Chance The Rapper’s Religious Themes Transcend Theism
WORDS: VANESSA TAYLOR | ART: FAYE ORLOVE
Chance was introduced to me when my life held the illusion of togetherness; after my first arrest, but before the second, and the third, and the fourth.
My name was still plastered across the Dean’s list. I hadn’t yet quit my job for a movement that’d make it impossible to hold down another. It was before I was homeless again, sprawling across my couch, that my friend turned on what he said was his favorite album.
Belief in heaven and a higher power is often dismissed as a trick coaxing people into accepting their oppression.There is a romanticism of activism that thrives. People idolize stories of revolutionaries, like Malcolm X and Assata Shakur, without bothering to consider what happens to the psyche of someone invested in violence and death. I watched the blood of a man get washed off the streets and felt parts of myself systematically shutting down as people crept out of their apartments, whispering, “I saw it. I saw him die.” I climbed fences and scrambled up embankments to shut down highways with November winds biting at my face that I could not feel. I shut down a precinct and navigated an occupation while folding parts of myself away to shoulder the burdens of an entire diaspora. I internalized every Black death and began to be unable to picture us outside of rot. The toxicity of those months manifested in bitten comments and isolation before transforming into a two-month long illness. “It’s been a long time, long time now/ since I’ve seen you smile,” played on repeat while I got ready for another night out, stifling hacking coughs in my hands. It was after the occupation; my room smelled like campfires and mace. I’d been going out every night for the past month. “It sounds like you’re giving birth through your mouth,” a friend said at a rave beneath a doughnut shop, surrounded by writhing, offbeat white bodies and I had loudly questioned my life through coughing fits. Because I’d never been one to broadcast my emotions, my friends’ attempts at comfort and delicate confrontation made me freeze uncomfortably. “Don’t answer about your problems/ your issues or your Ashleys” captured my attitude towards the direction life had taken and the toxic relationships I’d begun to invest in. Eventually, I was cornered at an event by friends and told if they saw me out or working, they’d beat my ass. Activism had called for me to internalize systemic failures, taking accountability for actions that weren’t mine, and in the forced solitude following their confrontation, I realized I needed faith in life beyond my control.
When you take away a people’s means to cope, without offering an alternative, what do you subject them to?Amidst the themes, Chance wove together in 10 Day, Acid Rap, and his work on Surf, religion was a constant chord running through the background. In 10 Day, Chance’s vocalized relationship with God had an underlying desperation. I could relate to Chance’s reluctance to place faith in a figure who couldn’t pick up the phone when called; whose paradise was reconstructed as unfair sentencing, “And heaven’s gates look a lot like prison from the ave/ we on the ground yelling, “give my nigga back!” Calls for reconciliation reminded me of years I spent going to white, Baptist youth groups in my hometown. Somehow, I found the only one populated with queer kids and I was happy until I asked if God could be a Black woman and watched my youth leader’s face twist with disgust. I stood before sweaty preachers in pulpits, whose words I didn’t understand until I was older and watching similar, balding men in mega-churches; men who swore my queerness would lead to my damnation. I’d come from multiple Christian traditions, who could only reconcile theology with portions of my identity. But the way Chance explored Christianity was not stagnant. It evolved in his work and, while he spoke of a faith that wasn’t mine any longer, I could relate to the bare bones. “I come

Coloring Book dropped when I was cracked open; my body beginning a process of painful reconstruction with my spirit.Chance’s work speaks to a praxis that transcends one tradition but instead encapsulates the work of Black Americans who reexamined theology to answer for the problems of Black suffering. “When I meet my maker he gon’ make sure that we chillin/ everything’s good,” was a reintroduction to the concept of the Black afterlife. Belief in heaven and a higher power is often dismissed as a trick coaxing people into accepting their oppression. In some circles, where people’s rejection of the caricature of Blackness had taken them into another narrow depiction, I often heard Black people would be better off without religion. It’s a simple reduction; something people conceive as theory without bothering to account for reality. In the months following major protests, I listened to friends discuss

