Honestly

I'll be honest. When I pray for my own life, I often am praying that God would help me to attain my desired reality. My personal prayers reflect a deeper truth I hold. I believe can God fix the issues of my life which I can handle. The issues which I feel are insurmountable are the prayers that often never pass from my lips. Why? I don't believe God will do anything about it because I can't do anything about it. At my core, I don't always believe prayer works. I believe prayer works, inasmuch as I can simultaneously affect my desired outcomes. I can believe God for a pay raise because I know how hard I work. However, I struggle praying for an end to Al-Qaeda because I feel powerless to do anything by my own hand to end them. As a result, I hide from the truth. I prefer not to hear news of terrorism and sex slavery because I feel empathetic towards the victims but powerless to help them. I don't always believe prayer works. I serve a God who raises the dead but I only believe he can raise my standard of living...

I am Legend

From the time I was aware of my existence, I have known I was black. As a child, I was delighted to be a part of a rich tradition of athletes, entertainers, inventors, and scholars. Only one problem, I never considered one question, what does it mean to be black?

A brief but important hisory lesson

Enslaved Africans were stripped of their cultural ties, forbidden to speak their native language and forced to convert to Christianity. Africans were treated tantamount to animals. White slave owners raped the property they claimed to care so little about. The children of these slave owners remained enslaved. These children remained in bondage for their lifetimes, where they would be worked to death, or sold, or raped again. In a society structured with race based enslavement, there was no place for a child of both slave and free status.The solution came through legislation. Children whom were born to slave mothers remained slaves, those born to free women remained free. A convenient solution, male owners did not need to be responsible for their actions while continuing to grow their workforce through raping their perceived property. All the while miscegenation continues in reality, but legally the biracial children were African slaves. This is the creation of the mixed race.

African-Americans have been bi-racial, tri-racial, and poly-racial for centuries. However, we were not able to recognize our heritage due to our legal status in antiquity. Now, I'm 25 years old and have recognized that my blacknessis a legend, a blend of fact and fiction. I am an african-american but also so much more. Who or what am I fully? That knowledge along with my people was stolen.

"Ruthless"

Taken too many shots, maybe I should be immune to these feelings.

Instead, I'm left with deferred dreams of my risen King.

I can only imagine, what I never thought I would.

Us, mentally stammering with excuses.

Truth is, we've been Ruthless.

She told Naomi wherever  you go, I'll follow.

Hollow words we repeating on Sundays,

so hollow actions are what we doing on Mondays.

Do we even care?

When did the least of these become villains in our own city?

We cover up with excuses,

"they deserve it, the government should do more, our system is broken."

No wonder the world thinks we phony, they see the cracks in our foundation.

Painting our faces with blanket statements showing just how little we really know.

Inside though, it's business as usual, "we're believing God to reach the universities, the unreached people groups, every city in the Triangle."

Pep rallies in pews.

Let's be honest,

Why do you want to reach Muslims?

Is it because they're missing out on freedom and life that only Jesus can bring?

Or is your hope that people who look different from you, can adopt your views, and be made as tools to shape the world you want to see?

I aint so simple as to miss the subliminal.

So miss me with the spiritual, talk, as a guise to justify your culture values.

I'm cool.

I only came because of Jesus.

I'm sick of the insincerity.

We were received with open arms, but our arms remain crossed to the ones who need to be allowed inside.

"Who is him?"

I was promised I would be made new not made to look just like you. I can have black skin and still be white as snow.
Guitar strings, bar chords, worship bands, white forms, unfamiliar to me.
Culture is created to seem standard.
To whom?
Rolled from the same sacrifice, cookie cutter Christianity.
I stand at the foot of the cross, but only those who look like me stand at my side.
Maybe the corporate ladder is what Jacob dreamed of?
CEO's leaving their ivory tower to help for an hour in the projects, only to ascend back to corner offices and homeschool groups.
Robed in white flesh, are they angels?
Messengers bringing tales of prosperity I've never seen, at least not for people who look like me.
So maybe, I should look more like them?
Trading Tim's and chrome rims as if they were sins for my redemption.
In exchange, I get advice on how to build 401k's and go on mission.
Now, I'm back in my neighborhood. I feel like I don't belong. David in Saul's armor, I don't fit.
Don't conform to the world but conform to these norms.
That's the subtlety in my seeker friendly service.
We're made in his image, just who is him?
The God man, our Jewish Savior, Yeshua, or the White American version?

"You Need Us"

Shady breaks between lines,

Knuckles crack, what’s the sign?

No tarot cards or crystal balls, just watching.

Violence is knocking on my door.

I’m on the outside.

I’m moving closer to pills and steel so I can drive out fear.

It’s inside of me.

If I hold tight enough I can squeeze a few dollars out of this stick up kid game but I’m the only one getting played.

It’s all fake.

Games end, so what’s my end game?

If I trade in my pride is the cost too high?

My word is my bond, so when I put it on my momma that’s all I got.

Why bother to swear on my father?

I never knew him.

No hymns for my heartache.

Pews and prayers, past words from Pastor’s.

I’m looking for action, so that’s why I’m packin, heat or pushing packs, my back’s against the wall.

I haven’t seen miracles.

My hood never made it.

My block stays faded.

Shadows of tortured souls haunt me.

We were animals then, we’re animals now.

Chained under lock and key, ship or prison, slave or inmate.

Stripes on our back for stripes on our front.

3 strikes and I’m gone, that’s how real this game is.

No pity for the downcast man, I’d never take it.

Pity is poison, confirming what I desperately hope to be false.

Sips of grants from non-profit hands, you invest in my but won’t walk my streets.

So how much do you really care about this city?

Your checks are too big to make change.

Deficit thinking like I need you.

Nah, I’m straight.

You need me.

I feed your system.

I feed your prisons.

I’m either a budget increase or a disease.

Urban blight? War on drugs? War on poverty?

Bleach kills or it brightens, melanin destroyed or melanin lightened.

Either way who I am is washed away.

You can say mission accomplished, urban renewal, city revitalization, but it’s relocation and extermination.

We’re put away.

Trophies to be collected by owners and labels.

Tokens to be collected, as if I can be cashed in for your black card.

You need us.

Vibrant rhythms lace my being. My speech drives culture. We switch lanes at my leisure. Climbing the corporate ladder without creasing my sneakers.

They say the sky’s the limit but Jordan’s from Mars and Jackson moonwalks so don’t gawk at my swagger.

I’m badder than badder.

Opinions don’t matter.

When the pressure came this dust became a diamond.

Strength and beauty on display, coveted in every sphere.

We are the commodity.

Currency we bring people together with dreams of collard greens and waves that make you dizzy.

Each one of us expressing infinite possibilities of beauty and brilliance.

Daniel Hale Williams, Maya Angelou, Garrett Morgan, Dubois, Shirley Chisholm, just a few you might’ve forgotten because they didn’t keep you rocking, with beats and athletic feats.

Instead they shaped society, with hands strong from holding on so long.

So hold my hand little one, rest easy.

This American nightmare won’t last long.

When you make up you’ll be free.

Why Black History?

There is an extant discussion on the legitimacy of a black history month. Detractors of a black history month will exist, as will the proponents. The reality is, the existence of a Black History month is a reflection of the lack of perspective which most Americans have. History is simply an account of the past. American history should therefore include the narratives of all Americans. Unfortunately, American history is obsessed with recounting wars and the myth of American exceptionalism. More succinctly, American history is an exercise of mass propaganda, at worst, and at best, a painfully narrow portrait of a rebellious ex-British colony. With this to consider, our inquiry should be aimed at the textbook companies and curriculum coordinators. If our history was truly American we would not need a separate designation for minorities. If we considered all minorities American, rather than a derivative or pseudo-american subgroup we could end this debate and move towards eliminating poverty or ending child hunger.

Frayed Bonds

Frayed bonds are the image of the American people. We are all loosely connected by our ethnicity but due to the choices of our ancestors, our bonds are frayed. Genocide, slavery, and misogyny are common features of the American story. I believe we will not heal these bonds until we are honest about the past and provide restitution to those who were harmed by these policies. Accountability is a mark of maturity but our country has failed in that regard. I refuse to give the United States a pass or a quick justification for it's apathy and violence, both subtle and outright. I love my country so I must fight for justice in this country. I love my God so I am fighting for His church to sacrificially love and serve. Join me on this uncomfortable journey as we try and repair these bonds.