Sanctified Yogi — A God of My Own
By: Mike Sales
Tags: Christianity, Yoga, African American, White Privilege, Religion And Spirituality

But our lessons are hard. Campus is like the Black Coliseum, where you compete, argue and debate against the best and brightest every day. Along the way, all of your ignorance is exposed and old ideas and assumptions get swept away. In a single class, Black women dropped bombs on my whole worldview. First they say:

You can be an oppressed Black man AND a part of the patriarchal system that keeps Black women down!

And I’m like:

WHAAATTT?!

Then they say:

Oh, yes! They went on. And you can be as progressive as you wanna be and still be homophobic.

BUT HOWWWW?!?

My African classmates tell me, “No, we have never lived in the jungle! And even if we did, we are still better students than you lazy Americans!”

My Black Muslim and Five Percenter classmates ask “How y’all brothers still reading The White Man’s Bible? You know Christianity didn’t start in Europe, right?”

Anybody from New York, New Jersey and Philly

“Y’all country!”

The rest of us:

“Fuck y’all! The South got something to say!”

It’s wild! But you thrive in this culture of competitive intellectualism and when you finally grab that diploma, you are iron sharpened by iron, Black Excellence in The Flesh and ready to claim the Good Life you deserve:

You marry a beautiful sorority sister from a well to do family.

You make “good money” at a world class, multinational business with incredible benefits and you work with people from all over the world.

You develop a sophisticated, urbane worldview, mixed with black nationalism, progressivism, corporatism, hip hop and Jesus. I register independent but vote liberal. I attend foreign film festivals and eat fancy shit like figs and prosciutto.

Put me in any room — black or white, suburban or urban, academic or thug — and I’m good.

But it’s not enough.

You thought your first home, a hundred year old rowhouse with modern amenities, was a good purchase. You thought your historic neighborhood, centrally located in the middle of a world class city, was a great location. But to the real estate market? You bought in a ‘bad’ area, filled with ungentrified Black folks who had the audacity to stay in the homes they grew up in. And so you slowly begin to understand that to live with your own people means losing wealth and guarantees your family will never have quality services or education. Black lives actually do matter — but only because in America, a Black life is a ‘dangerous threat’ and White folks don’t bring their money anywhere near it. Even if it is fancy and sophisticated like you.

And so you realize — Black Excellence cannot erase White Fear because it cannot erase Black skin. Was it that same fear that made them burn down Sister So and So’s house? That makes banks devalue your home? That empowers police to use lethal force, including murder, to eliminate us and soothe that fear?

You hear a terrible voice down in the secret places only you know. No matter what you do, it says they will still kill you. Speak well. Dress nice. Be respectable. Nobody cares. The path you took from Howard has brought you to a dead end. Came 700 miles all the way to DC and guess what? You’re still trapped just like The Old Folks!

So how will you ever find peace?

A Black person who cannot answer that question is a soldier trapped in a war-zone with no weapons. Your church mothers knew sooner or later, their naive son would lay up with that trifling bitch America and if you didn’t know the Lord she would take everything you had. Only now, as a young Black man in a far off city, do you appreciate what they tried to give you. And for that you love them even more.

But you can’t go back. If home had the answer, you would still be there. But you know one thing without a doubt — you cannot make it without God.

So you go looking in a new space.

You shop for new churches like you’re buying your first nice car with your first big paycheck. You look at every option. Pentecostals? Too wild, too weird. Suburban evangelicals? Too white, too conservative. You try non-denominational vineyard churches, gigantic mega churches, even tiny store fronts in the middle of nowhere. Nothing fit.

You move to Charlotte and you hear the Presbyterians are trying a new thing. You find this urban, multi-racial church filled with creative, liberal seekers like you. But more importantly, they have Black leadership. The preacher is Black, his wife is Black, the choir is Black and they saaanng. This spiritual food has just enough soul to satisfy my hunger and before long all manner of Black folks from every denomination and every social bracket pull up a seat at the table. In the segregated South, we have the audacity to worship like the book of Revelation, where “a vast multitude from every nation, tribe, people, and language” stand before the throne of God. The White folks outnumber Black folks three to one, but a lot of ’em love hip hop, Star Wars and Obama just like you. You think to yourself “maybe I can find my answer here.”

It’s never easy, this mishmash of Black worship and White doctrine. For Black folks, church is a celebration, for White folks, it’s an examination. We clap and dance. White folks chill. We love Moses the liberator, White folks love Paul the evangelizer. Imagine two people who are opposites get married. Now imagine the families of the bride and groom at the reception, trying as hard as they can to get along. That’s our church. But the vision of a multi racial community gathered around the throne of God keeps us together. We want to seeGod’s church “on Earth as it is in heaven.” Just like Jesus told us.

Then in Florida, Trayvon Martin is murdered steps from his own home and his killer never sees justice. When Barack Obama expresses sympathy, says Trayvon could be his son, many White folks are outraged. Polling shows 67% of White people believe he deserved to be shot and 51% thought his killer should be acquitted.

….in Missouri, Mike Brown is killed by police, who leave his body rotting in the street for hours.

…in New York, Eric Garner is still choked to death for selling cigarettes.

…in Texas, Sandra Bland is found hanged in a jail cell after a routine traffic stop and nobody explains why.

At some point, Black NFL quarterback Colin Kapernick begins to protest. Before every game, he takes a knee during the national anthem, his way of confronting police brutality. But our newly elected President, Donald Trump, calls him and the players that join him “son of a bitches.” Many White Christians agree and one pastor ripped up his Nike gear in counter protest. His congregation loved it and across the country, one thing becomes very clear — disrespecting a piece of cloth is more offensive than actual Black people suffering.

And the killing continues.

…in Minnesota, Philando Castille is murdered by police in front of his partner and 4- year-old child, despite having a permit for the firearm in his possession.

….In Baltimore, Freddie Gray was murdered by police.

And when Keith Lamont Scott is killed here in Charlotte, your multi ethnic, progressive church offers you no relief. Even here, many of my Jesus serving, Black culture loving brothers and sisters still voted for President Trump. So we reached out to others. We invite Black theologians like the sisters from Truth Table who speak comfort to our pain. Directly from the pulpit, they voice the anger, pain and frustration many of us feel being Black Christians in white spaces. We felt validated and supported and seen — especially the Black women in our church. We were energized and liberated by their unapologetic, pro-Black rhetoric but many of our White churchmates were upset and frustrated. For them, centering our needs threatened the unity of peace of the church and later we were encouraged to have “thoughtful group discussions” so that “both sides could explain their perspectives.” But who wants to chat with your abuser when you’ve been abused? Especially when justifying their behavior was more important than understanding how they hurt you in the first place.

You expected too much, you realize later. Believers imitate their God and the God of these White Presbyterians is not like mine. Back home, we sang “Jesus is on the main line, tell him what you want!” We had a two way relationship with God and even though he “might not come when you want, he was always right on time.” As Renita Weems once said, we could call on our God and She would come see about you, like a Good Mother.

Calling on The Presbyterian God was pointless. This God was a Sovereign King who could predetermine who suffered, who lived or who died and a Holy Judge who had no equal and therefore could not be questioned. If The Presbyterian God said it, it was right by default, so what was the point of arguing or crying or wailing? Your fate, Trayvon’s, Sandra Bland’s,George Floyd’s, Breonna Taylor’s? The Presbyterian God had already condemned them to die a racist death before they were born. No wonder we could not appeal to our White Christians friends. If their God could not be bothered to intervene, why should they?

Instead, they offered up the same gift they got from their Holy Father. The afterlife. The greatest gift this God can offer is escape from my troubles, VIP access to a shiny, gated community in heaven where there is no pain, no suffering, no lack. And the good news? they tell you. It’s FREE! Apparently, the bill was paid 2000 years ago, because this God had already preordained racial violence against another person of color. And his name, I am joyfully reminded, is Jesus. And you can go see him, too. After you die.

And now you truly see. Hell is not just some underground fire pit, where bad people burn forever. Hell is America killing people like me with state sanctioned violence and God killing people like me with theological violence. You are a lamb who can only join the heavenly country club if you die in the slaughterhouse. But who wants an invitation written in their own blood? And do you really wanna sip cocktails with the ones who printed it?

No.

You will never trust this God. You want The Old Folk’s God, the one who planted spiritual seeds that refreshed and nourished their hungry souls. Seeds that bore fruit like joy and peace, fruit that gave them the strength to face oppression with their head up and their back straight.

You will not stay in Egypt, you decide, worshipping a God who would let you starve. You will eat in your own Promised Land. You just need a map to find it.

Turns out, it was on my yoga mat the whole time.