A few years ago I found my life off course—or so I thought. (Isn’t it funny how God will do that to us? But vision is often perfected in retrospect.) The plans I’d made for myself were no longer viable, and if I didn’t act soon I was going to be in serious trouble. 

Not knowing what else to do, I decided to use the detour as an opportunity to finally make my mother proud and finish earning my bachelor’s degree. I’d come very close to finishing in years past, and now that I was older and a little more settled I could probably go ahead and knock out a few semesters and walk across a stage. 

I decided to go to a well-known Christian university in my city, but faith honestly was not the main reason. It was more of a locality default. The school I really wanted to go to was in the next town, which, where I lived at the time, would have easily been a 45 to 90-minute drive due to traffic. (Yeah… that still doesn’t sound appealing.) They didn’t have the degree program I wanted either, so Christian university a few blocks away from home it was.

I arrived on campus neither thrilled nor excited. I was, after all, there under less than desirable circumstances. What I’d assumed was going to be a few boring lectures and annoying essays turned out to be the complete opposite. As an undergrad, I was required to take a Christian history class. I was a little annoyed, mainly because it was 8:00 am and at that time my morning energy didn’t kick in until around 9:00, no matter how much coffee I chugged. But I had a good professor who was able to keep me engaged. He was initially a bit intimidating, but I liked his bold approach. He made it clear that his goal was to put us on the right path of leadership, and simply parroting what we’d grown up listening to in Sunday School programs and on television was not going to cut it in his class.

This was going to be tough. And tough it was.

It took hours of study just to pass a simple quiz. But I was indeed blessed to have the teacher that I did. His care—and his gift—were apparent. He also understood my background. While the majority of the class was young, White, and from one denomination, I was older, Black, and from a different part of the country. I could not identify with anyone else in the class, and the confused stares that came my way whenever I spoke proved it.  

One day the topic of church organization and structure came up. I don’t remember the details of what I asked, but I vividly remember my classmates staring at both me and the professor with eyes that asked “What in the world is she talking about now?” Goodness. You’d think I was from Mars instead of Texas.  

He answered my question, then gracefully explained that the background I came from did not require education for leadership. If you said you were called you could teach or preach, and if you were liked well enough you could become the pastor. 

The room nearly burst with horrified gasps, offense, and laughter from my classmates. I can still feel the rage and embarrassment that rose within me. My ears became so hot my plastic glasses could have melted. I felt like an old fool while 18 and 19-year-olds threw a barrage of reasons why that approach to both faith and church was wrong. Some of the horrors they accurately perceived had actually happened to me. Others to my friends. Some of it I’d even witnessed. 

But how was it that I was much older than them and had been in church my entire life (well, for the most part), yet I did not know as much as they did? They were practically still in diapers as far as I was concerned, and they had a firm grasp on seemingly basic things that I’d never even heard before. 

The teacher was able to calm everyone down and move on with his lesson, but by then I’d checked out. My rage had turned into pain, and I was barely able to hold myself together. While they talked about Augustine, Polycarp, and Gregory I (or, you know, some people like them), I was wrapped in the offense of my marginalized history, the anger of misunderstood spiritual abuse, and the arrogance of the privileged upbringings they were still too immature to appreciate.

I’d probably asked myself a million questions by the time class was dismissed. The scenic journey across the beautiful campus gave my troubled mind a little clarity. By the time I made it back to my vehicle the answer to many of those questions dawned on me. 

I didn’t know Christianity. I knew church. 

Oh. No. 

What in the name of unbiblical tradition had we been doing? Whatever it was, it was not Christianity, which I concluded was the reason why it did not work for so many people who tried it—many of whom I knew. 

As I sat I realized my own privilege. There I was, a Black woman, annoyed by the timing of class when I was being given an education the generations before me dreamed about. And I was also learning things that many educated people I knew still did not. 

But why did someone have to be privileged to truly know their faith? In a country so affluent, with so many buildings and so many pastors and teachers with so many ways to get their messages across, why did a person need to go to college to truly learn their faith? 

I didn’t realize it then, but that was the beginning of the next part of my life. Did I jump in full steam ahead? No. Did I have a few time-outs and make some mistakes along the way? Absolutely. Did I take another detour? A few.

Am I still standing by the grace of God? You’d better believe it. 

The Chosen Portion is my offering to the Kingdom. My goal is to consistently provide Christian teaching in an effort to educate, strengthen, and encourage others in their walk with Christ, because no one should have to pay tuition to truly learn their faith.

- LaShanda Callahan