The Spiritual Authority of the Black Woman

I want to share something.

It’s sacred.

Precious.

Secret.

Undervalued, overlooked, yet powerful.

I want to tell you about my mother. All of them.

I met her at a Barbeque restaurant.

She asked me if I knew who I was. In the confusion, she explained to me that only the strong ones made it off the boat. These are my ancestors. That is who I am a descendant of. The strong ones. You are strong, Kierra.

I met her in a classroom.

She went beyond the curriculum and showed me why it was important to be smarter, stronger, and better. You’re a black woman, Kierra.

I met many of her in the sanctuary.

She was dressed in all white, sitting together on the first few rows of the front pew. Each had a fancy hat fit for royalty. She led the congregation in a song of lament about a lighthouse, shining, yet I can hardly imagine any of them swimming.

She commanded the church like God’s messengers. She used the fire in her bones as fuel to sing with a passion that gave me chills.

Must Jesus bear the cross alone?