Songs of Freedom

The pouring rain and wind forced me to run indoors on the treadmill. I was plugged into a music video channel when a song I haven't heard in years flashed across the screen. It was a love song from a first romance, and in those few minutes, I was transported back in time. I could remember where I was, what I was wearing, even what food I was eating when that song played at a New York City restaurant. The sights and sounds and smells of a day long, long ago were present for me until the video ended and a commercial took its place on the screen.

Music can do that. It has a power to transport and uplift, to make memories as tangible as any present reality. And this is why music has been such an important aspect of religious worship. A few notes of a song can transform your sorrow into joy. I grew up with the richest of spiritual music; my life has been infused with hymns, psalms, gospel, spirituals, and praise and worship music. Even on those days that God feels far away, music has opened my heart in ways that even the best sermons fail to do.

But there are some songs that I no longer sing even though they are songs that were staples in my childhood, and some are songs that still remain popular in worship services. I've stopped singing songs that petition God to wash me whiter than snow. And I've stopped singing songs that call on God to be "master" and me a "slave."

I understand completely the metaphorical and theological nature of these songs. That one can be washed in the blood of Jesus, and still be "whiter than snow," is a powerful symbol for the power of the atonement. As is the idea that slavery to God and calling on God as "master" is casting off the yoke of sin and carnality and willingly embracing a heavenly master. I get it, I really do...but I will no longer sing it.

Given where I am on my spiritual journey, these metaphors and symbols undercut the very essence of the faith in which I put my trust. The idea that whiteness represents purity and godliness, while blackness represents sinfulness, carnality, and impurity supports a dichotomy that has been one of the most destructive forces on earth. I do not need to be metaphorically or theologically stripped of my blackness in order to participate in the beloved community of God.

And every time we sing songs that affirm this, we are dehumanizing those whose "blackness" is an essential part of who they are. History bears witness to the cultural, political, and religious attempts to strip those who are black of their literal skin, as well as their citizenship, birthright, and place in God's family. For my own spiritual well-being, I've had to let go of those songs that ask me to don a mask of "whiteface," or participate in a kind of reverse minstrelsy in praise of God.

The same applies to all the master/slave songs, particularly the hymns written and popularized during the slave trade and era of slavery. I understand the intent of the hymn writers: identifying with the all encompassing, life and death nature of slavery, they sought to affirm God as a benevolent master, whose yoke of slavery was easy and light. The believer could be a "slave" to this kind, gentle, and perfect "master," who was completely contrary to sinful human slave owners.

Again, while I understand the metaphor, I reject it for my own spiritual walk. As a descendant of slaves, my generational memory won't allow me to so easily dismiss the utter depravity of slavery. I cannot and will not forget the chains of physical and psychological bondage, which rendered human beings as property and tore families asunder; chains that linger with us today. For those with no direct knowledge of slavery, terms like "master" and "slave" are merely words devoid of any particular historical context. But they are not words I can ever sing again or use to refer to my own relationship with God.

I believe in a faith that has liberated me, made me free and free, indeed. It is not a faith that requires me to be white as snow in order to be saved, because my black body is lovingly made in God's image. It is not a faith that requires me to embrace the yoke of slavery, because the captives have already been set free. The music of my heart is a song of liberation, a song in which I am loved and cherished. The music of my heart cannot perpetuate stereotypes and imagery that harm or denigrate God's people. My heart rejoices in the songs I've left behind, so that I am able to sing songs of freedom.

© Yolanda Pierce