In 2002, Kanye West played an early version of “Jesus Walks,” his religiously themed rap song, to a small industry audience in New York. Recently arrived from Chicago, West was a young, mid-tier hip-hop producer, not known for his fluency in the tough-guy discourse then dominant among rappers. His track, which emphasized spiritual warfare over street violence, was greeted with bemused appreciation, at least to his face. But when West left, the room exploded in derisive laughter. “A few people even mocked him, mimicking his rap voice and making fun of his over-the-top zeal,” one of the observers, Jensen Karp, would later recall. “One major producer … even asked his assistant to make sure Kanye never performed like that again.”

Fourteen years later, West’s announcement that The Life of Pablo, his seventh album, would be a gospel album found once more an audience of little faith. No genre of black music seemed more antithetical to the dazzling, innovative mainstream rap for which West had become both famous and rich. Though Christian rap had existed for a long time, it did so only as an obscure and unprofitable subgenre. Birthed in New York, mainstream rap’s materialist focus on the here and now has always set it apart from the tradition of black music running from gospel, through soul, to R&B. In their lyrics, many prominent New York rappers flaunted their contempt for organized religion: One could cite The Notorious B.I.G.’s 1994 track “Suicidal Thoughts” (“When I die, fuck it, I wanna go to hell”) or, more recently, A$AP Rocky’s denunciation of corruption in the black church on last year’s “Holy Ghost”:

The pastor had a thing for designer glasses:

Yeah, I’m talking fancy plates and diamond glasses.

The ushers keep skimming the collection baskets

And they trying to dine us with some damn wine and crackers.

But just as “Jesus Walks” proved the skeptics wrong, selling over two million copies and winning the 2005 Grammy for Best Rap Song, West’s new album also delivers on its promise. The Life of Pablo proclaims its belief from the very start. “Ultralight Beam,” the first track, opens with a child’s voice enthusiastically imitating a pastor (“We don’t want no devils in the house, God!”) and features gospel superstar Kirk Franklin. West sings the refrain, “This is a God dream, this is everything,” while his fellow Chicagoan Chance the Rapper (real name Chancelor Bennett) seizes the only rap verse. It is a triumphant verbal display that boasts one moment and quotes a hymn the next:

You can feel the lyrics, the Spirit coming in Braille;

Tubman of the underground, come and follow the trail.

I made “Sunday Candy,” I’m never going to hell—

I met Kanye West, I’m never going to fail!

…

This little light of mine Glory be to God, yeah.

Often imitated, West now has actual disciples. Chance’s own mixtape, Coloring Book, is a match for Pablo in its holy righteousness; meanwhile the West Coast virtuoso Kendrick Lamar, who includes West among his myriad influences, explores sin and redemption on his recent albums. Listen to these three together and a striking trend emerges: Some of the most prominent and critically acclaimed artists in rap are finding religion. At first glance, this could be mistaken for a conservative shift, a retreat into otherworldly rectitude within an art form known for its realism and insolence. But these artists are also at the forefront of the ongoing revival of explicitly political hip hop—and in the context of Black Lives Matter, the religious themes in West, Chance, and Lamar take on a radical edge.

Though Chance the Rapper routinely defers to Kanye West as an aesthetic and spiritual forebear, the Gospel teaches that the Son and the Father are one. The similarities between their new records are remarkable. Just as Chance features with a church choir on the first track of Pablo, Kanye West features with a choir on Coloring Book’s opening song. Like Pablo, Coloring Book wears a sacred heart on its sleeve. “This for the kids of the king of all kings, this is the holiest thing,” Chance announces on “All We Got,” a thunderous hymn to the power of black music. Two songs bear the title “Blessings”; another is named “Angels.” There is great exaltation (“How great is our God,” repeats the introduction to “How Great”) and some vaunting, too, as Chance declares that he literally speaks to God in public.