Go Tell It on the Mountain
- Nov 11, 2020
- 2 min read
★★★★☆
A fire and brimstone of a book, a burning, raging, impassioned book, filled with the hopes and fears, triumphs and travails, longings and loathings, angels and demons, and, yes, deliverance and damnation of a family, but not just of one family, of a people, a whole race, living and struggling with themselves, with each other, with a world not made for them, with a world that doesn’t want them. For the nonbeliever like me, even for non-Pentecosts, the all-consuming fear of sin and of being forsaken, and the ceaseless struggle and strife to be laid low, to be redeemed, to be sanctified, to live and bask in the glory of God, can all be a bit much.
But James Baldwin tells the story of John Grimes, fourteen and gay and strange-looking, of his abusive Deacon stepfather with a dark secret, of his mother with a dark secret of her own, and of the community of their little church in 1930s Harlem with such intensity, such power, such conviction, that you cannot avert your gaze, cannot doubt the sincerity of their thoughts and feelings, cannot help but to hope and pray that they find peace with themselves and with each other.
In Go Tell It on the Mountain, salvation, like life, lies in the journey, not the destination—being saved isn’t the end, it’s the beginning. As John says near the book’s conclusion, “It’s a long way, ain’t it? It’s a hard way. It’s uphill all the way.” For him, it most certainly will be. Will he make it? And will it be worth the price? Baldwin leaves us to ponder the answers to these questions. I’ve got my answers. You’ll have to read for yourself to find yours.
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