Week 4: Sunday Service Announcements
Let the Church say Amen!
Black people, come on into this house of the Lord and give God some praise!
I want you to stand on your feet right now, lift your hands, and tell the Lord “Thank You” for getting you through another week being Black in this messed up country.
This week I’d like to introduce our new Head Usher Sister
who told us in Black Reads about all the Black-ass jobs that no one can take away from us. So I figured it was only right to give her Head Usher of the Usher Board because she said it best, “to be clear, white churches probably have ushers, but there’s no hierarchy in their usher system the way there is in Black churches.”Before we pass the collection plate around I have something to say.
A quick shoutout to everyone who joined us for our first Writers Circle this past Sunday. It was a beautiful experience with Sister
providing a libation ceremony for our ancestors and the healing in the space as we fellowshipped together. Next month we will focus on more intentional writing time during Writers Circle and follow up with a virtual Open Mic to allow us to share our pieces without taking away from writing time.We need to decide on a day that we can all meet. Sister
and Sister voiced their need for another day to meet and I am sure there are many more. So this week’s poll will decide what day we can host a monthly Open Mic in addition to our First Sundays Writers Circle.Message from Mother if you missed the chat this week:
Good Morning Good People,
I have a request to make. May I please have your listening ears?
This morning I woke up to more likes and restacks than I've seen in quite some time. I do believe that's thanks to our Creators of BlackStack along with Black Reads.
Can I get an amen?
I can't hear you in the back! AMEN?!
Community is a wonderful thing. It has made all the difference in keeping me writing almost every day. I belong to several collectives and writing communities.
As a thank you for being a part of the beginning of this community, we should bless BlackStack with a paid subscription. I can see how much work it must be taking to get these newsletters out, in addition to private publications.
If it's within your means, please consider becoming a paid Subscriber.
She ain't charging enough to be an annual subscriber, but as time goes on, I'm sure the value of this community will go up.
Get in on the "black people discount" our sister is offering us right now.
Let's grow this community together for the benefit of us all.
Amen?!
Amen!
everything black women say is scripture.
Good morning, saints and sinners!
I came here today to do two things:
Remind every Black woman within the reach of my keystroke exactly who the fuck she is. (spoiler: the answer is everything. she is everything.)
Announce and reflect on a truth rarely proclaimed: everything Black women say is scripture.
As with all sermons, we ‘gon ground this in some text:
“the shadow obscuring this complex Black woman’s intellectual tradition is neither accidental nor benign. Suppressing the knowledge produced by any oppressed group makes it easier for dominant groups to rule because the seeming absence of dissent suggests that subordinate groups willingly collaborate in their own victimization.” (Patricia Hills Collins , 2000)1
“a people do not throw their geniuses away…if they are thrown away, it is our duty as artists, scholars, and witnesses for the future to collect them again for the sake of the children,…if necessary, bone by bone.” (Alice walker, 1983).2
I’m talking directly to Black women right now. All of us3. Because I know we are tired. I know we saw all this shit coming. I know we been working twice as hard, for twice as long, on twice as many things. We getting degrees, we getting therapy, we starting businesses. We are keeping our balance, and still raising our families, and starting movements. And “they”4 are reducing our rights, enacting multiple genocides, and starting fucking podcasts. It’s always “Listen to Black women” when the truth comes out, but never when we bring up that truth in the first place.
And yet, everything Black women say is scripture.
First, Patricia Hill Collins reminds us that Black women have a longstanding tradition of intellectual pursuit. We been about this life. One of the first women to talk her shit period was Maria Stewart. She addressed the masses when women of all races were not allowed to do so. And what did Maria use her voice to do? Call out to her sisters. To speak truth to power. Black women have always possessed this intellect. We have always found ways to share and preserve that intellect for other women and future generations to uncover and build upon. However, it's crucial to understand that 'intellectual' here is not confined to the walls of academia. Intellect flourishes in our communities, our oral histories, our art, and our activism.
Then Collins reminds us that we have been intentionally silenced. If suppressing our knowledge aids in our oppression, and makes us seem collaborators in our own victimization, then it is liberation and revolution to speak our truth.
So when I tell you “everything Black women say is scripture” I’m saying there is nothing “not enough” about you. I’m saying everything you ever felt it on your heart to say, to preserve, to turn into art, is SACRED as fuck, okay?
And how do I know? Because Alice Walker said our ancestors' genius is embedded in the very fabric of our existence. If it has been discarded or overlooked, it is our sacred duty to reclaim and preserve it. “…if necessary,…bone by bone.” See also Malcolm X’s creed “by any means necessary.” 5
That means look inside.
That means the answer is in your marrow.
That means don’t let them break no more of your precious bones.
We owe it to ourselves, and future generations to gather these pieces, no matter how fragmented, and restore them to their rightful place.
Because everything Black women say is scripture.
When I say "scripture" I mean our experiences and truths serve as valuable guides for navigating life. I’m saying everything you remember about your granny and her momma, and everything that ever happened to you, Black woman, embodies a deep well of wisdom. These experiences connect us to our ancestors, our foremothers and our contemporaries, and our sisters yet to be, becoming part of a historical record and testament to the strength and resilience of Black women across generations.
Do not answer them when they call you mammy. Or Jezebel. Or welfare-queen. Or even imply it.
Do not believe them when they say your concern isn’t valid. Or it didn’t happen how you thought.
Do not swallow the lie that you are not enough, right now, as you are, just because you want more for yourself. Neither swallow the lie that you have to want less. Your dreams are scripture too.
Black women have always been at the forefront of intellectual and cultural movements. Our contributions are vast and varied, transcending conventional boundaries. We break ceilings. and records. and silences. We are the keepers of wisdom, the tellers of truths, the creators of change. We built this shit too. It is time we recognize and celebrate this in its entirety.
So. Talk yo shit, sib. Cus every word, every creation, and every truth you share is scripture. Let the church say Amen!
Love y’all. Mean it. If you love me back, Buy Me A Book!
-B
jesus walks
Good mornin’ Brothers & Sistas, I’m glad we woke up this mornin’.
Can I get an Amen?
They say come as you are right?
Well Imma keep it a bean…I almost didn’t make it to service this morning just off the strength that my head ain’t right.
But since we all made it…God, I have a question for you.
Am I not praying right?
Because apparently there are a million very specific ways that I need to come to you. I need to fast for 40 days and 40 nights, I need to live inside the Bible, I need to memorize the damn Bible (my bad, I’m just coming as I am), I need to move a certain way, I need to treat people a certain way, I need to have you present in all that I do, I need to have some sort of steadfast, bulletproof faith in you. All these things…all these rules…
I got MFs on TikTok tellin’ me that I need a black pen and a red pen, so when I address you in my journal, I need to use the red pen to write what I hear you say. Yo WHAT? See what I’m sayin’? Who TF made that up? Too many MF rules.
I speak to you throughout the day on most days. I pray to you every time I set foot outside the door. I ask you to cover me to and from my destinations, as well as my family friends and loved ones. I ask you to remind me that my time is coming and that it’s important to have room for, and cheer for other people’s wins because they won’t take away from mine, however long they may take. I speak to you when I’m in the shower - I sit there and I cry with the expectation that when I can’t find the words through my tears, you know exactly what the tears mean…what they are for. I sit in that tub for hours because it’s the place I feel the most safe with you. My “special place.” Sure, I know you are with me always (at least that’s what I try to convince myself), even when I don’t feel you, see you, or hear you…but still.
I have bouts of anxiety at night when I want to talk to you before I go to sleep. Am I supposed to get on my knees with prayer hands? Like, is that the rule? I don’t want to do that because my knees hurt. Am I supposed to sacrifice my comfort to talk to you? I don’t wanna do that because it feels performative to me. I feel better laying down and talking to you until I fall asleep. Is that what I’m doing wrong? Is that why I’m stuck in the upside down?
Is that why the Fallen One is in my ear every day?
There was only one time that I remember when I heard your voice clearly. It wasn’t booming…it was just clear. It scared me. I stood still in my bedroom that night for what seemed like forever processing what I’d just experienced…processing you. I remember the blanket of calm that I’d felt at that time and it stayed with me for a while. You couldn’t tell me shit because I’d FINALLY felt like your child, like you finally listened to me…or had heard me…or truly seen me.
I feel like I’ve been chasing that feeling…and you…since.
I guess what I’m tryna say is that I’m struggling, I’m confused, I’m feeling so alone in this, on this journey. I’m trying so hard to be what I think you want me to be, or what I’m feeling like I should be, and I’m feeling like I’m falling short in every way.
I hear you but…how long tho?
I’m about to be waist deep in the grave waiting on your timing. I’m just sayin. Don’t judge me, it’s just how I’ve been feeling these days. I’m stressed out, losing hope, my faith is hanging by a thread and I honestly can’t keep saying “without the tests, there will be no testimony.” I don’t have any more losses to give for a win.
All I’m asking is this:
God if you could renew my heart, renew my faith, and renew my joy…I think that would be an amazing start. I will continue to try my best to hear you in all things but maybe…just maybe…you can speak a little louder.
In Jesus’ name, Amen.
And to the Congregation:
Thank you for holding space for me. I love you.
km.
Did You Forget About Me?
Ayibobo… Ase… and Amen…
As a woman of a particular age, I feel very behind in life. Sometimes I feel like God has forgotten about me and my family. It seems like all my peers are thriving and I’m standing still. My intuition is telling me that some generational issues are at play here because I’ve had a toxic relationship with money, and that toxicity needs healing once and for all.
As I understand it, I come from a long line of hard-working talented Haitian women, who had dreams of entrepreneurship and being able to fully express themselves with no restriction, but didn’t quite get it right… hardships, mistakes, and missed opportunities prevailed… generation after generation.
Have you ever felt forgotten? Like your prayers have continuously gone unanswered no matter what you do, how hard you work, or how many times you pivot?
When it comes to abundance, opportunities, and financial blessings, it seems like everything is a struggle to attain. My seeds just don’t seem to grow.
I have the gift of healing so why is everything that I initiate stagnant? I’m not looking to skate through my journey or overnight success, but I have been creating for years. I’ve written two books and started a healing business, where I did readings, Reiki, and sound healing, I discovered my love for creating art, put in the work and practice, and now offer my art for sale and art print membership, and yet nothing grows.
I am not going to lie, I’ve had wins (little ones) but nothing substantial.
God, did you forget about me? What can I do differently?
I sit in meditation waiting to hear from you. Although I’m having a tough time hearing you, I know that you’re around because everywhere I go, I find a feather.
The angel numbers are everywhere, the synchronicities, and the dream visions but when I take action, I don’t receive assurance that I’m on the right path.
It’s confusing and extremely hard to remain positive in the storm of hardship; being an unemployed creator is very difficult. It can either inspire or create a block. I teeter between both sides.
I will not give up though. I will continue to march down this path that YOU have created for me. The truth is… I love all the various parts of me. I love how you made me, despite the extensive financial hardships, I do know that I am blessed in many ways. I’m a mother of three incredibly beautiful daughters. I’m in awe of them, they make me proud. I have a husband who is my friend and supportive, and I’m extremely passionate about my art and my renewed writing inspiration on Substack. I will keep creating no matter what. I don’t know anything else.
I am so ready to heal this money wound, move past this hardship chapter of my life, and move into prosperity and ease.
Let the church say… Ayibobo… Ase… and Amen…
Martine
reflections from home.
My grandmother has been visiting me in my dreams a lot lately.
I have been longing for her presence - missing her hugs, her voice, the hum of the fan with the heat on too high, and her home-cooked meals. She passed when I was 18 years old. I was hurt, but I didn’t understand how much I lost when she left.
She was our Big Mama.
Big Mama: the matriarch, the keeper of traditions, source of wisdom, guidance, and emotional support to multiple generations. The epitome of unconditional love and a unifying force and stability for the family core.
In reflection, I realize that when she died, my sense of “home” died as well.
I was no longer interested in traditions, I lost my desire to bake (which was one of my favorite things to do with her), and I lost my mother figure. My relationship with my mother has always been one that was thinner than the finest thread, and yet for 30+ years, I tried to walk the line and maintain the tightrope in hopes that there would be a shift and the essence of Big Mama would materialize in her in some way.
…but that’s impossible and even unrealistic, as I can’t make her be someone she’s not meant to be.
Our relationship (my mother and I) was not severed because she couldn’t be Big Mama… it was severed because she couldn’t maintain healthy boundaries. My grandmother kept her balanced - pulled her back when she turned to a bottle for her demons and knew how to speak to her wounded inner child… but also kept her secrets.
…and so, while I miss my grandmother, there have been moments when I found myself resentful because, essentially, I grieve the loss of two mothers.
When I received my grandmother's last message, I found myself waking up in tears. There weren’t too many words, just a long embrace that I felt in my core. It was warm, and she was humming “You Are So Beautiful” in my ear.
It felt like home.
In healing, we can lose sight of home (crazy, right?). Too hyperfocused on breaking down generational curses and losing our ability to have grace in the process.
Our ancestors were not perfect people - and neither are we. They provided us with examples of strength despite their internal battles and carried the weight of the world on their shoulders - somehow finding the space to make a home out of the bare minimum in hopes that we would have the opportunity to simply be better.
Your home is not just a physical place. It’s a sacred, a sanctuary where the spirit finds reset, rejuvenation, and connection. It’s the space where our ancestors provide wisdom, and our dreams become the source of our wisdom.
Family is cultivated here.
Patience is cultivated here.
Creativity is cultivated here.
Healing is cultivated here.
Love will always live here.
Home is how we protect our peace, honor our roots, and nurture our growth with the understanding that our growth continues throughout our lineage.
Home is the place where our inner world combines with our spiritual journey and a testament of how our ancestors love and resilience helped shape us into who we are.
While our definition is subject to change, our core and why are rooted in our history. When we stray too far from home, we lose ourselves and become lost in the shoulda, coulda, woulda of a destiny that wasn’t ours to begin with.
I encourage you to take the time to listen to that nagging feeling, that gut feeling telling you it’s time to go back home because you’ve veered off the path. You’ve tried doing things your own way, and now, perhaps, it’s time to go back to the beginning.
Return to the roots that ground you. In their wisdom lies a roadmap to recalibrate and rediscover the values that sustain you.
It’s time to find your way back home.
pray to the Black woman for she is the Universe.
Pray to the Black woman, worship the Black woman, honor the Black woman.
Black women are walking art masterpieces.
How dare you raise your hand to harm the Black woman who carried your seed?
And have the nerve to call us angry!
I once had a baby with a man who thought God was a Black woman, but he also dragged me down three flights of concrete steps when his ego was triggered. He is an intelligent man but emotionally he is stupid. I never let him harm me without a fight when he would use his hands to shut me up when I proved to be more intelligent than him. And I never let my daughter see him hit me, just like my mama took her ass beatings in private. I learned from her how to fight for my life in silence. I recognized my strength in those moments of realizing this Black man was going to kill me. It wasn’t just him either, but he was the last one.
I only took the abuse for a few months before I got a job, and an apartment, and moved me and my baby into a one-bedroom apartment. He still had control over me for years, but I broke free as I healed my wounds. I am a Black woman it is in my blood’s DNA to nurture myself back to life just enough so my baby girl doesn’t realize her mama is broken. I need my little Black girl to remain innocent for as long as she can, be free, be happy, fill rooms with joy even if it makes others uncomfortable, be you and authentically you, don’t let them dim you as they did me.
They told me my dark, cocoa-colored skin was unattractive and that their white pasty skin was considered the standard of beauty. Black women began tearing each other down just because one may be darker than a brown paper bag therefore she is not enough. They said our full lips were undesirable but created Botox to give their narrow-ass lips a plump definition. They tried to become us because their men kept raping us. Their men were secretly gay and most attracted to our men because they raped them too. They attempted to become us and take our men but only the weak ones fell for it. Oops, that slipped.
As Black women we smile, but when you hear our stories it’s hard to understand how we still do. We still smile because we have conditioned ourselves to smile through the pain. The more we admit we are tired that smile starts to fade away.
“Smile, you too pretty to be frowning.”
Nigga shut the fuck up! I’m not frowning I’m in deep thought, or maybe I’m wearing my resting bitch face to keep niggas like you from talking to me.
I want to say it’s a safe world for Black women but it’s not. And I never want to tear down the Black man but I need the Black man to pull his weight. Within the culture, at home, in general. We know this system is designed to lock you away and throw away the key so why fall in the hands of this system? Do you not know how to play the game yet? Have you not learned from us?
And this isn’t about all Black men, but those questions are to the ones that broke the soul of a Black woman. You know her, you remember her name, and you know you cannot play with her heart anymore, so you try to make sure she never forgets you no matter how she remembers you. I fell victim to one of these Black men, a fatherless and motherless Black boy who grew into a culturally-raised nigga. I pray those Black men learn to appreciate the presence of a Black woman.
I pray the world wakes up and realizes Black women are the standard of beauty and have always been. I pray that the men who harmed us repent and understand that they are bowing down before the feet of a Black woman when they do.
Black woman, look in that mirror and tell yourself how beautiful you are, and tell yourself how proud of yourself you are for how far you have come. You line your full lips with your chestnut brown lip liner and press them against one another to blend the perfect ombré shade with your clear lipgloss.
You speak words of affirmation into yourself because if you don’t, who will? Every Saturday you do this before you get a coffee from a cute coffee shop with a vibe to compliment the aesthetic to take some photos, not for social media but more for you. Then you buy yourself flowers, sometimes from the farmers market to live that ‘soft girl’ lifestyle, but often it’s from the grocery store so you can creatively make your own arrangement.
I am married now to a Black woman and through our marriage we are finding that we still need to meet our own needs first. She loves to cater to my needs but some of my needs require the standard of care that I cultivated and I can’t settle for anything other than my standard. Same for her. This is why I say who else will. Not because you are not worthy of someone doing it for you, but because you appreciate it the most when you do it for yourself first. Your spouse can buy you flowers each week, but when you pick your own and spend the time and care arranging them to your liking and watch them open up and thrive; that’s a feeling that can’t be replaced.
As Black women, we need to romanticize our lives.
We desire to live a life that we create. We are the Creators of life. We carry life in our bodies for nine months. We birth life through our vaginas as if we are the portal between Heaven and Earth. Our breasts produce the milk that feeds the babies we birthed.
We have a lot to be mad about.
They got the world believing that the Creator is everything other than who she is, the Black woman.
Prayer Hotline
As we prepare for the week ahead I pray you allow yourself the opportunity to rest today. Don’t do more than what you have to. Just for today allow minimum effort from you to be enough.
I pray you find money on the ground at your feet.
I pray blessings race to you competing with each other to impress you.
I pray the sun kisses your melanin skin hitting all your perfect angles.
I pray for your peace.
I pray for your happiness.
I pray that you find your way back home to yourself.
I pray you speak your truth.
I pray you take up space.
I pray you show up in the world unapologetically.
I pray you experience ease.
I pray you recognize how far you have come.
I pray you heal from your trauma.
I pray you no longer feel haunted by your past.
I pray you learn to love yourself.
I pray you forgive yourself.
I pray for you because you are my family and I love you!
You need to read Black Feminist Thought. Just take my word for it, and just go get the book.
In Search of Our Mother’s Garden’s is a seminal womanism text. It is where the word ‘womanism’ is first defined, and you might as well just add it to your cart since you buying books now.
Meaning: she her and they them. those who consider themselves religious and those who consider themselves spiritual as well as the totally unbothered. the academics and the street smart. disabled. chronically pained. able bodied. neurodivergent. queer. kinky. vanilla. i mean every single non man who is also Black.
Meaning: not Black women.
See also Proverbs 31 "She is clothed with strength and dignity; she can laugh at the days to come. She speaks with wisdom, and faithful instruction is on her tongue."
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This is my fave Sunday Service to date💜
“But since we all made it…God, I have a question for you.
Am I not praying right?”
Whew I got chills. Everyone came to SERVE this morning.