In the last section of his book, Tribal Talk: Black Theology, Hermeneutics, and African/American Ways of “Telling the Story” Will Coleman describes what some of the main characteristics of Tribal Talk are. The two that are most vital for understanding the nature of tribal talk are tribal talk’s commitment to liberation and exorcism. Coleman states “It is committed to the liberation of persons of African descent from the legacy of white supremacy—and of persons of European descent from the same.” Anticipating the question of why from his readers, Coleman goes on to say, “It (white supremacy) is a stubborn demon, but it can and will be exorcised. Constant exposure (the naming and sending away) of its false powers is the key to its exorcism.”[1] 
Although white people may have a visceral reaction to Coleman’s referring to white supremacy as a demon that must be exorcised due to its violent nature, it does not require much historical research—especially in our own country, the United States–to end up confronting the unspeakable violence that is the result of white supremacy and racism. Examples of this white supremacy include, but are not limited to the enslavement and dehumanization of Africans, the burning and lynching of black bodies, the systematic discrimination against blacks in housing, healthcare, and employment, and most recently the brutal murder of 17 year old Trayvon Martin. And if “constant exposure” is key to exorcising this demon, then we must develop the vision to see the ways in which this demon still operates, name it as the demon of racism and white supremacy that it is, and enact the courage to confront it and send it away. But the question remains, who is this we that I am referring to as I write?
The “we” that is being referred to in this response is primarily the white church in the United States of America. And for the intent of this post, the white church refers to any individual white person who professes Jesus as Lord, any local, white homogenous church, and any institutions of higher education that are still harboring this demon of white supremacy—my school, Fuller Theological Seminary included. The critical response is not focusing on the white church in the United States because it is the only instantiation of the body of Christ that has racist sensibilities; but rather because of my desire to be self-critical and because it constitutes the geographical, religious and socio-political context that I inhabit. Our brothers and sisters in the African Diaspora have invited us to participate in this tribal talk, and in order to be faithful to this legacy we have a responsibility to exorcise this demon of white supremacy wherever we see it—and in this moment we are able to do so by naming the evil and racist legacy at work in the Trayvon Martin murder case (or lack thereof). If justice is what love looks like in public than it is because of our deep love that we speak up about this injustice, and by doing so seek to avoid embodying the same demon of white supremacy that our predecessors did when they refused to speak up against the evil done against people of color in their own context.
Just in case you are unaware of this story, let’s catch you up to speed. 17 year old Trayvon Martin was shot and killed on February 26th by George Zimmerman, a self-appointed “neighborhood watch captain” in a gated community in an Orlando suburb. Through the duration of a phone call made by Zimmerman to the local authorities upon seeing Trayvon in this (predominantly white) neighborhood, Zimmerman said that there was “something wrong with this guy,” that he was a “suspicious person,” and that he was probably “on drugs.” (Fascinating observations made by Zimmerman considering the distance from which he was following Trayvon.) At another point in the recorded phone call to 911, Zimmerman said “these assholes always get away,” and after he began chasing Trayvon—despite the authorities telling him not to—Zimmerman seemingly mutters under his breath, “fucking coons.” Soon after, 911 began to receive more phone calls, except these were calls from other people in that neighborhood who reported hearing cries for help and gunshots. Zimmerman shot and killed Trayvon Martin. And although earlier Zimmerman had expressed concern about Trayvon being suspicious and fiddling with something in his waistband—I’m sure he assumed he had a gun—the only thing Trayvon had on him was a bag of skittles.
Of course Zimmerman is now claiming that he shot and killed Trayvon in self-defense. An armed male who considers himself to be “the neighborhood watch captain” who has a history of violent behavior following and chasing an unarmed 17 year old black kid in a predominantly white neighborhood, despite being told not to do so by the police, claims that he killed this kid in self-defense! There are many more details to this story that make Zimmerman’s claim to self-defense even more unlikely—which can be found by researching this story with very little effort.
Now this is the section where I normally go into a complex analysis of institutional racism, the way in which our “gaze” has been racialized, and thus determines what we see and what we don’t see, or how white supremacy continues to function in our societal structures and social imaginations. And although these are important points to make—that I make quite frequently either in writing or in everyday conversations—my response to this murder (and yes, I use the term murder intentionally) of a seventeen-year-old kid comes from a different place.
I am sad. And I don’t mean the kind of superficial sadness that comes and goes as quickly as our day-to-day circumstances change; I mean the kind that hurts deeply, makes you feel helpless, makes you feel hopeless, makes you wanna scream out but strips you of your energy to do so. When I think about Trayvon’s mom, and the unspeakable agony that she is going through right now, it makes me sick. Even as I write this, tears well up in my eyes, I shake my head and don’t know what to write…
Then it makes me think of Ida B. Wells’ quote during the Jim Crow era in the South:
“American Christians are too busy saving the souls of white Christians from burning in hell-fire to save the lives of black ones from present burning in fires kindled by white Christians.”
Although an understanding of the Christian faith that allows for the acceptance of a status quo that involved the lynching of black bodies by white Christians in retrospect seems obviously disgusting and unacceptable, this kind of phenomenon is not an isolated incident, but rather is a part of the legacy of participation in and or silence by white Christians in the face of myriad forms of oppressive and violent behavior towards blacks.
And the silence continues……………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………….
While referring to the 1960’s, Dwight Hopkins wrote, “Black theologians ask why and how it is possible for white Americans to do theology without taking seriously the history and ongoing reality of African American suffering.”
And I echo that in the moment and reconfigure it slightly by asking: How can white Americans or Christians talk about justice without taking seriously the ongoing reality of African American suffering? Without talking about Trayvon? Without being outraged that George Zimmerman might not go to jail for this crime? Without…
Silence.
Up to this point, the connection between Reggae music and the prophetic poetry in the Old Testament should be clear. From the multi-dimensional experience of oppression under a hegemonic power, the shared naming of this power as Babylon, and the nature and function of these forms of poetry for their community living under these instantiations of empire. But after establishing these profound points of convergence, it is vital to be honest about the points of divergence between the narrative tradition and trajectory of Rastafarianism, as evidenced in Reggae music and the biblical narrative, as evidenced in the prophetic poetry of the Old Testament.
After the Israelites’ initial experience of exile under the city-state Babylon in the sixth century BCE, Babylon continued to function paradigmatically in the imagination of the Jewish people, referring to any oppressive institutional antilife force whose power was seen as a challenge to the rule of God.
One example of this in the New Testament is the usage of the metaphor of Babylon by the seer of Revelation when speaking of the day when the Empire of Rome will be dismantled: “Fallen, fallen is Babylon the great!…Alas, alas, the great city, Babylon, the mighty city! For in one hour your judgment will come.”
The metaphor is dynamic in nature, and as a result is able to be appropriated in various contexts of oppression without any attempt at exhausting or totalizing the claim being made through its employment.
When Rastas and Reggae artists employ this metaphor they do not do so with the acknowledgment that the specific referent in mind while employing the term is simply an appropriate subject for its use. Instead, they hold to a more static view of how to understand Babylon in our contemporary setting, and in doing so end up limiting the way in which the metaphor has been and continues to be used by those within the biblical narrative. Robert Hood, in his ground breaking work, Must God Remain Greek? argues that for Rastas “Jamaica was identified with Babylon in the book of Revelation, i.e., a place of bondage and suffering (although “Babylon” soon became a generic name for all countries where blacks suffer and are oppressed).”
Rastafarianism and its musical mouthpiece Reggae, understand Babylon to be in place only when there is black suffering and oppression. This understanding of the meaning Babylon and the understanding of the nature of liberation that flows from this understanding in Rastafari ideology exposes and reveals the profound discontinuity between Rastafarianism and biblical faith.
In his brilliant book Theology in the Context of World Christianity, Tennent, in his chapter focusing on the understanding of God in Islam and Christianity notes, “no Muslim or Christian I have ever met worships a generic God or the mere concept of God in some vague, philosophical mist…”
Through this one quote, Tennent establishes the need to be honest about the differences between alternative conceptions of God, and the critical need to understand the sources that provide the raw material for these conceptions. In light of this, it is the different narrative traditions that the Rastafarian and biblical conceptions of God, Babylon, and liberation are grounded in that lead to the divergent trajectories of each faith. Identifying the disparate narrative traditions of Rastafarianism and Christianity has the ability to illuminate the ways in which Rastas have broken off from the biblical tradition and subsequently followed a pseudo form of biblical faith, and through this identification one can begin to guide Rastas back into their rightful place within the biblical narrative.
