Blackness Is My Religion: A Manifesto for Sacred Unity Beyond the Pews
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In this manifesto, we examine a radical idea: that Blackness in America—our existence, our endurance, our deep well of collective memory and movement—is not just a culture, or a race, or a shared history of survival. No. What if we began to understand Blackness itself as a religion? What if our very being—how we cook, how we gather, how we raise our children and raise our voices, how we pray, protest, and protect—was a sacred practice?
This is a call, a spiritual reframe, a cultural reckoning. This is an invitation to return to a sacred, collective self—not through doctrine or dogma, but through the undeniable power and presence of Blackness itself.
Let’s talk about it.
A Holy Gathering: Black People Showing Up for Black People
I’ve been witnessing something powerful lately—and I know you’ve seen it too. From pulpits to group chats, from Instagram Lives to barbershops and backyard cookouts, Black folks are calling each other in. Especially within the Black Christian community, there’s been an urgent chorus: “Get with your congregation. Get with your people. Make sure they know what’s going on.”
And honestly? I love that.
This ain’t just Sunday morning talk. This is survival strategy. This is grassroots mobilization. This is sacred work being done in real time. We're talking about voter education, local elections, holding politicians accountable, and making sure our people aren't just registered—but ready. Ready to show up and show out at the polls, ready to stand guard at city council meetings, ready to put their dollars and their energy into building Black futures.
The March 29th vote in Louisiana? That was a glimpse of the power we hold when we actually hold each other.
We’re doing the work. Slowly. Strategically. But here’s what I’ve been sitting with: why is so much of this conversation still happening primarily in Christian spaces?
Our Divinity Shouldn’t Divide Us
Let me say this real clear: I respect the Black church. Deeply. It’s been a cornerstone of our communities for centuries—a place of refuge, rebellion, healing, and hope. But when it comes to the fight we’re in right now—political, economic, cultural—I want more than a church-led response.
Because baby, this ain’t just about religion. It’s about our survival. It’s about our sovereignty. And we need all of us at the table.
Black Christians. Black Muslims. Black Jews. Black Buddhists. Black spiritualists. Black folks who are still figuring it out. Black folks who ain’t got a label for what they believe in but feel spirit deep in their bones when they cook collard greens, braid a baby’s hair, or sing a Donny Hathaway song on a rainy Tuesday.
I want a world where we come together not because we share a religion, but because we share a purpose.
Because Blackness is the religion.
Blackness as Sacred Practice
Now I know—some folks might clutch their pearls when they hear that. Call it blasphemy, call it strange. But I’m not saying this to replace anyone’s faith. I’m not trying to build a new dogma. What I’m offering is a reframing. A reckoning. A radical remembering.
Let me break it down.
Religion, in its most basic form, is a system of belief and practice that connects us to something larger than ourselves. It shapes our values. It gives us ritual. It creates continuity across generations. Sound familiar?
Blackness in America has done all of that and more.
We have traditions older than this nation. Spiritual technologies that existed long before colonization. A moral compass rooted in freedom, justice, creativity, and care. From hush harbors to hip-hop, from griots to grandmothers, we have always been a people of sacred rhythm.
So what happens if we stop treating our Blackness like something we survive and start treating it like something we revere?
A Shared Faith in Our Freedom
See, when I look at the landscape of Black life in America right now, I see a people under spiritual siege. The violence isn’t always physical—it’s economic, psychological, environmental, legislative. But make no mistake: it is violence. And the only way we’re going to survive this era is if we begin to treat our collective well-being like it’s holy.
Because it is.
We need to believe in each other the way some folks believe in scripture. We need to practice community like it's prayer. We need to gather not just on Sunday, but on every day that ends in “y,” knowing that every meal shared, every lesson passed down, every dollar spent in a Black-owned business, every ballot cast with intention—that’s liturgy.
That’s sacred.
That’s Black religion.
A Movement, Not a Moment
Now let me be clear: I’m not asking anyone to abandon their faith. I’m not here to tell you how to worship or what to believe. What I’m saying is, maybe—just maybe—it’s time to see our Blackness as belief.
It’s time to build rituals around our resilience.
To sanctify our joy.
To structure our lives around each other—not just as neighbors or friends, but as divine reflections of a holy lineage that refuses to be erased.
This isn’t about uniformity. It’s about unity. It’s about understanding that our various paths—whether they run through mosques, churches, temples, or ancestral altars—are all part of one larger map: a map leading us back to ourselves.
So What Does This Look Like in Practice?
It looks like showing up for community even when we don’t share the same theology.
It looks like Black Muslims and Black Christians and Black atheists and Black agnostics showing up to the same town hall because we’re all invested in Black futures.
It looks like using your voice—even if it shakes—to speak out about what’s happening in your neighborhood, your school district, your state.
It looks like creating rituals of resistance and remembrance: journaling your dreams, feeding your people, lighting candles for your ancestors, praying (however you pray) for our collective liberation.
It looks like investing your time, money, and energy into the parts of Black life that feed your soul and our survival.
Let’s Build the Temple, Not Just Talk About It
Y’all, this is bigger than “wokeness.” This is bigger than social media discourse and hot takes and hashtag movements. This is soul work. And it’s time we stop waiting for someone else to lead it.
We are the high priestesses of our people’s survival.
We are the griots and the gatekeepers, the dreamers and the doers.
It’s on us to reimagine a Black spiritual practice that centers Black life—not as something to be tolerated or dissected or saved, but as something to be worshiped.
So let’s build this temple together. Not with bricks and mortar, but with love and legacy, with wisdom and ritual, with slow mornings and sacred intentions.
Let’s start treating our Blackness like the divine force it’s always been.
In closing:
This manifesto is not a rejection of faith. It’s a reclamation of it.
It’s a reminder that we don’t need permission to be holy. We already are.
And if we dare to believe in the religion of our Blackness—not to the exclusion of other beliefs, but as a foundation for collective care—we might just find the power we’ve been praying for has been within us all along.
Let the church say, Asé.
Live Pleasurably,
(For the overthinkers, the second-guessers, and the ‘I should have figured this out by now’ crowd.)
You don’t need another strategy. You need to stop second-guessing yourself. Let’s clear the noise.
WTF is not a coaching session. It’s not me handing you a step-by-step blueprint. It’s me helping you untangle the thoughts that are keeping you stuck, so you can finally hear your own damn clarity. LEARN MORE >
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