It was a brown man who when I told him I had no religion he offered me his.
It was a brown woman who read aloud to me from Leviticus.
It was a brown mother who told me that if I wanted to rest my head in her house, I’d better be coming to church.
It was a brown daughter who showed me how to give thanks before the meal.
It was a brown congregation who taught me my first impossible hymns.
It was brown preacher who interrupted the vernacular service to give me a summary in English.
It was a brown father who looked up from his personal bible study and told me to forget about the gossipy church.
It was a brown friend who took my hands in his and prayed with me my first prayer.
(And as it was an Arab man who the Roman empire strung up upon a cross) It was a a brown man to whom I addressed that first prayer.
Yet, it was a white man who sat across from me in the lecture theater and said, “Your Christianity is a Western construct.”
The photo accompanying this post is of a mural, depicting a black Christ, inside Naiserelagi Church – not far from where I lived in Fiji during 2012.