Learning to đ§č FLY
This month, we reflect on mentorship and its transformative impact on our ministry journeys. Inspired by both present guides and past voices, weâll be reminded of the influence mentors have on our callings. Kendall was set to write this week, but seeing WICKED last week moved me so deeply that I had to share. Donât worryâheâll be back next week! đ
To be a Black woman is to be Elphabaâborn different, scorned, and misunderstood. Itâs carrying the weight of explaining your existence every time someone encounters your voice, your perspective, your presence, your body, your hair.
To be a Black woman is to be Elphaba, who wrestles with her identity as a child, heals and re-members herself, and eventually breaks free from the systemic lie called Oz. It is to learn, like her, to defy gravity.
I watched the movie the day before Thanksgiving. I didnât cry in the theater as I thought I would, but the tears came later, when I saw Ariana Grande interview Cynthia Erivo, asking if Defying Gravity was the hardest song sheâd ever sung. Cynthia said no, but added that the hardest songâphysically and emotionallyâwas Iâm Here.
That reminded me of Fantasia Barrino singing Iâm Here in The Color Purple, which I saw around this time last year. To be a Black woman is to learn, like Celie, to curse your enemies, discover your beauty, and reclaim your identity. Cynthia and Fantasia are among the most powerful artists of our generation, and their work transcends mere performance. Witnessing their art in 2024 feels like stepping into something deeply sacredâan ancestral, emotional, genetic connection that words cannot fully capture.
To be a Black woman is to carry the memory of Howard Thurmanâs words to his daughters, shared with me by Kendall, that have marked me so deeply:
On one of our visits to Daytona Beach I was eager to show my daughters some of my early haunts. We sauntered down the long street from the church to the riverfront. This had been the path of the procession to the baptismal ceremony in the Halifax River, which I had often described to them. We stopped here and there as I noted the changes that had taken place since that far-off time. At length, we passed the playground of one of the white public schools. As soon as Olive and Anne saw the swings, they jumped for joy. âLook, Daddy, letâs go over and swing!â This was the inescapable moment of truth that every Black parent in America must face sooner or later. What do you say to your child at the critical moment of primary encounter?
âYou canât swing in those swings.â
âWhy?â
âWhen we get home and have some cold lemonade I will tell you.â When we were home again, and had had our lemonade, Anne pressed for the answer. âWe are home now, Daddy. Tell us.â
I said, âIt is against the law for us to use those swings, even though it is a public school. At present, only white children can play there. But it takes the state legislature, the courts, the sheriffs and policemen, the white churches, the mayors, the banks and businesses, and the majority of white people in the state of Floridaâit takes all these to keep two little Black girls from swinging in those swings. That is how important you are! Never forget, the estimate of your own importance and self-worth can be judged by how many weapons and how much power people are willing to use to control you and keep you in the place they have assigned to you. You are two very important little girls. Your presence can threaten the entire state of Florida.â
Howard Thurman, With Head and Heart: The Autobiography of Howard Thurman (Orlando, FL: Harcourt Brace & Company, 1979) p. 97
Kendall and I reflected on how the very weapons used against us serve as symbols of the immense power held by the scapegoated 'enemy.'
To be a Black woman is to live in the truth of your generational story, spanning over 400 years. You are powerful. You are holy. You are, as Kendrick Lamar says, âa god, even when they say you ainât.â
Art has become my mentor.
Each time I encounter art (compelling art), it feels as though I am witnessing the awe and wonder of Godâs goodness reflected in my very beingâa truth that resists the social death imposed by the world around me. It awakens a memory deep in my body, an ancestral echo from West Africa, where brilliance thrived. My ancestors were doctors, scholars, anthropologists, healers, philosophers, engineers, architects, artists, and leadersâintellectual giants and cultural pioneers whose knowledge shaped civilizations. Yet these extraordinary minds were ripped from their homelands, kidnapped, and enslaved.
I imagine a woman weeping, praying that her children, now born into slavery, would one day re-member who they once were, refusing to succumb to the lies of Oz.
âNo wizard that there is or was is ever gonna bring me down.â đ¶
So when Oz tries to defy you, tell them to look to the Western sky. Tell them youâve learned to FLY.
As we prepare to move to Durham, NC, my deepest desire is to reconnect with who I am and revive my love for art and musicâthe love that withered in the Illinois evangelical church, which reduced me to a stage manager, babysitter, and marketing director.
So, to my Black sisters: Learn to fly. Defy gravity.
To those who are not Black women: How can you create space for us to soar?
Because, as Elphaba said, âEveryone deserves the chance to fly.â
Reflection Questions:
How has mentorshipâwhether from ancestors, artists, or spiritual guidesâshaped your understanding of identity and power in the face of systemic oppression?
How can you create space in your community for Black women and others who have been marginalized to soar, reclaim their identity, and thrive?
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