In the 1960s in South Central Los Angeles, a curious ritual began appearing in an unlikely place. Young African American boys, often hanging out on corners or playing in the streets, would suddenly stop what they were doing when a funeral procession passed. They’d face the cars solemnly and perform the Sign of the Cross—what Catholics call the “Trinity Formula.”
“In the name of the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Spirit. Amen,” they’d say.
The motion, tracing a cross on the forehead, chest, and shoulders, was rich with reverence. It was also unexpected—South Central was a predominantly baptist, working-class Black neighborhood. And yet, this simple Catholic gesture, often learned second-handedly, found a place on the asphalt of the inner city.
Marvin Clay, an original “OG” from that era, believes these rituals had layered origins. OGs, or “Original Gangsters,” were often deeply connected to South Central’s street culture in the late 1960s and early 1970s. According to Clay, some kids picked up the sign of the cross at home, watching relatives repeat it during mealtime prayers or at holiday dinners. Others were students at local Catholic schools who subsequently intermingled with public school kids, ultimately merging sacred gestures with street style.
At South Park Recreation Center, older residents recalled how Catholic school students—often dressed in uniforms—moved between the worlds of Church discipline and neighborhood toughness. They carried these rituals with them.
Pearl Jemerson, an Xavier University graduate and former administrator for a Catholic nonprofit, recalls how the expression became a kind of performance. “It was fashionable,” she said. “You’d do the Trinity Formula and just wait for someone to ask, ‘Why’d you do that?’ It was a way to draw attention, to show off something sacred.”
Eventually, this was replaced by another ritual—pouring out a few drops of liquor “for the dead homies,” often accompanied by a short, silent pause. Jemerson sees this shift not as a break from spirituality but a continuation of it. “The impulse was the same—honoring the dead, reaching for something greater.”
Jemerson believes Catholicism appealed to African Americans in part because of its sensory richness: the smell of incense, the flickering candles, the rhythmic prayers, and the reverent pageantry of processions. These weren’t just traditions—they were sacred acts that provided a sense of order and purpose.
“Catholic rituals became spiritual armor,” she said. “They offered Black people a way to assert dignity in a world built on their dehumanization. The Church gave structure to suffering, allowed joy in mourning, and created sacred meaning out of struggle.” Jemerson also noted how Catholicism provided a spiritual home for people navigating systems of racial violence and economic exclusion. “It offered sanctuary—emotional and literal.”
Still, she admits that African American Catholics often stood out, even among other Black Christians. “There were people who saw us as uppity,” she said. “Even within the Black community, Catholicism has been associated with elitism, classism or with colorism.”
According to 2022 Pew Research data, only 6 percent of African American adults identified as Catholic. That number may seem small, but its roots run deep.
For some, Catholicism came as inheritance rather than choice. Gregory Thomas, a 67-year-old Loyola Marymount University graduate, considers himself a lapsed Catholic. Born and raised in South Central, Thomas attended Holy Cross Catholic School, then went on to Verbum Dei Jesuit High, also a Catholic schoool. “I didn’t choose Catholicism,” he said. “It was passed down. Something you were born into, like brown eyes or a last name.”
Verbum Dei High School, founded in 1964 in Watts, was a shining example. Its first principal, Father Joseph A. Francis—an African American priest with the Society of the Divine Word—was instrumental in shaping its early identity. Today, the school still serves low-income and minority students with a focus on college preparation. Thomas recalls how being a Catholic student in the “hood” came with challenges. “You were a target. You wore uniforms, carried books, followed rules. Public school kids didn’t understand it. They thought you were soft or stuck up.”
Even school schedules created friction. “Spring break sucked,” he joked. “You were still in school while everyone else was out. Catholic school schedules followed a different calendar, and you felt left out.” And yet, there was a certain mystique. “Everyone wanted to know how bad the nuns were. Did they really wash your mouth out with soap? Did they beat you with a strap?”
For Thomas, these experiences were more than anecdotes. They were part of a much larger story about education, faith, and resilience. He recalls how his father, grandfather, and great-grandfather—Black men raised in Louisiana—attended Jesuit schools that were often housed in church basements. These schools, unlike many others at the time, educated Black children. “The nuns taught us how to read,” Thomas said. “They believed we were worth saving.”
Though the Catholic Church was late in supporting the Civil Rights Movement, Thomas believes it eventually made strides. “The Church talks a lot about dignity and justice,” he said. “But it took time to actually live those values in relation to Black people.” Dr. Paul Murray, a retired professor of sociology, confirms that prior to the 1950s, the American Catholic Church was deeply segregated. “Black Catholics were a tiny minority,” he explained. “In the North, they weren’t formally excluded, but they often felt unwelcome. In the South, segregation was strictly enforced—even in the Church.” That began to change in the late 1970s. According to Murray, one of the most influential figures was Sister Thea Bowman—a Black Franciscan nun who converted to Catholicism as a child and later became a powerful voice for racial justice within the Church. “She showed that being Catholic and being Black were not mutually exclusive,” he said. “There’s still progress to be made,” Murray added. “But voices like hers helped open doors.”
Interesting facts regarding the Conclave and
process:
• First conclave held January 1276 at the Sistine
Chapel.
• Cardinals take an oath of secrecy.
• The Sistine Chapel is swept to clear listening
devices.
• Windows are tainted black and have electronic
window jammers.
• The longest conclave was held for three years.
• Outside communication is not allowed.
• Food that could hide messages is banned.
• Ballots are burned following each vote.
• 2/3 Majority vote means there is a new Pope.
• Black smoke from burned ballots means 2/3
vote not met
• White smoke means there is a new Pope.
• Cardinals over 80 can’t vote.
When asked about the Church’s slow embrace of civil rights, Thomas shrugged. “Look, change takes time. Most African Americans were Republicans until Eleanor Roosevelt flipped the script.” He believes the Church’s “pomp and circumstance” appealed to Black communities because it resonated with African spiritual traditions. “In Africa, we prayed to our ancestors. In Catholicism, we pray to saints. That parallel meant something. It was cultural continuity.”
Thomas argues that for many, Catholicism became a quiet form of resistance. “To be Black and Catholic was to insist on your spiritual worth—even when society said you had none.” One of Catholicism’s most tangible gifts to Black communities was education. Catholic schools offered affordable, disciplined, college-prep opportunities in neighborhoods that often-lacked quality public options.
Despite the Catholic Church’s complicated history—colonialism, slavery, and segregation included—Thomas believes many African Americans found value in its teachings and institutions. “They gave us tools. They gave us space to grow. And they gave us the language to fight for our dignity.” Globally, the Church’s future may well be African. According to the Vatican’s Fides News Agency, Africa is experiencing the fastest Catholic growth rate in the world, while Europe sees steady decline. When asked whether we might one day see a Black pope, Thomas was blunt: “Why not? Africa’s Catholic population is booming. Why can’t God speak through Black skin? Does he have to sound European?” He pointed to prominent African cardinals like Fridolin Ambongo (Congo), Peter Turkson (Ghana), and Robert Sarah (Guinea) as potential successors to the papacy. “Pope Francis already showed signs,” he said. “In 2019, he celebrated a Mass at St. Peter’s Basilica that incorporated Congolese music and ritual. That was a message: Africa matters.”
In a neighborhood better known for its gang history than its sacred rituals, young boys once paused to honor the dead with a sacred gesture drawn from ancient Catholic rites. The cross traced on their bodies told a story—not just of belief, but of belonging.
By the time this story goes to distribution the Conclave has been in session for twenty-four hours. Cardinals will have been sequestered in the Sistine Chapel of the Vatican, witch they will remain there until a new Pope is elected. The world will see if the Catholics on the continent of Africa are holding on to a belief or will find they actualy belong.