A VIEW FROM A PEW: “The Cookout Is Closed—Until Justice Shows Up”

There’s a danger in confusing cultural curiosity with cultural covenant. One is a pastime. The other is a promise. And too often, we keep mistaking one for the other.

See, “culture vultures” don’t come to honor the culture— they come to harvest it. They pick at our rhythm, our slang, our style, our sound… But they do it without understanding the soil it grew from or the suffering that watered it. They dance in the sunlight of our joy but refuse to stand in the shadows of our pain. They profit from the parts of us that entertain them, while distancing themselves from the parts of us that convict them.

And the system—oh, the system—cheers them on. The same society that celebrates their “soul” still criminalizes our sons. The same institutions that applaud their imitation still punish our authenticity. The same platforms that crown them kings of cool still silence us when we cry for justice.

So before anyone tries to call this divisive, let me remind you: We once invited someone to Bible study in South Carolina, and nine of us heard “Well done my good and faithful servant”— while the one who didn’t looked at us like we were the problem. That’s why I’m cautious now. That’s why I’m slow to hand out invitations
to just anyone to our cookout.

Because the cookout is more than coleslaw and card tables. It’s community. It’s covenant. It’s culture forged in fire.

And speaking of fire— there was a time when our people were the cookout.
When they cooked our bodies over open flames. When they carved our flesh like livestock. When they jarred our fingers as souvenirs. When they forced us to dance on decks soaked in sorrow for their amusement.

So no—everybody is not welcome to the cookout. Not just because they can do the electric slide and the Cupid Shuffle. Not while injustice still dances freely through redlined neighborhoods. Not while the school-to-prison pipeline marches our children off rhythm and out of purpose. Not while courtrooms and Congress keep
moving off-beat to the cries of the oppressed.

If your rhythm doesn’t come with justice, your invitation is revoked.

I refuse to shrink my table so my grandchildren have to squeeze between people who love our music but not our humanity… who love our fashion but not our freedom… who love our magic but have never mourned with us in the midnight hour.

I am indigenous to this groove. This soil. This struggle. This joy.

So, no you are not invited. I don’t care if you know all the latest line dances.