Image courtesy of Aviate Through Knowledge, LLC.When the 2024 BET Awards aired to millions across the globe in June of 2025, a stunning and controversial moment pierced the heart of both gospel and hip-hop culture. The “Best Gospel/Inspirational Artist” award went to none other than GloRilla—a southern rap, Trap, R&B singer-songwriter known for sexually explicit lyrics, flesh-baring performances, and club anthems devoid of any spiritual grounding. While the moment went viral, it was also went viral, vital in revealing the complete spiritual and cultural hijacking of hip-hop. Gospel legend Deitrick Haddon offered a succinct indictment: “Gospel is not the space she’s in.” His words echoed what many felt but feared to say. The sacred had become a spectacle. This spectacle reminded me of why I stopped watching BET shows, music videos, or award shows. There is always an oversaturation of semi-nude black women, smoking, killing, alcohol, and materialism in videos, songs, and programs.
Would GloRilla have won without her association with Kirk Franklin, the bridge between faith and fame? Has anyone heard from Dr. Bobby Jones, the very man for whom the BET Gospel Award was originally named? This wasn’t an industry fluke—it was a spiritual thermometer reading. The genre born in the basements and boroughs of resistance has now baptized debauchery in the name of inspiration.
To understand how we arrived at this moment, we must go back, not to the club, but to the classroom of culture. Hip-hop didn’t start this way. In the late 1980s and early 1990s, the genre was led by men and women whose names alone were rooted in peace, light, knowledge, and upliftment. These artists weren’t just entertainers—they were educators, messengers, ministers of truth, and commentators of reality, the good, the bad, and the poverty.
KRS-One, whose name stands for “Knowledge Reigns Supreme Over Nearly Everyone,” wasn’t just rapping—he was teaching. As the founder of the Stop the Violence Movement, he challenged Black men to drop the gun and pick up the book. Positive K bore a name that challenged negativity in a genre sliding into darkness. Guru (Gifted Unlimited Rhymes Universal), one half of Gang Starr, pioneered jazz rap, merging smooth instrumentation with deeply spiritual reflections.
Then there was Rakim, the high priest of lyricism. Calm, metaphorical, and measured, his name evoked both Islamic reverence and lyrical reverence. Queen Latifah, whose name means “delicate” and “kind” in Arabic, led the charge for female dignity and empowerment. MC Lyte, shining light in a male-dominated industry, dropped bars not of body but of brilliance.
Conscious collectives also emerged. Brother J of X-Clan spoke with unapologetic Afrocentricity, embodying a sense of community respect. Wise Intelligent of Poor Righteous Teachers didn’t just rap—he elevated. His very name testified to hip-hop’s potential as scripture. Afrika Baby Bam of Jungle Brothers—named in honor of Afrika Bambaataa—revived African pride and unity. And Speech of Arrested Development symbolized the art of dialogue, healing, and social transformation.
These artists made hip-hop the light in a dark world. Their names alone were sermons. But the message was soon drowned out.
By the early 1990s, the revolutionary wave crashed. The Chronic, Doggystyle, rap hits like ‘C.R.E.A.M’ [Cash Rules Everything Around Me], and Ready to Die entered the mainstream. Though classic in artistry, they marked a dangerous shift in values. Murder, misogyny, and money were elevated over morals. Chuck D of Public Enemy noted in an interview with The Breakfast Club: “Hip-hop used to be a weapon… now it’s a reality show.” What once uplifted now unraveled.
According to a persistent yet chilling industry whisper from I For Color, a secret meeting took place in the early 1990s in the Los Angeles area involving major Jewish-American record executives, powerful media tycoons, and private prison stakeholders. The reported goal: transform rap into a marketing pipeline for criminal behavior, addiction, and incarceration, the target: black males. Artists would be rewarded for promoting violence, while prison populations—particularly young Black men—would swell, feeding the for-profit prison boom. This meeting, though never officially documented, has gained traction among artists, activists, and scholars because the cultural outcomes are unmistakable. “Murder music” didn’t emerge by accident—it was the offspring of a planned merger between beats and bars… behind bars. The tones, beats, and rhymes of demonic rap music always keep an M.C. witchcraft on the mic, and a DJ voodoo nasty on the turntables. Even rappers in India have been violently gunned down.
According to the BBC, Punjabi hip-hop star Sidhu Moose Wala was shot dead by hired gunmen.
The mindset of the industry executives who called that meeting that changed hip-hop is the corporate mindsets that continue to make money off the deaths of Christopher Wallace (Biggie Smalls) and Tupac Amari Shakur. A movie or documentary emerges every five years around their unsolved murders. They cannot let these brothers rest in peace. The same producers, writers, and executives behind these projects are the descendants—corporately, spiritually, and culturally—of those in that demonic meeting orchestrated to hijack a culture over 30 years ago.
The shift was systemic and strategic. As NPR’s Louder Than A Riot reported, this wasn’t a conspiracy—it was a consequence. In parallel with the rise of gangsta rap, mass incarceration surged. According to DOJ and ATF data, high-profile gun charges among entertainers—mostly rappers—jumped 45% between 2008 and 2020.
Record labels mirrored this descent: Murder Inc., Death Row, Ruthless Records, Konvict Muzik, Gangsta Advisory Records, Graveyard Records—names that were less brands and more warnings. By the 2000s, rappers weren’t just rapping—they were living out their lyrics in indictments. Courts began using lyrics as evidence. The art form became admissible. Bars became traps.
Language and names followed the pattern. Today, according to Aviate Through Knowledge, Inc., a 501c3 education entity, 25–30% of all rappers carry the prefix “Lil”—Lil Wayne, Lil Durk, Lil Baby, Lil Peep, Lil Uzi Vert. While “Lil” itself is innocent, paired with violent branding, it trivializes danger. At least 3–7% of rappers use names that directly include death or violence—C-Murder, Murder Mook, Death Grips, Bloody Jay, Killah Priest—turning art into audition tapes for tragedy.
According to a 2022 XXL Study, over 70% of murdered rappers in the last 30 years were Black men under 30, and 90% of those murders remain unsolved. In essence, being a rapper today is deadlier than serving in active military duty. But the most corrosive change wasn’t the violence—it was the veneration of brokenness. Rap normalized fatherless homes, glorified strip clubs, and turned trauma into triumph. CDC reports show 64–72% of Black children are born into single-parent homes, and yet few mainstream rappers celebrate fatherhood, and being legally employed as a means to acquire income.
Instead, they praise baby mama culture, flexing for Instagram but failing in real life. J. Cole and Common are rare exceptions in a sea of spiritual absence. Additionally, other rappers like Lecrae, NF (Nathan Feuerstein), Dee-1, Wande, Jackie Hill Perry, Kendrick Lamar, and Sammie Lee are originators of courage, and their creativity flows.
The female rap renaissance, while powerful, has also been problematized. Artists like Cardi B, Megan Thee Stallion, Nicki Manaj, and now GlowRilla and others break barriers—but often by blending sexuality with sacredness, rated mature. Today, gospel award winners twerk in lingerie. Praise is performed alongside perversion. A 2021 NIH study confirmed that Black male youth exposed to hypersexualized rap were twice as likely to use marijuana, a vice now marketed by hip-hop giants and local artists as a rite of passage rather than a health risk or criminal charge.
If Satan had a playlist of rap songs, these tracks satanically qualify to him to enjoy and would set the Lake of Fire’s dance floor ablaze:
“F tha Police” – N.W.A “Tear da Club Up” – Three 6 Mafia “Kim” – Eminem “Tron Cat” – Tyler, The Creator “WAP” – Cardi B & Megan Thee Stallion “MONTERO (Call Me By Your Name)” – Lil Nas X “Red Opps” – 21 Savage “I Don’t Like” – Chief Keef “Rockstar Made”https://www.modernghana.com/”Stop Breathing” – Playboi Carti
These tracks, while artistically crafted, reflect a spiritual degradation and commercial glorification of death, lust, and lawlessness—traits once rejected in Black music, now celebrated on world stages.
So what killed conscious rap? The Five Deadly Sins: Commercialization and Corporate Control: Labels chose profit over principle, silencing conscious rap. Death of Key Figures: With 2Pac’s death, the duality of prophet and poet was lost. Materialism Over Morality: The bling era replaced books with bottles. Criminalization and Censorship:
Groups like Dead Prez and Poor Righteous Teachers were blackballed. Listener Apathy: Beats overtook bars. Insight was labeled “boring.” What began as a
life-affirming culture became a costume—tattoos, grills, and sagging pants commodified by billion-dollar brands, then condemned in courtrooms and classrooms. Our natural hair became “unprofessional.” Our culture became caricature.
In biblical terms, bad rap is to Black culture what Lucifer was to heaven’s choir. This is how demonic rap de-revolutionized hip hop. Once the leader of the heavenly choir, pride caused his fall. Likewise, hip-hop, once a liberating soundtrack, has been corrupted by vanity, vulgarity, vice, and violence. It led millions astray. And the culture still mourns.
But we can reclaim the mic. To Artists: Your name has power. Choose it wisely. Write to build, not burn. To Listeners: Demand better. Don’t just stream—scrutinize. To Industry: Stop feeding pain as entertainment. To Community: Teach the youth that hip-hop’s roots were revolutionary, not reckless.
Summary in a Sentence: Hip-hop, once a tool for knowledge and spiritual resistance, has been hijacked by consumerism, chaos, and clout-chasing, making rap a more dangerous career than combat and replacing conscious creativity with cultural cannibalism. Being a rapper is the most dangerous job for black males. Now you know why and how, because it was just explained how demonic rap de-revolutionized hip hop. It’s time for a new renaissance. Let us remember the names that once healed and restore the soul of a culture that still deserves to rise. Rap music and hip hop are the prodigal sons of black culture in the U.S. Upon their return home, the question is, will we be ready to embrace them with forgiveness and unconditional love (Luke 15:11-32)?
According to The New Pittsburgh Courier, over 100 rap artists have lost their lives to violence since the 1980s. The average age at death is just 29, with African-American males making up over 90% of those murdered. These are not just numbers—they are young lives cut short, dreams deferred, and families devastated. A reformation in
hip-hop is long overdue.
This research supports what conscious rap once warned us about—songs like
Self-Destruction weren’t just music; they were messages. However, their warnings were sadly ignored. One example is LGP Qua, a talented Philadelphia rapper born Qidere Johnson, who often spoke out against violence, only to be violently murdered himself.
His death symbolizes a tragic irony and a dangerous pattern.
We are living in the Dark Ages of hip-hop and its rap music. It’s dark not just because of lyrical content, but because of the actual death toll that goes as if nothing happened..
According to the National Institutes of Health, homicide has become the leading cause of death among hip-hop and rap artists—especially young Black men. To put it bluntly: murder and rap music are now paired as peanut butter and jelly.
Not many followers back in the early 70s saw this coming, but the early 2020s did. You have a stage. Worse yet, the silence from within the music industry—the same industry profiting off this chaos—is deafening. Their refusal to address this epidemic is cultural negligence at its worst. In many ways, the corporate music machine has become the new KKK for Black males, exploiting their image and stories while watching them die young. And how much more perverted can it get when this industry still markets the rapper lifestyle as a golden ticket, luring more young Black men into a fast track to death? It’s painful to write this, but even more painful when no one responds. Yes, we live in a fallen world—and Satan is its prince. And if you believe that, then ask yourself: why is hip-hop still his favorite playlist? You know it has to be demonic if he’s a fan.
Let that marinate
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Source Image: Wikipedia
Edmond W. Davis is a social historian, retired history professor, a socioemotional intelligence expert, and author of multiple historical texts, including works on the Tuskegee Airmen. He is a former director of the Derek Olivier Research Institute for the Prevention of Gun Violence. Davis is also the founder of the National HBCU Black Wall Street Career Fest. Davis played on NBC’s ‘BLUFF CITY LAW’ TV series in 2019. He was the Shelby County Courtroom Jail Deputy in Episode 10.
