Find A God Who Listens
My spiritual identity was once built on a simple premise: The universal love embodied by Jesus Christ can inspire anyone to change.
So when White churches wanted to try racial reconciliation, I was curious. They wanted to change, they said, by making their churches more diverse. And they wanted Black folks to join them.
If the Love of Christ can inspire me, I wondered, can it scale? If I can reconcile my personal relationships, can Black and White Christians reconcile, too? I knew it was a risk. But I thought the church was worth it.
Then Barack became President.
And then Donald Trump built a whole movement just to demonize the first Black man in the White house, claiming someone born in Hawaii was not a ‘legitimate’ citizen. That movement became the launch pad for a presidential campaign built on slurs, disrespect and insults. He called African countries “shitholes”, called Mexicans rapists, claimed to “grab women by the pussy” and made fun of disabled people in front of cheering crowds. And his main support came from the same White Christians who invited Black people to worship with them.
Things got worse when Trump won. Anti Black sentiment grew stronger and when White terrorists got violent in Charlottesville, Trump refused to rebuke them. Black Christiains — especially Black women — called it out, but White Christians from all over the church spectrum —from leadership to rank and file to academia to politicians — had the same response:
“You had your king. Now we have ours.”
I bet on the church and rolled snake eyes. I left , but kept the connection to the people I love. When we talk, I still hear their pain, their frustration, their sense of betrayal. And most of all, their anger.
They all tell the same story:
White folks invited us to the holiday dinner, but now the drunk uncle was causing a scene. They are embarrassed, the guests are upset, but nobody will deal with Uncle Crazy. Instead, they turn to us:
“Let’s talk,” is what they say.
“Help me, Black person,’ is what they really mean. “I know I voted for this terrible person who has a history of racism going back 50 years, but I don’t judge me.”
“Forgive me. So we can hurry up and move on.”
And we are so desperate to be ‘good Christians’, we go along. So excited just to get the invitation, we ignored the fine print on the back:
Welcome to The White Space where the rule is simple. it says. My comfort is more important than your equality.
Always.
The more you look, the more you see that message everywhere.
While George Zimmerman in unrepentant, Trayvon’s mama still has to forgive.
And I began to wonder:
What if this is bigger than Donald Trump? Or a toxic church? What if, no matter what we are told, we were never really invited to these spaces to begin with?
What if we were tricked into these spaces?
And what could we do about it?
“If you are silent about your pain, they’ll kill you and say you enjoyed it.”
Zora Neal Hurston
Black Americans have been fighting a war for our souls since the first African left the first slave ship. On one side was a slave system built upon one rule: “You, Black African, are not a person. You are a tool that I own and your body is here to provide manual labor, entertainment or sexual pleasure.” This rule was enforced with rape, violence and intimidation, with bloody whips and wicked laws that made it illegal for us to read, write…or escape.
And if that did not work, enslavers could always enlist their God. With one Bible, they held up the conquest of the Promised Land to justify their violent takeover of America. But for us, they had a different Bible, one that edited out the entire Old Testament. The Liberating God, the one who sent Moses to free slaves was replaced with a Slave God who sent us Paul, with only one message for the enslaved:
For us, the White Church created a Slave Bible with a Slave Gospel that required obedience without equality or dignity. But Africa knew God before Europe so we did not fall for the okie doke. We knew the only thing oppressors make illegal is freedom and the stories we found in the real Bible confirmed it. In those pages, we found slaves, trapped in a system of economic exploitation, just like us. Forced into daily, harsh labor, just like us. Trapped in a foreign land not their own, just like us. In those pages, we found the secret truth they never wanted us to see: the mighty God of the Bible was not indifferent to our cause, but would actually listen if we simply cried out.
In those pages, we read:
Exodus 2: 23
The Israelites groaned and cried out under their burden of slavery, and their cry for deliverance from bondage ascended to God.
And we read:
Exodus 3:7–8
The LORD said, “I have indeed seen the affliction of My people in Egypt. I have heard them crying out because of their oppressors, and I am aware of their sufferings. I have come down to rescue them from the hand of the Egyptians.
So at night, while the enslavers slept, we went looking for this God. Deep out in woods, we built hidden Black spaces called hush harbors, where we brought our new insight, our African spirituality and all our troubles. We could worship together with no Slave doctrine in the way, sharing our hurts and sorrows. The Slave God and his Slave Preachers never heard our cry, but this new God did.
Heard and came down to meet us. Praying with us, dancing with us, singing and shouting with us — and somehow, our hush harbor became a womb and we conceived something new. Something powerful enough to rekindle our spirits so we could survive another day in the killing fields.
But after centuries of trying, the field still couldn’t kill us. And when the slave camps fell, we came out a new people, with a new religion and a new God. We held tight to this God, hoping this God could lead us to our promised land, too. But The Old Folks had a warning, passed down through the generations:
No matter what — keep God first.
And for a long time, you did. God was in the sermons and songs of your churches, in the anthems in your schools, in the shared stories on the front porches and over meals at your family reunions. God brought us from a ‘mighty long way’ and you held on the best you could.
But every generation is weaker and wiser, as the Bible says. And eventually you forget.
On the way to the promised land, our Kings took you down a path called Integration. This is how you get to the place called Equality, you were told. When you get there, corporations will hire you, seminaries will train you, the best schools will admit you and banks will loan you money. Finally, you can get back everything your ancestors lost in the killing fields. Finally you can find some Dignity.
The Kings were right. In one generation, you go from ‘back of the bus’ to brand new foreign cars, brand new homes and quiet, clean suburbs. Everything in the mall is shiny and clean and when you run into Betty From Next Door, she calls you “sister girl” and tells you how much she loves your baby’s ‘cute little hair.’ Y’all both work at the same company and she even invites you to her church. You go, knowing nobody shouts, and everybody claps on the 1 and the 3. But they are so nice and they are really serious about racial reconciliation and diversity. Everything is hunky dory and peachy keen and you think “this ain’t great, but at least it ain’t whips and chains.”
But time passes. Your next supervisor isn’t so nice. Says she feels ‘threatened’ by your confrontational tone in your meetings. You try not to trip when the notes from HR show up. You suck it up, because you are the Only Black™ in this White Space, which means if you fuck it up, you will be The Last Black™ in this White Space.
So you work harder, enunciate cleaner, and take all the bass out of your voice. But years pass and Betty From Next Door still has a bigger paycheck and when layoffs come they still find you first.
You constantly worry about your kids. Somewhere along the way, they went from ‘adorable’ to “thuggish” and the more they look like a Black adult, the more teachers see a Black Threat™. And threats are not taught — they are removed.
You begin to question yourself. Your ancestors ate slop in a shack half naked but somehow they made it. Doordash brings hot, ready made food to your 3000 square foot home and you still feel so undervalued, so stressed, so tired. And so angry.
Why?
And how can this be the Promised Land if it still feel like Egypt?
And why are you just finding out Betty From Next Door voted for Trump, too? Just like almost all the other White folks in your church. How can your ‘brothers and sisters’ support someone who is so against people like you?
“But we thought you were like us!” they said. “Can’t you see? Our Christian way of life is under attack. We wanna go back to when we felt safe.”
“Come with us!”
Come with you? Back to Slave Gods and Slave Bibles? Killing fields and degradation? You see it now — they wanted your body, not your experience, because they needed someone to play the same old role all over again.
And this time, you volunteered for it. Now you’re back in the wilderness with a God who doesn’t hear you and a religion that uses you like a tool.
How did you end up here again?
Hagar gave this name to the Lord who spoke to her: “You are the God who sees me,” for she said, “I have now seen the One who sees me.”
Genesis 16:13
The trials of life bring anger, sorrow, frustration and bitterness. Where will you take these negative emotions, if your God does not care? According to new studies, they stay locked in your body, producing stress. And for Black folks, stress kills.
Specifically, they show:
- Prolonged exposure to racism preoccupies our thinking, producing enough stress to disrupt sleep patterns and cause illness.
- Prolonged anger produces a deep stress response, depressing our immune system and increasing cancer risk
- Young Black boys who can’t deal with anger are even more likely to be obese
“Keep God first” The Old Folks told us. As if to say, remember where our power really starts.
Remember that Pharoah and all his preachers and all his soldiers heard the crying of the Hebrews, but only God moved to help them.
Remember that enslavers and all their overseers and all their preachers heard slaves crying when their loved ones were whipped and their children sold away. But only God moved.
Keep God first, The Old Folks knew, because the one you cry to first is the one you think has ultimate power.
Remember that. And then ask why we direct our cry to the ones who caused our suffering first. And then call it ‘protest’, like it’s noble to think your abuser has the answer for your abuse.
Or call it holy when we are gentle, or kind or use self control, even when they are weaponized against us. As long as we keep making our Pharoahs our God, crying out to them first, these weapons formed against us will continue to prosper.
The hush harbors are gone, but I still need a secret, safe space to meet God first. Like Jesus in Luke 5:16, who often “withdrew to the lonely places to pray”, I steal away and cry out. Sometimes I find my safe space doing yoga in my backyard. Sometimes it’s meditating on my front porch as the sun rises in the morning. Sometimes it’s a church service online. But I will only go there if the God is mine.
My spiritual identity was once built on a premise: The universal love embodied by Jesus Christ is powerful enough to change anyone or anything.
I don’t believe that anymore. Because the love of Jesus pushes you to love like Jesus. That’s hard enough, but when the people who claim to love Jesus reject you — and then turn around and ask you to absolve them of their guilt?
That’s suicide.
Racial reconciliation may come to the church one day. And maybe I will be a part of it. Especially if there is real repentance.
But before I talk to them about their God?
I’m gonna talk to mine.
’Cause my God sees my struggles. And my God cares.
