(upbeat gospel music)
- The Alpha and the Omega.
The beginning and the
end, the balm in Gilead.
My protector, ha, my provider, ha.
All praise to Jesus,
that's my nigga.
Ode to black Jesus, raised
in the projects of Nazareth.
Nostrils wide enough to breathe
life, born to a carpenter
and a housewife, Jesus
knows the struggle, y'all.
Ode to black Jesus, rolling
12 deep with the type
of ride or die cats
that'll cut your ears off,
the only nigga I know that
can kick it with gangstas
and priests and still not lose his peace,
speaks peace be still,
looking at the storm like,
"ay, yo, chill", my nigga, Jesus.
Shows up to the party with the best wine.
You might think he's late,
but he's got his own time.
Walking in the cut, healing
the sick and the blind,
then ascended into heaven,
watch that black boy
shine, my nigga, Jesus.
Knows what I'm going through.
Understands that every day as a black man
is like sitting back knowing the universe
rests between your palms.
Understands withholding the apocalypse
when your colleague talks to you crazy,
because you know you still got work to do.
Understands the pressure of
being perfect all the time,
because your father
says, "being just good,
"isn't good enough".
I was raised in a home where
Christianity and black history
were taught like a double major,
but everywhere outside my
home, the latter was treated
like a minor, but my
ancestors used minor chords
to climb Jacob's ladder into the former,
searching for answers to endure oppressors
who lay claim to a caucasian Christ.
And to this day, every
time I close my eyes,
my image of Jesus is still
the blond-haired, blue-eyed,
white man from the
cartoons I was raised on,
and I'm finding it increasingly harder
to surrender to a savior with
the face of my oppressors,
so I praise black Jesus.
And I rebuke anyone who
says he can't be black
when, really, haven't
they always been mortified
at the idea of a black savior.
Ask J. Edgar Hoover what
happened to Fred Hampton,
Malcolm X and King that were all crucified
for the exact same thing.
And if Jesus could be
a husband to the widow
and an orphan's father, why
can't Jesus just be my nigga?
Is there any difference
between the Audubon Ballroom
and the Garden of Gethsemane?
Any difference between
overturning tables in the temple
or cars in Baltimore?
Any difference between hanging
on a tree in Mississippi
or a cross on Calvary, he died for me.
Not because I deserve it,
but just cause we go way, way back.
Like, even before I was
in my mother's womb,
he rolled away the stone that
was in front of his tomb,
ha, brought back the hope
where there once was doom,
when this world is sick and
only seems to get sicker,
when the poor dig for crumbs,
while the rich get richer,
when all of my faith
seems to fade and flicker,
I look to black Jesus,
cause that's my nigga.
(clapping)
(somber piano music)
