As a Black queer womanist standing Sunday after Sunday before predominantly white congregations, I have spent more time than I care to admit wondering whether my sermons would be palatable to their tastes. I would step into the pulpit enamored—almost consumed—by the questions swirling in my mind: Will my cadence be too sharp? Will my twang be too unfamiliar? Will my skin, unbothered by the wrinkles time tries to offer it, be too bold a proclamation before I even open my mouth? And Lord knows, most of them could never imagine slipping into my size‑11 stilettos long enough to understand the life that shaped the voice they are about to hear.

These thoughts trail me every time I rise to preach the Word. I am one of only a few preachers rotating through these sanctuaries, and my sermons tend to lean toward justice—toward the gritty, necessary work of putting action back into our faith. I know some hear it as brow‑beating. I know some shift in their seats. And still, I wrestle with how to hold the gospel in one hand and the world’s wounds in the other while being the only person of color in the room. How loudly do you speak when you fear you are the only one listening?

And then—God, in God’s mischievous, holy way—showed up where I least expected.

After one sermon, an email arrived from a parishioner. She wanted to ask about a quote I had used from Womanist theologian Renita Weems. She spelled Weems’s name wrong. She misquoted the line. She stumbled through the details. But she wanted to correct herself. She wanted to get it right. She wanted to honor the source.

I sat there stunned.

Because in that moment, I realized I had been heard—heard deeply enough that someone went home thinking about a Black woman theologian whose name they had never encountered before that morning. Heard enough that they reached out, not to challenge, not to debate, but to learn.

My voice is one I will to be heard. One I fight to have understood. But I am rarely at ease with the possibility that I have actually been received. And yet here was evidence—quiet, humble, unexpected—that someone was listening. Someone was witnessing. Someone was waiting for me to say exactly what I said.

There is a saying I carry with me: my words are in the shape of someone else’s wounds. I had been doubting whether my words were the right shape, the right form, the right tone. But the truth is simpler: I needed to speak them—even if my voice shook.

And on that day, when I quoted Renita Weems in all her brilliance, I learned again that God shows up in the places we least expect. God shows up in misquoted emails. God shows up in the quiet curiosity of someone trying to understand. God shows up in the cracks of my doubt, reminding me that someone sees, someone hears, someone is waiting for me to push through and preach the sermon the moment requires.

The quote she asked about was this:

“God shows up in the places we least expect and among the people we least value.”
– Rev. Dr. Renita Weems

And that day, God showed up for me.

___

Published in the April 2026 issue of For the Messengers.

Rev. Whittney‑Marie Murphy is the Executive Director of Come As You Are Collective and a preacher at Archwood UCC and South Haven UCC in Cleveland, Ohio. She is an ordained minister, chaplain, and spiritual director committed to cultivating spaces of healing, justice, and spiritual belonging.