Backstory: Remaking the black church

The pastor of New York's largest church disavows the anti-corporate rhetoric of old-guard clergy – and embraces Malcolm X.

from the February 13, 2007 edition

Page 2 of 2

Page 1 | 2

Yet Bernard stands alone with his reverence for Malcolm X, evident in everything from his super-rational presentation style to his emphasis on self-discipline. "Bernard's experience in the Nation of Islam, along with his appreciation of Malcolm, reinforced this ethic of self-reliance," says Dr. Lee. "Most of these other guys would never quote Malcolm or refer to him positively."

Certainly, Bernard isn't hesitant to invoke the former militant Muslim leader. "I still choose Malcolm" over King, he says in an interview in his church office, after leading 10,000 worshipers in three Sunday services. "I would say Malcolm has had the biggest impact on my life if I were to look at mentors. I choose Malcolm because when he believed in something and found out it was wrong, he was willing to change because he was looking for the truth."

***

Necessity gave Bernard an independent streak from the start. Born in Panama in 1953, he never met his white Spanish father, who left his black mother as soon as he was born. At age 4, he immigrated with her to New York, where she worked by day and left him alone in the room they rented in a family's home. Restless as a teenager, Bernard got into business early, working in the garment district here. He also stole jackets, shirts – "anything that would sell." By his own admission, he sold marijuana, too. While still a teen, he began at working Bankers Trust Company, where he stayed for several years.

As a young man with virtually no religious experience, Bernard was drawn to the Nation of Islam, he says, by "the dignity, the strength, the sense of order." But he also found a disappointing world of drugs and broken relationships. On Jan. 11, 1975, he converted to Christianity – an offense punishable by death under Islamic law – seeing it as "the most reasonable of all religions" and renounced his unlawful past. Four years later, he opened the storefront church that has evolved into a 120,000-sq.-ft. facility on 11 acres in Brooklyn, valued at $50 million.

CCC today includes a cafe, bookstore, and 125-seat restaurant. It stands out as a temple of order in a disorderly neighborhood. Inside CCC, makeup artists and seamstresses ensure that everyone looks perfect. "Even if a hemline is off, it can be a distraction," says wardrobe director Norine Smith. "God is a God of order. Without order, it would be chaos, and we can't have it."

Bernard's approach gets mixed reviews. Lowell Livesey, a professor of urban and religious studies at the New York Theological Seminary, says, "I have a concern [that CCC] doesn't seem to attract people who are themselves poor in the way that it attracts middle-class people." More broadly, Tulane's Lee worries about the "commercialization" of the new black church in general.

Yet many others are attracted by Bernard's bootstrap Christianity – and have taken it to heart. Harlan Brandon launched his own shoe import company as a result of Bernard's encouragement. He now lives in upscale Montclair, N.J.

Some come in search of deeper meaning. Beverly Burchett, a real estate entrepreneur, was earning six figures when she was in her 20s, but felt disconnected from God. She heard about Bernard, who friends said "doesn't talk down" to anyone. Now she's a CCC volunteer.

Perhaps as a byproduct of success, Bernard lives in a gilded cage. He travels around the city in an SUV with bulletproof windows. He's so cautious even his parishioners don't know where he lives. No one enters his executive suite at CCC unless buzzed in by a security officer.

He tells parishioners on Sunday how his enemies' bullets once missed his head while he slept with his wife. But even that left him feeling blessed – convinced that God had preserved him for great things. "We know what we've been through, the price we have paid, to do what we're doing here. Do I have a purpose?" he booms rhetorically in a rare burst of emotion from the pulpit. Cheers erupt from the pews, suggesting he does.

1 | Page 2