I often think about the gospel and how it was presented to me. It was in the country roads of southern Arkansas, where my grandmother sang in the choir of a Black church. It was the hands raised, the strength of the Black women, and the rapping of the pastor that excited my soul. It always struck me that pain, joy, and hope could coexist.
Why are they crying? Why are they clapping? And who is listening? These were the questions that loomed in my young mind and were sometimes expressed verbally (those questions were more than likely greeted with a stern look to be quiet). I had no idea I was experiencing the Master Liberator tending the wounds of his people. This was the gospel.