The Black church mirrored the Black home as a subversive space that allowed Black people to operate with dignity amidst the reign of white supremacy. It gave us the freedom to be Blackish in our distinct ways. It gave us opportunities to exercise and honor being Black beyond skin color. It cultivated, fostered, and nurtured being Black as a people, a culture, and a religion. On any Sunday morning at Bethlehem Baptist Church, the parking lot was littered with freshly washed cars with white wall tires, gleaming hub caps, and leather seats. Yet, you would also see families stepping out of the “church van” that picked up members who couldn’t afford a car or were elderly. I rode the church van, and it was awesome. This was long before the days of Uber or Lyft. Back then, you’d offer a neighbor “gas money” to “ride” you to the store or church. Yet, the church van or bus was an innovation that leveled the Black community’s playing field.

You may not have had the means to go many places, but you could always get a ride to church. You could always get access to the community. Back then, congregations listened to and acted upon their members’ present and physical needs. Even in the parking lot, there was common ground and solidarity in being members of this community, but it didn’t stop there. At Bethlehem, like most black churches, we carried on a tradition from slavery and dressed up on Sundays—our Sunday’s best. The men dressed, without stylists, in a manner that would rival any high-end fashion editorial. There were three-piece, double-breasted, and pinstriped suits adorned with fine ties anchored by elegant tie pins, decorative pocket squares, and expensive-looking watches and rings. But, the show stoppers were always the shoes. They were made from various animal skins and shined to perfection. And the women... The women exiting automobiles radiated the full spectrum of colors in couture dresses and suits (some homemade) that looked like they had been styled by Andre Leon Talley or for an Ebony Fashion Show. From dresses to hats to shoes and the essential coordinated handbag, this was a level of fashion only rivaled by the men and women on the streets of West Africa.

Yes, we were financially poor. Yes, we lived in a racially divided town, but we dressed because we were seen in the Black church. We were seen as human beings. In the Black church, we were men and women. We were some-bodies in a world that saw us as nobodies. In the Black church, we were Mr. and Mrs. so and so, and Brother and Sister so and so, instead of “boy” and “gal.” We were the distinguished familial community at which the Apostle Paul would have marveled. And we gladly brought our dignified selves to church on Sundays.

Walking through the doors into Bethlehem’s pristine vestibule with its meticulously cleaned floors, gilded mirror, and portraits of former ministers who had served the congregation, you felt like you had arrived somewhere important. The Black church was likely the only public building in town where multiple images of Black men and Black families hung on the walls with such regalia. It was a mini-museum honoring the church’s history and the people who had served it. And, right beyond the vestibule was the sanctuary. It was a sacred space. It was the place where the community came together to worship.

“Aunt” Bettye Jo Mondy (who had earned aunt’s title as a sign of respect, not by birth relation) would strike up a song on the piano. The other musicians would join her. The doors to the sanctuary would open, and there was the choir. They looked militantly majestic in their matching choir robes that also matched the color of the red pews. The congregation would stand to receive the choir in anticipatory excitement as they “marched” into the service. Choir robes swaying, hands clapping, strutting down the center aisle in lockstep with all the pomp and circumstance of a coronation ceremony, and eventually arriving in the choir stand and facing sideways until the last choir member joined them. Then, like in a scene from a movie, the choir director raised their hand, flicked their wrist, and the entire choir turned forward like soldiers. Rocking in unison, the energized sound of the choir let loose and bathed the congregation in a glorious sound.

When we all get to heaven

What a day of rejoicing that will be.

When we all see Jesus

We’ll sing and shout the victory.

And just like that, the congregation was lifted up and away from the racist and oppressive reality of this small town in Texas.

Even as a kid, the full service commanded my engagement. I studied what the adults were doing. I listened to the announcement clerk tell us about upcoming events and meetings involving the church. I carefully observed the deacons as they led “devotion.” I visually recorded every move the choir director made. I watched the ushers serve with the uniform precision you’d expect from a color guard. And to the surprise of most, I listened to the minister’s sermons, and I could imitate either one of these roles on command. I wasn’t the only one. Every “young person” paid attention to at least one detail because we would be replicating these duties on “Youth Sunday”—the Sunday when the youth serve as the choir, ushers, and lead services.

Every part of the service was transcendent, even the offering. And although we didn’t have much money, we gave. My mom made sure we had something to put into the offering plate. As a kid, I remember everyone being so cheerful during the offering. I equated this to seeing the fruits of our giving reflected in the church’s activities. Back then, the Black church met needs. If you had a death in the family, you could go to the church for financial assistance. You could go to the church for relief if you needed help with a bill, counseling, or had a financial crisis. It was the heart of our communities because this one institution filled the gaps and met the needs of underserved and neglected people—Black people.

When I was nine, my mom married my step-father, and we moved far from our church home. We moved a whopping five-hour drive away from Greenville. We searched for a new church home to no avail. I remember my mom and siblings saying, “It just doesn’t feel like home.” My oldest sister still compares every church we visit to Bethlehem Baptist. I, too, find myself wanting to relive some of those magical services, choir rehearsals, vacation Bible schools, and youth sleepovers at the church.

When we moved, my entire life changed because the only community I had ever known was taken away. Historically, we are a tribal people. We live, thrive, and exist as the highest expressions of ourselves in the community. It’s not just the older generations. On the contrary, now more than ever, young people are trying to find their tribe. This isn’t limited to people who look like you. This isn’t an organization like a fraternity or sorority. Tribes are the people whose energy and vibrations co-exist harmoniously with ours. Sometimes, you will hear tribes referred to as “chosen family.” Tribes are the communities that are chosen families, and that can fill the gaps or voids left by our traditional families.

The Black church used to fill the deep voids that currently exist in Black communities. It didn’t matter if banks wouldn’t lend to us; the Black church filled the gap. It didn’t matter if parents didn’t have the financial resources for summer camps. The Black church (in fact, several churches) coordinated their vacation Bible schools to maximize participation. It didn’t matter that we were silenced by white supremacy. The Black Church provided a place to lament. We could cry, scream, and moan in the Black church. It didn’t matter what type of education I received in public school because the Black church taught me to be a public speaker, have a presence, and define myself in God. It didn’t matter the need because somewhere in the Black church, there was a willing soul with exactly what you needed and was glad to give.

I have been enraptured with music for as long as I remember. I want to be precise. I wasn’t simply in love with the radio and the music they played. When I heard music of all kinds, my brain went into overdrive. My pulse quickened, and my full body reacted. Nothing and no one has ever commanded my attention like music, especially live music.

I remember being in kindergarten and going to the (we only had one) high school on a field trip. The Dallas Symphony would come and give a concert for all schools. My class was seated at the top of the gymnasium, and I had a bird’s-eye view of the orchestra. I didn’t know all the instruments or what to expect, but I was happy to be on a field trip.

Until then, the only live music I experienced was in church, and I was somewhat fascinated by the piano. So, I had a general idea of what live music was like. Yet, I was astounded when the conductor raised his baton, and the orchestra played its first piece. The massive sound that could rise and fall in a split second, The levels of emotions, the different colors, and the vibration of the floors and seats all made me feel like I was on a rollercoaster. I remember looking around, and my other classmates were asleep. I didn’t care. I was having an experience like no other, and I vowed to learn about all of this. So, when I got home, I grabbed our encyclopedia, turned to the orchestra, and studied the illustrations of all the instruments until I had memorized them. I was enthralled.

I started using our family’s coffee table as an imaginary piano. I would bang on it and makeup songs. My mom started taking me to the adult choir rehearsal to observe, and I watched the musicians closely. Aunt Bettye Jo took notice and would invite me to the keys after rehearsals; she must have seen the joy on my face and asked if I wanted to learn to play the piano. I nodded and said yes. She smiled and affirmed me. Some weeks later, she approached my mom and said she’d be willing to be my instructor but stressed that I would need a piano at home to practice. We could not afford it at all. Yet, that did not stop Aunt Bettye Jo from volunteering to babysit me in her home so that I could learn a few basics.

That was the kind of “church people” I grew up with. That was the kind of tribe willing to fill in the gaps. That was my image of the Black church. It was a shining example of faith, love, and service to the black community and the greater world community. It wasn’t submissive; it was subversive. It was a family, but like all families, it had dysfunctions.

Like any family and many Christian churches, the Black church can and has helped us define who we could be, but it falters at teaching us to accept and embrace our divine selves. With a heavy emphasis on the sinful and unworthy nature of its community, the Black people living with the trauma of generational oppression, the Black church has ministered self-loathing to people who are suffering. No, the Black church nor any church is perfect. Humans are flawed, and the church consists of and is operated by humans. Yet, when I speak of the Black church, I am talking about an oppressed people who learned, preached, and often passed down a curated gospel from their oppressors while simultaneously trying to locate ourselves within God’s kingdom through the lens of an oral gospel. We have, for centuries, been playing a version of the child’s game “telephone.” The difference is that we were given corrupted messages long before we started playing the game.

This struggle is not foreign to us. Today, many people live the majority of their lives online. Get good news, and you must share it on social media. If someone dies or if tragedy strikes, transfer it to social media. Share it on social media if you are single, fall in love, or have your heart broken. It has become such a part of the culture that if you pour a glass of wine or have a cup of coffee, it must be shared on social media. For many, the fantasy life of social media has become the lens through which we view reality. This has given birth to an amendment to our social contract that is often mused: “If it wasn’t posted online, it didn’t happen.” This fertile ground we water gives birth to misinformation campaigns and fake news. How do you chase a lie once it has gone viral? How do you correct a corrupt gospel once it has gone global?

The colonized Black church’s desire to be seen as respectable and dignified has confined a once wildly liberating church experience into one that is curated and traditional. Growing up on the church pew, it was common to hear, “It’s time out for playing church.” Yet, that is what we often do. We go through the motions of a simulated church experience. It looks like a church and sounds like a church, but it’s devoid of divine communion that leads to change. It’s not that we do not desire to be changed. On the contrary, we show up to the same place at the same time and do the same things (traditions) each week, earnestly desiring to be transformed or changed by God. Why else would we voluntarily spend two or more hours in less-than-optimal conditions each week? It is because we truly believe that if we wade in the water long enough, God is going to trouble the water we are in.

So, we come again and again in the same ways and recite the same words, looking for a God to perform as He did centuries ago. Like the current generation, we seek real life through our habitual virtual experiences. We are looking for God—love, belonging, and connection—in all the virtual spaces, but to borrow from Matthew 28:6, “He is not here; He has arisen.” The changemaker is on the move.