This morning was my last morning with the Black Baptists before the election. (I work next Sunday.) Going in, I was curious what kind of political talk we’d hear. For the past several Sundays, the gist was always “Trump bad,” but never quite “Kamala good.” And Baptist preachers wouldn’t be Baptist preachers if they didn’t say, “Vote!”

Today’s service had two political moments. The first occurred way before the sermon, during a fairly random reading of a Black History Experience. I don’t recall the exact words, but I remember smiling as the lady said something about how important this election was.

I thought, “Hype!! It’s all hype. She’s a sucker. No different than at this Super Bowl or during these playoffs ‘we are witnessing something never before seen!’ It’s all hype. Don’t fall for it.”

The second moment requires a brief reminder. There are many sayings or scriptures or proverbs which the Black Baptists all around the country utter at least once during each Sunday service. “But early, EARLY Sunday morning…” is one. Another is, “God loves…a cheerful giver.” A third is, “You can’t out-give God.” Another is, “He woke you up this morning!” Another is, “As the old saints used to say…”

The one in question, and behind this post is, “Weeping may endure for a night, but joy cometh in the morning.”

Seriously. If a woman who has seen five or more decades and survived at least one round of cancer doesn’t say this into a microphone, with perfect timing and emphasis on “But Joy!!…comes in the morning,” then you weren’t at a Baptist church.

Today, however, the sermon was essentially a Stephen-esque recounting of all it took for Moses to strike the rock rather than speak to it. Then, as the capstone, she delivered the somehow never-tired, “Remember, weeping may endure for a night,” (wait for it) “But JOY comes in the morning.”

It was code. It was so clearly code. “Vote Kamala—the candidate of JOY. And stop worrying. The LORD won’t let him win.” Had she said it at any other time in the story, I wouldn’t have even noticed it. But it was delivered with an ever-so-slightly-out-of-place force, an ever-so-slight amount of “indulge me, Saints” that I am certain it was meant as a Gilead-made balm to the community.

My aforementioned Ethiopian wife didn’t see it that way.

What do you think?

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