Something in me broke when I marched at Ferguson in August, and I’m still trying to figure out what, exactly.
Right after that was when I started getting into New Age practices. Tarot, crystals, dream interpretation – spirituality that I previously found foolish. If a rock could somehow stop the nightmares and let me get some sleep, I’ll take the fucking rock, thanks.
Because the religion of my youth had nothing to offer at that point in my life.
All the books and the classes and the leaders and the sermons and the small groups and the conferences and the retreats and the accountability partners and the mentors and the four years of Baptist college never, never once addressed the old, deep, festering wound of systemic racism. Never addressed the pain I encountered that day.
(I guess the collective evangelical was too busy telling me to cover up my breasts to talk about how to heal this spiritual sickness that has roosted comfortably in our homes, our churches, our government, our hearts.)
So yeah, I know, the crystals are stupid. But not nearly as stupid as continuing to hope for Kingdom Come in the face of the white apathy I encountered from so many friends and family when I got back from Ferguson. Or believing that their God – my God – is loving, for that matter.
I’m working my way back up, ok?