I believe in God
the ultimate ride-or-die who doesn’t just chill in the clouds but walks with us through the mess. This God is too big to fit in stained glass windows or theology textbooks. God's pronouns? All.. God is both mama and daddy, lover and friend, the homie who shows up even when we ghost them.
I believe in the God of my ancestors
the God who crossed oceans in chains but never lost their crown. This God cried with them when the whip cracked, sang with them when freedom seemed like a dream and danced with them when their feet finally touched free soil. This God is not the whitewashed figure hanging in plantation houses. No, this God is the rebel in the fire, the drumbeat in the dark, and the laughter that won’t be silenced.
I believe in the Gospel
the one that flips tables and calls out fakes. This ain’t the watered-down version that tells you to “wait your turn” or “pray it away.” Nah. This is the gospel of Harriet Tubman and Malcolm X, of Tupac and Kendrick. It’s the gospel that says, “Get up. Fight back. Keep going.” It’s the remix of liberation, and it sounds like protest chants, freedom songs, and kids laughing in the face of broken systems.
I believe in Jesus Christ
the real one. Not blond-haired, blue-eyed Jesus, but the brown-skinned revolutionary who dodged Herod’s death squads and flipped over tables when the system got too corrupt. Jesus was a healer, a storyteller, and a freedom fighter. He rolled with outcasts, fed the hungry, and checked the rich. The empire tried to cancel him, but the tomb couldn’t hold him. His comeback was the ultimate plot twist, reminding us that the truth can’t be killed and justice always rises.
I believe in the Holy Spirit
the ultimate hype-man and ghostwriter who whispers, shouts, and stirs. This Spirit moves like protest chants in the streets, like grandma’s prayers that cracked ceilings, and like a DJ dropping the beat that makes you move. It’s the Spirit that pushes you to speak up when your voice shakes and holds you up when your knees buckle. It’s the fire in your bones that won’t let you quit.
I believe in the Church
but not the kind with locked doors and judgmental stares. I’m talking about the church that looks like block parties, cookouts, and protests. The one where communion tastes like cornbread and sweet tea, and the choir’s harmonies sound like heaven breaking loose. The Church is wherever two or three gather to love, resist, and dream of better days. It’s the basement poetry slams, the corner prayer circles, and the hands raised in praise and protest.
I believe in salvation
not as an escape plan but as a blueprint for the revolution. Salvation is God breaking chains, flipping scripts, and calling the captives free. It’s the formerly incarcerated brother mentoring the next generation. It’s the single mom who makes magic out of struggle. It’s every underdog who refuses to stay down. Salvation is equity, justice, and joy showing up in real-time—not just in some distant afterlife.
I believe in laughter
the kind that cuts through pain and says, “You won’t break me.” Our laughter isn’t weakness; it’s rebellion. It’s the soundtrack of survival, the rhythm of resistance. Like Tupac said, “Smile through all this.” Because joy is our weapon, and humor is our armor.
I believe in the reckoning the day when systems crumble and the oppressed rise. The day when the earth opens up and swallows greed, hatred, and fear whole. That day is coming. Until then, we keep showing up, keep building, and keep laughing in the devil’s face.
I believe in hope the gritty, stubborn kind that refuses to quit. Hope that moves like an underground railroad and preaches like a Sunday morning sermon. Hope that carries receipts and demands justice.
I believe in love
the love that fights for you prays for you, and marches beside you. The kind that calls you out but never leaves you out. Love that’s messy, real, and ready to work.
And I believe in us—the ones they counted out but couldn’t keep down. We are the descendants of the enslaved who dreamed of freedom. The kids of single moms who made miracles out of nothing. The fighters, the dreamers, the believers.
We are the ones who laugh so we don’t cry—who sing even in chains and dance in the face of despair. And that? That’s enough reason to believe.
So, keep laughing. Keep living. Keep fighting. The story isn’t over. It’s just getting good.
References
Cleage, A. (1969). The Black Messiah. Sheed and Ward.
Cone, J. H. (1986). A Black Theology of Liberation. Orbis Books.
Cone, J. H. (1997). God of the Oppressed. Orbis Books.
DeYoung, C., Gafney, W. C., Guardiola-Sáenz, T. C., Tinker, G. E., & Yamada, F. M. (2009). The People's Bible. Augsburg Fortress Publishers.
Gafney, W. C. (2017). Womanist Midrash: A Reintroduction to the Women of the Torah and the Throne. Westminster John Knox Press.
Jordan, S., Shakur, T., & Dean, D. (1996). Smile. In The Don Killuminati: The 7 Day Theory [Album]. Death Row Records.
Lamar, K. (2015). To Pimp a Butterfly. Top Dawg Entertainment.
McFague, S. (2013). Blessed Are the Consumers: Climate Change and the Practice of Restraint. Fortress Press.
McGrath, A. E. (2017). Christian Theology: An Introduction (6th ed.). Wiley-Blackwell.
Parker, A. M. (2021). If God Still Breathes, Why Can't I? Black Lives Matter and Biblical Authority. Eerdmans.
Shakur, T. (1991). If My Homie Calls. In 2Pacalypse Now [Album]. Interscope Records.
Spillage Village. (2020). End of Daze. Dreamville Records.
Williams, D. S. (1993). Sisters in the Wilderness: The Challenge of Womanist God-Talk. Orbis Books.
Reeves, Z. E. (2024). Creedal Statement in Consideration for Ordination. The Historic Shiloh Baptist Church.
Reeves, Z. E. (2024). Laugh So You Don’t Cry. Unpublished manuscript
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