Bringing the Revolution Home for urban faithOur spiritual restlessness is often a precursor to something big God wants to do in the world — and in us.

For about two or three years now, I’ve felt a pervasive sense of dis-ease. Discomfort. Discontent.

It took me awhile to put my finger on the source of this seemingly vague malaise. But over time, the reason for my unrest has become more clear, like when you go to the optometrist and she keeps changing the strength of the vision lenses until you can see clearly in both eyes. My problem came into sharp relief — I’m tired of the status quo and business as usual.

But I’m not just tired; I’m fired up and itching for revolution.

I’m tired of going to church Sunday after Sunday and following the scripted service that’s been laid out for us. Three songs, welcome to visitors, offering, song, sermon, altar call, missionary offering, benediction.


I’m fed up with people who are supposed to be in leadership positions misusing their authority, or deceiving congregations, citizens, or employees about what they’re doing and why — what one of my former pastors calls “holding the truth in unrighteousness.”

The people of the kingdom of God were getting on my nerves, being timid with the truth, excusing or intellectualizing wrongdoing, but then doing nothing to draw people to the One who can heal their souls and empower them to live a new life.

Makes me wanna holla.

And yes, I’m sick of color and race being used as a cloak to cover and a dagger to wound. Enough already.

And maybe most of all, I’m weary of all of this madness coming home to roost in our hearts, our families, and our communities. It’s taking an incalculable toll on our young men and women who are desperately trying to find their way and make sense of what’s going on around them. Anyone who works with youth and young adults knows that their noisy bravado is nothing more than a thin shellac veneer over their souls in a last-ditch attempt to protect them from the harsh realities of their existence. Our men are angry and distant. Our women are tired and depressed.

Last weekend, I think I heard an echo of the uprising that’s been percolating in my own mind and heart. While conducting a workshop session for Black college women, we were talking about the fact that the design of our bodies tells us something about our Creator. For example, how He intends for us to use them.

We also discussed what happens when we violate this intent. Disease, illness, and relational alienation occur. One of the participants asked why no one else was telling women this information. Heads nodded in agreement. She became angry that Black sororities, churches, politicians, and celebrities are not speaking the truth about critical issues. Her conclusion was this: “I think you should go everywhere talking about this type of information. We need to know this stuff. If you start telling us the truth about our bodies and our sexuality, it will start a revolution.”

That’s what I’m talking about.

Apparently the revolution I’m longing for is beginning, and it’s starting to hit home. I hear my restless brothers and sisters saying, “Bring it.” I say to them: Rest assured. It’s on.

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