We attended “Pentecostal Lighthouse” on North 4th St in Paterson, a relatively racially mixed congregation with an American pastor of German descent. When I think about it, all of the church’s hierarchy were Americans of German descent and one Italian. 

I remember the revivals and massive recruitment efforts throughout the Black community and how they came to round us up on a bus every Sunday morning.

Our whole family was about going to Church, even sometimes to the extreme. I was the first child in my family born up North. We were originally from the  Alabama, Florida area, my parents were raised in the south and deeply committed to the Church and traditions that were easily born before 1863. For example, when it thundered, we would stop what we were doing and sit quietly because that was God doing his work; practices that have long been forgotten. 

Without elaborating here too much, at this time, because I’m definitely going to elaborate, I even had family that attended Soul Saving Station, a small Church with a pastor that held tremendous influence on the lives of it’s followers,  a Church and congregation that did not disappoint if you were looking for emotional stimulation.

If you have ever had the pleasure of sitting through one of these services or any service like it; I mean the music, the singing, that old double beat southern clap, the fainting, attendants with white gloves waiting to catch falling elders, it was almost a hypnotic event.

If you didn’t get saved at one of these services, you certainly felt like you did!

When you left a service at Soul Saving Station you felt like you had been saved and filled with the holy ghost. 

Our family moved to Butler, an all white suburb when I was around twelve years old. I developed friendships that I still have till this day.

I had the pleasure of attending a catholic church service (Mass) and it was noticeably different from the Pentecostal church services that I was used to while living in Paterson.

I can remember sitting in a pew which featured knee pads and it’s a good thing they were there, because we were compelled to get up and kneel down more than enough times to let you know that you were getting tired getting up and kneeling down. 

I decided to get my friend back.  I invited him to come with us to one of our services back in Paterson.

I can remember the long drive from our suburb back to the city.  Let’s just say the demographic changed. 

When we walked into the Church, my friend was a real stand out, just like I was in the suburbs!

I can still see the look on my noticeably white, Catholic friend’s face. I can still see his lips moving in slow motion as the music played, the shouting was so loud, the tambourines,  the clapping. I could see him asking me, “WHAT, ARE THEY DOING?!”

After the service he definitely looked like his life had been transformed!

Yes, that extreme! I guess you could say, when it comes to my Church experience I had an inside advantage or a “leg up” so to speak.

I am telling you this to say that I was well indoctrinated. I knew all the stories, learned most of the lessons.

I had my own Bible when I was only 3 years old, Mom used to teach me from it. I started reading it on my own at a very early age, I’ve always been more than fascinated with the stories and I still have my original Bible to this very day.

If you would have asked me at, one point in my life, if there was anything else that I needed to know about about Christianity, I would have said no.

I was in my early twenties, exploring my individuality, trying to find out more about myself.  I remember reading the autobiography of Malcolm  X and hearing for the first time from Black Muslims that Jesus was a Black man, but I didn’t believe it, I just dismissed it, because in my mind I’d only seen Jesus as a White man and that was perfectly normal to me. But one day I was sitting in Bryant Park, having lunch, because I worked a block away for a Textile company in New York City, and I managed to strike a conversation with a Hasidic Jew,  who was quite sure that Jesus could’ve been Black. I’m embarrassed because I didn’t believe it when I first heard it from Black Muslims; it took the confirmation of a Hasidic Jew before I finally woke up.

I don’t know if you’ve ever been betrayed; if you have, you know the feeling. The feeling of, “how could I have been so blind”, “how is it possible that they felt it was ok not to tell me this.” Have you ever felt that emotion?

I started thinking to myself, “Have black people been misled? Made fools of? And why didn’t our pastors tell us this? Who else in the Bible is “Black?”

I can hear that voice inside my head, “Oh, ease up, color doesn’t really matter when it comes to salvation.” But there’s always that other voice that says, “It mattered to someone, because if It didn’t they wouldn’t have change the images of what Jesus looked like”

It’s so obvious that Black History has been deliberately hidden and for obvious reasons. Are people sitting in Church every Sunday, unaware, reading and preaching about their own ancestors? …And if we are, shouldn’t we know this?

My whole world outlook was changed. It may seem petty to some, but the teaching of Jesus were so sternly and permanently built into my life, that it transferred a sense of shock when I found out. It was way worse than discovering that santa claus wasn’t real. If I could give you an example behind how I felt when I found out; it would be like being at Disney Park when I’m three years old and seeing Mickey Mouse remove his head and under that Mickey Mouse head is a regular human being.  Jesus! Can you imagine what that’s like? 

And typically if I find out that someone is not truthful in one area, it makes me skeptical about everything else that’s said.

I had to go back and re-read, re-consider and re-calibrate as to what I thought were the  facts.