I have grappled with Ellison for exactly two decades, profiting during that time from the tutelage of extraordinary teachers. From a first reading of Invisible Man with Heather Ross Miller and a formative independent study on Ellison and Albert Murray with Marc Conner at W&L to Robert Stepto’s “Ellison in Context” seminar at Yale, I have come by this obsession honestly and remain grateful for the passion they wrought. It was not until I began doctoral work in the Religion and Literature program at the University of Chicago Divinity School, however, that I found an appropriate organizing principle for shaping this enthusiasm and cultivating the pursuit of those things not seen through prior lenses. Rick Rosengarten, who both provided my first forays into “R&L-proper” (insofar as such a thing might be supposed to exist) and would later direct the research from which this volume has evolved, proved deft as an advisor and counselor as the project took shape and remains a friendly sage in the interim—one who often knows what I mean better than I, myself, can discern or say. The late Anthony C. Yu, who provided institutional context and first informed me of Ellison’s relationship with Nathan Scott, remains a presence of learnedness, rigor, and cultivation whenever I read, write, and rewrite. Clark Gilpin’s clarity in blending history, religious thought, and the close reading of texts inspired me to recognize new possibilities for thinking about an author whose critical legacy had become stagnant. Kenneth Warren, whose critical courage I ardently admire, proved open to and encouraging of this project, providing needed cross-disciplinary insight. I am also grateful to Gilbert Bond, Catherine Brekus, Jacqueline Goldsby, Dwight Hopkins, Kathryn Kerby-Fulton, Guy Martin, Carolyn Sharp, and Kathryn Tanner—teachers who have, at times and over time, encouraged and contributed to my religious and literary pursuits both in coursework and consultation.
Ralph Ellison’s Invisible Theology has remained in progress for many years and under a couple of guises, providing ample opportunities for presentation and feedback in various public fora. Special thanks go to audiences at the University of Chicago, Northwestern, Millsaps, the University of Minnesota, Syracuse, Manhattan College, the University of Pittsburgh, New York University, Virginia Tech, Indiana University, Notre Dame, CUNY Graduate Center, the American Academy of Religion, the Southern Humanities Council, and the American Literature Association for the opportunity to audition no small amount of the material contained in this book and for helpful feedback, challenges, and encouragement along the way. Along similar lines, a number of people have read drafts, listened to half-cocked ideas, supplied key points of information and suggested reading, and provided more insight than they can imagine. Special thanks go to Ed Blum, Jay Carter, Marc Conner, Spencer Dew, Marcus Harvey, Paul Harvey, John Howell, Jonathon Kahn, Pippa Koch, Mark Ledbetter, Vincent Lloyd, Caleb J. D. Maskell, Kristen Tobey, and several anonymous readers. My colleagues at Indiana, Pitt, and Virginia Tech have also shared their expertise and support. I remain grateful to them all, but would especially like to acknowledge Ananda Abeysekara, Brian Britt, Constance Furey, Matt Gabriele, Sarah Imhoff, Paula Kane, Elizabeth Struthers Malbon, Zhange Ni, Ben Sax, Jeremy Schott, Adam Shear, Winni Sullivan, and Michael Tillitson. Significant work on Ralph Ellison’s Invisible Theology was completed with the financial support and time afforded by a postdoctoral fellowship in the Kenneth P. Dietrich School of Arts and Sciences at the University of Pittsburgh.
Tracy Fessenden was an early champion of this book’s premise and became my first contact at NYU Press. Many thanks go to her, to Jennifer Hammer, and to Laura Levitt and David Watt as coeditors of the North American Religions series. John Callahan graciously granted me access to restricted files in the Ralph Ellison Papers at the Library of Congress before they became public and gave permission to quote from unpublished materials therein. I also extend gratitude to the marvelous staff of the Manuscript Division at the Library of Congress for making my trips to Washington, DC, a joy. Jennifer Geddes was extraordinarily kind to help me seek out rumored materials in the University of Virginia Library system and generously took the time to shepherd me through Nathan Scott’s library, then housed in the Department of Religious Studies at UVA. Larry Bouchard provided encouragement and planted the suspicion that such materials might be found.
This volume contains revised editions of previously published material. Portions of the prologue and epilogue appear as “Two Ways of Looking at an Invisible Man: Race, the Secular, and Ralph Ellison’s Invisible Theology,” in Race and Secularism in America (2016), edited by Jonathon Kahn and Vincent Lloyd, published by Columbia University Press. An earlier version of chapter 1 appeared as “From Harlem Renaissance to Harlem Apocalypse: Just Representations and the Epistemology of Race in the ‘Negro Novel,’” in Journal of Religion 93, no. 3 (July 2013): 259–90, and an earlier take on chapter 4 appeared as “One Blues Invisible: Civil Rights and Civil Religion in Ralph Ellison’s Second Novel,” in African American Review 47, no. 2–3 (Summer/Fall 2014): 247–66. I also draw on material from an unpublished short essay written with John Howell, titled “Unconventional Speech,” in my discussion of Clint Eastwood in the epilogue. All are used here with permission. Lyrics from “What Did I Do to Be So Black and Blue,” written by Harry Brooks and Andy Razaf, appear by agreement with Alfred Music Publishing and Hal Leonard Corporation.
May I never lose sight of the extraordinary privilege of having been born into a family that has loved me, cultivated my interests, tolerated my idiosyncrasies and obsessions, and insisted from the beginning that ninety-nine-and-a-half won’t do. My parents, Lee and Sylvia Harriss, and my brother Meader Harriss all provide strong, if diverse, examples of living meaningfully and making good by doing well with one’s craft. If this book succeeds on any level, it does so as an expression of the confidence and desire engendered by those who see much better in one they love than he might see in himself, and who have refused to allow him to settle for any less.
Finally—and in this end is my beginning—I wish to acknowledge the true fortune-teller of my soul, Sarah Anderson Harriss, to whom this volume is dedicated, and our daughters (my primary editors, annotators, and illuminators), Eva and Vivian, many of whose first pictures, numbers, and letters were drawn and written on repurposed draft pages of this volume’s manuscript. This book is as painfully yours as it is mine and I thank you for your patience as, together, we’ve seen it to completion. The academic life ain’t always the good life for everyone involved—as you know too well. But it’s our life, and the three of you make it so wonderful.