After Moving Back to the States to Start a Church in D.C., Thabiti Anyabwile says he’s ‘Scared to Death’ for his Son as a Young Black Man in America

Thabiti Anyabwile
Thabiti Anyabwile

by Thabiti Anyabwile 

When my wife and I announced we would be moving back to the States to plant a church in Southeast DC, we met three reactions. People who loved us over these past eight years and appreciated our ministry expressed their love and sadness that we were leaving Cayman. Those same people and many others then quickly sent us tremendous amounts of encouragement, prayer and practical help. Then there were those who had a question. They asked, “Are you afraid?” or “Do you have any fears?”

My elders in Cayman asked that question. The elders here at CHBC asked that question. A few individuals asked that question. And some people have worn their concern on their faces.

When asked the question, I’d usually pause. Not because I didn’t have an answer, but because some fears feel too real when you give them words. So I’d pause. Then I’d say two things: “Truthfully, the Lord has kept us from any fears that we can discern about planting the church or living in Southeast. If I have a fear it would be one thing: bringing my son Titus to the United States. He’s so tender and innocent and the States can be very hard on Black boys.”

That’s my one fear. This country destroying my boy. Ferguson is my fear. I could be the black dad approaching a white sheet stained with his son’s blood. I could be the husband holding his wife, rocking in anguish, terrorized by the ‘what happeneds’ and the ‘how could theys,’ unable to console his wife, his wife who works so hard to make her son a “momma’s boy” with too many hugs, bedtime stories, presents for nothing, and an overflowing delight in everything he does. How do you comfort a woman who feels like a part of her soul was ripped out her chest?

I’m not alone. We moved into our townhome in the heart of historic Anacostia about a month ago. We met utility men at the place to turn on the gas, install the cable and do light repairs. I’ll never forget one utility man named “Mike.” He is a large brother, hulking really. He spent about an hour troubleshooting problems with our gas line. When he lay on the floor he almost sprawled across the entire living room. We talked as he worked. He loves his job and works long hours. As he walked to the door, having finished his job with some pride, he paused and asked, “Aren’t you a rev?” I said, “Yes.” Mike’s entire body shifted, transformed from quiet pride to melting pain, and he said, “Pray for me, Rev.”

The transition was so sudden I asked how I could pray specifically. Here’s what he said: “I buried my son right before Father’s Day. I haven’t been able to sleep since then. I work insane hours so I won’t have to stop, because when I stop I can’t stop thinking about my son.” Cautiously I asked, “What happened?” Up until that point Mike had been looking off into the distance with that vacant look that sees something perhaps in another world, or perhaps sees nothing at all, only feels or tries not to feel. When I asked what happened, he came back to this realm. His eyes slowly focused on mine and his face suddenly contorted and he hissed out with that kind of hiss that can’t believe what it’s saying, “Somebody shot him in the head in Baltimore.”

We both nearly fell apart right there on the stoop. My worst fear. His realized.

Click here to continue reading…

SOURCE: The Gospel Coalition
Pure Church