Conjecture on the Stained Glass Image of White Christ at Ebenezer Baptist Church

For in the one Spirit we were all baptized into one body — Jews or Greeks, slaves or free — and all were made to drink of one Spirit. —1 Corinthians 12:13 If in his image made am I, then make me a miracle. Make my shrine a copper faucet leaking everlasting Evian to the masses. Make this empty water glass a goblet of long-legged French wine. Make mine a Prince-purple body bag designed by Crown Royal for tax collectors to spill over & tithe into just before I rise. If in his image made am I, then make my vessel a pearl Coupe de Ville. Make mine the body of a 28-year-old black woman in a blue patterned maxi dress cruising through Hell on Earth, TX again alive. If in his image made are we, then why the endless string of effigies? Why so many mortal blasphemes? Why crucify me in HD across a scrolling news ticker, tied to a clothesline of broken necks long as Time? Is this thing on? Jesus on the ground. Jesus in the margins. Of hurricane & sea. Jesus of busted levees in chocolate cities. Jesus of the Middle East (Africa) & crows flying backwards. Of blood, on the leaves, inside diamond mines, in under- developed mineral-rich countries. If in your image made are we, the proliferation of your tie-dyed hippie doppelgänger makes you easier to daily see. & in this image didn’t we make the godhead, slightly stony, high enough to surf a cloud? & didn’t we leave you there, where, surely, paradise or justice must be meted out? Couldn’t we see where water takes the form of whatever most holds it upright? If then this is what it’s come down to. My faith, in rifle shells. In Glock 22 magazine sleeves. Isn’t it also then how, why, in a bucket shot full of holes, I’ve been made to believe?