As an atheist that grew in black households that practiced Christianity, this might be one of the most brilliant pieces I’ve read in awhile. The unapologetic truthfulness within this needed to be said fr.
This is one of the most powerful essays I have read on this platform. I am saving it and will keep it for the times ahead. Thank you so very much for sharing your words and your truth.
Everything you said is everything that needs to be said. AND, it saddens me because reminds me of the spirit I used to preach in before I let church break my heart for the last time. It reminds that the people who need to hear it the most tend to have the deafest ears when the truth is spoken by someone who knows what they’ve been through. And it reminds me of the painful applause that comes from people who can appreciate these words for their artistry, but can’t take action because they have too much to loose and unconsciously experience equality as a threat. And it angers me because I know your Yehoshua who in flipping the table symbolically flipped the entire institution that we’re still asking to see us as we are when they don’t even see themselves.
Your words arrive like rain, gentle, aching, and full of memory. Thank you for trusting me with this tenderness. I read your grief not as a wound alone, but as a map a record of what it costs to believe deeply, to love something enough to be shattered by it.
There is a particular kind of mourning that comes when our truth becomes too heavy for the rooms that once held us. When the sanctuary becomes the site of exile. I feel that in your voice. I honor the spirit you once preached in, it has not died, only taken new shape. Spirit never leaves us; it just learns how to survive where it is no longer welcomed. And maybe the silence of those who need to hear us is not just defiance but fear. The kind of fear that builds cathedrals and calls it faith, fear that praises the art of prophecy while silencing the prophet.
You saw your Yehoshua clearly. The one who did not enter with permission, but with purpose. The one who overturned the table not because he hated the temple, but because he loved it too much to let it keep lying.
I see you. I thank you. And I walk with you in this truth ragged, holy, and still rising.
Your response reminds me that there is a minister still in me because my heart considered people who might be blessed by our exchange—two Black peoples who by grace or survival instinct read between the lines and the lies to find an escape plan scrawled in the very scriptures that our oppressors used to construct prison walls. I’m engaged to think that these people with the same mindset that killed Yehoshua are seen as the standard bearers of faith when they are thieves that come by day and night taking everything that isn’t nailed down. That’s why they have the world but don’t have Christ. But, rage is temporary. When it’s metabolized, I know that it will prove to be the fire that forges my soul’s resolve. I’m sure that you know the particular freedom of having nothing left to lose. This is the gift the church has given me. Because the only thing I had left was memories of me professing my love for Christ at six and the joy it brought to my grandmother’s face. But not when I look at this nation and see the hate robots the church has produced, I look back on those innocent days and know that the teachings they claimed was God’s love was actually indoctrination that just wouldn’t stick. Postponed Liberation sponsored by veiled White supremacy in Blackface accentuated with big hats and funeral home fans with White Jesus on them. And the saddest thing is if I tell them like I did when I was in my 20s they will very likely tell me I’m not a real Christian and that my hell will be twice as hot simply because, like Yehoshua, I long to see the captives set free and recovery of sight to the blind.
Thanks so much for this exchange. It was a balm. I’ve been praying for some clarity. This has helped immensely.
I'm filled with a swell of feelings and bereft of the words to properly express how much this moved me. This isn't a post, it's a composition; each sentence a complex melodic phrase and each numbered section its own movement. Gorgeous writing.
Your writing is beautiful and alive. This is the sermon I needed to hear today. A lot of my ancestors did preach. Their words were in praise of a God of whom we should be afraid. Thank you.
Your words feel like a hand on the back, gentle, steady, remembering. I think often of how language, especially in the mouths of our ancestors, was both sword and balm. How even fear, when wrapped in scripture, became a kind of armor. And yet look at us now. Still reaching. Still choosing to speak of God not as a threat, but as breath.
I’m grateful that these words found you. That something in it stirred what was already holy inside you. Maybe this is the new liturgy: not one that punishes, but one that holds. One where we no longer have to be afraid to come home to ourselves.
As an atheist that grew in black households that practiced Christianity, this might be one of the most brilliant pieces I’ve read in awhile. The unapologetic truthfulness within this needed to be said fr.
This is communion. Thank you for breaking bread, fr! 🖤
This is one of the most powerful essays I have read on this platform. I am saving it and will keep it for the times ahead. Thank you so very much for sharing your words and your truth.
Thank you for these kind words. Can’t begin to tell you how much I appreciate this 🙏🏾🥹
I have said it before: The Black church simply would not exist without my Gay sisters and brothers, period-T. You preached with this essay!
Always high praise coming from you. Thank you, as always @Leslye Joy Allen, Historian
Everything you said is everything that needs to be said. AND, it saddens me because reminds me of the spirit I used to preach in before I let church break my heart for the last time. It reminds that the people who need to hear it the most tend to have the deafest ears when the truth is spoken by someone who knows what they’ve been through. And it reminds me of the painful applause that comes from people who can appreciate these words for their artistry, but can’t take action because they have too much to loose and unconsciously experience equality as a threat. And it angers me because I know your Yehoshua who in flipping the table symbolically flipped the entire institution that we’re still asking to see us as we are when they don’t even see themselves.
Your words arrive like rain, gentle, aching, and full of memory. Thank you for trusting me with this tenderness. I read your grief not as a wound alone, but as a map a record of what it costs to believe deeply, to love something enough to be shattered by it.
There is a particular kind of mourning that comes when our truth becomes too heavy for the rooms that once held us. When the sanctuary becomes the site of exile. I feel that in your voice. I honor the spirit you once preached in, it has not died, only taken new shape. Spirit never leaves us; it just learns how to survive where it is no longer welcomed. And maybe the silence of those who need to hear us is not just defiance but fear. The kind of fear that builds cathedrals and calls it faith, fear that praises the art of prophecy while silencing the prophet.
You saw your Yehoshua clearly. The one who did not enter with permission, but with purpose. The one who overturned the table not because he hated the temple, but because he loved it too much to let it keep lying.
I see you. I thank you. And I walk with you in this truth ragged, holy, and still rising.
With deep gratitude and fire,
Saint Trey
Your response reminds me that there is a minister still in me because my heart considered people who might be blessed by our exchange—two Black peoples who by grace or survival instinct read between the lines and the lies to find an escape plan scrawled in the very scriptures that our oppressors used to construct prison walls. I’m engaged to think that these people with the same mindset that killed Yehoshua are seen as the standard bearers of faith when they are thieves that come by day and night taking everything that isn’t nailed down. That’s why they have the world but don’t have Christ. But, rage is temporary. When it’s metabolized, I know that it will prove to be the fire that forges my soul’s resolve. I’m sure that you know the particular freedom of having nothing left to lose. This is the gift the church has given me. Because the only thing I had left was memories of me professing my love for Christ at six and the joy it brought to my grandmother’s face. But not when I look at this nation and see the hate robots the church has produced, I look back on those innocent days and know that the teachings they claimed was God’s love was actually indoctrination that just wouldn’t stick. Postponed Liberation sponsored by veiled White supremacy in Blackface accentuated with big hats and funeral home fans with White Jesus on them. And the saddest thing is if I tell them like I did when I was in my 20s they will very likely tell me I’m not a real Christian and that my hell will be twice as hot simply because, like Yehoshua, I long to see the captives set free and recovery of sight to the blind.
Thanks so much for this exchange. It was a balm. I’ve been praying for some clarity. This has helped immensely.
I'm filled with a swell of feelings and bereft of the words to properly express how much this moved me. This isn't a post, it's a composition; each sentence a complex melodic phrase and each numbered section its own movement. Gorgeous writing.
This makes my heart smile. Thank you so much ❤️
Your writing is beautiful and alive. This is the sermon I needed to hear today. A lot of my ancestors did preach. Their words were in praise of a God of whom we should be afraid. Thank you.
Thank you. Truly.
Your words feel like a hand on the back, gentle, steady, remembering. I think often of how language, especially in the mouths of our ancestors, was both sword and balm. How even fear, when wrapped in scripture, became a kind of armor. And yet look at us now. Still reaching. Still choosing to speak of God not as a threat, but as breath.
I’m grateful that these words found you. That something in it stirred what was already holy inside you. Maybe this is the new liturgy: not one that punishes, but one that holds. One where we no longer have to be afraid to come home to ourselves.
Peace to you and the pulpit of your memory.
Oof.