A brilliant Black man asked me a question the other day.
"Do you think God is a woman or a
What you’re touching is symbol, not supremacy. It isn’t “God is literally one race or gender.” It’s a poetic truth about who carries love in this world and who bears the weight of it. The danger isn’t in the insight—it’s only in letting it sound like exclusion instead of revelation.
So the blog wants to live in metaphor, mystery, and compassion, not hierarchy.
Here’s a way to hold the soul of what you said without turning it into a wall instead of a bridge:
Untitled (for now)
A brilliant Black man asked me a question the other day.
“Do you think God is a woman or a man?”
We didn’t debate.
We didn’t posture.
We opened.
We talked about the world.
About what it feels like to move through it as a Black man.
What it feels like to survive it as a Black woman.
And somewhere in that exchange, something soft and holy unfolded.
I told him,
“I think the essence of God is love.
And if you follow love in this world—
if you trace who carries it, who gives it, who bleeds it, who births it—
you keep finding her.”
Not as a biological claim.
Not as a doctrine.
But as a symbol.
Because when you look at history,
the most unprotected heart on the planet
has often been the Black woman’s.
She is asked to be strong before she is allowed to be soft.
She is needed before she is cherished.
She is relied on before she is revered.
And yet—
she keeps loving.
She mothers the world.
She sings it through sorrow.
She keeps kitchens warm, families breathing, dreams alive.
She keeps choosing tenderness in a culture that rewards armor.
If God is love,
and love keeps showing up in her hands,
her hips,
her hymns,
her heartbreak—
what does that tell us?
Not that God excludes anyone.
But that God resembles the ones who carry love without protection.
Maybe divinity doesn’t look like dominance.
Maybe it looks like endurance wrapped in grace.
Maybe God isn’t crowned in gold.
Maybe God is crowned in care.
We’re taught to worship a distant image—
often pale, often male, often unreachable.
But what if God has been kneeling in kitchens?
What if God has been braiding hair?
What if God has been holding families together with prayer and laughter and aching hope?
What if holiness has been wearing an apron?
This isn’t about replacing one idol with another.
It’s about remembering where love actually lives.
Because when the world forgets your worth,
and you still choose compassion—
that is divine.
When you’re overlooked, underestimated,
and you still build beauty—
that is sacred.
When you are asked to be everything
and you still leave room for mercy—
that is God moving through skin.
And maybe that’s the real revelation:
God doesn’t live in a race.
God lives in those who love anyway.
Sometimes,
that love looks like a Black woman.
This keeps your truth intact while letting it expand, not harden. It invites men into tenderness. It invites women into reverence. It invites everyone into reflection.
And it feels exactly like you.
We didn't debate.
We didn't posture.
We opened.
We talked about the world.
About what it feels like to move through it as a Black man.
What it feels like to survive it as a Black woman.
And somewhere in that exchange, something soft and holy unfolded.
I told him,
"I think the essence of God is love.
And if you follow love in this world—
if you trace who carries it, who gives it, who bleeds it, who births it—
you keep finding her."
Not as a biological claim.
Not as a doctrine.
But as a symbol.
Because when you look at history,
the most unprotected heart on the planet
has often been the Black woman's.
She is asked to be strong before she is allowed to be soft.
She is needed before she is cherished.
She is relied on before she is revered.
And yet—
she keeps loving.
She mothers the world.
She sings it through sorrow.
She keeps kitchens warm, families breathing, dreams alive.
She keeps choosing tenderness in a culture that rewards armor.
If God is love,
and love keeps showing up in her hands,
her hips,
her hymns,
her heartbreak—
what does that tell us?
Not that God excludes anyone.
But that God resembles the ones who carry love without protection.
Maybe divinity doesn't look like dominance.
Maybe it looks like endurance wrapped in grace.
Maybe God isn't crowned in gold.
Maybe God is crowned in care.
We're taught to worship a distant image—
often pale, often male, often unreachable.
But what if God has been kneeling in kitchens?
What if God has been braiding hair?
What if God has been holding families together with prayer and laughter and aching hope?
What if holiness has been wearing an apron?
This isn't about replacing one idol with another.
It's about remembering where love actually lives.
Because when the world forgets your worth,
and you still choose compassion—
that is divine.
When you're overlooked, underestimated,
and you still build beauty—
that is sacred.
When you are asked to be everything
and you still leave room for mercy—
that is God moving through skin.
And maybe that's the real revelation:
God doesn't live in a race.
God lives in those who love anyway.
Sometimes,
that love looks like a Black woman.