Confronting the Dark: Why Black Religious Institutions Must Embrace the Full Reality of Their Communities-A Lesson from the Horror Genre

Confronting? the Dark: Why Black Religious Institutions Must Embrace the Full Reality of Their Communities—A Lesson from the Horror Genre and the Hypocrisy of Zephaniah Kingsley?

By Ecleynne Mercy

Abstract:

Black religious institutions, traditionally pillars of their communities, face challenges in addressing modern traumas, mental health crises, and societal pressures. This article explores how clergy must confront the darkness in their congregants’ lives by embracing difficult conversations rather than avoiding them. Using horror films as a metaphor for resilience, clergy are urged to face uncomfortable realities—such as the rawness of profanity and the weight of trauma—to remain relevant and effective.

Drawing from? the Father of Black Theology, James H. Cone’s The Cross and the Lynching Tree, this essay? emphasizes that confronting suffering is central to faith. Cone argues that, much like Christ's crucifixion, the lynching tree is a symbol of both terror and redemption. By exploring this symbolism, we see how Black religious leaders must offer pathways to hope through trauma, not by avoiding it but by engaging with it directly.

Zephaniah Kingsley’s life serves as a historical lesson on the dangers of hypocrisy in religious leadership. His contradictory stance on slavery within his Quaker background highlights how the refusal to confront systemic injustice leads to moral and spiritual failure. By contrast, Cone's work teaches that redemption arises only through a commitment to justice and truth, principles that modern clergy must embody to guide their congregations through today's complex realities. As Cone contends, "the gospel of Jesus is not a rational concept to be explained... but a story about God's presence in Jesus' solidarity with the oppressed" (Cone, 1997). Thus, religious institutions must evolve, much like the Quakers failed to do, or risk becoming obsolete.

In Stephen King's It, "It" is a shape-shifting entity that primarily takes the form of Pennywise the Dancing Clown, feeding on the fear of children in the town of Derry, Maine. "It" hibernates for long periods, awakening every 27 years to prey on the town's residents, particularly focusing on children, whom it can frighten more easily. "It" represents a manifestation of evil, embodying the deepest fears and anxieties of those it targets, and can take the form of whatever terrifies its victims the most.

INTRODUCTION

Black religious institutions have long been the backbone of Black communities, offering spiritual guidance, social support, and a sense of belonging. These institutions go beyond the Black church—they encompass a range of denominations and faith practices that contribute to the resilience and survival of Black people throughout history. As a criminal defense attorney, I’ve worked closely with clergy during probation violations, sentence reductions, and other crises, observing how some leaders fully engage with their congregants' darkness, while others struggle.

However, not all clergy are equally equipped to meet the full spectrum of needs within their congregations. Clergy with psychological training and a willingness to confront difficult realities often offer more. This leads me to an important theory: clergy, especially those working in outreach or crisis, must not shy away from darkness. They must confront it head-on, just as one might when watching a horror movie.

Take Stephen King’s It, where children must face an ancient evil that preys on their deepest fears, or The Stand, where humanity contends with apocalyptic forces that challenge the boundaries of good and evil. These films vividly illustrate the pendulum swing of the human condition—the struggle between light and darkness that clergy must also navigate within their own congregations. If clergy cannot face the darkness presented in a film, how can they address the horrors their congregants face daily? As Cone noted in The Cross and the Lynching Tree, “suffering and death do not have the last word,” and clergy must embody this belief by confronting their congregants' traumas, fears, and struggles (Cone, 2011).

The hypocrisy of Zephaniah Kingsley, a Quaker and slave owner, further illustrates the danger of avoiding difficult truths. Kingsley’s life, marked by the contradictions of his faith and his comfort with the institution of slavery, serves as a cautionary tale for modern clergy. Kingsley, despite being part of a religious movement grounded in principles of equality, failed to reconcile his actions with his beliefs, prioritizing his own comfort over justice. Cone’s critique of American Christianity aligns here, as he emphasizes that faith must be rooted in the liberation of the oppressed, not the comfort of the privileged (Cone, 1997).

Similarly, Black religious leaders today must evolve to remain relevant. If they cannot engage with the trauma, mental illness, and societal struggles of their communities, they risk becoming obsolete. Much like the Quakers, whose influence waned because they failed to adapt, modern religious institutions must embrace both the light and the dark. Otherwise, they will fail to provide the spiritual and moral guidance their congregants so desperately need.

In Get Out, directed by Jordan Peele, the film explores racial tension and exploitation under the guise of liberalism, where the protagonist Chris visits his white girlfriend's family. The seemingly progressive family harbors dark secrets, including the sinister Armitage family tradition of transplanting the consciousness of aging white people into the bodies of young Black individuals, turning Chris’s fear into a real-life horror. The film represents the hidden dangers of systemic racism, making it highly relevant to the essay's discussion on confronting real-world horrors and trauma in Black communities.

Clergy and Trauma: The Monsters Beyond the Screen

When religious leaders avoid difficult conversations or shy away from uncomfortable realities, they risk turning away from the very people they are called to serve. Black religious institutions, like many others, often grapple with a trend of avoidance when it comes to addressing real-life trauma. From the moment a clergy member assumes leadership, they are tasked with nurturing mind, body, and soul. Yet, too often, they evade the darker aspects of the human condition—abuse, mental illness, addiction, and violence—issues that plague the very communities they are meant to guide.

James H. Cone reminds us that “suffering and redemption are intertwined,” much like the cross and the lynching tree in his seminal work The Cross and the Lynching Tree. The Black church’s historical role as a place of spiritual guidance and redemption must now include confronting the more contemporary horrors that plague its people. The same boldness that allowed the church to lead in the Civil Rights Movement must now be applied to the mental health crises, violence, and abuse that often go unaddressed in Black communities.

Consider a congregant who has faced domestic violence, financial strain, or the trauma of losing a loved one. Now imagine a clergy member who dismisses certain films or books as too graphic or too "dark." The unsettling scene they avoid might very well mirror the lived experience of someone sitting in their congregation. If clergy cannot confront darkness in fiction, how can they support their congregants as they confront real-world horrors?

As a criminal attorney, I’ve seen this disconnect firsthand. Divorces, abusive marriages, financial ruin, and mental health crises are all too common in the communities I work with. Yet many religious leaders, particularly those without psychological training, seem ill-prepared to offer the kind of support their congregants need. Those with a background in psychology, however, are often more adept at setting boundaries, offering practical advice, and confronting the “monsters” in their congregants’ lives.

James Cone, in The Cross and the Lynching Tree, underscores the importance of confronting suffering head-on. He argues that, much like Christ's crucifixion, the lynching tree represents both the terror of injustice and the potential for redemption. “The cross and the lynching tree interpret each other,” Cone writes, showing how trauma and hope are deeply intertwined (Cone, 2011). In the same way, clergy must recognize that in addressing the traumas of their congregants, they are engaging in the sacred work of redemption, offering pathways to healing through the darkness.

The Necessity of Horror Films: A Test of Resilience for Clergy

Clergy who lead their congregations through the complexities of life must be willing to confront the darkest parts of the human experience—much like characters in a horror film. Horror movies force viewers to face their deepest fears, whether through grotesque imagery, raw emotion, or the shock of unexpected terror. These films capture the essence of trauma, fear, and human vulnerability. Watching horror requires emotional resilience, paralleling the role of clergy, who guide people through real-life horrors like depression, abuse, addiction, and loss.

In these films, characters often respond to terror with profanity—a raw, unfiltered expression of their fear. This language mirrors the way people express their pain in real life. Just as horror protagonists must confront terrifying realities without hesitation, clergy must be prepared to face the suffering of their congregants, unflinching and without demanding “polite” expressions of suffering. If clergy cannot handle the fictional horrors of a film, how can they stand beside their congregants in the face of real, enduring darkness.

Horror films remind us that there is no light without shadow, no salvation without grappling with demons. James H. Cone, in The Cross and the Lynching Tree, addresses this dichotomy: the cross, a symbol of horror and death, is also a source of salvation and hope. “Suffering and redemption are intertwined,” Cone writes (Cone, 2011). For clergy, engaging with the dark becomes a trial by fire, requiring them to witness life’s most painful aspects without retreating into comfort. By embracing the darkness their congregants face, clergy become agents of hope and redemption.

The Annoying Aversion to Profanity: How Language Policing Disconnects Clergy from Reality

One of the most alienating aspects of some religious institutions is their obsession with “politeness” over truth, especially when it comes to profanity. Entire careers in clergy have been sustained on upholding this rule: if you swear, the message is dismissed, regardless of the distress or trauma being conveyed. I have personally witnessed this disconnect, particularly with young people who, in the middle of reporting serious issues like abuse or mental health crises, are abruptly corrected because they used profanity.

It’s as if these institutions operate like a call center—once you cuss, they hang up. This is not just frustrating, it’s harmful. In moments of distress, no one should have to consider whether their language is appropriate or polite. The focus should be on what they are saying, not how they are saying it. Imagine a child reporting abuse, only to be interrupted and corrected for saying a curse word. This isn’t ministry; this is silencing.

Profanity in horror films often reflects the rawness of human experience. In the face of unspeakable terror, characters say what they need to, unfiltered. James Cone, in The Cross and the Lynching Tree, emphasizes that authentic truth-telling must not be sanitized for comfort. He reminds us that the cross itself was a violent and profane symbol, and yet it became the center of Christian hope: “The cross... was God’s critique of power—white power—with powerless love, snatching victory out of defeat” (Cone, 2011). To police language is to miss the raw truth of suffering, and to silence those suffering is to further alienate them.

Religious leaders who harp on language rather than content are missing an opportunity to truly connect with their congregations, especially the most vulnerable. When people are hurting, scared, or angry, profanity might be the only language they have. Clergy who cling to rigid rules about how people express themselves are prioritizing form over substance, valuing their own comfort over the actual pain of the person speaking to them. In doing so, they perpetuate a culture of silence around issues that desperately need to be addressed.

In the same way that clergy avoid confronting the darker aspects of human existence by dismissing horror films, they also avoid real conversations by silencing voices that don’t conform to a sanitized version of reality. This approach is not only outdated—it’s harmful. Just as religious leaders must be willing to face the trauma, abuse, and addiction in their communities, they must also be willing to hear it in its raw, unpolished, and sometimes profane form.

Demanding perfection in how people speak shuts down their ability to communicate the depth of their pain. The insistence on politeness and the aversion to profanity create yet another barrier between religious leaders and the communities they serve. Instead of correcting language, clergy should focus on hearing the message behind it. In the end, what is said matters infinitely more than how it’s said.

Zephaniah Kingsley: A Cautionary Tale of Hypocrisy

The case of Zephaniah Kingsley exemplifies how personal hypocrisy can derail moral progress. Though not a formal religious leader, Kingsley was a slaveholder who paradoxically advocated for racial mixing and freed some of his enslaved people, including his African-born wife, Anna Kingsley. Yet despite these seemingly progressive views on race, Kingsley continued to own slaves and profit from their labor. This contradiction between his public stance and personal actions mirrors a broader issue in religious leadership: the danger of prioritizing personal comfort and financial gain over the hard work of justice (Stowell, 2017).

James Cone, in God of the Oppressed, emphasizes that true faith is inseparable from justice. “There can be no justice without God, and no God without justice,” he writes, stressing the need for moral integrity in leadership (Cone, 1997). Leaders like Kingsley, who fail to reconcile their personal actions with their professed beliefs, embody the kind of hypocrisy that prevents true justice from taking root. Kingsley's actions serve as a warning to religious leaders today, particularly in Black institutions, that comfort cannot come at the expense of truth and equity.

The Quakers, on the other hand, adhered more closely to their anti-slavery stance, aligning their actions with their moral convictions. Quaker clergy, who advocated for the oppressed, could have provided crucial emotional and spiritual healing for individuals like Anna Kingsley and her children. The trauma of living in captivity—even after being freed—required deep, sustained care. Quaker clergy, with their emphasis on equality and justice, were better positioned to offer such healing.

The hypocrisy of Kingsley’s life—publicly supporting the rights of free Black people while continuing to exploit others for his personal gain—stands as a cautionary tale for Black religious institutions today. Leaders who avoid confronting uncomfortable truths about mental health, trauma, and systemic injustice risk becoming obstacles to progress, much like Kingsley. As Cone argues, “The gospel of Jesus is not about maintaining power for the privileged, but liberation for the oppressed” (Cone, 1997). Black religious leaders must heed this message, confronting injustice even when it threatens personal comfort or institutional power.

The Disappearance of the Quakers: A Lesson for Modern Religious Institutions

While the Quakers were once at the forefront of social justice movements, their influence has waned over time, partly because they failed to adapt to the evolving needs of society. The Quakers' decline offers a cautionary tale for Black religious institutions today. Just as Kingsley’s personal hypocrisy limited his effectiveness as a moral leader, religious institutions that refuse to engage with the full spectrum of human suffering—be it mental illness, trauma, or addiction—risk becoming irrelevant. James Cone, in The Cross and the Lynching Tree, reminds us that institutions of faith must stay engaged with justice and suffering. "There is no justice without God, and no God without justice" (Cone, 2011). Religious institutions that fail to evolve will lose their relevance, just as the Quakers did, especially if they continue to ignore the pressing realities of their communities.

In the past, Quakers advocated for abolition and racial justice, aligning their actions with their faith's principles. But, over time, their reluctance to address new challenges diminished their role as change agents. Today, Black religious institutions face a similar challenge: adapt to address modern traumas, or risk fading into irrelevance. As Cone emphasizes, "faith is only meaningful when it is lived out in solidarity with the suffering" (Cone, 1997). Black religious leaders must take this lesson to heart, ensuring that their mission remains grounded in the pursuit of justice and truth, even as societal needs evolve.

Rethinking Redemption: Clergy’s Role in the Era of Cancel Culture

Black religious institutions have historically been at the forefront of redemption and social justice, offering a moral compass to guide their communities through oppression, injustice, and moral failures. These institutions provided pathways to forgiveness, reconciliation, and healing, rooted in a deep understanding of both spiritual and social redemption. However, in today’s era of cancel culture, these institutions are missing a profound opportunity to lead. When individuals are “canceled” for moral failings—whether these transgressions are social, political, or ethical—there is often no clear or structured path toward redemption. This lack of a clear roadmap leaves those cast aside to grapple with isolation, stigma, and personal failure, without any true recourse or possibility for forgiveness and reintegration.

Black religious institutions can offer a pathway for true redemption, where people confront their wrongdoings and make amends. In God of the Oppressed, Cone emphasizes the importance of reconciliation through truth-telling and accountability. This concept applies directly to cancel culture: by establishing structured paths for forgiveness, religious institutions can offer an alternative to permanent exile, helping people grow through spiritual and moral reflection. For clergy to fulfill this redemptive role, they must integrate the values of accountability, truth, and justice in every interaction.

Cancel culture, in its current form, offers no space for growth, personal accountability, or public rehabilitation. It frequently focuses on expulsion, shame, and public condemnation, particularly for non-criminal moral transgressions or social missteps that deviate from current norms. This punitive culture runs counter to the values Black religious institutions have championed historically—those of redemption, grace, and reconciliation. Instead of simply casting people out, Black clergy must lead the charge in offering individuals the opportunity for growth and recovery.

James Cone’s theology, particularly in The Cross and the Lynching Tree, underscores the importance of reclaiming redemption as a central tenet of faith. Cone emphasizes that Jesus’ crucifixion is a symbol of both suffering and ultimate forgiveness. He writes, “God’s solidarity with the oppressed was affirmed on the cross” (Cone, 2011). In the same way, clergy today must advocate for a redemptive process that allows individuals to confront their failures, acknowledge the harm done, and work toward personal transformation. This is particularly relevant in the context of cancel culture, where individuals are exiled without a roadmap for reconciliation or healing.

Carl Lumbly plays the role of Dick Hallorann in Doctor Sleep (2019), the sequel to The Shining.? Hallorann is a mentor figure to Danny Torrance, appearing as a spiritual guide to the adult Danny, offering wisdom and helping him navigate the trauma from his childhood and his "shining" abilities.

The role of Black religious institutions in this context is clear: they can serve as arbiters of redemption by creating structured paths for forgiveness and personal growth. Much like in horror films, where characters must confront their inner demons—think of the journey of self-discovery in Midsommar or the redemptive arc in The Shining—those who are “canceled” need opportunities to face their moral failings and undergo a process of self-reflection, accountability, and healing. Horror films often end with characters finding a way to overcome the darkness, illustrating the potential for redemption, even after confronting great terror or personal failings. Similarly, clergy have a unique combination of spiritual guidance, emotional intelligence, and moral leadership that can help individuals move from shame to redemption.

This structured approach to redemption should include several key elements: public accountability, personal reflection, and social reintegration. It would require those who have committed wrongdoings to confront the harm caused, publicly acknowledge their actions, and engage in a process of making amends. This isn’t about absolving people without consequence, but rather, offering them a chance to rebuild trust and contribute positively to their communities. Cone, in God of the Oppressed, reminds us that “forgiveness is never cheap, but it is the only way to break the cycle of hate” (Cone, 1997). Black clergy must reclaim their role in breaking this cycle by offering redemptive pathways for those who have fallen out of favor.

The clergy's unique position allows them to serve as mediators between the transgressor and the community. They can create forums for dialogue, encouraging both accountability and the possibility of forgiveness. By focusing on truth, accountability, and a genuine desire for transformation, religious leaders can reintegrate individuals into their communities in a way that fosters healing rather than permanent exile. Cone argues that faith itself is a journey through suffering toward ultimate liberation; the same can be applied to the redemption process for those who have been canceled.

In a culture that increasingly prioritizes punitive measures over restorative ones, Black religious institutions have the power to reintroduce the notion of forgiveness as an essential social practice. The church has the tools to reshape the conversation, offering a redemptive vision that is not about excusing harmful behavior but about transforming lives and restoring relationships. Just as horror films guide characters through darkness to find redemption, so too can Black religious leaders create avenues for those who have lost their way to return, reformed, and renewed.

In this way, clergy serve not just as spiritual guides but as mediators of social healing, ensuring that no one is beyond redemption if they are willing to do the work. This reimagining of cancel culture into a culture of redemption is the necessary evolution Black religious institutions must champion—one that reflects their historical role in liberation and justice.

Practical Application of Mental Health Initiatives

To address mental health crises within congregations, clergy could integrate trauma-informed care and mental health counseling into their ministries. Religious institutions might offer partnerships with community mental health services or introduce programs that train clergy in trauma-informed pastoral care. Establishing church-based support groups for addiction recovery, depression, or abuse survivors can provide congregants with safe spaces to address their struggles. These initiatives, rooted in empathy and care, can become modern expressions of the church’s mission to heal.

Clergy as Agents of Redemption in Cancel Culture

In the context of cancel culture, Black clergy are uniquely positioned to offer redemptive frameworks. By developing structured programs for individuals to reflect, make amends, and reintegrate into the community, churches can model forgiveness in action. These programs could include public acknowledgment of wrongdoing, community service, and personal growth plans guided by clergy. Drawing from Cone’s idea that “faith is about liberation,” these initiatives would demonstrate that no one is beyond redemption if they are willing to engage in the work of transformation.

Conclusion: A Call for Evolution in Black Religious Institutions

Black religious institutions have always been more than places of worship—they are vital to the mind, body, and soul of their communities. Historically, they have been sanctuaries, sources of strength, and the moral compass during times of great social upheaval. Yet, to truly serve their people today, these institutions must evolve. The world has changed, and with it, the needs of the Black community. To continue being relevant and effective, Black religious leaders must be willing to confront not only the darkness in their congregants' lives but also the darkness within themselves.

James H. Cone, in The Cross and the Lynching Tree, reminds us that the cross is both a symbol of death and a source of hope. In this duality, Cone illustrates that suffering and redemption are inextricably linked. The same principle applies to religious leadership: to fully minister to their congregants, clergy must acknowledge the trauma, mental illness, abuse, and addiction that exist within their communities. They cannot shy away from the pain that their people carry. They must confront it head-on, just as Christ faced the cross. As Cone asserts, “suffering and hope are found together in the cross” (Cone, 2011), and the same must be true of Black religious institutions.

Much like in horror films, there is no light without darkness. In films like The Shining or Midsommar, the characters are only able to reach a place of understanding or redemption after first confronting their deepest fears. The metaphor holds for Black clergy as well. To truly minister to the souls of their congregants, they must be willing to walk with them through the darkness and see the light that exists on the other side. This willingness to engage with trauma, mental illness, and despair is the only way to guide congregants toward healing.

If religious leaders are unwilling or unable to engage with these dark realities, they risk becoming obsolete. The Quakers, once at the forefront of social justice movements, gradually lost influence because they failed to adapt to the changing needs of society. Black religious institutions risk the same fate if they continue to avoid the hard truths of modern life. Mental illness, substance abuse, trauma, and systemic injustice are rampant in the very communities these institutions are meant to serve. By not addressing these issues head-on, they risk losing their moral authority and relevance, just as the Quakers did.

However, if Black religious institutions are willing to evolve—to embrace both the light and the dark—they can continue to serve as the spiritual and moral foundation of Black communities for generations to come. This evolution requires courage and humility from leaders, an acknowledgment that they too must confront their own fears and traumas. James Cone speaks to this necessity when he writes, “the task of the Christian is to participate in the liberation of the oppressed, even if it means risking their own security and comfort” (Cone, 1997).

The future of Black religious institutions depends on their ability to adapt to the pressing issues of modern life. They must remain places where the oppressed find not only comfort but also paths to healing, growth, and empowerment. If they fail to confront the realities of modern life—if they shy away from the difficult conversations around trauma, mental illness, and addiction—they risk becoming as irrelevant as the Quakers who faded into history. But if they are willing to confront the light and the dark, to guide their congregants through both suffering and redemption, they will continue to be pillars of strength, hope, and justice for Black communities for many years to come.

References

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Cone, James H. SAID I WASNT GONNA TELL NOBODY : The Making of a Black Theologian. HighBridge Company, 2020.

Cone, James H. God of the Oppressed. Maryknoll, N.Y., Orbis Books, 1997.

Stowell, D. (2017). The Atlantic mind: Zephaniah Kingsley, slavery, and the politics of race in the 19th century. The Atlantic.

Johanson, Christabel. “Mental Health in Black Art.” AFRICANAH.ORG , 5 Sept. 2020, africanah.org/mental-health-in-black-art/ .

“IT 2017 - Pennywise in Sewer, William Gray.” ArtStation, 2017,www.artstation.com/artwork/nVaoX . Accessed 5 Oct. 2024.