What's Good?

I am Black. I am Christian. Until recently, I have never viewed those two states of being to be in conflict with each other.

One is a made up social category that doesn’t really exist, and the other is... oh wait... yeah, I guess they both are.

One makes me feel a part of a collective struggle for the greater good, and the other leaves me shaking my head in frustration.

The struggle is blackness. The frustration is faith.

My Christian heart reads Genesis 1:27 and knows that all men are equal, all men are divine. My Black soul reminds me that The Garden was in Africa, and dirt is brown.

My black soul reads a book about Africans and Arabs and, sitting in church on Sunday, whispers: “Where did all these white folk come from?”

She forces me online late at night and laughs with self righteous glee when I discover that the image of Jesus used in most churches today was modeled after Cesare Borgia, son of the first Pope.

She rolls her eyes at bible verses like 1 John 3:17, John 8:32, Mark 12:31. She knows white Christians don’t really mean that. Especially when it comes to her people.

She is building a case, her evidence compelling and sound. She is trying to convict my faith.

My Christian heart tells me to turn the other cheek. She kindly mentions that I love my black brothers and sisters, even in their ignorance. Surely I can do the same for whites?

She reminds me of Matthew 7:3 and encourages me to look to my rafters.

My Black soul flashes me an image of black bodies hanging from rafters built by black hands, put there by white Christians.

My Black soul is angry, at myself, at America, but mostly at Christians. She sees conspiracy before charity in every situation. When a white sister at my church suggests we seek out fair trade vendors for our holiday bazaar, she hears:

“Black people just trying to earn a living aren’t good enough for us to spend our Christian money with. Good works and charity apply to Libya, but not East Cleveland.”

When another group plans an activity during black history month, she says:

“See? We black folk can’t have nothing! ‘The man’ takes everything, even our time slot!”

When the Tamir Rice judgement is released at 8 PM on a Saturday night, at the end of a three week spree of gang violence, and no one bats an eye she scoffs:

“How convenient. They cointelpro’d us into silence, and now another killer cop is running free.”

My Christian heart hangs in like a champ. She, the eternal believer says that surely a man that risks his lives to protect others did not volunteer for the job because he likes to kill blacks.

My black soul objects, loudly and often. She claims the single greatest paradox in American Christianity is receiving the titular of ‘good’ while committing, through commission or omission, sins against black and brown bodies.

She wanted me to know that she can use my pretty words to communicate just as well as the brashness her own. Then she shows me, in the words of others, exactly what she means:

“ They do not bear arms, and do not know them, for I showed them a sword, they took it by the edge and cut themselves out of ignorance. They have no iron. Their spears are made of cane... . They would make fine servants.... With fifty men we could subjugate them all and make them do whatever we want.” -Christopher Columbus

“Irish and French Catholics have argued that Columbus, who “brought the Christian faith to half the world,” should be named a saint.” - Christianity Today

“Slaveholders hide themselves behind the church. A more praying, preaching, psalm-singing people cannot be found than the slaveholders at the south.” - William Wells Brown

“...moral or social equality between the different races...does not in fact exist, and never can. The God of nature made it otherwise, and no human law can produce it, and no human tribunal can enforce it. There are gradations and classes throughout the universe. From the tallest archangel in Heaven, down to the meanest reptile on earth, moral and social inequalities exist, and must continue to exist throughout all eternity." - GA Supreme Court, 1869

“Our puny sentimentalism has caused us to forget that a human life is sacred only when it may be of some use to itself and to the world.” - Helen Keller

And with the blind woman’s revelation, I finally begin to see. Christianity’s central truth has become a festering wound to black America: All (wo)men are equal in Christ, but in America, you have to do some good to matter.

The same excuse that a Christian ‘Miracle Worker’ used to justify her defense of the medical practice that forcibly sterilized over sixty thousand black, brown, and mentally challenged Americans is what white Christians use today to turn a blind eye to a blatantly white supremacist society.

So when my Black soul shouts says “BLACK LIVES MATTER”, my Christian heart auto-corrects:

“All lives matter.”

Which is really just code for: “Prove it.”

If black neighborhoods are the most dangerous ones, and black schools are the worst, and black people kill other black people, isn’t that all more important than the few ‘bad’ cops that kill black people?

Nope.

Because at the end of the day, police officers have taken up a sworn duty to protect and serve, like Christians have been charged with loving and uniting.

I’m calling my Christianity on the carpet and challenging Christians to flip the burden of proof from the outside world to ourselves.

Yes, even me.

We have to start being as concerned about our local impact as our global impact.

We have to stop asking why is it like that and start asking how can we change it?

We have to stop looking for conspiracies and start looking for co-conspirators.

I go to church because I believe in what Margaret Mead so famously stated: “a small group of thoughtful, committed citizens can change the world; indeed, it's the only thing that ever has.”

People of faith acting in concert (plus a miracle or two) are the only force strong enough to defeat racism. I know this, heart and soul.

And that’s why my Christian heart was never worried. She knew all along her way was the only one that would work. She understands that my Black soul is only angry because of the depth of my faith, in humanity, in divinity. She gets that we were never separate, always one.

She’s deep  like that.

Mostly, she’s practical, and she knows that imperfect beings can’t follow a perfect law perfectly, all the time. But we can keep trying to prove ourselves, always remembering where we came from:

“And God saw every thing that he had made, and, behold, it was very good.” - Genesis 1:31

Latter Day Saints

I am on a journey of faith. That doesn’t mean I’m a perfect person. Some might even say I’m not a particularly good person. I smoke, drink, curse, and am as deeply neurotic and tragically flawed as the next person.  I have days where I am faithful and positive and obediently listening for the voice of God, and there are days when I am wretched, negative, self pitying, small.

I thought today would be a latter day. By the time I finally managed to drag myself out of bed this morning, church had already started and my Aunt and cousin had taken both cars. I wasn’t particularly worried about this since my church is right around the corner from my house.

I quickly washed up and brushed my teeth. So far, so good. But the dress I had planned on wearing was dirty, and my backup dress had somehow lost its hem (and by lost I mean I accidentally pulled the only mission-critical string on the entire dress), and my happy napps were being- well, not so happy.

3 Second Background (3SB):

1. I loathe pants and prefer to wear dresses or skirts whenever possible
2. I don’t leave the house looking bad- I own a cosmetics company for chrissakes
3. I go to a ritzy, white church and I feel personally responsible for representing black people in a positive light at all times but especially on Sundays

At 11:35 I gave up on my hair and grabbed the first clean piece of clothing I could find, which happened to be a pair of very stylish wide leg dove gray slacks that I obviously hadn’t worn in a while, because they were falling off my hips.

While pants may not be frowned upon at my church, I was pretty sure two inches of exposed pink and black penguin thong would be enough to raise an eyebrow or two among the frozen chosen, which is how I ended standing on the corner of Mayfield and Monticello, ten minutes before the end of service, looking homeless chic in my cousin’s oversized (and ratty) hoodie, baggy, wrinkled pants, flats and a beanie; crying silent tears of self pity.

See? Wretched.

I was about to write the entire thing off as a loss when a man stopped me and asked if he could bum a cigarette. I have this thing about cigarettes. I’ve been a smoker for far longer than I’ve been an (arguable) success and smokers were always generous to me in the past, so whenever someone asks me for a cigarette, I give it to them, unless it’s my last one.

So I gave this guy a cigarette. And he gave me his life story. I wouldn’t feel right sharing it here, it’s not my story to tell. Suffice to say he was in that shadowy place the soul goes when you need confirmation that you matter, that you belong, that you are needed.

I didn’t have anything to give. I was going to ‘get’ myself. So I invited him along.

We walked to my church, taking our seats as the last song was being sung. I felt like crap warmed over, but this man’s spirit had somehow been fed. As I introduced my new friend around he said to me, “I was heavy, when I came here. Sad. But I feel lighter now.”

And suddenly, I did too.

Cheerful Giving: How Faith Changed My Business Model

Today/ yesterday I went to a Baptist revival. I don’t know if you’ve ever been to one of those (if you’re white and live in the north, chances are you haven’t), but they are basically a weekend long festival of faith, complete with singing, praise dancing, and sermons.

Revivals are not usually my thing. But my spirit has been feeling so parched, so weakened and drained, that I jumped at the opportunity to go.

Some things to note:

1. Revivals usually last until Monday at the latest, so the chances of a revival happening right when I needed it, on a Tuesday? SlimCity.
2. My Aunt texted me and told me where she was going before she left the office. This literally never happens.
3. I generally dread revivals, but something(someone?) motivated me to leave the house on a rainy night (with fresh hair, no less) to be with other people of faith.

Three words: Three. Part. Miracle.

From the moment I stepped in the door, I went to a deeply emotional place. My ears were open and my spirit was ready to be fed. Every word spoken, sung, wailed, and whispered felt as if it was specifically for me. They spoke about the prodigal son.

I’ve heard lots of prodigal son sermons, and they are all pretty much the same, focused on the son returning/sinner repenting theme. This sermon was different.

Firstly, I, Miss pro-black-anti-white-privilege-give-folks-a-chance, discovered what a hypocrite even I am because I seriously misjudged these pastors. I assumed these were ‘called’ men. And in my liberal, cappuccino brown Presbyterian world, I equated that with a lack of formal education.

Wrong. The pastor began his sermon by referencing a Bartolome Murillo painting that he saw on a recent trip to Spain. He went on to focus his sermon not on the prodigal son, but on the other brother, the hater. The pastor said that the other brothers sins of jealousy and pettiness were no less than the sis his brother committed in the eyes of God. Then he went on to say that those in the church are often guilty of the same sins, sins less visible to others like judgmental attitudes, envy, and pride.

Shots fired! The next sermon was about Grace- you know the kind with a capital G. The pastor spoke on Jeffrey Dahmer, and how he repented before he was killed in prison. That agitated me, deeply. I don’t really believe his repentance is sincere, but that’s when I realized what I think doesn’t matter- it’s between him and God.

And that’s the whole of Christianity in a nutshell-- love everybody, don’t be petty, and have faith that in every situation, God will work it out.

It’s a pretty lofty set of ideals for us mere mortals, but can you imagine what the world would be like if people of faith actually held themselves to their own religious standards?

I’m usually the one raising hell (pun intended) at church, agitating and challenging our congregational body to do more to dismantle white privilege. I’ve always felt like they were in a position to do so much more than I ever could.

But tonight, in a cramped storefront church in East Cleveland, a fire was lit in me, something that moved me to do exactly as the final sermon suggested: stop making excuses and start having expectations. Everyone is in a position to help, even me, especially me, I’M A BUSINESS OWNER!

But I’ve been running my company in that typical ‘Christian’ way- “yeah, I want to help others, eventually, but right now I have to worry about me”, talking all the talk but not walking the walk.

I’m over it. I’m capable of so much more than what I’m doing. I’m smart. I can figure out a way to help people now, and help myself in the process.

As you get to know me, you’ll see that most of my worldview is shaped around ‘fixing’ America, which to me means dismantling white privilege without bloody revolution. Being the genius that I am, I have already come up with a solution that if I published in full would be redacted and the Men in Suits would disappear me somewhere or pull me over for no reason and murder me in jail (#whathappenedtoSandraBland) bad for all parties.

Suffice to say, we need to start at the bottom. According to a study done by Brooking Institute, Forty Two percent of children born in the bottom quintile stay there. They have children there, and forty two percent of their children stay there. For the uninitiated, the bottom quintile means people living on less than $29,000 a year for a family of four. That is perpetual poverty, with a 60/40 shot of ever getting out.

I want to change that. I believe as an American, that for our country to thrive, we need to change that. I believe as a Christian, that radical temple crashing Jesus would want us to change it. And I believe as a business owner, that changing it means changing the way I do business.

I’m going to do something crazy. I’m putting my money where my mouth is (but not in my mouth, money is nasty.) I’m going to throw my business plan out the window and step out on faith. I want to use a portion of my proceeds to give mini-grants ($25- $500) to small business owners just like me. Not the people who already have employees and high credit scores, the people at the bottom, the ones who might not know their credit scores at all, the ones who are just trying to make it.

I am moved to do this because despite the fact that I am far from successful, I know there are people out there that would kill to be where I’m at, just because I have an online store and a safe place to live.

If that feels right to you, it’s between you and God.

I don’t know how this is going to work. I’m not sure what the qualifications should be for getting money. I’m thinking money to pay for a vendor’s license, a grant for business equipment you can’t afford, or maybe funding to go to a trade show, etc. I’m still working out the kinks, and I want to hear your ideas too. For now I’m going to start by setting aside twenty percent of whatever I sell in an ‘everyday angel’ investing account. Email me at GoldenGoddessCosmetics@gmail.com subject line everyday angel with ideas on how I should spend it.

-Ajah