Won't He Do It?

I want my mother's faith right now.

Every Sunday, like many Black boys way back when, I was stuffed into a suit, a comb was run through my hair, and I was dragged off to church very much against my will.

It never took. My questions about it were far too numerous, and the inconsistencies within it became too much of a strain when I got old enough to recognize how suffering was doled out by said God. It always seemed to me that some people, by their mere existence, were receiving far more than their fair share. I realized that injustice and cruelty were much more prevalent in the world than were kindness and charity, and by the time I got around to asking myself what kind of loving God would approve all this suffering for only certain people, I was done. I never darkened the door of that church again.

But my mother soldiered on. Service every Sunday and Bible study on Wednesdays. My mother is a devout Christian. I mean a real one. She believes in feeding the hungry, housing the unhoused and caring for the sick. She was my very first example of faith before I got out into the world and saw with my own eyes how religion seemed to have morphed into a weapon of greed, power and white supremacy. My mother’s faith is strong. It comforts her. And now I wish I had some of it.