Engaging whiteness (more) constructively: Conversations with James Cone and Frederick Herzog on the future of race and class in theology

A personal introduction

“Why should I eulogize a white theologian?” This was James Cone’s first response when I invited him to give a presentation at an event at the American Academy of Religion in 1996 in memory of Frederick Herzog, who had passed away the previous year during a faculty meeting at Duke Divinity School. Although I had read and admired Cone’s work, I had never met him in person. Hearing his voice on the other end of my landline was a bit intimidating, as I was still a young assistant professor who also happened to be a white theologian. Looking back at that encounter, I like to think that Cone challenged me because he knew there was an answer to his question, and he had reason to assume that a student of Herzog should be able to deal with it.

In one sense, responding to this question was not too difficult, as Cone himself had affirmed in writing two decades earlier that Frederick Herzog was the only white theologian who “has attempted to reorder theological priorities in the light of the oppression of black people.” ¹ Remembering this passage, I quoted his own note of appreciation back to Cone, and he immediately consented to participating in the event and giving a presentation. Unfortunately, he then realized he already had another commitment, and Gayraud Wilmore gave a presentation instead, along with Gustavo Gutiérrez, John Cobb, Jürgen Moltmann, Susan Thistlethwaite, Douglas Meeks, and myself. ²

In another sense, responding to Cone’s question about why a black theologian should eulogize a white theologian was hard, as the challenge was a very personal one, not just because I was one of those white theologians myself. I was very close to Herzog, and I had written part of my dissertation analyzing his work, so I understood why Cone commended Herzog for having learned something from black theology. ³ But I am also aware of the limits and challenges of white theologizing, just as I keep reminding myself of the limits and challenges of Euro-American theologizing, male and straight theologizing, and petit-bourgeois theologizing.

In this article, I begin with what Herzog, a white theologian, learned from the oppression of black people and the work of Cone, and then discuss the challenges in light of how racism is shaping up in the contemporary United States and the challenges for a theology of the future. I conclude with some of what I have learned from engaging with racism and the work of Cone.

The origins of liberation theology in the United States, in black and white

What might white theology learn from reorienting its theological priorities in light of the oppression of black people, as Cone noted about Herzog’s work? Elsewhere, Cone put his appreciation in these words: “In his life and his writings, Herzog made it clear that Black Theology had something to say to White Theology which the latter dared not ignore if it wished to encounter the Word of God for our times. He suffered much isolation for his stand, because of the uncompromising way in which he stood his ground.” ⁴ In this comment, life and thought are mentioned in the same breath, and it stands to reason that Herzog would not have learned much from black theology if he had not personally been involved in struggles for liberation.

Herzog’s participation in the civil rights movement first opened his eyes. Early on, he learned that the challenge for white people was not to become colorblind. In conjunction with this insight, he also learned that the problem of racism was not primarily exclusion, which could be resolved by becoming more inclusive, but the ongoing exploitation of African Americans in the United States. Moved by a set of civil rights protests in Durham, North Carolina, in 1969, which culminated in the occupation of the Duke University administration building by students of the so-called “Afro-American Society,” Herzog writes, “Becoming color-blind—in which I have prided myself—easily can mean becoming blind to the savage struggle those of the other color are still caught in.” ⁵ He saw clearly that deeper engagement in the struggle was required, as he contrasts mere concern and action, noting that concern is not enough.

How deeply the rest of Herzog’s work and life was shaped by this engagement might have become clear to observant visitors to his office at Duke Divinity School. On its walls were no pictures of his great theological teachers (he studied with Karl Barth in Basel and Paul Lehmann at Princeton, and he lived in Barth’s house for a few years); there was only a single picture of William Edwards, a destitute African American fireman and bilateral amputee who was dealing with severe health issues, all made worse by the realities of racism, but who refused to give up. Edwards’ life helped Herzog understand that theology could not continue with business as usual: “You don’t understand what theology is unless you have looked in the face of suffering, unless you have become an atheist in the presence of pain.” Accountability to the suffering of African Americans requires the rejection of commonly accepted images of God by white churches and white theology. Atheism is the rejection of the theisms of the status quo, not of God. Herzog concludes, “My theological words break to pieces in the face of reality.” ⁶ Edwards’ life taught Herzog a key problem of racism frequently overlooked even by those who seek to fight it: the distribution of wealth in the United States. This insight led Herzog, as one of the few white theologians, to support James Foreman’s 1969 call for reparations. In addition, Herzog sometimes credited Edwards with teaching him what he called the “Bible-in-Hand-Method,” which referred to reading the Bible in the midst of struggle. Here, white theology was deeply shaped by encounters with African American lives.

Experiences like these culminated in the publication of a 1970 article by Herzog titled “Theology of Liberation.” ⁷ This article was the first published piece that used the term “theology of liberation” in the United States. The liberation theologies of James Cone and Gustavo Gutiérrez were in the making at the same time, and that these three theologians came up with the terminology independently of each other at virtually the same time is remarkable. ⁸ In this article, Herzog points out that the assassination of Martin Luther King, Jr., in 1968 required new forms of solidarity that refused to co-opt blackness. ⁹ Solidarity differs from integration, he notes, which is suspect because “in integration, blacks seldom participate in the control of the resources of power.” ¹⁰ This insight is another crucial one for today, where schemes of inclusion still tend to dominate discussions of race and gender. Inclusion of racial minorities into the majority overlooks the fundamental problem, namely that “white Christianity as organized religion supports the exploiter.” ¹¹ The alternative is liberation, and Herzog claims unequivocally that:

. . . for Christian theology the focus is thus no longer the question of immortality, or of forgiveness or justification. At stake now is how a human being relates to power in a world dominated by political arrangements. What matters is liberation, being able in society to control one’s humanity. ¹²

Liberation thus reshapes theological priorities, and James Cone coming to similar conclusions is no accident, as both Herzog and Cone, each in their own ways, were deeply immersed in concrete experiences of oppression.

Herzog and Cone are further in agreement that liberation theology fundamentally differs from liberal theology. Herzog commends Cone for his ability to:

. . . size up the present dilemma of liberal theology with a sharp eye: “The liberal, then, is one who sees ‘both sides’ of the issue and shies away from ‘extremism’ in any form. He wants to change the heart of the racist without ceasing to be his friend; he wants progress without conflict . . . He wants change without risk, victory without blood.” ¹³

Perhaps one of the biggest lessons for the future of theology is that there can be no middle road, and both Cone and Herzog are clear about that. In Herzog’s words: “Liberal theology needs to make way for liberated theology, a theology in which the initiative and power of God’s liberation unite the theologian more fully with the lot of the disadvantaged. Liberated theology will probably find that its first reward in engaging society is conflict and not applause.” ¹⁴ Not only was Herzog right about such an approach not earning applause, his fellow white theologians soon shunned him for good. True solidarity reshapes relations with both the oppressed and the oppressors.

The ultimate theological challenge of liberation theology, as developed both by black and white theologians in the United States, comes down to the nature of God. Without this conversation, that extends to the now unfashionable notion of heresy, white supremacy persists in places where most well-meaning people of faith might never suspect it. Herzog puts it this way: “Central to the understanding of God in America today is the tension between black and white. It may still come as a surprise to some, but the question today is not whether God is dead or alive, but whether he is black or white.” ¹⁵ Fifty years later, we still need to continue this conversation and expand it to include matters of ethnicity, gender, sexuality, and class, while too many people in the United States are hung up on the question of the existence of God rather than the nature of God. ¹⁶

Herzog picks up Cone’s contributions to this struggle, including the comment that “white Christianity in America . . . was born in heresy.” ¹⁷ Racism, Cone maintains and Herzog agrees, is not merely a moral problem. It amounts to a denial of the nature of God and Christ. In Herzog’s words (retaining the male-inflected language common at the time, which he would abandon later),

God himself has become incredible because of the way Christians have abused him. In his name Christians have fought crusades and wars of religion. White men have subjugated whole continents for exploitation. Africa for centuries was divided up in colonies of white Christian Europe. It was hardly more than a century ago that large parts of America supported slavery. Christian nations fought two world wars. And behind Auschwitz and Hiroshima lurks the face of the white God—whose infinite power men sought to imitate in acts of infinite violence. ¹⁸

As a result of this track record, this God is finished. Cone presents the alternative, whom Herzog quotes in agreement: “Whether whites want to hear it or not, Christ is black, baby, with all the features which are so detestable to white society.” Herzog continues to quote Cone in regard to the doctrine of God: “Black is holy, that is, it is the symbol of God’s presence in history on behalf of the oppressed man [sic]. Where there is black, there is oppression; but blacks can be assured that where there is blackness, there is Christ who has taken on blackness so that what is evil in man’s [sic] eyes might become good.” ¹⁹ This approach is diametrically opposed to how liberal theologians typically understand God and Christ as black: namely as a cultural concession to black people who can now understand the divine in their own image. By contrast, liberation theology (white and black) understands that the challenge is to white people, who will need to stop creating the divine in their image and learn to see God in light of the lives of the oppressed.

Herzog’s conclusion is still valid fifty years later and points to the future not only of white theology but also of the white church:

Here the challenge of black theology becomes quite clear. God is not found among the high and the mighty, the glamorous or successful. God is also not embodied in the masochistic or self-debasing. The point is, God is found where human life is most threatened, where it has a hard time breaking through to triumph over the negativities that work against it. ²⁰

For the sake of communicating the radical spirit of the time that pulls together Herzog and Cone, white and black liberation theology, Herzog’s concluding statement is included here:

Tentatively, ‘God is black’ means that ultimate reality denies white theological supremacy, which, however subtly, evades identification with the wretched of the earth. The seventies will probably compel American theology to a complete reconstruction of its material. And it will have been black theology that has called the shots. It will have been especially Cone’s merit to have sharply focused the issue. For the first step in reconstruction will have to be the radical identification with the wretched of the earth—as principle of theological orientation. ²¹

Even though some of us continue to work on these theological challenges today, US theology has by no means attempted the “complete reconstruction of its material” that Herzog expected for the 1970s.

Despite many common causes, white and black liberation theology did not always go hand-in-hand. Some challenges emerged that may be more relevant than ever in the current climate. Engaging a presentation of Cone on the occasion of a conference he hosted at Duke University in 1970, Herzog wonders what happens when the struggle against racism overlooks the socioeconomic dimensions, presenting the challenge in these words: “Can Cone understand that his argument breaks down for me at the point of reconciliation because he has no image of the human being to offer other than the bourgeois? Is not the black who gains power in the capitalist system bound to be a bourgeois and not just an equal citizen?” The fundamental question is, “In what sense can Cone’s theology today still identify with the plight of the black masses? In what way does the sharecropper or the garbage collector appear for him as a concrete identification point in the actual theological practice of liberation?” ²² Cone picked up these challenges in his later work, as we shall see, in conversation with Latin American liberation theology.

Herzog continued these conversations until the end of his life. In the last article he wrote before his death, he states, “Only if we change ourselves in view of these ‘invisible’ people [African and Native Americans in the United States], will we become aware of the ‘invisible God.’ Here anchors our theological future.” ²³ The three African American choirs performing at his funeral knew why they were eulogizing this white theologian.

Conversion, new birth, and emerging solidarity

With Frederick Herzog as my teacher and having written my PhD dissertation and my first book in part on his work, I enjoyed a head start into my own engagement with black theology. In addition, I cut my teeth on studying feminist theology as a student in Germany in the mid-1980s at a time when the subject was virtually non-existent in the German academy and, growing up, intensively studied the Holocaust, often by personally interviewing people who had lived through the period and challenging the “everyday fascism” that remained after the fall of Nazi Germany.

In addition to encountering the stories and experiences of African Americans in the United States, a very personal encounter with black theology and the challenges of whiteness in the United States occurred when I became the teaching assistant of Willie Jennings at Duke University Divinity School in a mandatory course on the theology of the black church in the early 1990s. Many white theology students in the South had trouble grasping the challenges of race, and liberation seemed to have become a distant memory in theological education at that time. Even the most open and engaged students did not seem to move much beyond notions of reconciliation and inclusion. Some of this situation related to the culture of Duke Divinity School, but it seems to have been also the spirit of much white mainline Christianity of the time. Reconciliation and inclusion in this context referred to the white mainline becoming more open and inclusive of others, but without much analysis of power differentials and the broader context in which racial stereotypes take shape.

Students in this course were profoundly troubled by a chapter in Cone’s book, God of the Oppressed, that Jennings assigned for class. In this chapter, titled “Liberation and Reconciliation,” Cone argues for the close relationship between reconciliation and liberation in the New Testament, and states that “Christ is the Reconciler because he is first the liberator.” ²⁴ On this basis Cone continues to develop the notion of reconciliation and its meaning for race relationships. A key observation is that “from God’s side, reconciliation between blacks and whites means that God is unquestionably on the side of the oppressed blacks struggling for justice . . . Reconciliation means that God enters into black history and breaks down the hostility and racism of white people.” ²⁵ Cone explicitly challenges sentimental understandings of race relations: “While divine reconciliation, for oppressed blacks, is connected with the joy of liberation from the controlling power of white people, for whites divine reconciliation is connected with God’s wrathful destruction of white values.” ²⁶ In this context, Cone talks about God’s fight against the “principalities and powers that hold people in captivity.” ²⁷ This approach questioned many of the basic assumptions of white students, who might have seen ministry as service to others but not as taking sides with the oppressed or fighting oppressive structures. Cone and Herzog, liberation theology in black and white, agree that the task of the church is not to serve but to fight. ²⁸

I have continued assigning Cone’s chapter in my classes since then, and what keeps challenging every new generation of white students is this passage: “White people must be made to realize that reconciliation is a costly experience. It is not holding hands and singing ‘Black and White together’ and ‘We shall overcome.’ Reconciliation means death, and only those who are prepared to die in the struggle for freedom will experience new life with God.” ²⁹ Just like there can be no cheap grace (to use Bonhoeffer’s terminology), there can be no cheap reconciliation. To be sure, notions of reconciliation were hotly debated even within black theology. Cone disagrees with his African American colleague, J. Deotis Roberts, who interprets reconciliation in terms of love and forgiveness, because “in black history, reconciliation and liberation on white terms have always meant death for black people.” ³⁰ There is, however, also what Cone calls “the rare possibility of conversion among white oppressors,” which he understands as “white people becoming black.” The biblical notion of conversion, he continues, is “a radical experience, and it ought not to be identified with white sympathy for blacks or with a pious feeling in white folks’ hearts.” ³¹ In other words, there can be no reconciliation without conversion—and this is not only true for the relation of humans and God; it is also true for the relations of humans to each other, particularly the relation of white and black.

As white and black liberation theology keep developing together, traditional theological concepts are reclaimed and gain new power. In addition to terms such as reconciliation and conversion, the concept of new birth may serve as an example. In Cone’s account:

[W]hen whites undergo the true experience of conversion wherein they die to whiteness and are reborn anew in order to struggle against white oppression and for the liberation of the oppressed, there is a place for them in the black struggle of freedom . . . But it must be made absolutely clear that it is the black community that decides both the authenticity of white conversion and also the place these converts will play in the black struggle of freedom. ³²

In other words, a place exists for white people in the struggle for liberation, but a complete transformation is necessary. The reason for that is a particular problem of oppressors: “Oppressors are not only rendered incapable of knowing their own condition, they cannot speak about or for the oppressed.” ³³ In classical theological language, this situation might be described as the problem of human sin and fallenness or what the Reformers called the homo incurvatus in se, the human being caught up in itself.

Overlooked, however, in these early and much-needed endorsements of the black community are the limitations of the oppressed. As womanist theologians pointed out later, sexism and heterosexism also pose significant problems. Added are the problems of class, which also divide the communities. As Latin American liberation theologians soon began to realize regarding their insistence on God’s preferential option for the poor, even the poor need to make this option consciously to become part of the movement for liberation. This reality calls for a more profound analysis of what precisely oppresses and exploits people and how the lines that run between oppressors/exploiters and the oppressed/exploited may be more complicated and complex.

In addition, efforts of divide-and-conquer are at work even in the communities of the oppressed, making reconciliation (including conversion and new birth) most urgent. In Cone’s words, “As long as the oppressor can keep us divided and fighting among ourselves, his task of keeping black people oppressed is made that much easier.” ³⁴ This insight of the early Cone runs parallel with recent insights into the work of Jesus, claiming that Jesus was not merely a radical preacher but also an organizer. Fighting oppressive systems requires the solidarity of the oppressed. When Jesus talks about loving one’s enemies, for instance, he may be talking about overcoming divide-and-conquer, manifest in the rivalries between oppressed villages, rather than about being nice to imperial overlords like Herod or the Roman elites. ³⁵

Where does this understanding leave white theologians? This question is not primarily about individuals, as there is a problem with the white church to which many theologians belong. According to Cone, “all institutional white churches in America have sided with capitalist, rich, white, male elites, and against socialists, the poor, blacks, and women.” ³⁶ While this statement contains a good deal of truth, taking a closer look here can be instructive for finding a way forward. Most white mainline churches have indeed often sided with the dominant position—sometimes openly, but perhaps more often unconsciously by not taking the sides of the others. In doing so, however, white people have often confused whatever white privilege they may have with power, i.e., with being part of the class that has access to power in this country. Many pastors of wealthy white churches, for instance, confuse their privileged positions with the power of the wealthy donors who keep the church afloat and pay pastors’ salaries. The same happens to white theologians: they sometimes confuse their privileged positions with the power of the members of the board of trustees of their institutions. Pastors, bishops, and theologians are hardly ever the peers of those who belong to the dominant class. When Cone, in his posthumously published autobiography, notes that white European theologians were already free, so “they did not need to advocate historical liberation from oppression,” ³⁷ he feeds into the misunderstanding that whites in general are not only privileged but also have access to dominant power.

Cone sometimes writes as if white Americans are all equally powerful and therefore are all equally oppressors. From the other end of the spectrum, this view is what the dominant powers of racism and white supremacy want people to believe as well: if white working people—or white theologians or church people—can be made to believe that they have the same share of white power as the white members of the 1%, the racist game of divide-and-conquer has worked because they now see themselves as superior to black working people, black theologians, or black church people. If, however, white people understand that their white privilege, although very real, is also limited and will never give them the kind of power the dominant class possesses, change can happen.

Cone references the famous statements of Martin Luther King, Jr., that “whatever affects one directly affects all indirectly,” and that “injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere.” ³⁸ These statements might mean, for instance, that the evils of racism harm not only some, but all of us, if only indirectly. Even though white working people, for example, possess white privilege and have a share in white supremacy, they are also among the losers whenever racism separates them from working people of color, because this separation leaves the bosses in power. In other words, white working people are better off when they realize the pernicious ways in which racism harms the 99% directly and indirectly and when they experience conversion and are born again to join in solidarity with all who are exploited, both people and the earth. Cone’s insight that “suffering can separate us . . . or it can bring us together” ³⁹ is a reminder to all of us that we need to begin to face our own suffering and our own struggles and learn how they are related to the suffering and struggles of others. In the process, white people need to learn not only that they are not all-powerful (the mistaken belief of white supremacy, maintained even in some cases where white people seek to fight injustice); they also need to learn to observe and name their own suffering, as the fortunes of working- and middle-class people continue to erode. ⁴⁰

In the South African struggle against Apartheid, theologian Basil Moore wrote, “Like most of us, I am prepared to trust and stand alongside a man who is fighting for himself and his own freedom if I know that his freedom is bound up with mine. I cannot wholeheartedly trust a man who is fighting for me, for I fear that sooner or later he will tire of the struggle.” ⁴¹ Moore’s sentiment bears some resemblances to what I have been calling “deep solidarity”: without an understanding of how the forces of oppression and exploitation harm all of us, not only the “least of these,” no struggle can endure because no common bonds can develop. Deep solidarity does not require a sense that we are all alike, but it requires some understanding that the experience of suffering and pressure connects us, with the goal of putting to work our differences in constructive fashion. At the same time, deep solidarity needs to be informed by where the pain is greatest: slavery, mass incarceration, the systematic exploitation of minorities, women, and queer people, etc. A sense remains, expressed by Cone, in which the shots are called from below.

Race and class matters

Experiences of exploitation and oppression cannot simply be lifted up in protest. Cone insists they need to be analyzed: “Commitment without analysis leads to romanticism and eventually to despair. Analysis without commitment leads to opportunism and eventually to a betrayal of one’s people.” ⁴² In many churches and communities today analysis is lacking, which is why so many well-meaning people have burned out in the struggle, closely linked with a lack of understanding how the problems of exploitation and oppression affect themselves. In the 1980s, Cone observes a problem that, over thirty years later, still haunts us: “The response of black theologians to white racism was based too much upon moral suasion and too little upon the tools of social analysis,” as if “racism of white members of the clergy could be eliminated through an appeal to their moral guilt and consciousness as Christians.” ⁴³ In this context, Cone discovers the broader connections between racism, capitalism, and imperialism. He also begins to engage matters of gender, as younger generations of womanist theologians are challenging his work; unfortunately, this article does not have room for an exploration of these developments. ⁴⁴

Despite the fact that black theologians do not agree on the exact relation of race and class—Cornel West argues for class to be the more basic problem, whereas Cone argues that race is the more basic problem ⁴⁵ —Cone comes to admit to the limits of a critique of race at the expense of a critique of class: “Despite our black militant rhetoric, we wanted a piece of the capitalistic American pie, and that was one reason why we rejected Marxism. Furthermore, when some of us got a little piece of that pie, we quickly lost our radicalism and became ‘big-time’ executives and seminary professors.” ⁴⁶ He credits Latin American liberation theology with an emerging awareness of class in black theology, an issue that had also been raised by Frederick Herzog: “It became clear to me that either black theology would incorporate class analysis into its perspective or it would become a justification of middle-class interests at the expense of the black poor.” ⁴⁷

To be sure, differences between the various struggles for liberation must be acknowledged, and Cone recommends that people “make their entry into the struggle for freedom at the point where it hurts them the most. But that focus should not be allowed to blind them to other manifestations of injustice as well as their interrelation with each other.” ⁴⁸ Cone’s point is that “racism, classism, sexism, and imperialism are interconnected, and none can be correctly understood and eventually defeated without simultaneous attention to the others. Furthermore, each of these ‘isms’ is related to others, that is, ageism, militarism, anti-Semitism, etc.” ⁴⁹ Recognizing these connections is crucial in a world in which oppression is rampant, but Cone’s talk about “isms” does not necessarily get to the core of the problems. Class is the best example: the problem is not primarily class stereotypes or prejudices against other classes (“classism”) but structural relationships according to which one class exploits all others.

Before engaging an analysis of class, however, it is important to address why dealing with class at the expense of race is problematic. At present, this problem hampers the presidential campaigns as run by various candidates of the Democratic Party in the elections of 2016 and the upcoming elections of 2020. Efforts to attract white voters by addressing economic issues in what might be called a “colorblind” way backfired in 2016. ⁵⁰ Cone identifies a related problem in the work of Reinhold Niebuhr, observing that “Niebuhr himself preserved class solidarity at the expense of racial justice, which many liberal white-led groups were inclined to do when fighting for justice among the poor.” ⁵¹ Yet these matters can never be neatly distinguished or separated, as racial, ethnic, gendered, and sexual identities are used to keep people down—including in economic relationships. In my own engagement with the labor movement with minority communities, African Americans, Latinx communities, undocumented immigrants, and women, this theme was constant. ⁵² When founding the Wendland-Cook Program in Religion and Justice at Vanderbilt University Divinity School, focusing on economic and ecological justice, we, therefore, reflected a concern for intersectionality in writing the founding documents. ⁵³

Even Karl Marx, often misunderstood as ignorant of matters of oppression other than class, brings class and race together, observing that “in the United States, every independent movement of the workers was paralysed so long as slavery disfigured a part of the republic. Labour cannot emancipate itself in the white skin where in the black it is branded.” ⁵⁴ Today we are rediscovering the fact that the enslavement of African Americans, based on a particular form of racism, is an extreme form of labor relation that shapes and influences subsequent labor relations in capitalism where “winner takes all.” ⁵⁵ The contemporary Poor People’s Campaign expresses a similar sentiment in its fundamental principles: “We recognize the centrality of systemic racism in maintaining economic oppression must be named, detailed and exposed empirically, morally and spiritually. Poverty and economic inequality cannot be understood apart from a society built on white supremacy.” ⁵⁶ Racism is deeply intertwined with class structures, allowing capitalism to keep racial minorities in their “place” (although a few are allowed to ascend the ladder), and in so doing simultaneously lowers the floor for white working people, while pitting them against working people of color so those at the top who reap the more substantial benefits of white supremacy are home free. In other words, racism and capitalism reinforce each other mutually. In sum, Cone states, “We cannot continue to speak against racism without any reference to a radical change in the economic order. I do not think that racism can be eliminated as long as capitalism remains intact.” ⁵⁷ And we might add that the reverse is true as well.

The relationship of race and class continues to demand our attention. Comparing Marxism and the black church, Cone notes that “Marxism was preoccupied with the destruction of capitalism and socialism, as well as common ownership of the means of production; the black church was concerned about slavery and racism.” ⁵⁸ In response to this observation, we can point to significant overlaps: slavery and racism also constitute labor relations, and racism is one of the foundations of neoliberal capitalism, for instance by getting white workers to vote against their interests, by keeping black workers in place, and by helping to maintain the power of the dominant class. Race and class analysis can complement each other in fundamental ways, updating fundamental insights for the present. Furthermore, class analysis is not limited to Marx and economics. Like racial oppression, economic exploitation is more than a social problem. The fundamental challenge relates to a theological distortion. In Cone’s voice, “The challenge of Marxism emerges out of Marx’s critique of religion, but the necessity of Marxism arises out of his critique of capitalism . . . The values of capitalism are so ingrained into American culture that many church persons assume that they are the same as Christian values.” ⁵⁹ Here is a lesson for both white and black Christianity, as the Gospel of Prosperity runs rampant in both.

Cone attempts to move the race and class debate forward by calling for conversations between African Americans and other North American minorities, noting that US minorities are divided and suspicious of each other, “and yet have the most to gain by mutual support and solidarity.” ⁶⁰ In this endeavor, he challenges the class interests of many minority leaders who use their minority culture to cover up their solidarity with the ruling class. This reality shows that an emerging class consciousness is needed for struggles of liberation that not only protest injustice but will be able to turn history around. Globally, Cone observes, “more than half of the Christians of the world are people of color.” ⁶¹ Here, minority politics turns into majority politics, which makes sense because the dominant elites are in the minority.

Yet, one step is missing that has the potential to turn minority politics even more solidly into the politics of the majority. When Cone talks about whites, he seems to refer to the white middle class in the United States and its false identification with the dominant class. Academics and religious leaders are certainly part of the problem, and Cone sees no need to bother with them. In his autobiography, he notes, “I am well known in some white theological circles for having said that white theologians should ‘shut their damn mouths.’” ⁶² The reference, he explains, is to white critics who lived in privileged worlds and missed what black people were dealing with, such as going to work, raising children, and forging meaning in a situation in which they are not recognized as human beings. ⁶³ No doubt, not much of a contribution to liberation theology, black or white, will be made by people such as these. And unsurprisingly, as Cone says elsewhere, “whites will not look with favor upon this enterprise from which they are excluded.” ⁶⁴ But what about whites who are not living in such privileged worlds either and whose lives and actions differ from those whites who seem to be excluding themselves because they seek to find a place in the middle?

What about the conversion of whites, which includes not only an understanding of how they have been oppressors but also an awareness of how they themselves have failed to reap the benefits from racial capitalism and white supremacy that were promised to them? Can liberation movements really win the day without broad-based solidarity, given the magnitude of the challenge? Many of Cone’s white students and readers may serve as examples. Some white theologians have learned about the realities of racism, and some have written critiques of white theologies and reclaimed them as part of various solidarity movements. ⁶⁵ In addition, some white readers of Cone feel they have learned not only about race but also about class from his writings. As Chris Ruth, a theology student at a mainline seminary in the United States, told me recently in a phone conversation, “I could not have come to class consciousness without James Cone.” When asked how that happened, Ruth referred to the theological notion that God is taking sides and that we need to take sides as well. Pushing beyond mainline liberal theologies towards conversion and new birth needs to be part of the future of theology and the church.

Where do we go from here?

Much confusion today arises from different approaches to matters of race and class that are often contradictory. Common in churches, corporations, and society today is what has become known as “diversity training.” The point of this approach is to counteract blatant racism and to develop respect for others who are different. “Celebrating diversity” is part of this, which means to welcome and value the contributions of different people. In many ways, these efforts match the aspirations of liberal theology of integration and inclusion. Yet Cone’s form of black liberation theology aims at something else. Liberation is not respecting or celebrating diversity within the dominant system, and neither does it aim at integration and inclusion into the status quo. Liberation is about changing the system altogether.

Cone’s challenge to the church must be understood in this way. Starting with the black church, he advises that “black church leaders devote too much time to the organizational operations of their churches . . . At least 95 percent of the AME’s time and energy is spent on itself.” ⁶⁶ The question is not what is best for the black church; the question is what contributes to the liberation of the black poor and the poor of the world. ⁶⁷ This question challenges not only the narcissism of individual churches but also their relations to each other. Cone suggests a different definition of the term “ecumenism,” which usually refers to the relations of different Christian denominations to each other. Black churches, according to Cone, have been resistant to apply the term ecumenism simply to the unity among churches because “the search for unity in Jesus Christ cannot be separated from the struggle for justice in society.” ⁶⁸ In these efforts, three elements work together: the so-called Talented Tenth (DuBois), mass involvement (King), and “integral solidarity with the grassroots” (embodied by Malcom X). ⁶⁹ This last element may well be the biggest challenge for the churches of the future, as narcissism continues to be rampant in many religious communities.

Cone and I became acquainted better in his later years. I still recall a conversation with a publisher at one of the annual American Academy of Religion meetings when Cone approached us and told the publisher that I was doing important work and that he should publish me, without even knowing what project we were discussing. I appreciated his humorous intervention, as it expressed a growing relationship. Later, we spent time discussing race and class issues, sometimes without making much progress, with Cone concluding that perhaps it was another version of the old experience vs. reason debates in theology, where race now somehow took the place of experience and class the place of reason. Even though I never quite got to the bottom of what he meant, my conclusion is that we need to keep the conversation between race and class going, also including conversations about ethnicity, gender, sexuality, and other factors that could not be addressed in this article. Of course, no enlightened theologian today would disagree on that point, but we are still finding out how this intersectionality functions in specific situations.

None of these questions is of purely academic interest, as the challenges are mounting. In his favorite book, The Cross and the Lynching Tree, Cone asks his readers to see the cross and the lynching tree together. “To forget this atrocity leaves us with a fraudulent perspective of this society and of the meaning of the Christian gospel for this nation.” ⁷⁰ In the Roman Empire, the cross was an instrument of terror and a warning to anyone who would challenge the power of Rome; the lynching tree is another instrument of terror and a warning against those who would challenge white supremacy. Today, other mechanisms exist, including the shooting of teenagers, mass incarceration, and mass disenfranchisement. In these ways, Cone would say, Christ is crucified again wherever people are tormented, which means that Christ is still black. ⁷¹

Cone’s hope, expressed at the end of his life, is that whites “will be redeemed from their blindness and open their eyes to the terror of their deeds so that they know that we are all of one blood, brothers and sisters, literally and symbolically, and that what they do to blacks, they do to themselves.” This hope includes the ability “to overcome our prejudices and the hate that separates us.” ⁷² Yet the question that needs to be raised more clearly than ever before is what (and who) keeps prejudice and hate in place. We now have a president who is not only using prejudice and hate in ways that are more effective than ever before, but also we have interests whose wealth and power are on the rise and who thrive on dividing the members of the 99%, ⁷³ white, black, Latinx, straight, queer, and undocumented immigrant against each other. Everything is affected: the economy, politics, communities, families, and even religious communities.

If Cone has taught us anything, overcoming the divisions of race and class is not accomplished by cheap reconciliation, finding a middle road, and least of all by “reaching across the aisles.” These divisions can only be overcome as God overcomes them: by taking the side of the oppressed on the crosses and on the lynching trees, of the exploited people, and the environment. If there is hope, ⁷⁴ this is where we might still find it.