The Black Church Was a War Room

Churches who hid Guns, Food, and Freedom Seekers

The year is 1822. A free Black carpenter makes his way to the church house on the corner of Reid and Hanover Street. He looks around to make sure no one is trailing him. He walks with intention — the time was soon to come. “Freedom of self” was not satisfying when seeing his people in chains, doing forced labor as daily task. Inside the church house, he heard their cries, their pleas, their sorrow.

He walks to the back room of the church, escorted by other Black men who had already committed to the mission. He moves one table, lifts the flooring beneath it, and begins to count the arsenal.

Denmark Vesey’s statue now sits in Hampton Park — a man once killed for “treason” but later honored with stone and bronze. It shows that what they call wrong is often ethically right. Hence why we decide to tell our own stories.

The church, Mother Emanuel AME, now sits in the middle of the city’s core on Calhoun Street. Over a hundred years later, someone would walk into that sanctuary, wait until the congregation got comfortable, and unleash hell. This tragedy remains in the center of our hearts today. But more importantly, it shows that the church has always been more than a place of worship. It was a meeting room — a place of refuge for those who put themselves in harm’s way for our people — a therapy room. All in all, a home base.

Safety and security came not just from the people themselves but from the ancestral spirits that covered the land. No matter how many times they burned them down, bombed them, or targeted them, the Black church remained a staple of the Black community. In some ways, it continues that spirit today. In others, it has drifted far from its primary purpose.

Perhaps the Black church continues to bear the consequences of its past assistance to liberation movements. I prefer to think they have been easy targets for those who wish harm upon us. In 2015, they attacked the very church that once served as Denmark Vesey’s headquarters — Mother Emanuel AME Church, standing on Calhoun Street, walking distance from Marion Square. Nine innocent lives were taken amidst a late-night prayer and Bible-study service.

Because no one was armed, the killer walked out untouched after committing a catastrophic hate crime. We must never let this happen again. The Second Amendment is our legal right — our ancestors knew this. Old pastors practiced it; new pastors fear it. There is no debatable option after 2015: every Black man, from the pews to the home, should be accustomed to carrying protection among them. These are laws mandatory for our existence, regardless of religion.

Long before churches signed surrender to non-profit agencies or fell under hierarchical control by those who do not look like us, a tone of militancy existed hand in hand with the Black church. Besides Vesey, the brave sacrifices of Nat Turner — a pastor in the Word himself — and the Black pastors and men who stood beside them safeguarded their communities not only with prayers and verses but with firepower and ammunition.

The shepherd once meant protector and guide, not collector and neglecter of those who couldn’t meet the church’s financial needs. It has been a long time since pastors promoted militancy rather than recessive mindset. That’s why it’s important we share the stories of men like Pezavia O’Connell from deep Mississippi during the Reconstruction era — a man who preached the urgency of the right to defend ourselves rather than embracing passive strategies.

The defense of the church and the defense of the people were shared responsibilities between pastors and the collective body of Black men in the congregation. When Frederick Douglas Kirkpatrick founded the Deacons of Defense in 1964, it was to rally protection against KKK attacks terrorizing Black neighborhoods. His efforts in Jonesboro, Louisiana grew into not only a political movement but one of the largest armed Black militias in our history.

Many veterans of World War II and the Korean War traded in their uniforms to join the ranks. The D.O.D. operations included patrols, night watches, and a visible armed presence to remind the Klan that their actions would not go unanswered. Kobrani defense guides like Brother Robert F. Williams often partnered and collaborated with them.

The church operated as a safe house for targeted Blacks — not only because of the spiritual connection, but because it represented our collective will to protect one another. Dr. King himself found safety on several occasions inside those church walls — sometimes with white mobs standing directly outside, where you could peep through the window and see the threat. Even the enemy felt the weight of attacking sacred ground.

Meetings were held, town halls organized, and protest strategies mapped out in fellowship halls. These were the root commitments that the church once stood upon — commitments it has since been forced, or chosen, to stray away from. It’s time we remember where we come from — literally.

In the culture of the southern Black church, Black men have always been the protectors of our people. Unlike today, those Deacons didn’t just preach it — they lived it — walking examples that we should and could protect ourselves. That energy is rare now, often criticized by our own people and counterparts. But we cannot allow the twisted agendas and motives of the current church to erase our history.

Black men have and always will hold the line. Kobrani — the sacred duty of defense of our people — is assigned to all Black men as their birthright, far beyond church walls. There can be no bias or preference when it comes to Kobrani. We must place religion, feelings, and personal preference aside and come to one common agreement: our people are under continuous attack, and collectively we must protect them.

This goes beyond prayer, beyond emotion. Any higher power you choose to call upon should encourage protecting your people. Our ancestors did — this is sacred work.

Today, every church should have a defense plan and operations protocol. To put all dependence solely “in the Lord’s hands” after the enemy walked into one of our oldest Black churches and killed nine innocent souls — that is insanity.

Yes, God — or whichever higher power you acknowledge — is there for you. But let’s not be so naïve as to forget we were given minds to think, hands to fight, and arms to carry. Kobrani is more than talking defense — it’s living it. It’s prioritizing protection above comfort, faith above fear, and readiness above ritual.

For far too long, we have allowed religious differences — masked as fear — to slow the progress of Black preparedness. The results have been null. But our ancestors still walk with us — the same ones who fought, defended, and even sacrificed their lives to protect the tribe.

This work must — and will — continue. Together.

Christian, Muslim, Atheist, Voodoo, Hoodoo — whatever your path, the duty remains the same. Still together.