Black In America

Beloved, these words come from a place of honesty and love. They may feel heavy at times, but I invite you to read with an open heart, trusting that Jesus is present in both the challenge and the hope that follows.

Black in America

It has been an exhausting couple of weeks, to say the least, with all the events unfolding in the country right before our eyes. I was recently asked how I was feeling, and a few words that came to mind were exhausted, scared, and angry. Exhausted from carrying what it means to be Black in America today. In 1961, James Baldwin said, “To be a Negro in this country and to be relatively conscious is to be in a state of rage almost all the time.” That rage, born from injustice and disappointment, is something I know well. And yet, alongside the rage is sorrow, hope, and the daily prayer for strength to keep showing up.

Jesus’ words here are more than a passage to me; they are the foundation of what it means to bring about the Kingdom of God. They remind me of who we are as followers of Christ. And that we must proclaim release, healing, and freedom; and if we haven’t, then we have missed the heart of the will of God. Speaking with a close friend recently about the state of the country and world, he asked, “What do we do with all of this?” In that moment, my response was that I had to pray to my Black God. To protect all Black folks, to give us wisdom, patience, and the creativity to survive.

For generations, Black folks have cried out to a God who understands chains, understands exile, understands being lynched by the government. And in Jesus, who lived under Roman occupation, we see a God who steps directly into the suffering of the oppressed. So, when I call on my Black God, I’m calling on the one who knows my pain firsthand, who has walked where I’ve walked, and who refuses to leave me alone but walks with me.

In America, Black folks have been told repeatedly, explicitly, and subtly that our lives don’t matter, that our bodies are disposable, that our culture is too loud or too dangerous, and that our spirituality is demonic. But I know better. My Christ is not neutral. My Christ stands with the oppressed. My Christ has a scarred body. My Christ carries the memory of chains and the vision of freedom. So yes, I pray to my Black God because only a God who knows the depth of Black suffering can also carry the depth of Black hope.

We are living in a moment where even the most educated among us, Black women, have been pushed out of the workforce in staggering numbers. Nearly 300,000 Black women have exited the labor force in just a few months due to this administration’s job cuts, dismantled DEI programs, and economic pressures. Imagine doing everything “right, “earning degrees, working twice as hard, and still being told, in a thousand ways, that you are less than.

I have often said that I am a walking political statement and a symbol of resistance, wrapped in flesh. Before the world even gets to know me, my Blackness disqualifies me in their eyes. And yet, God has called me to pastor in this moment, under one of the harshest political climates I’ve known in my 38 years, where many claim the name of Christ and yet they worship power, fear, and hate. If your Jesus is not the brown-skinned Palestinian Jew who was lynched by the government, on behalf of the Church, then we are not following the same Lord.

And here’s the truth: some people wonder why they haven’t seen Black folks marching in the streets like they did before. The reality is that we tried to warn America. We lifted our voices. We protested. We poured ourselves out. And it seems one listened. So now, many of us are choosing rest. Not because we’ve given up, but because we know our survival depends on it. Rest is resistance. Protecting our mental health, building generational wealth, and making sure our families are cared for is a radical act in a country that profits from our exhaustion. Sabbath, after all, is holy. And Black rest is a sacred refusal to let oppression have the last word over our bodies and our souls.

Even in the quiet, even in the resting, I still have hope. My hope doesn’t always come easy. Sometimes it’s just a mustard seed, small as a whisper. But it comes. It comes when I remember the prayers of my ancestors and those who have gone before me. It comes when I hear gospel music fill a room and remind me of the resilience of my people. It comes when I look at my daughter’s face across the breakfast table and know she deserves a world better than this one. And it comes when I turn again to Jesus, the one who was lynched on a tree and still got up with all power in his hands.

So where do we go from here? I don’t know. And right now, that will have to be ok. Because what I know is that Black folks have been here before. We know how to hope even when it feels hopeless. We know how to survive. And still, we long for freedom, not just for ourselves but for all. Maya Angelou said, “The truth is, no one of us can be free until everybody is free.”

Dayspring, you have been an oasis for me. You have welcomed me, loved me, and given me space to speak my truth. And my charge to us is simply this: “as followers of Jesus, we are striving to make God’s world more sustainable, peaceful, just, compassionate, and inclusive.” As doers of Christ’s work, to trust the Spirit, as she reminds us of who we are, empowers us with boldness, and guides us into the politics of Jesus: the politics of love, liberation, and the Kingdom of God.

So even when I am tired, I will not stop preaching freedom. Even when I am angry, I will not stop proclaiming hope, and even when I feel like a political statement, I will not stop being a witness to the Jesus who liberates. And Church, I thank God that I do not walk this road alone. That we are in this together, called, challenged, and empowered by the Spirit to be the Body of Christ in a hurting world. May we continue to show up for one another and for the freedom of all.

With love, 

Pastor Michael

 Ashe and Amen.