Before We Tell Our Story

An Alley Catholic's Reflection

By Andrew Lyke

There was a moment in our conversation that almost slipped past me.

I had asked Fr. Ken Hamilton to tell the story of how the National Black Catholic Men’s Conference began.

Instead…

he told my story.

Or rather, he reminded me whose story I belong to.

Before saying a word about conferences, ministries, or programs, Fr. Ken spoke about my uncle, Archbishop James P. Lyke.

He remembered how Archbishop Lyke invited him and Fathers Charles and Chester Smith to Atlanta to begin what eventually became the Bowman-Francis Ministry.

Then he stopped and said something that has echoed in my spirit ever since.

“You are in that legacy, Andrew.”

I’ve thought about those words every day since.

Not because they honored me.

But because they reminded me that none of us begins with ourselves.

We Inherit Before We Lead

American culture teaches us to celebrate the self-made person.

The entrepreneur.

The pioneer.

The one who “made it on their own.”

Black spirituality has never believed that.

We know better.

Every one of us is standing on somebody’s shoulders.

Someone prayed for us before we knew how to pray.

Someone opened a door we didn’t know existed.

Someone spoke our name in rooms where we had never been invited.

Someone believed in us before we believed in ourselves.

Long before we become mentors, we are beneficiaries.

Long before we leave a legacy, we inherit one.

Perhaps that is why our elders spend so much time telling stories.

They are handing us ourselves.

The Ministry of Remembering

As I listened again to our conversation, I noticed something I had missed while we were recording.

None of us talked very long without mentioning someone else’s name.

Archbishop Lyke.

Sr. Thea Bowman.

Fr. Chester Smith.

Fr. Charles Smith.

Father Tony Clark.

Bishop Joseph Francis.

John Bowman.

Mentors.

Teachers.

Friends.

Brothers.

Again and again, our conversation reached backward before it moved forward.

That isn’t sentimentality.

It is discipleship.

In Scripture, Israel survived because it remembered.

“Tell your children…”

“Remember the mighty deeds…”

“Do this in memory of me.”

Faith has always been carried by memory.

When memory is lost, identity soon follows.

Sankofa in Black Catholic Shoes

There is an Akan word many of us have come to love:

Sankofa.

Go back and retrieve what has been forgotten.

It is often symbolized by a bird looking backward while moving forward.

That image has become one of the defining symbols of Black cultural consciousness.

But listening to our conversation, I realized Sankofa is also deeply Catholic.

Every Eucharist is an act of remembering.

Every Communion of Saints is an act of remembering.

Every baptism links us to generations we have never met.

Every funeral reminds us that love is stronger than death.

Black Catholics have always practiced Sankofa.

We simply called it tradition.

The Communion of Mentors

When I think about my own life, I cannot tell my story without naming others.

My parents.

My grandparents.

Archbishop James P. Lyke.

The Black Catholic Movement.

The couples who mentored Terri and me during the earliest years of our marriage.

Friends who challenged me.

Pastors who trusted me.

Teachers who corrected me.

Communities that formed me.

Even my suffering has teachers.

Leukemia taught me things success never could.

The point is simple.

There is no such thing as a self-made disciple.

Every disciple is community-made.

This Is How We Stay Alive

Perhaps this is one reason the National Black Catholic Men’s Conference matters so much.

Young men come expecting speakers.

They leave carrying stories.

Stories become memory.

Memory becomes identity.

Identity becomes vocation.

Then, almost without realizing it, they begin telling those same stories to someone younger.

That is how traditions survive.

Not because they are written in books.

Because they are spoken by people who have lived them.

One day someone will ask another young Black Catholic man,

“How did you get here?”

I hope his answer sounds something like ours.

“I didn’t get here alone.”

“I was carried.”

“I was taught.”

“I was challenged.”

“I was loved.”

“I inherited something beautiful.”

“And now…

it is my turn to carry someone else.”

Perhaps that is the truest measure of a legacy.

Not what we accomplish.

But who can say our name with gratitude after we are gone.