by Brionne Janae

I have lived the better half of the last five years with shame. A shame I didn’t know how deeply I felt until I sat sobbing in a Pentecostal church, my head resting on the chest of a woman whose name I don’t know, and had never spoken to until just then. Yet there I was in her arms as she rocked and prayed for me. I had only once before spoken honestly of the state of my mind in church, though I have spent a good portion of my life there.

The first time I shared my burden, I got the typical give it to Jesus prayer. I’m sure many of us who struggle with depression in churches, especially black churches, have heard it. It’s the kind of prayer that turns my blood, makes me want to stand in the pulpit, and shout. Jesus gave this to me. Jesus handed me this weight and never asked if I wanted it. I didn’t choose this. Give it to Jesus? You might as well say walk away from yourself, or get over it, or if the fire is so damn hot why don’t you get out of the kitchen. Because my whole life is tied up in that kitchen. 
But this woman Sunday before last, didn’t pray one of those prayers. She was specific. She prayed for my body, that I would have the strength to get out of bed in the morning. She prayed that I would not stop believing in the sanctity of my mind, she prayed that I would not feel the need to kill myself. She prayed that I would not be ashamed.

I am ashamed of depression, but mostly I am ashamed of how often I have wanted to stop living, to cease existing, to get in bed and stay there. When I was 19, I fantasized about stepping in front of busses. It was my first time living away from home, first time living without a car, and walking everywhere and catching the bus. I was a student at the University of California, Berkeley, living for the first time with real space in my life for depression and anxiety to spill over into. I didn’t have to stress about my parents worrying about me, calling my gloom insolence, or using my angst as a mirror for their own. I started cutting, mostly as a means to cope with living. I knew if I decided to leave my body it wouldn’t be with a knife.

I would walk down College Avenue, and every time a bus would drive by, I would want to lean into it, and I'd be filled with this terror that I actually would. I didn’t really want to die. I just wanted to not be alive, to stop and rest a while, to be at peace. I’ve long stopped leaning into busses, but never spoken of that time or any of the ways I’ve imagined leaving my body, not even in my poetry.

It has always felt wrong to ask people to step into this with me. Wrong and terrifying. What if I tell someone and they decide the best place for me is a mental hospital? What if every conversation I have with them from then forward is with their eyes looking at me as if I were a wounded deer? What if I drag them down with me? What if they walk away?

I’ve always believed that it was my job to pretend that everything is good, even and especially, when it isn’t. I do this for the sake of those around me, but mostly for myself. I’ve internalized this belief so much that often when I’m confronted with a person who wears their depression on their sleeves, my knee jerk reaction is nasty. I think get over it. I think fucking filter yourself. I think just fake it like the rest of us. Fortunately, I have a decent filter, and have come to realize that what I dislike in them is, simply, what I am ashamed of in myself.

That afternoon, after I wept like a small child in that church woman’s arms, I tried going about my normal Sunday routine. I went to the cafe downtown where I like to grade essays and pretend to be productive. I went to the movies on a whim and saw whatever was playing next, and after as I walked toward the station, I detoured through Macy’s and bought a small silver cross on a whim. Or if I was continuing my usual dishonesty, I’d say because it was 55 percent off. I mean I payed $65 for a cross that was regularly $150. What a steal. But that is not why I bought the cross. As I meandered home I made myself a promise. A promise I make quite frequently: I will keep on in this fight for my life, and if I keep fighting then, God, you must be here with me. I’ve ended more than a couple poems with this sentiment.

Living with my mind constantly under attack means, that sometimes every day, and sometimes every hour, I am fighting for my life. I am asserting that I want to be here. It is my choice and I choose life for myself, knowing full and well, that abandoning my body looks so much easier.
And that’s what is hardest about mental illness. Here I am fighting for my life, making the most important choice I’ll ever make every day, and I’m ashamed of it, which means I tell no one, which means I fight, for the most, part alone. We don’t send soldiers into combat alone for a reason. People need people. We are fundamentally social beings. People with mental illness shouldn’t struggle alone. And so even as I have committed myself to life for the umpteenth thousandth time and purchased a tangible symbol of that struggle and commitment. I also need to commit to not doing this alone. To letting go of shame.

This mind I have, this temperament of my heart and soul, was given to me at birth. I did nothing to earn them. It has shaped and worked at me for better, for worse. Has made me more compassionate, and attuned to the world around me, even as I struggle to love myself and all the ways I move through this life. I do not need to be ashamed. I must commit today to finding new ways to exists in the world. Ways that allow me to be honest about what I’m feeling. Ways that permit me to ask for help when I need it. Ways that allow me to trust and believe that the world is filled with people like the woman from my church, people who will offer a hand up when it gets difficult to stand. I need to not only speak but live the words of Audre Lorde:

“….when we speak we are afraid
our words will not be heard
nor welcomed
but when we are silent
we are still afraid

So it is better to speak
remembering
we were never meant to survive”

Photo: Shutterstock

Brionne Janae is a California native, teaching artist and poet living in Boston. Her poetry has been published or is forthcoming in jubilat, Apogee Journal, Waxwing, The Nashville Review and Bayou Magazine. Brionne received her MFA from Emerson College, and is a Cave Cane Fellow.

By Rev. Simone Oliver

I recently read somewhere that the business of faith is a “messy business” and, as quiet as it is kept, indeed it is. As a matter of fact, it can be pretty slapdash, slipshod and sloppy. In spite of its foils, we have the assurance that the gates of Hell will never prevail against us, and with all of its foibles, we can be certain that God’s grace in Christ yet abounds and that God still uses ordinary people. So this is not to belittle the church but to call the church into honest conversation and create a dialogue that has the potential to transform church culture with its changeless traditions and create space for repentance, renewal and restoration so that the church might once again be formed by Breath and Spirit.

It is back-to-school season. I have my classes set and all my books are on the way from Amazon. When I tell people that I’m pursuing an M.Div., they look at me like they’re confused. To be honest, I’m confused too! I don’t know how I got here, how I learned this was the path I wanted to explore, or why I left a full-time teaching job with benefits and brilliant children for part-time hustles and french toast dinners. And with two parents who are wonderful pastors, I find myself side-eyeing… myself. I knew better. I knew I was signing myself up for some difficult conversations with friends and angry early morning prayers with God. Yet here I am. A second year seminary student.

by Candace Simpson

Last month’s #BlackChurchSex Twitter chat introduced me to a wave of new Twitter followers and Facebook friends in my messages. These were young Black church kids who felt like their faith contradicted with their sexuality. There are even more stories of suicide ideation, catalyzed by conflicting messages about self-worth and God’s supposed “mistake.”

by Cherise Martinez-McBride

I only got to see four of them before I had to close my browser window. Profiles of people who were spending their Wednesday night at Bible study, and never got back in their cars or on the bus or the sidewalk again.

by Anna Gibson

by Nyah Levone Molineaux


One of the amazing aspects about being Black is the diversity of our community—including the diversity of religious beliefs and spiritual practices. This was highlighted in C. Imani Williams' essay, “Beyond Christianity: Yes, Non-Religious Blacks Find Spiritual Connection Too,” published on For Harriet earlier this year. The article is a brilliant introduction into the religious diversity of the Black community—in particular, those such as myself who are do not follow or participate in the Abrahamic faiths (Judaism, Christianity, and Islam).

by Candace Simpson


I attended a conference in February that gathered pastors, seminarians, professors, and lay people. The yearly conference is meant to provide resources for people of faith as we seek to make sense of the task of social justice.

by  C. Imani Williams


We all need a source of strength and hope to make it through life.

Almost all organized religions center around a belief in a Higher Power, something greater than oneself. This belief provides followers with a community they can turn to when in need of support and fellowship. It also provides them with guidance for dealing with life’s challenges and obstacles. Many Black folks in the U.S. follow some denomination of Christianity. They may also identify as Muslim, following the lessons put forth in the Quran. There are also Black Jews, even if not as widely recognized.

by Makeda Vaughn

As a pastor’s daughter and granddaughter, I have always eavesdropped on conversations about church mess that I wasn’t supposed to hear. As an adult, this has extended to news about prominent public Christian figures. Lately, there have been a growing number of scandalous stories on black religious leaders and gospel artists. It seems that black church leaders are just letting it all hang out. (Literally.)

by Bee Quammie

It was a Sunday morning and I was seated on a hard wooden pew in a stuffy church, wedged between my boyfriend and his mother. It was my first time at their church. And the last time I had attended any church, I had been a child.

By Valerie Jean-Charles

We live in the age of prosperity preachers: Joel Osteen, Paula White, T.D. Jakes. These well known pastors, along with others, have helped usher an age in the Church where teachings of wealth-building reign supreme. Before I go into why this branch of theology robs congregants of benefits from the institution, it’s best that I provide definitions of what exactly the “prosperity gospel” is.

I shouldn't have to wonder how quickly my parents would cut me off financially if I decided to come out of the closet, but I often do.  So goes the plight of being queer, Christian, and in the closet.

by Olivia Smarr

When I was five years old, I joined the new Youth Liturgical Dance Ministry at my church. In the dance ministry we explored how to use our bodies to serve the Lord and minister to the congregation. However, there were some rules involved. Most of the movements we did solely involved arms, hands, or legs—no torso or hip movements because they could be perceived as sexual. We were also restricted in our appearance. Our ministry garments were loose and oversized so that no figure could be discerned underneath. We wore pants under the skirts and dresses that we danced in and a full unitard under all of that. The only parts of our bodies exposed were our heads, hands, and feet. These guidelines were all intended to prevent our bodies from distracting from the message of the Gospel we were supposed to be sharing.

Every Sunday, millions of young women sit down to a church service and hear sermons that are intended to uplift their faith in The Lord.

What happens, then, when the messages they hear fail to encourage their spirit and lead them to believe that the often-toxic traditions are for their own good? For many, the idea that one can embrace both feminism and Christianity is an absurdity. Some people believe that the two are unable to coexist, and the name itself prompts confusion and a myriad of other reactions. However, I firmly believe that the church needs feminism.

by Rev. Dominique Atchison

As I sat in my father’s car driving down Billy Graham highway in North Carolina, I heard my father utter the words, “I don’t like Black lady preachers.” That was at the very beginning of my journey, when I had just started seminary. Since then I’ve chosen to sarcastically refer to myself that way. Beyond writing about it, sarcasm has been my favorite tool to fortify myself against the downright foolishness I’ve faced as a young black woman in ministry.

by Elyse A. Minson

I recently came across a few statistics about black women and religion that weren’t surprising, but certainly can have surprising implications. According to one poll, Black women make up the most religious group in the U.S. This is no revelation—one can rarely see a movie about “black life” that doesn’t feature some sort of “Come to Jesus moment” or a climactic scene scored with a moving gospel tune.  Another study found that 55% of black women say that they view scripture literally, and since most Black women who are religious are Christian, I experienced a record-scratching moment when I considered the harm that biblical literalism has caused and continues to cause black folk, namely black folk who are not heterosexual males.

by Amber Wright

I was baptized for the first time when I was eight years old in a small Baptist church in my hometown. Every Sunday, a kind, elderly woman from our church named Mrs. Willis would come to pick us up, because we didn’t have a car. She was super sweet and always promised to give my sister and I candies on the way home if we behaved.  Those were good old days of frilly socks, patent leather shoes and reciting Easter speeches. Good times.

Originally published at Brown Mommys

by Cynthia Levy

Social media is once again buzzing. Now, Christians everywhere are up in arms about this:

 Yes, Erica Campbell of the gospel duo Mary, Mary has debuted her new solo album wearing this form-fitting white dress that many say is just to skanky for public Christian consumption. All I can say is that this is why Christianity is quickly drowning in the bowels of the American psyche.

by Liz A.

For
Ella Baker, a Black Woman
And
Bayard Rustin, an out gay man
Both pioneers
in the greatest movement of our time…

“The “invitation only” meeting of all-men gathered by the Bishop-Elect of the Full Gospel Baptist Church Fellowship was not billed as a gathering of men God is using. It was billed as THE leaders God is using in this time, as the “movers” and “shakers” in the Kingdom.  It smacked of spiritual elitism and, frankly, arrogance.”
- Rev. Valerie Bridgeman, Ph.D. Biblical and Homiletics Scholar  

Purported to be the “greatest movement of the 21st century” Bishop Joseph Walker, the Presiding Bishop-Elect for the Full Gospel Baptist Church Fellowship International, recently organized a “by invitation only” meeting to discuss the future of the Black Church. The purpose of the meeting was to discuss “a progressive agenda to promote church, social and political reform” via a five point foundational platform called the SHIFT. Among the invited, were notable Black male preachers such as Bishop Paul S. Morton, Bishop Donald Hilliard, and Pastor and Gospel Recording Artist, Smokie Norful.