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THE MAROON TIGER
Pace
I RODE WITH GOD
“You rode with Christ on the Galilee. Now ride with
Father Divine on the Hudson.
And thus, dear reader, was your humble scribe at
tracted bv the above advertisement for a boat ride in
1 i 1 ole Noo Yawk.
“What man or being,” I asked, “would dare place
himself or itself in the same category of ‘Our Christ’
who is the Father Divine?”
As soon as I had completed the last syllable of these
two queries, a chorus of replies came from the small
the small group clustered on that Harlem corner.
“Father Divine is true.” “He is light.” “Father Di
vine is God.”
Hearing the word “Cod”, I, who had been taught to
believe that there is only one God, became quite a bit
astonished and slowly moved away from that group of
Harlem God-worshippers.
“Can this be true?” I asked myself. “Have these
seemingly ignorant people of my race found a real
God here in Harlem? What solution can I use to answer
these problematic thoughts of mine?- -I have it—the
boat ride!
Perusing these thoughts in my mind. I slowly wended
my way up the avenue to my uptown abode, determined
that I would make this boat ride on the morrow.
A night of sleeplessness, a day of restlessness passed.
Night again found me meandering up and down a pier
in the lower Battery, ready for my ride with God.
“Seventy-five cents, please.”
“Oh, yes, pardon me, I forgot.”
At this point I tried to recall whether or not Christ
had charged his followers this customary six-bits be
fore riding with him on the Galilee. I concluded that he
did not.
As I crossed the gangplank, I encountered a group
of men and women seated and standing around a table
at which sat a low. barrel-chested, ebony-skinned man
with a slightly bald head. Something peculiar and tense
seemed to permeate the atmosphere. All at once the
worshippers began to murmur and utter peculiar idioms.
“Father, you are light.” “You are the truth, Father.”
“You are our savior, Father.” “Father, you are God.”
It suddenly dawned upon me that there was some
basic reason or reasons for all these people (possibly
200 on this ride) believing that this man is God. “How
am I to find out this information? Wait, there is a young
man about nineteen years old, I suppose. I believe I
can converse with him about the matter.
After a brief introduction, I asked him why all these
people believed that this man is a God.
“Wait a while,” he answered, “and then come with
me, and I shall show you why we call him God.”
Shortly after that conversation, we entered the main
dining room of the “Sandy Hook.” Waiters were rush
ing everywhere carrying trays of what Droved to be
chicken, ducklings and the like. A hundred jaws opened
and closed at once, devouring these fancy meats and
dressings.
“This,” explained my friends of a few moments ago,
“is why we call him God. Father feeds us, clothes us,
gives us comfort when we are weary.”
“What! do you mean to say that Father Divine feeds
and clothes and gives shelter to possibly two hundred
people?”
“Yes,” answered my friend. “Isn’t that enough for a
man to do to be a God to us?”
Before I could answer this query those ever-present
murmurs again became audible—“Thank you, Father.”
“Bless you, Father.”
“Come,” said my friend, “let us partake of the feast.”
We sat at a table in a corner and began to enjoy the
deliciousness of the “Father’s” food. I wanted to get
away to myself where I could think once more. Leav
ing my companion with the impression that I would
soon return, I walked from this room of worship. Just
as I was entering the lobby, I seemed to hear an echo,
“Thank you, Father,” I turned suddenly to see if some
one was near me, but there was not a soul! Had my sub
conscious mind uttered these words? I wonder. Leav
ing the lobby, I walked along the deck towards the
forecastle. That part of the ship had an atmosphere
that was quite a contrast to the turmoil of religious
worship wihin. Everything seemed to be portraying a
natural tranquility.
It was in this atmosphere of tranquility that l was
reminded of my reason for being here. How could 1 help
thinking of my religion, my God.
My thoughts drifted. I was sitting in Mount
church on S avenue. The sermon had been com
pleted, and the minister was reading miscellaneous news.
As I saw him standing there, I remembered these words:
“Brother X died of hunger and exposure.”
As we entered the harbor of the Gotham, I wondered
just what I had accomplished on that trip. Again these
words came to me:
“Thank you. Father” . . . “died of hunger and ex
posure.”
Have 1 really ridden with God? I wonder.
—J. H. Y.
ON KILLING
By Tiki
Atlanta University
It is delightful to he a murderer. This I know from
first hand. No, I am not a gangster. The blood-curdling
accounts of these killing corporations do not find a kin
dred spot in me. I prefer to conduct my business alone.
It is still in the stage of a single proprietorship.
Business, did I say? That’s wrong. Pastime is the
w r ord. Killing is too fascinating to be called a business.
There are no regular hours, no organized method of
procedure, no money wages. Yet there are these wages:
lure of adventure, the zest of triumph, and the excite
ment of it all.
Looked upon as a leisurely occupation and not a pro
fession, killing requires neither long years of study nor
tedious periods of apprenticeship. Although skill de
velops with practice, there is initial skill which seems
to rise out of need.
Need? Pain. When 1 am maddened by the sting of
certain miniature beasts, bloody thoughts seize me. I
am one with the passion to kill. Blot him out instant
ly becomes my creed. No peace is there until the deed
is done. Grab a newspaper, boudoir slipper, fan—any
thing! As soon as he lands, rain blows upon him. Don’t
wait until he lands, attack him in mid-air. Take two
weapons and flatten him as he flies between them.
What joy to beat down this threadlike creature of
evil. There is the joy of achieving, not wholly separate
from the joy of murder. Let one of these satanic things
called mosquitoes insert his “piercer” into the vein on
the back of your hand. Out of that pain grows the de
sire to forsake all and pursue the plaguer to an inevi
table end, death. Your pain sharpens your skill. Your
accomplishment, killing, gives you delight.