The doors of the church are open. Good morning, Saints.
Beloved children of the sun, I don’t feel like preaching a whole sermon today. I’m tired after five straight days of cluster migraines that had me over here feelin’ like Job and Lazarus. Like Jonah in the belly of the whale. Like Daniel in the lions’ den. Like Joseph at the bottom of the pit, like Samson after Delilah finished with his ass, like Jesus in the wilderness, and like the Apostle Paul shipwrecked on the way to Rome.
So today, I’m just gonna ask Y’all to bow your heads so we can just have a little word of prayer. Saints, raise your hands and stretch them toward Queens, New York, and Brotha Willie play “I Won't Complain” by Rev. Paul Jones on your organ.
Heavenly father of Black Jesus and the Virgin Mary who put the Holy Ghost on the birth certificate:
We come before you this morning to pray for our dear sista Lisa Renee Olaso who went to look at an apartment with her man and broke down in tears after a white real estate agent saw the couple arriving and accidentally texted, “Ugh, they’re Black.”
Father, we thank you for working in mysterious ways. Yes, we thank you dear Lord, for the miracle of modern technology and a Long Island real estate agent’s technological incompetence that exposed her spirit of racial disgust and the demon of discrimination that our people have known for generations.
For you have reminded us in **Luke 8:17: **“For there is nothing hidden that will not be disclosed, and nothing concealed that will not be known or brought out into the open.”
Dear Lord, we ask you to please dry this sista’s tears. We know she is human, o lord. We know that racism hurts. We know being humiliated hurts. Being denied housing hurts. We know that having somebody look at the color of your skin and immediately deciding that you are a bad person hurts.
But we ask you to dry her tears because we can’t keep allowing racists’ predictable foolishness to keep sending our people into emotional bankruptcy. Lord we need you to show our people that there’s a difference between being hurt by racism and being spiritually dependent upon the racist’s recognition. Ohhhh, Y’all don’t wanna hear me pray this morning.
Ohhh Father of Black Jesus, this prayer isn’t really about the racist real-estate agent or America’s stubborn systems of racial oppression. It is about what racism trains Black folk to do emotionally after the racist wound.
God of Nat Turner, Harriet Tubman, Malcolm X and Angela Davis, after the incident our sobbing sista started explaining that she’s hardworking. That she’s kind. That she’s educated, respectable, and a good person. Her man told the news that the real estate agent judged a book by its cover.
But dear god, the theological question before us today is: Why should any of those things matter?
You shouldn’t have to be hardworking to be protected from racism. Or kind. Or respectable. You shouldn’t need degrees, a high salary, a perfect credit score, impeccable grammar, a nice suit and tie, or an accomplished résumé to establish that racism against you is wrong. Hallelujah.
Beloved children of the sun, hear this prayer. Remember that Black Liberation Theology teaches us that white supremacy isn’t just a bunch of systems that disadvantage Black folk. It also tries to establish whiteness as the moral audience before whom Black people must continually testify to their worthiness. And when you let respectability politics have you out trying to show white folks that you are a good Black person, you are accepting that arrangement. When you spend so much of your energy trying to convince racist white folks, who have already decided not to see you, that their assessment of you is a mistake, then you are showing them that whiteness is your god.
Father god, give us the wisdom to stop exhausting ourselves by trying to prove we are qualified, innocent, beautiful, intelligent, moral, that we belong, that we worked for what we have, that our children are not dangerous, that we aren’t ‘playing the race card,’ that we aren’t angry, that some racist shit actually happened. Help us to finally except that racism is not a misunderstanding that can be cleared up.
Oh heavenly father, deliver our sista and the rest of us from the spirit and exhausting ministry of *“But I’m one of the good Black people.” *** **Release all of us from the bondage of believing that white folks are supposed to recognize our goodness before they recognize our humanity and grant us equal treatment under the law.
Lord, we ask that you remove the white gaze from the throne of our sista’s self-worth, as well as the rest of us. Lord, we know that whiteness is not god and white validation not salvation. Having a real estate license does not come with the authority to determine the value of a Black soul.
Father, we thank you for the lessons of Black liberation theology which doesn’t just remind Black folks that god loves even when white racists don’t. You have taught us to question why white recognition remains important enough to wound our understanding of ourselves in the first damn place!
Lord, we ask that you replace our dear sista’s tears with righteous indignation. Give her excellent legal representation. And dear heavenly father, I ask that her desire to be understood be replaced with the blessed assurance that she ain’t got shit to prove to them people.
We ask you to deliver us from the spiritual confusion and stop standing before whiteness to pleading our case. Give us the strength to stop committing theft against our souls. To stop committing treason against the ancestors by exhausting ourselves. Help us to stop giving racists judicial authority over our humanity that they never possessed.
And father of Black Jesus, while we’re gathered here at the throne of grace, we ask that you let this sister win her lawsuit. Don’t just give her some little settlement that covers gas money, moving expenses, and a celebratory dinner at Hell’s Kitchen. We ask that you bless her and her fiancé with lots of square footage.
We know you work in mysterious ways, Lord. And if you can send the Virgin Mary’s son into the world to turn water into wine, surely you can turn a racist text message into a down payment on a four-bedroom, 3 and a half-bathroom colonial with hardwood floors, walk-in closets, a soaking tub, kitchen island, a finished basement, a two-car garage and enough backyard for a barbecue where nobody has to ask permission to be Black AF. Remind this couple that sometimes the blessing isn’t getting into the apartment the racists tried to keep you out of.
And finally, while we have you heavenly father, we ask that you bless this racist real estate agent’s career with an indefinite season of reflection, a thorough understanding of the Fair Housing Act, and whatever ruinous financial consequences the courts and the ancestors determine are appropriate.
And Lord, when that day comes and our dear sista finally gets the keys to her new home, let her stand on that front porch with her man, look toward the sky, and shout: “UGH! WE’RE BLACK! WON’T HE DO IT?!”
In the mighty name of Black liberation, emotional emancipation, favorable judgments, the Fair Housing Act, and thirty-year fixed mortgages, we pray.
And let the church say Amen, Amen, and Amen.
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