At the foot of that cross, in a thousand churches right across the town, I saw the story of ordinary Blacks woven into the stories of David and Goliath, of Moses and Pharaoh, of christians thrown into the pit with lions, of Ezechiel’s field of dry bones. These stories - of survival, of liberty, of hope - became our story, my story. The blood which had been shed was our blood, the tears were our tears. This gloomy church, on this fine day, was changed to become as a ship which carried the story of a people onward to future generations and to a greater world. Our struggles and our triumphs suddenly become unique and universal, black and more than black. As they chronicled our journey, the stories and the songs became our means of reclaiming memories for which we need have no shame, memories more accessible than those of Egyptian antiquity, memories which everyone could study and cherish - and with which we could begin to rebuild. And if a part of me still thought that each Sunday’s communion sometimes over-simplified our conditions, that it could sometimes disguise or suppress the reality of the conflicts that were tearing us apart, and that it would fulfil its promise only by action, I felt also, for the first time, that this atmosphere brought with it, in outline and incompletely, the possibility of going beyond our narrow dreams. To dare to hope! I remember my grandmother, who sang all round the house, “There’s a bright side somewhere……never stop until you’ve found it”. It’s true! To dare to hope! I recall the moments when we could not pay our bills. Moments when I had the sense of being good for nothing…..at the age of fifteen arrested for stealing a car…. but, all the same, my mother and my farther carried on singing:

Thank you Jesus.
Thank you Lord.
You brought me from
A mighty long way, mightly long way ….

[From Barak Obama "Dreams From My Father"]