High on the pulpit of North Philly's renowned Zion Baptist Church, the Republican televangelist straight outta South Central L.A. looked over the faithful, flock and clergy alike. The crowd stared back, quiet in anticipation of a scorched-hell sermon, one complete with tales from the scripture and Jesus' ultimate call.

On this, the 29th day of October in the Lord's year 1996, Reverend E.V. Hill would not disappoint those attending the annual baptist "Citywide Revival." For 19 years, Hill had come to Philadelphia from Los Angeles' Mt. Zion Missionary Baptist Church to renew faith and rejuvenate spiritual energy. Once again it was time for the righteous Hillto lay the word down, one ugly truth at a time.

Can't walk the streets? Seen enough poor brothers and sisters cast upon the economic scrap heap? Watched too many drug-addled babies raise babies of their own? Turn to the Lord, commanded Hill. Follow Jesus, come together, and God will provide.

The crowd, made up of regular church folk sitting alongside notable local clergy such as Tenth Memorial Baptist's Rev. William Moore, White Rock Baptist's Dr. William Shaw and Shalom Baptist's Rev. David Weeks, nodded, sighed and let loose amen after amen. Their response increased Hill's thunder.

Are we doing enough? Hill asked. Are we working together? No, replied the shaking heads in the audience. Why? Hill asked. Why is this? Where are our ministers? What are they doing?

The nods continued, sighs and amens too. But plenty of heads bowed. Did Hill mean Philadelphia's black Baptist community merely talks the talk, then stumbles?

Weeks later, Hill's biting words still reverberated throughout the black church community. And nowhere more than in the Black Clergy of Philadelphia and Vicinity's (BCP) hierarchy.

"I certainly agreed with [Hill]," says Rev. James Allen, a BCP founder, its first president and de facto political guru. "We are inundated with meetings. We don't take enough action."

Hill and others would not describe the BCP as an idle body. The BCP is Philly's largest interfaith group of ministers, one of the strongest forces in the city's black community. The group counts 490 churches and 11 different faiths among its members. They are players in all things racial and religious. Political observers know the clergy as one of the black community's pre-eminent political forces, a maker and breaker of would-be solons.

But Hill's words, while aimed at Baptists, suited the BCP all too well. After all, group leaders meet monthly, while other members meet regularly in various manners — the BCP's constitution lists 17 "standing" committees.

And when the BCP puts its foot forward of late, nobody is sure where it will land.

Just hours before Hill's provocative sermon broadsided church leaders, BCP President Rev. Joseph Patterson had called the media out to announce the group's backing of Ethel Barnett, a front-running candidate for the presidency of Philadelphia's NAACP chapter. Patterson's impromptu press conference followed news that Rev. Allen would leave the race. Thing is, Allen wasn't out. The following day, Patterson ditched Barnett and aligned the group with Allen. But a nomination technicality forced Allen out of the race within the week. Jerry Mondesire, publisher and editor of the Philadelphia Sunday Sun, romped to victory.

That kind of thing rarely happened to the old BCP, which formed in 1981. That group established itself in the name of "equality, justice, brotherhood, community betterment," then carried Wilson Goode to the mayor's office in '83. After Goode's government bombed West Philly in '85, the clergy carried Goode to a second term. The old BCP exerted political influence, set agendas and gave city blacks a powerful tonic of hope.

Surprisingly, despite its history, the BCP has not enlisted many of Philadelphia's leading pastors. Ministers like Rev. Benjamin Smith of Deliverance Evangelistic Church and Rev. Paul Washington, the retired clergyman and noted civil rights leader from the Church of the Advocate, eschew the group. Others like Rev. James Hall of Triumph Baptist Church, president of Philly's PUSH chapter, and Dr. Shaw, a president of the Local Ministers' Conference, are BCP members with no record of involvement in BCP affairs.

The Black Clergy of 1996 remains powerful. Member clergy can call upon more than 250,000 faithful parishioners. Many BCP leaders work in Mayor Ed Rendell's administration or serve on city boards and commissions. The BCP can still raise hundreds of thousands of dollars in campaign cash, one buck at a time.

The latter issue stands as the BCP's greatest challenge. Three years from now, Philadelphians will choose Rendell's successor. While no black politician of sound mind dares to snub the BCP, the group could find itself under a media microscope given a devastating split during 1991 mayoral endorsements. And the brewing battle between the two leading black candidates, John Street and John White, Jr., will heighten the pressure.

This at a time when the need for black electoral success has never been greater. The post-Gingrich era has driven the black zeitgeist to new lows. Though many middle-class blacks have made significant gains in the wake of the civil rights movement, today's federal government seems bent on erasing L.B.J.'s Great Society. Affirmative action's under the gun. Too many of Philly's blacks can't access capital for new business, let alone find the good jobs which have been leaving Philly en masse. A federal judge shot down the city's set-aside law on municipal contracts. Public schools still haven't found a way to teach students effectively. The number of blacks living under the poverty line remains stagnant.

"Knock on any door in Philadelphia and you'll find black people getting the shiv — economically, educationally, healthwise — whatever it is," says Rev. Marshall Lorenzo "Lo" Shepard, Jr. of West Philly's Mount Olivet Tabernacle Baptist Church.

Given the desperate state of affairs, African-Americans need to act. Even staid groups like the NAACP and Urban League agree, as they shake off decades of inactivity with calls for renewed activism on economic justice and other matters.

The BCP "is a major, major force for good," says Goode, an ordained lay minister. "The fact that there is a group of ministers that meets and addresses issues is a success in itself."

"We can sit at the table in City Hall," says Allen. "And when we sit at the table, those on the other side are not able to pull the wool over our eyes so regularly as they were prior to the Goode administration."

"We need a rational plan for empowerment from the clergy," says Bill Miller IV, president of Ross Associates, Goode's 1983 field director and well-known political consultant. "But there is a strategic component that is conspicuously absent from [BCP] leadership. They are of critical importance in this city. But they have no idea how to plan. They have no idea."

"After Wilson Goode, we clergy have gone back to the status quo," sighs Rev. S. Amos Brackeen, the venerable minister of 40 years at Philippian Baptist Church and a BCP member. "We have no visible focus point for achievement."

Righteous crusaders to some, ineffective to others, the BCP stands at the crossroads: Will it be John Street, John White Jr. or irrelevance?

Ask yourself what might happen if the cops invaded a Jewish wedding to nab a suspected criminal before the groom could say "I do." Would Rendell, who is Jewish, fire or demote the officers involved? Would hundreds of angry congregants storm City Council? Would the Jewish Defense League picket the Round House?

Well, black church leaders don't have to hypothesize about such ugliness. In July 1995, a horde of cops busted into Zion Baptist Church, the congregation made famous by retired Rev. Leon Sullivan, and dragged Alonzo Rufus Nowell away from his screaming bride. Video cameras caught the bust in its entirety, right down to the woman who sighed "ain't this a bitch" as the cops hauled Nowell away on armed robbery charges.

True, BCP President Patterson made all the appropriate noise. The preacher griped about "disrespect" to "all churchmen and the black community," brayed against "flagrant abuse of authority," then asked the cops, would you do such a thing on the sacred ground of Catholics, Jews or Muslims? But that was all. Nobody rallied angry parishioners. Nobody mau-maued their way to Ed Rendell's office crying "no justice, no peace." Nobody lost their job. And Rendell, who issued many apologies and regrets along with Police Commissioner Richard Neal, never had to sweat. In the end, Patterson got nothing from "our mayor," as he had labeled Rendell five months earlier.

(Patterson would not comment on this matter or anything related to the BCP. Since July, Patterson has made several promises to sit down with City Paper for an interview so long as politics were not discussed. But Patterson would not set a date, time or location for the meeting. Patterson later agreed to an early morning interview on Nov. 26 but his scheduler, citing a conflict, said Patterson could not attend. The meeting was not rescheduled.)

That Rendell's police force could violate a house of worship with so few repercussions stunned some. The BCP is not a bunch of neophytes and a number of its leaders walk the halls of power. Rev. Randall E. McCaskill, who will replace Patterson as BCP president next month, has been a deputy managing director since Dec.1989, earning $65,000 a year. McCaskill's not alone. Allen, a former $60,000-per-year aide in the Goode administration, chaired the Human Relations Commission's (HRC) board of directors until September. Rev. Ralph E. Blanks, BCP president in 1991-92, is the new HRC chair and also serves on the Fair Housing Commission (FHC).

Beyond that, Tenth Memorial's Rev. Bill Moore chairs the board of directors for the city's North Central Empowerment Zone board and sits on the Philadelphia Gas Works board. Until March, Moore also sat on the FHC. For his part, Patterson chairs the West Philly Empowerment Zone board and sits on the Philadelphia Industrial Development Corporation's board. Two other BCP ministers have served on commissions via Rendell appointments.

The BCP even has a deputy mayor to call its own, Thomas E. Carter Jr., a $55,264-per-year employee. Carol Ann Campbell, secretary of the Democratic City Committee and head of the United Black Ward Leaders,calls Carter "the point man for the clergy" on constituent services (Carter agreed to an interview with City Paper but subsequently did not return calls for six weeks.)

But in the case of the Zion Baptist Church raid, the BCP's City Hall connections went for naught. And that troubles some.

"People have gotten too comfortable," says Campbell. "Some of the people in power have placated the clergy, tried to service their every need. And you know the saying — if a cat's well fed, you don't hear it screaming. It just sits there and purrs."

City Hall's not the only place where the BCP has experienced many ups and downs.

An aggressive BCP grabbed headlines this summer. Led by Patterson, the clergy joined City Council President John Street and attacked Rendell for offering benefits to partners of gay and lesbian mayoral employees. (Patterson claimed Rendell's action could transform Philadelphia into "a modern-day Sodom and Gomorrah.") Whether the effort resonated with the publicis still a matter of debate. But the group expended a sizable amount of political capital. All over an issue which angered more congregants and gay church members than the handful of city employees it affected.

Last month's debate over Texaco's racist executives also saw the BCP in action. But as Rev. Jesse Jackson and the Rainbow Coalition called for a boycott of the oil giant, the BCP balked. Others, including the oft-reserved NAACP, joined in with the boycott. The story was much the same in Oct. 1995. The BCP publicly agonized before rejecting the Million Man March, noting that organizers from the Nation of Islam never bothered to contact them. At the same time, Bill Moore — a powerful player in the BCP — led an "ad hoc" clergy group which brought 30,000 Philadelphians to Washington.

TheBCPattracted criticism even when it stood up for justice. Rev. Jesse Brown, then BCP president, urged Rendell to support an independent police review board in June '93. To do otherwise, warned Brown, was akin to telling police "it's open season on African-Americans — you can shoot them, you can kill them, you do whatever they want to with them." The Philadelphia Inquirer editorial board reacted swiftly and predictably. Clergy leadership, the paper said, had allowed emotion to "fast eclipse common sense."

Even the BCP's political record offers a mixed bag. This spring, the clergy raised eyebrows by endorsing white incumbent Tom Foglietta in the First District Congressional primary over ex-Judge John Braxton, a black man. In turn, a competing group of black ministers jumped to Braxton's side and assailed the BCP. This less than a year after the BCP failed to field a black mayoral candidate, inaction which cleared the way for Philly's first all-white mayoral election since 1966.

Embarrassing indeed, but no more so than the BCP's 1995 endorsement of six candidates for at-large City Council seats when only five were available.

At least the group hasn't stubbed its toes on economic justice —"the singular most important issue in the black community," according to Rev. Lo Shepard, who left the BCP in 1991 because he was "sick and tired of all the machinations." Then again, the BCP hasn't screwed up because it hasn't done much. Until Patterson accepted a recent African American Chamber of Commerce (AACC) invitation to support the "Black Christmas" — an effort aimed at funneling more dollars to black-owned business — the organization literally had no record. Their economic slate has remained blank since they helped create the black-owned United Bank in 1990.

The BCP's approach to "silver rights," stress some black leaders, needs to improve.

"There is a greater and greater recognition among congregants that their church is the place where [economic planning] is supposed to happen," says Bruce Crawley, the AACC's chairman. "Various ministers have taken their own approaches to economic development opportunities. But [the BCP] ought to leverage all of their collective talent."

City Council President Street agrees. "If they don't do something, they might lose credibility."

Even BCP insiders reluctantly admit the group has done little to bring about economic justice for blacks in the '90s. Asked why the BCP has not focused more on that pressing concern, Allen points out the positives.

"On a day-by-day basis, we do all kinds of things for the betterment of people," says Allen. "If you put an aggregate of the churches' efforts together, it would far exceed anything that anybody does except for the government. That, nobody sees."

History tells us the BCP sprang to life in 1981 from the depths of a lengthy teachers' strike. After helping schools re-open, the ministers decided blacks needed more political clout. The BCP was founded, as Moore once told the Inquirer, "essentially to fill a vacuum."

The BCP's origins, however, trace back to ministers like Cecil B. Moore, Jesse Anderson, Leon Sullivan, Amos Brackeen and Lorenzo Shepard. In the face of unbending job discrimination against blacks, the so-called "400 Ministers" movement did the unthinkable for 1959. The reverends whippedthe establishment.

Never mentioning the word "boycott," clergy called for "selective patronage." The reality was simpler than a dressed-up slogan. On Sunday mornings, clergymen asked their followers not to buy a thing from companies that did not hire blacks.

Targets sprouted likes weeds. Tasty Kake, the Evening Bulletin, Acme supermarkets and dozens of other local firms felt the pain of black anger as revenues slowed to a trickle. For three years, the ministers held clandestine meetings, gathered sensitive information on racist companies, resisted bribes and swayed churchgoers. By 1963, white executives decided to abandon their discriminatory hiring practices. In the end, 300 employers agreed to hire blacks.

"Our thrust was single-minded, securing jobs for blacks one company at a time," says Brackeen. "And it was totally positive. We were a solid group."

The success of the 400 Ministers presagedthe civil rights movement as black America and white liberals helped end open apartheid in the South. By the time Rev. Martin Luther King died at the hands of an assassin, Sullivan and other ministers had formed the Philadelphia Council on Clergy. That move coincided with a new Sullivan vision for economic growth.

From the pulpit at Zion Baptist, Sullivan asked worshippers to remember the numbers 10 and 36 — save $10 a month for the next 36 months. Take the $360 and the interest, said Sullivan, and invest it in my business. More than 4,000 North Philly parishioners took the bait, becoming shareholders in the nation's first black power venture, Progress Plaza. When it opened in 1968, the strip mall at the corner of Broad and Jefferson Streets provided inner-city blacks with a close look at the American dream.

Sullivan leveraged Progress Plaza's success into Opportunities Industrialization Centers (OIC) at Broad and Thompson Streets. For more than 30 years, the Sullivan brainchild has offered job training and academic help for anybody from computer programming candidates to budding masons. Today, OIC is found in 70 cities across America and 18 foreign nations.

Sullivan's approach to economics stems from a long and storied tradition. Over the course of America's racist past, most blacks could not buy insurance or obtain loans through traditional sources such as banks or investor groups. Only churches, as moral and societal centers of the black community, could provide those services. While gains of the '60s and '70s opened society and thereby diminished church power, black clergy remain a prime source of hope in blighted areas.

Many others have mimicked Sullivan's use of religion as an economic tool. Deliverance Evangelistic's Rev. Smith copied Sullivan's plan to a tee, turning a successful shopping center venture into the city's largest and most comprehensive church facility (see sidebar). Rev. Hall's Triumph Baptist Church is now developing a mall. Rev. Thomas Ritter of Second Macedonia Baptist Church is involved with the redevelopment project of the North Philadelphia train station. Moore's church founded the Tenth Memorial Community Development Corporation, which is developing a housing complex on Master Street. Other local churches are collaborating with the Revelation Corporation of America, a Memphis-based effort among five denominations to provide economic services to minorities and the poor.

"We don't play a role in people's lives — we play the role," says Shepard. "Basically there's nobody else to do it. Every meaningful matter in the black community is rooted in the church. That's why we do what we do."

Smack in the middle of a recent Sunday morning service at Tenth Memorial, Bill Moore hit on the jobs theme. His voice lowered, his eyes focused and his finger pointed at the weed-covered lot across the street — the future site of Tenth Memorial's housing project.

See that? Moore seemed to ask. We tried "to guarantee opportunity," the Reverend said, "fought tooth and nail." For that "opportunity,"our opportunity. Don't come crying to me, Moore fumed, when you see "a whole lot of plates from New Jersey and Delaware" rolling up to build our housing complex.

This was Nov. 3, two days before the national election, and Moore's sermon capped off a weekend which saw Jesse Jackson and Andrew Young rally voters at Pinn Memorial Baptist Church in West Philly. Moore wasn't talking votes — not yet, anyway. The preacher chastised his congregants because minority construction workers had not submitted bids for contracts for the housing project even though Tenth Memorial held a job fair that very week to enlist local residents.

Where were you? Moore asked. We gave everybody notice, didn't we? For who, for what?

"Just as soon as the job gets started, somebody who is not part of the process is going to start ringing the bell about all the white workers over there," Moore said. "Well, I don't want to hear it."

And then Moore asked the question. Do you think other folks do business by missing deadlines or wasting opportunity?

Get it together, Moore urged. You've got carpenters here, electricians and masons too.

"That's the basis for a construction company," Moore said. "Everything you need."

Reach out and start a business, said Moore. Bid on local jobs. Hire other local residents when the money starts rolling in. That "is the way you build your community."

Nobody has studied public perception — at least white perception — of the Black Clergy of Philadelphia. Chances are that such a study would find that most Philadelphians see the group as one which picks candidates for churchgoers. That's about all the media covers when it comes to the BCP.

This situation was never more clear than in 1991 when Sal Paolantonio, formerly of the Inquirer, and Cyndy Burton, late of the Daily News, painstakingly covered the group's futile search for a single black mayoral Democratic candidate. Burton's and Paolantonio's coverage of mayoral candidates Lu Blackwell, George Burrell and James White, as noted in the book The Media And The Mayor's Race by the University of Pennsylvania's Phyllis Kanis, focused exclusively on the BCP's kingmaker image.

This single-minded treatment of the '91 race was hardly fair, but it served a useful purpose. The coverage exposed the BCP as political amateurs.

Throughout 1990, the story in black politics centered on the clergy's endorsement. With the city on the brink of bankruptcy and Goode a pariah among most white voters, black political leaders needed a candidate who could benefit from Goode's popularity among blacks without suffering the ill effects of anti-Goode sentiment which simmered in the white community.

Some thought Blackwell, a veteran pol who had stepped aside for Goode in '83, could get the clergy's nod. In private, though, many political operatives feared Blackwell, while most deserving of the endorsement, would not earn the support of white voters needed to beat Rendell. On the other hand, Burrell had the backing of ex-U.S. Congressman Bill Gray, the black community's most influential political figure.

Unlike Blackwell and his longshoreman's background, Burrell had a resume that could appeal to whites — good looks, a professional football pedigree and a UPenn law degree. Gray's clerical status also helped Burrell, a relative newcomer in politics, for the congressman was a second-generation minister at North Philly's Bright Hope Baptist Church known to influence clergy matters.

As the intrigue heightened, several key politicos quietly begged current Philadelphia Housing Authority (PHA) boss John F. White Jr. to enter the race as a compromise candidate. But when James White, the city's former managing director, unexpectedly entered the fray at the same time that John White refused to run, chaos ensued. Goode's decision to back all three candidates complicated matters.

Goode had first promised to support Blackwell as his successor, then reneged over feuds tracing back to Blackwell's City Council days. White, who said he entered the race because Goode vowed to back him, stood befuddled by the mayor's refusal to endorse him publicly. Matters grew stickier by January '91 with reports of a secret pact between Gray and Goode wherein the mayor would back Burrell.

Amid the twists, the BCP waited for others to act. But Goode held off for the preachers' endorsement. Left on their own, individual clergy members began taking sides.

Matters came to a head on Feb. 1, 1991 at the West Philly headquarters of the AME church. BCP leaders and the candidates hoped the formal session would yield an endorsement, one which would erase the problems caused by Goode's three-timing. Five hours later, the BCP decided nothing, though protocol demanded action.

The indecision killed any hope of black unity. Time better spent fundraising and organizing had passed. Insidious, divisive backroom politicking was all that remained.

Burrell eventually secured the BCP's endorsement in early March even though Paolantonio had crippled the candidate by exposing him as a one-time student-loan deadbeat. Blackwell greeted the official endorsement with his own press conference. There, Blackwell's clergy supporters ripped their brethren.

By the time Goode got around to endorsing Burrell a month later, conspiracy theories and name-calling had overshadowed normal political debate. Which left observers to wonder, had it been just eight years since the BCP registered at least 35,000 voters, enlisted 5,000 volunteers, raised an estimated $1 million for Goode? The old BCP managed to get more blacks to the polls than whites, a first for a Philadelphia Democratic primary. Was this the same post-MOVE clergy group whose leaders stood upon the still-smoldering ashes of Osage Ave., stared into television cameras and praised Mayor Goode? Hadn't that organization decided a Goode mayor was better than no black mayor, then beat back the white disgust of 1987 via Goode's 17,000-vote win over ex-Mayor Frank Rizzo?

The BCP is "beyond question one of the strongest interdenominational groups in the country," boasted Moore in '87, attributing the group's success to its "collective muscle."

Not so in 1991. Helped by a record-low turnout, Rendell wound up with 49 percent of the Democratic primary vote (including 20 percent of the vote in traditionally black wards). Blackwell drew roughly half as much support. Burrell trailed far behind and wasn't a factor. Except to draw votes away from Blackwell.

The '91 race provided Rendell with a measure of revenge following the '87 Democratic mayoral primary. Rendell had run and lost that race amid incendiary charges by BCP leadership that Rendell had broken a promise not to oppose Goode. Throughout the '91 primary season, many in the BCP used that claim to brand Rendell a liar.

So how sweet was Rendell's victory as he prepared to overwhelm Republican Joe Egan in the general election? A chastened clergy leadership joined forces with their one-time enemy, endorsing the soon-to-be mayor weeks before the election.

The failure of 1991 brought about one realization in the BCP's ranks. If the clergy were going to win the political endgame, they'd better outsmart their opponents, no easy feat in a town ruled by Vince Fumos and Ed Rendells.

So with one eye on 1999 and the other on '91, the BCP's political action committee (PAC) began meeting in the spring of 1995, month's before Rendell's reelection.

"We realized that if we had made our decision earlier in 1991, the outcome would have probably been different," says Allen. "We learned from that. We need to make up our minds a little earlier."

Some in the BCP still downplay 1991 ("We've done well since then," says McCaskill. "The split was not as big as people thought it was"), but Allen's point is clear. The Democratic roster for '99 is loaded with mayoral talent, black and white. The likes of Jonathan Saidel, Lynne Abraham or any Fumo-backed candidate will leap at the chance to exploit a split black field.

Given that three strong black candidates — John Street, John White and State Rep. Dwight Evans — may seek the prize, ward leaders and politicians say the BCP's early planning is a wise move.

"They're not going to win that office doing it the day before the election," says Stan White, the 32nd Ward's Democratic leader and aide to Foglietta. "Hopefully, the meetings will smooth the way for less bloodletting. It's a a sign of political maturity."

"Politicians pulled them apart in 1991," adds Street. "The ministers have decided they won't have that happen again."

(John White refused to be quoted about the BCP, saying "I'll talk to you about anything else but this.")

But what sounds good now could bring about another 1991. So far, nobody has formally announced their intentions, though White is oft quoted as planning to run. If all three do enter the race, the BCP will face a hard choice— by all accounts, the current crop of candidates are excellent. Above all, the BCP has yet to indicate what they want from a candidate, a situation which may haunt the BCP.

As President Clinton and Washington's Marion Barry prove, Americans value positions over character. Operatives like Miller and Mondesire, Gray's former congressional aide, understand this political axiom. And they warn it may undo the BCP's plans.

Without a party-type "apparatus," says Miller, the "murky science" of politics boils down to agenda. Voters, Miller and Mondesire stress, care more about taxes, crime and jobs than moral fiber or reputation.

"The days of charismatic, packaged candidates are over, outdated, history," says Miller. "Candidates now must set an agenda that speaks directly to quality of life."

Whether the clergy can decide upon an issues-based plan is unclear. Among black political operatives, the largest criticism of the '80s heydays was the BCP's and Goode's failure "to create a detailed succession plan," as Miller calls it. Though Goode won his second term, neither he nor the BCP provided an issues-based platform which could have propelled future black leaders into power.

"The 1987 election was a collective movement without collective goals," sighs Miller. "Goode was the best shot at retaining power. The clergy were unified — but only unified in not turning their backs on Wilson. There was no plan."

Instead, Goode's MOVE woes lingered and city finances eroded, a combination of events which scared off any potential allies. Four years later, Goode exited office with nothing to show, save for a place in Philadelphia history.

For all its political activity, the BCP has never addressed a central question: Should an organized religious group endorse candidates? Winners-take-all politics is risky business, but even more so for clergy. Other organized religions don't take that gamble.

The Catholic Church does not formally endorse candidates. Neither do Protestants, Jews or Muslims. All of these groups take stands, all choose sides, and all raise cash. But none uses the pulpit to back a candidate.

The BCP, on the other hand, finds itself in the headlines every four years. The rewards can be great, but as '91 shows, trouble can be greater.

The BCP's involvement in politics "is a double-edged sword," says Charles Bowser, a noted black attorney and ex-deputy mayor who ran for mayor in 1975 and 1979. "The one thing which the white press always misses about the Black Clergy is they don't volunteer to get involved in political activity. They are sought out. And as 1991 showed, they are not a political group."

"Is it dangerous for the clergy to be involved in politics?" asks the NAACP's Jerry Mondesire. "It certainly was in 1991."

Regardless, politicians and the media continue to treat the BCP as a powerful force when it comes to endorsements.

"You can't disrespect the clergy, not as a politician," says Lu Blackwell. "They speak to more people on Sunday morning than most politicians do in their entire lives. When they're not with you, you're going to have a tough time."

"The influences of the ministers are second to none," adds Street. "If they don't want you [in office], you might as well just forget it."

Such a curse and such a blessing. Candidates, knowing they can deliver votes, carefully court the preachers and their flock. But when the BCP fails to unite, the group appears weak.

Since the BCP shows no signs of leaving politics or modifying its approach, however, they face a myriad of problems in the '99 run for mayor. The first problem is the same as 1991, differences between individual ministers. Some ministers like Shepard openly support Street, arguing that he's the only experienced and credible black candidate. Still others like White.

If the candidates are Street and White, the BCP has a stark choice. Street is a brilliant government insider who's carved an strong alliance with Rendell. That move has positioned the Council president as the mayor's better-dressed political soul brother, both comrades fighting government waste. By the same token, Street's hard-edged style has garnered an impressive list of enemies — business leaders, ex-Burrell supporters, gays and the omnipresent Fumo all have clashed with Street.

White, on the other hand, is known as an ambassador, "sophisticated and well-spoken... Philly's answer to Andrew Young," as Philadelphia magazine once labeled him. White's political resume includes stints on City Council and at the State House. But White, as the PHA's director, is disparaged by some for the poor living conditions offered to the 48,000 residents under his jurisdiction.

More woes could pop up via the differences between denominations within the BCP. An unspoken reality in the group is the influence of Baptists. Unlike the African Methodist Episcopalian (AME) movement in which a bishop holds power over lower-ranked preachers who serve limited terms, Baptist ministers control their own fate. Each can serve for life if their congregants desire.

"There is no way in the world anybody can control ministers of various denominations," says Rev. Amos Brackeen, who is a Baptist minister. "If [the BCP] does something I don't agree with, I don't do it. I am affiliated with the Black Clergy, but they do not control me."

The difference in denominations could apply to White and Street. White is a true-blue Baptist known for his startling ability to belt out hymns (White recently performed a stirring "Amazing Grace" at a a BCP election rally ). Street, a practicing Seventh-Day Adventist, does not share that natural alliance with BCP Baptists. And Baptist pastors far outnumber other denominations in the BCP.

Between two quality candidates and inter-denominational dynamics, trouble may loom on the horizon.

"The Black Clergy is not the NAACP," says Bowser. "It is a loose confederation of clergy."

"Anybody who believes that the Black Clergy or any other group can dictate who the next mayor will be is not in contact with the reality of the situation," says Wilson Goode. "They cannot handpick a candidate for mayor. Anybody who believes otherwise insults the intelligence of the African-American community."

Voter registration poses yet another problem for BCP strategists. At September's end, roughly 910,000 city residents had registered to vote in the November election, up from the 796,000 who signed up to cast ballots in 1991. Experts attribute the spike to new "motor voter" registration laws. But voter registration among Philly's blacks dropped 10 percent in the same period, from 267,000 to 240,000.

In short, blacks now make up roughly 40 percent of the city's population but account for 26 percent of its voters.

When everything's added up, some see the BCP right back where they were in 1991.

"If in 1999, John White and John Street are candidates for mayor, the clergy will be split," predicts Goode. "Straight down the middle."