“Annie Mae is an angel!”
Whenever I journey to my grandmother’s hometown of Tallulah, Louisiana, I always hear about her influence on those who know her best. It blows my mind to see God’s grace on display in her community after more than 75 years.
Her life is a representation of the lives of so many matriarchs redeemed in and shaped by the historic black church. Her legacy shows what a supernatural God can do in and through people radically committed to supernatural living—in spite of the all-too-natural pangs that meet them in this life.
Here are three crucial lessons we can learn from my grandmother and senior saints like her.
1. Annie Mae teaches us evangelism.
“Jesus died on the cross for your sins.”
I was 4 when I first heard the gospel from my grandmother. She laid it out in plain English that might even be deemed offensive today: “Everyone has sinned, and if you die in your sins you will go to hell forever. Jesus Christ died on the cross for your sins so that you might have eternal life with him” (cf. John 3:10–18; 5:29; Rom. 3:9–23; Rev. 20:11–15). It was simple, to the point, and effective. Though I didn’t embrace the gospel until about a decade later, those words were a holy haunting that remained for years.
In our day, we have hundreds of reasons why we shouldn’t share the gospel. Not my grandmother. She shares Christ like a satisfied customer.
Think back to the apostles’ early declaration. After being warned by the religious authorities to shut up about Jesus, they replied, “Whether it is right in the sight of God to listen to you rather than to God, you must judge, for we cannot but speak of what we have seen and heard” (Acts 4:19–20). They obviously hadn’t lost their agency, but they couldn’t help but speak about Jesus. What they’d experienced was too profound.
2. Annie Mae teaches us joy.
“Thank God for what you got, cuz you could’ve not had even that.”
A growing awareness of mental and emotional health has led to some great conversations within the church. But the popular emphasis on self can sometimes be self-destructive.
My grandmother tends to those around her. Sometimes it feels like she cares for others at the expense of herself. But though outward-focused, she isn’t out-of-focus. Her obedience to Scripture (e.g., Phil. 2:3) results in both the pain of cross-bearing and the benefits of following Christ. My grandmother and many other church mothers like her are visibly joyful. Her focus on others makes her so. She feels she’s been given so much in Christ that she has so much to give away—even while enduring all the hard things that life in America throws her way.
My grandmother and many other church mothers like her are visibly joyful. Her focus on others makes her so.
This isn’t to say my grandmother doesn’t battle deep sadness. She does. It simply means those things have a difficult time overtaking her.
It’s not always the case, but depression can stem from an over-obsession with the past, and anxiety from an over-obsession with the future. But it’s harder to be paralyzed by either when your past or your future isn’t the focal point of your musings. Black matriarchs teach us that genuine contentment and gladness don’t come from thinking about yourself. True joy comes from pursuing the joy of others.
3. Annie Mae teaches us grace.
“Don’t hold that against them—you don’t know what they might be going through.”
My grandmother picked up the phone. “Where were you?!” the person on the line barked. She quickly switched the phone from the speaker because she knew we knew who was calling. It was her pastor. Now, I was ready to jump in the car and make some unholy moves. But after getting off the phone, she simply told us, “Pastor said hi.” She refused to paint a negative picture of her pastor. Her compassion compelled her to not gossip or slander. Instead, she confronted her pastor directly while interceding privately.
We hear a lot these days about self-preservation, self-care, and self-love. While these things aren’t bad in themselves, my grandmother is like a flashing light waking me from the slumber of complacency that tempts me to choose the easy path at the expense of showing grace. Where I feel justified in cutting off those who have hurt me, her testimony—which is filled with racial trauma, church trauma, and many other traumas—reminds me I’m no longer cut off from a holy God. In my grandmother’s theology, picking up relational scissors is only a last resort. And even when it’s necessary to use them, we should have the glue stick of gospel reconciliation in hand (Eph. 4:25–32).
More Where She Came From
Annie Mae’s legacy isn’t hers alone. The black church has a long tradition of extending mercy while expecting malice. It’s what caused millions of liberated slaves not to seek revenge against their former masters. It’s what caused the survivors of the Charleston shooting to forgive Dylann Roof—displaying to him a dignity he never showed them. It’s what caused Brandt Jean to embrace the woman who shot and killed his brother, Botham. It wasn’t only unusual for a courtroom—it was unusual, period. Unnatural. More precisely, supernatural.
The black church has a long tradition of extending mercy while expecting malice.
My grandmother represents something we desperately need in the American church today. We need to be quicker to share the gospel with unbelievers than we are to convert others to our particular brand of Christian culture. We need to pursue contentment and joy in Christ Jesus. We need to remember what he has done for us, not just what others have done to us. Only then will we be able to extend unusual, unnatural, supernatural grace.
Let’s sit down at the feet of saints like Annie Mae and see if we’re not all better for it.
The Gospel Coalition