Grateful for a Savior Who Declares: We are Beloved

There was a time when I believed being a Christian meant having all the answers—neatly packaged theology and flawless Sunday smiles that never wavered. But after more than 30 years of ministry, in all its grit and glory, life has taught me otherwise.

I now know real faith runs deeper than a scripture passage quoted or a cross worn. It has taught me that clinging to Jesus—especially when Christianity feels hijacked by hate—is not blind allegiance but an act of courage, clarity, and divine calling.

I don’t hold on for the sake of a shallow, sanitized religion. I hold on for a faith that breathes, evolves, weeps with the wounded and dances with joy. I hold on because it saved my life. And I know it can save others too.

In a time when pulpits too often echo judgment instead of justice and when policies of cruelty masquerade as love, I still choose the faith. Not to defend a brittle institution, but to live out the liberating, love-drenched way of the carpenter from Nazareth—the radical who walked with outcasts, touched the untouchable, and dared to heal on the Sabbath.

I don’t hold on for the sake of a shallow, sanitized religion. I hold on for a faith that breathes, evolves, weeps with the wounded and dances with joy. I hold on because it saved my life. And I know it can save others too.

I hold on for three sacred reasons:

Because I’ve survived what should have broken me.

Because I believe in the healing power of the gospel.

And because I’m called to be light for others.

I. I Am Living Proof of Resurrection

You can’t argue me out of what I’ve lived. I am the girl who carried traumas too heavy for her age. The child who bore the weight of abuse and abandonment. There were moments I didn’t think I’d make it—but I did. Not by luck. By grace.

And not the floating-above-it-all kind of grace, but the grace that meets you in the dirt. The grace that sits beside you in your sorrow, wraps you in light, and whispers, You will rise again. I have been carried by a Presence that was always with me.

Christ’s resurrection isn’t just a story, it isn’t just ancient history—it’s why I’m still breathing. My story isn’t perfect, but it is sacred. And through every scar, I now serve. My life is a living altar, a testament to the power that says, death is not the end.

II. The Message of Jesus Still Heals and Frees

People are asking, “Why Christianity?” Especially now—when Jesus’ name is so often distorted by empire, exclusion, and ego.

My answer is this: I don’t follow the Jesus of domination. I follow the Jesus of deliverance. The Jesus who flipped tables to make space for justice. Who wept at gravesides, partied at weddings, and made room for women to teach, lead, and anoint. The Jesus who was a creative disruptor long before I embraced that idea.

As an artist, healer, and minister, I’ve seen what happens when people encounter the real gospel—not a gospel of fear and shame, but one of liberation. I’ve seen healing in prison circles, transformation in art studios, revival around dinner tables and yoga mats. I’ve knelt to wash the feet of survivors. I’ve whispered love to those whose religion tried to crush and erase them.

My theology doesn’t live in ivory towers. It walks the streets, it holds space for sacred tears. It is rooted in real time, and it blooms in present struggle. It’s not tradition for tradition’s sake—it’s a living, flowing relationship with the Divine.

This faith sets captives free. It loosens chains. It restores dignity. It invites us all to be made whole.

III. I Am Called to Be Light for Others

I hold onto this faith because someone, somewhere, needs to know what I know. Someone needs to hear the good news that joy is still possible. That there is a Love greater than the harm they’ve endured. That God sees them, even when the church did not.

My life and ministry are built for those who’ve been pushed out, locked out, or left out of traditional religion. Through public art, yoga, meditation, storytelling, shared meals, and support group meetings, my call is to “show up” and be a minister in unexpected places. I offer embodiment and the radical reminder that healing is real and hope is not foolish. Believing in Jesus isn’t outdated—it’s revolutionary. 

I think of Robert—75 years old now, 30 of them spent in the revolving door of prison. A Vietnam veteran marked by addiction, violence, and stories of nightmares that were real. Most of his family had given up on him. The church he had grown up in had written him off. But when I met Robert, I saw something else. We connected immediately—I instantly knew he was one of my people. The kind of gifted soul the world throws away, but God still calls beloved. He was rough around the edges, full of drama and hard truths, but he saw me too. I was the unorthodox woman in ministry he proudly called “pastor” as he gathered with others inside prison to listen to my Sunday morning radio broadcasts. 

I journeyed with him through his final incarceration and release. To the amazement of his family, he walked through the doors of the church on that first Sunday after he came home, as he promised. The man the community had discounted stood tall among them—his faith had stuck. Folks were stunned. They never thought he would be the one to walk the path of redemption. At 70, Robert walked down the aisle, knelt at the altar and was made new in Christ. I had the sacred honor of serving as his pastor as he embraced the love of Jesus for himself and was transformed. It was because of that faithfulness that I nominated him to be a trustee. Because of his gifts, the members selected him to be chairman of the board. Robert, the man counted out, was now counted in as a respected and valued churchman. That’s why I hold on—because sometimes, in this life, a person needs a makeover. I serve a Savior who still specializes in second chances.

I stand in faith with others because I know what it means to lean into someone else’s hope when I have felt depleted. So I’ve committed my life to taking that stand—for the silenced, the searching, and the soul-weary.

And So I Rejoice

Let me tell you something true:

I’ve walked through fire, but I have not been consumed. I’ve been knocked down, but never destroyed. And through every storm, my help came from the hills—where Christ stood, arms wide open, whispering, I’ve got you.

I am grateful for a Savior who knows what it feels like to bleed. I rejoice in a Spirit who groans with us and lifts us up. I honor a Christ who dwells in dust and divinity, in tears and triumph.

I am not ashamed of the gospel—because I’ve tasted its fruit. I’ve seen what love can do. I will not be silent in a time that demands clarity, compassion, and courage. There is power in the Christian witness—not the corrupted version steeped in supremacy, but the witness rooted in resurrection, humility, and holy fire. The kind that reclaims lost stories and reminds us all: we are beloved.

So I hold on—not out of fear, but with fierce whimsy.

I hold on because I am tethered to something eternal.

I hold on because the work is not done.

I hold on—not just to survive, but to thrive, to serve, to shine, and to love without limits.

This is my song.

This is my story.

This is my stand.

And still—I rise. I believe. I rejoice.

Amen.

The Rev. Dr. Shelley D. Best ’00 M.Div. is an artist, activist, yoga instructor, entrepreneur, ordained A.M.E. Zion elder, and author of Creative Disruptor: How Artists and Innovators Build Influence, Drive Change, and Shape the Future (Wise Ink Media). In 2019, her artwork was featured in the “What is Black?” exhibit at YDS. In 2020, she was awarded a YDS Alumni Award for Distinction in Congregational Ministry.