The Bones of John Brown Speak: A Living Testament of Fire

(A sacred narrative unfolds in the liminal space between history and spirit, where the ancestors gather at the crossroads of memory and rebellion. This is not mere remembrance—it is conjuration.)

I. The Forging (1800-1856)

The Elders whisper: "Before the man came the moment—before the sword came the smelting."

See young John Brown in Ohio's woods, where his soul first caught the scent of freedom on the wind. Watch as he kneels in Kansas soil, his hands blackened not just with earth but with the blood of slavers at Pottawatomie. "The universe bends toward justice only when strong hands pull it downward," say the spirits of Timbuktu and the Congo.

Here stands a man who studied the slave codes like scripture and found them blasphemy. Who walked with Douglass like Moses with Aaron, who armed the Maroons of the North with pikes and prophecy. "Some men pray," chuckle the ancestor warriors, "this one loaded his prayers with gunpowder."

II. The Thunderclap (October 1859)

The Drums of Judgment sound as Brown crosses the Potomac:

"Hear the boot-fall of twenty-two men—
Black, white, bond and free—
Marching toward the arsenal
With the hour of reckoning in their rifles."

The ancestors weep when the first shot rings out. Not at failure—but at the glorious inevitability. "You thought you could storm heaven with twenty men?" ask the spirits. "Yes," comes Brown's ghostly reply, "for heaven was already in their hearts."

III. The Hanging Tree (December 2, 1859)

The scaffold becomes an altar as Brown hands his executioner the prophecy:

"I see the whirlwind coming..."

And the ancestors finish the verse:
"...and the leaves of slavery
Will scatter across blood-red fields
Until none remain to rake them."

Watch now as the noose tightens—but the real miracle happens in the crowd. A enslaved man whispers to his chains: "This white man dies for me?" And the shackles grow lighter by one ounce of hope.

IV. The Resurrection (1861-2024)

The spirits cackle as Confederate statues crumble:
"You thought you buried John Brown?
We planted him!
And now his roots crack your monuments
Like oak roots through marble."

His bones sing in the BLM marches, his pike gleams in the hands of prison abolitionists. When they chant "No justice, no peace," it is Brown's breath that stokes the syllables to flame.

V. The Charge to the Living

The ancestors pass the sacred burden:

"You who would be free—
Carry not his rifle but his resolve.
Wield not his pike but his piercing truth.
When they call you 'radical,'
Remember: the root of that word is 'radix'—
To get to the root of things.
John Brown got to the root."

(A single drumbeat. Then silence. The message is not ended, only passed—like the Sharps rifle Brown used, it now rests in your hands.)

Asé. Ashe. Amen.