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If I am going to invite you into my reflections of Black theology across the diaspora, then I am going to have to set the scene. You are entering the world of a young girl. A young girl, who was born in Britain to Ghanaian immigrant parents and grew up in the predominantly whiteneighborhoods of Suffolk County, 82 miles north of London. A young girl, who, by the age of 18, had been a member of 5 churches of different denominations—with her family and by herself. A girl, who, at the age of 7, felt a nagging to travel the world and tell people about Jesus,whilst advocating for her neighbors’ rights and welfare.

This young girl is me, now a young woman in her early 20s. My experiences of Black theology in the US and in the UK are particular to me. I cannot speak on behalf of all Black British people, but my story is collective and individual at the same time. Growing up in the Pentecostal-charismatic wings of the Baptist, Anglican, and nondenominational churches, my parents found it easy to translate their theologies of holiness, excellence, and grace from Ghana to the UK. Living into the abundant life of Christ looked like pouring into and excelling within the gifts that Christ has given us. It meant having a high standard of hospitality for guests, bringing home good report cards, having a rigorous spiritual life of prayer and meditating on the Word of God.

The parables in the Big Girl Bible (the nickname I gave the adult Bible, not the children’s Bible) were not just words to gloss over, they were stories that my parents and the Sunday School aunties and uncles would get me to imagine. Helping me tap into the emotions and faith of the biblical saints who experienced the horrors of humanity, only to be delivered and transformed by the loving grace of God. Faith was vibrant and real. The Bible was real; of course I was going to school with Daniel, a culturally and theologically marginalized gifted person who is in an education system created by the empire. There was no argument that Veronica, the woman with the issue of blood, understood what I was going through, finding Jesus as my only hope for healing when the medical system disappointed me time and time again because they were unable to identify symptoms on Black skin or in a female body.

Sonic theologies filled my home, where my parents taught my brother and me to be Psalmists, meditating on the melodies and lyrics of the diaspora day and night. Like many Christian-raised Black British kids, our liturgical lexicon included hymnody from Europe and the Black Church tradition, West African doxologies, Praise and Worship, and West African Gospel Christian Contemporary Music. Even if we were the only Black family in our church, the songs of our home created a portal to imagine Acts 2 in its full glory. At home, the music videos of Mary Mary and Daughters of Glorious Jesus reminded me that I was made in the image of God and that I was a vessel for the Gospel.

When it was testimony time at the Nigerian Pentecostal church of my childhood, stories of successful visa applications, college admissions, job acceptances, smooth childbirth, and more would overflow from the pulpit, each testimony ending with an eruption of joy ringing through the congregation. For this young girl, the theology was clear. God heard us, the African and Caribbean immigrants, their children, and grandchildren. God heard our cries and cared for our survival. God didn’t want us to survive; God wanted us to thrive.

And yet, as this theology of care and abundant life was blossoming within this young, creative girl, certain spiritual corners were troubling her. If she was made fearfully and wonderfully made, then why did my white siblings in Christ struggle to pronounce my name correctly, when they could pronounce names like Tchaikovsky? If the body of Christ was global, then why is there a pattern of Black Majority Church congregations in the UK knowing Christian Contemporary Music and European hymns in as much depth as Gospel Highlife, Nigerian Gospel, and US Gospel, whilst our British non-Black siblings in Christ would only know a handful of songs in comparison?

I wrestled with these questions in college as the call to ministry grew louder in my ear. It was through my academic advisor and undergrad dissertation supervisor, Rev. Dr. Alisha Lola Jones, that I was introduced to womanist theologians and preachers, including Rev. Dr. Renita Weems, Rev. Dr. Elaine Flake, Rev. Dr. Teresa L. Fry Brown, Rev. Dr. Khalia J Williams, Rev. Dr. Barbara Holmes and Garrett alum Rev. Dr. Emilie Townes. In the assignments we worked together, she created the space for me to uncover the theological richness baked into the joyous sounds of my girlhood, which have guided me in life. It was through auditing theology classes that I was given the chance to read Black theologians Rev. Dr. James Cone and Rev. Dr. Willie James Jennings alongside African theologians Mercy Amba Oduyoye and Dr. Nimi Wariboko, building a theology which contained multitudes of Blackness as the Imago Dei.

After this, going to a seminary in the US didn’t feel unusual. After all, the theologies of Black Majority Churches in the UK were influenced by weaving the global body of Christ and the African diaspora. The traumatic legacies of the enslavement of Africans and the colonization of African geographies cannot be deemed the same. Yet, as beautifully depicted in Yaa Gyasi’snovel Homegoing, these legacies are interconnected by how people seek life in death-dealing systems. It is one thing to have read the womanist and Black liberation texts in a classroom. It’s another to experience them alive in the Black Church. From Black women’s March Gladnesspreaching circuit in Evanston, the spirit-filled liturgies resounding across Chicago’s South Sideduring Holy Week, and the shouts of joy from the Northwestern Community Ensemble, every moment Black theologies are enfleshed is a transformative reminder that God’s will for abundant life is very much alive amongst the African diasporas. Each life is distinct, fearfully and wonderfully made, containing insights that can be translated, not replicated, into other contexts of Black Christianity across the world. As I continue to sit in the myriad theologies of the Black Church, I remember that young girl, the one who felt a nagging to travel the world and tell people about Jesus, whilst advocating for other people’s rights and welfare. I remember her love for singing and history. I remember her desire to delve deeper in her love for God and her love for people. I remember her questions about how her Blackness and faith fit into the body of Christ. Now, I think her questions are finally beginning to be answered.