In the Name of the Father
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As it does now: Distant visions of his father preaching from a similar pulpit, later lying in his coffin, leaving the teenage son to support his family. A job recently lost for carrying a firearm; a home nearly burnt to the ground; his wife who after years of tumult was now leaving for good. All on top of the hatred from the people of this city, a fury he could feel in the stares of those in the pews behind him.
Perhaps the mounting burdens had finally overwhelmed him. Maybe it was divine intervention. Perhaps both. The bishop’s wife touched his shoulder and invited him to join the church. Ajabu wept.
He now stands and approaches the altar, as he did on that day, clasps his hands together and brings them to his lips. The lights come on, as if on cue, but Ajabu doesn’t notice. Tears streaming from his clenched eyelids, he bows his head. A knot forms in his throat. He can muster little more than a whisper.
“I was a pariah in this city,” he says softly. “The bishop hugged me. He loved me when my life was devoid of love. He put his arms around me and never let go. This was the place where he started me on that path.”
Today there is a new Light of the World. In 2002, the expanding congregation moved into a brand new complex dubbed “The City on the Hill,” erected just north of Crown Hill Cemetery on Michigan Road. Every Sunday, more than a thousand churchgoers file through the new glass doors. Every Sunday, Reverend Mmoja Ajabu is there to greet them.
A short, gaunt man whose tailored suit nevertheless hangs loosely on his bones, Ajabu possesses a raspy voice that carries the fervor of a man many times his size. “S’up, soldier?” he gruffs forcefully to the men whose hands he grabs and locks to pull them in for a firm half-hug. “Good morning, sister,” he offers the ladies, often punctuated with an embrace and a kiss on the cheek. White hairs have overtaken his thick beard and are starting to encroach on his black Afro. Gone are the stern countenance, clenched jaw, pouting lips, and blazing eyes of the righteous protestor. At 59, his face has softened, wrinkles worn around yellowed eyes and lips now often upturned into a smile.
Greeting is part of Ajabu’s job at the church. As minister of social concerns, he is obliged to be accessible to the people. Outside these doors, he organizes public forums on school choice and race relations, and delivers food and blankets to the homeless. He helps plan and attends rallies to urge fair treatment of workers. Even on this day as people enter the church, they pass a booth for voter registration on their way to the assembly hall. In short, he is now in charge of conducting the community outreach he so adamantly condemned Light of the World for not doing. It is all part of Ajabu’s and the bishop’s design.
From afar, a satisfied Bishop Benjamin watches his protege, whom he refers to as “the poster child for redemption.” He believes in Ajabu. To him, Ajabu is more than a humanitarian arm of Christ’s church; he is a symbol of the salvation that lies at the heart of Christianity. “Ajabu has always been involved in community organization and activism,” Benjamin says. “But he was militant, radical, fiery. For many, he was a scary person leaning toward violent solutions. He was an enemy of the church.”
