The other day, I found myself driving around Houston’s historic Third Ward. I took a moment to reflect on the neighborhood where I grew up, went to school and bought my first home.
As I observed the current condition of my beloved neighborhood, I began to weep as I looked at its dilapidated condition, while counting at least sixteen churches within the same general area that had been there for decades.
I began to weep even harder, having placed my forehead on the steering wheel, trying to cope with the fact that I had counted so many churches that were located so close to one another in the community, and there were more that I hadn’t counted when I stopped.
I had witnessed the neighborhood declining for some time, but for some reason this particular time things suddenly hit me harder. I began to ask myself how the Black community, with as many of us that go to traditional Black churches, have neighborhoods that look more like a war-torn country than a vibrant community.
How has the Black community continued to look the way it has, after Black people have faithfully given billions of dollars of tithes and offering money into the Black church for years?
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