they could choose to worship God how they saw fit. Though religious freedom was not always perfect, Catholic, Lutheran, Quaker, Anglican, and a dozen other old and new denominations saw unprecedented ability to exercise their faith without fear of state persecution. America continues to be a place where not only Christians, but people of all beliefs often find religious freedom. It has been this way for my Eastern and Oriental Orthodox brothers and sisters, as many of their parents or grandparents also came to the US with the hope of being able to worship in freedom and peace.

The American black, especially the enslaved black, does not fit so easily into this narrative. Though there were initially pockets, especially in the North, where blacks enjoyed almost identical religious freedom, as the country changed, so too did African Americans’ relationship with Christianity.

As blacks had their language and culture taken from them and were given the faith of their masters or surrounding communities, it is not as easy to frame the plight of African Americans in terms of “religious persecution;” blacks, after all, were not persecuted because their beliefs were contrary to their neighbors. They themselves—their existence—was contrary to their neighbors. For most of American history, many American Christians—including many enslaved blacks—were taught a peculiar 19th century Western Christian teaching that blacks bore the “Curse of Ham,” blackened for the sins of Noah’s son, cursed to be slaves of slaves, the lowest of the low. Though the specifics of this belief varied, in its most twisted forms it even held that blacks were not even fully human—not made in the image of God—and could not attain salvation.

There are many roots behind the development of this theology in the West, but it gained massive acceptance during the Enlightenment and colonialism as an answer to other Europeans who criticized what they saw as the increasing brutality and hypocrisy of chattel slavery. While views on slavery and indentured servitude varied, the Catholic, Orthodox, Quaker, and Mennonite, traditions, among others, almost universally rejected the heresy that blacks were the recipients of some divine curse. Though it was often a cause for schism between other Protestant churches, its adherents continued to grow in number, power, and influence, especially in societies where slavery, or some form of apartheid, was common. 

Abolitionists were often considered terrorists and even heretics, working against God’s divine order. While “white supremacy” today has negative connotations and is often considered a term born in some Ivy League classroom, it was coined and embraced by people who saw whites as the true crown of creation. This heretical theology ordered all the people of the world in a rough order with those deemed “White”–the children of Japeth–at the top; those deemed “Black”–children of Ham–at the bottom; and those deemed “other”–children of Shem–somewhere in the tenuous middle. Directly preceding our Civil War, making reference to Christ, a defender of slavery even called this ordering the “Cornerstone” that was rejected by the builders of America.

Though familiar with many of the worst manifestations of these beliefs, Martin Luther King Jr. found it hard to appreciate the full weight and implications of this theology until he traveled to India. Upon arrival, he was greeted by a member of the Dalit caste as a fellow “Untouchable.” He was initially taken aback at this characterization—he wasn’t “untouchable,” he thought—but the characterization stuck with him. My grandmother, a teacher, would work as a cleaner at a nursing home to help supplement her salary during and  in the decades following legal desegregation.  She told me how, even when the laws changed on paper, the black cleaners were often not allowed to touch things that would come into direct contact with the all white residents—they had to be cleaned by Hispanic, Asian, or white cleaners. King, my grandmother, and a nation of blacks began to believe that no matter how often we prayed, tithed, worked, to so many Americans we were, as a whole, untouchable—an unredeemable caste, unworthy of hope.

I wonder at how many Gospel songs sung in black churches today originated in slave fields—songs of mourning and rejoicing, born in captivity. I wonder how many songs were born of mourning for black children killed in church bombings. How many songs tried to turn that mourning into hope. Hope that existed in spite of injustice. Hope that I have seen–to borrow the words of my Orthodox siblings–watered by the blood of the martyrs. Even as an adult, it is easy for me to lose appreciation for how miraculous this is as so many of us–those who have been hurt by fellow Christians–have lost hope and, drowning in a feeling of being unloved, have lost faith. 

James Baldwin, a son of a preacher and occasional collaborator with Martin Luther King Jr, struggled with his faith, and the faith of white America, his whole life. He wrote a fellow activist–he calls her “sister”–regarding what he felt was the triumph of a corrupted Christianity, the fulfilment of the Curse of Ham: “The American triumph—in which the American tragedy has always been implicit—was to make Black people despise themselves. When I was little I despised myself; I did not know any better. And this meant, albeit unconsciously, or against my will, or in great pain, that I also despised my father. And my mother. And my brothers. And my sisters. Black people were killing each other every Saturday night…when I was growing up; and no one explained to them, or to me, that it was intended that they should; that they were penned where they were, like animals, in order that they should consider themselves no better than animals. Everything supported this sense of reality, nothing denied it.”

I have lived an incredibly privileged life. My grandmother supplemented my religious education with an academic one–many times teaching from the same books my grandfather stole to supplement the moldy, torn, outdated, books often given to black schools. I grew up in a military family and received many of the material, economic, and social benefits that that provided. Though not always a guarantor of safety, especially in the South, the military was one of the few professions that afforded blacks some level of social protection–though that was not always guaranteed, it was safer to many than seeking refuge in their churches. Born in Okinawa and coming from Frankfurt, Germany I did not learn as early as some that I was untouchable to many Americans. I was–at least early on–shielded from books, songs, or interactions that denied my humanity. I was older than most when I wondered if it was right for me to hate my skin.

Military communities are also much more diverse than the rest of America and black families stationed overseas, especially in Europe, often saw privileges and respect they could never imagine in America–many never came back after seeing this “new world.” My father was Executive Officer for the Marine Security Guard Company in Western Europe, which exposed me to a wide variety of cultures. I learned about the Civil Rights movement and desegregation, but given my experience with the kindness of white strangers, it was as real to me as Star Wars or King Arthur. 

After years of playing with European children, the first time I was told my skin color was wrong was when my family returned to Virginia in the mid 1990s. I was playing baseball and a child on my team told me they only gave the ball to people with their color skin. I thought, simply, that this was a strange rule for American sports that I had to learn in addition to all of the other strange rules suburbia required me to learn. When I laughingly told my mother about this strange game, she was silent, then she cried–knowing they had to tell me how many in our own country saw us.

For so many, we are still an almost unredeemable, untouchable, caste—if not divinely justified, then practically. Our historical successes are often diminished, our failings often amplified to explain the reality so many accept: we are wild, we are lazy, keep your children from us if you want to succeed in this country, the best of us are not so much good as we are criminals that have not yet been caught.

Blacks aren’t thought of as people who have persevered. Black people aren’t really thought of as being devout–blacks imprisoned, or anyone in prison really, aren’t what comes to mind when reading “remember those in prison as if you were together with them in prison, and those who are mistreated as if you yourselves were suffering.” Society struggles to imagine that blacks may be fellow Christians covered by the same grace that covers us all. In popular imagination, we are often represented and defined by the worst of us. We are not seem as victims of “black on black” crime, we are co conspirators. We are not traumatized by centuries of societal, inter-community, extrajudicial, and state violence, we are the source of the trauma. We are not praying, working, for a better life, we are criminals birthing criminals. 

George Floyd wasn’t a recovering addict or volunteer at his church, he was a criminal. Breonna Taylor wasn’t an EMT and aspiring healthcare professional, she was Ham’s daughter; and even if the police shot the wrong house this time, it was only a matter of time until she lived long enough to be the fulfillment of Ham’s curse. Even as we know–we know–our coworkers, children, neighbors–we ourselves–consume the same drugs Breonna’s life was deemed void for, unable to imagine suburban or uptown neighborhood doors being kicked down for upper class pills or powders, we yearn for a reason to justify our sister’s blood crying out from the soil.

I often wonder how many people would look at my grandma and imagine “sister.” She was 39 when Martin Luther King, Jr, was murdered, and I think, while she has never wavered in her hope in God, she no longer hopes America will ever love her. I think for her, when King was murdered, time stopped–”if they will kill a preacher, they could kill any of us.” I think she believes it is impossible for this country to truly love the average black person. Not a celebrity, an athlete, a soldier, or president just, as she calls herself, “an old ugly somethin’ like me.” She has heard Christ’s name invoked too many times to justify her churches being burned and bombed, crosses being burned in her neighbors’ yards, and young boys disappearing into jails forever for offenses her white neighbors would commit and laugh about. Though she does not believe she is Cursed by Ham, as the darkest of her siblings, she has been taught by her society that it may as well be true.

In addition to my academic education, in addition to memorizing Bible verses, my grandmother gave me a harder religious education. Though she never called it this, as an adult I can look back and see what she was doing: the only time I was ever struck by her was for “talking too ‘black.’” There was a desperate urgency in this born of her own experience as the darkest of her siblings–her own experience in being “too black.” This was taught not out of hate for the dialect of her mother, fidelity to Merriam-Webster, or from a lack of understanding that language is always subject to its speakers–always shifting as surely as fusha–formal Arabic–shifts to omeya–street Arabic. This was done to give her grandson the best chance at a good life in the best way she knew how: “hold on to your blackness–love it–in private, but do not let the world see it.” 

I have little energy left for apologies or excuses, but there are a thousand civil systems, norms, practices, beliefs—often operated and directed by well meaning people, often directed by us, blacks—that support the belief that we are animals, that we are hopeless; as Baldwin wrote to his sister “everything supported this sense of reality, nothing denied it.” I think for me, the great tragedy is not that the society is a part of this “everything” that has made laws, textbooks, movies, music, policies, budgets, city plans, “bad apples,” and our own bullets that deny our humanity. For me, the great tragedy is, so often in our history, it seems that God’s loudest mouthpieces on earth do not deny it. It is hard to explain the erosion of hope caused by looking back on your people’s history and seeing almost every injustice done in the name of Christ, done by those swearing on the Bible, done in courts with “In God We Trust” written all around, and carried out by those you would hope are your Christian brothers and forever hearing “that was just the past.” 

I sometimes imagine that if any one can understand the feeling of wondering in the goodness of your Christian brothers, it would be the Coptic Orthodox Church, the Church of the Martyrs; a Church that has suffered as many injustices from its fellow Christians as it has from anyone else.

And, still, it is not hopeless. As it has always been, there are those who loudly speak truth to power and, as importantly, speak truth and love to those on the margins. But even on the best days it is hard for many of us to feel like we are not drowning. I am often characterized as one of the “good ones.” I had so many safety nets keeping me from failing–I spent high school smoking marijuana in the middle class suburbs with kids that are now military officers, doctors, teachers, city planners, prosecutors while just a few neighborhoods away kids were going to juvie, or worse, for much less than the things we did; the suburbs themselves were a shelter–many homes in the area I grew up have language in the deeds explicitly prohibiting the sale of homes to blacks and though that could not be legally enforced in the late 20th century, that legacy remained–the White suburbs still had a lingering protection. I have a great credit score, I can speak and write in “the Queen’s English,” I can see a police officer’s tattoo and speak to whatever military unit they were in–disarm them; my name itself is a shield–on paper I am not Trayvon, Dewayne, Rayshard–I am that much more palatable, that much less Other. 

But I write for those that can’t. Those that were not raised amongst diplomats–taught to code switch and adapt to survive; those not raised by grandmothers who drilled into them how to make police officers more comfortable. And even still, for most of us, the cry “I can’t breathe” will never refer to our own physical suffocation; that is to say, most blacks are more at risk from having air and water polluting factories built next to their communities or wasting a way in a jail for things their more protected neighbors will get community service for, than dying at the hands of police. 

For most of us, “I can’t breathe” is simply drowning in a feeling of being unloved; a feeling of wondering if we are foolish to still have faith, a feeling of wondering if we should continue to hope. But still, I am carried by the hope of those around me and, still, I hope.

Brad Smith works for the Department of Defense and is active in his community in education, youth and veteran advocacy, criminal justice reform, and mediation. Outside of his day, job he works to foster food security and combat food and land apartheid as a board member of a local community ubran green space, Downtown Greens, and manages a small urban farmstead, Creekmur Smallhold, where he practices relational agriculture. He graduated from George Mason University with a degree in Conflict Analysis and Resolution. He is part of the DC/Northern Virginian Coptic Orthodox community and is involved with the Orthodox, Catholic, Protestant ecumenical and interfaith communities, closer to his home in Fredericksburg. Brad also writes under the pen names Brad Bird, Barad Haddad, and R. B. Creekmur.

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