One Blood Coalition

Below is the introduction and second chapter to a book I am writing. The introduction sets the stage for why I am writing. I wanted to share the second chapter because it lies at the heart of so much pain. Trauma, addiction, white supremacy, and racial hatred are not separate. This chapter is a way forward to begin to see more clearly how evil has beset all of us. Albeit in different ways, we are connected in our pain. And if we can see that, I believe it will stir compassion for one another. The introduction clues the reader of my book into the reason why I wrote it. God called me to racial healing. I though that calling was annihilated because of addiction. What I have come to see is that he called me through it and in spite of it.

Chapter I (abbreviated introduction)

“For the gifts and the calling of God are irrevocable.” —Romans 11:29 (ESV)

Romans 11:29 stands as a defiant declaration of divine faithfulness in the face of human failure. It emerges at the climax of Paul’s sweeping theological reflection in Romans 9–11, where he wrestles with Israel’s unbelief and God’s unchanging purpose. In this context, Paul asserts that despite Israel’s rebellion, God has not—and will not—abandon His covenant. His gifts are not conditional. His calling is not fragile. The Greek word ametameleta—“irrevocable”—signals a God who does not change His mind, at least on who he calls. One who does not take back what He gives, who does not undo what He has called into being.

This is not sentimentality; it is sovereignty. God’s call is not based on merit or performance but on His eternal, gracious choice. Abraham was not called because he was impressive, but because God is immutable. And this same unyielding faithfulness applies to us. Though we, like Israel, may resist, relapse, and rebel, God does not repent of His love. His redemptive purposes remain active even in the aftermath of our failures. He is a God who calls shadowy people into holy work—and refuses to revoke that call when we break along the way. If His plan for Israel still stands, then so does His plan for me. And it does for you too. This book is my wrestling match with that truth. It is a confession of deep addiction and a testimony to a deeper grace. It is the story of how God’s unrelenting call has pursued me through both private shame and public purpose—how He has remained faithful even when I have not. And that, in all its terrifying beauty, is the ruthless call of God. He will not repent.Thus, there are two dominant and deeply intertwined themes in this book. The first is a harrowing, painfully honest account of my addiction to pornography, a torturous, soul-wounding struggle that has, for years, left me drowning in shame and longing for freedom. The second is God’s unrelenting call on my life to seek and participate in the sacred work of racial healing in America. These two themes may seem unrelated. They are not. One bleeds into the other. And through the blood, God speaks

Chapter 2….

.By this point in my journey, I often found myself asking, “Why can’t you get sober?” Even worse were the imagined voices of others: “This guy just can’t get it.” And honestly, I still don’t have a satisfying answer for the lingering grip of this disease. Addiction, as one piece of recovery literature puts it, is “cunning, baffling, and powerful.”

In the past thirteen years, I’ve also come to realize a thing that is sobering: in the world of addiction recovery, sex addicts are the lepers of the community. I’ve spoken with countless therapists (even as I write this, I met another one yesterday, she thought it had to do with bondage) who don’t even know what a CSAT (Certified Sex Addiction Therapist) is. There’s often a quiet stigma, even among the “experts.”

Similarly, I’ve encountered no shortage of resistance in conversations around racial healing. I’ve heard it all: “What do you want me to do?” “They need to help themselves.” “They’re not victims.” Too often, these remarks aren’t born of cruelty, but of deep discomfort—and ego. Mine included. In conversations about race, many of us instinctively armor up, even when no real threat is present. Our egos rush in to protect us, mistaking reflection for accusation.

My prayer is that this chapter might soften that reflex. Because there is something freeing—even healing—about understanding that most people’s current behaviors, attitudes, and wounds did not emerge in a vacuum. We are shaped. We are set up.

I was set up.
Black Americans were set up.

And yet—we are still responsible. We are responsible for our healing. We are responsible for our responses. We are responsible for choosing forgiveness and seeking love—even for our enemies.

But if we don’t understand the origins of our pain—if we cannot name what hurt us—we cannot move toward true compassion. Not for others. Not even for ourselves.

After the divorce—linked directly to my addiction—I fear I might begin to lose my reader. And honestly, I’d understand if you decided to take this book to your local Red Cross or thrift store. But I hope you’ll stay with me. These struggles did not happen to me in a vacuum. Nor do the current conditions in inner-city neighborhoods exist in a vacuum. I was set up for addiction. And many of the current spiritual, psychosocial, and economic struggles in the African American experience—those folks were set up, too.

In many recovery circles, “why” is a frowned-upon question. It’s not about why I’m an alcoholic, drug addict, or sex addict. What matters, they say, is that I need a solution. The fear is that if we start unpacking our past—especially family trauma—we might be accused of blaming others. And it is clear to me, evidenced by the folks in this country bent on changing history, that “why” is not important. However, as Mirslov Volf has noted, “to fail to tell the memory, rightly, damages both the soul of the perpetrator and the perpetrated.” We remain as sick as our secrets.

You see, there’s a difference between blaming and naming.

We’re told addiction comes from four sources: genetics, family systems, stress, and choice. Knowing that hasn’t saved me. But it has helped frame my story. My family history is saturated with both chemical and behavioral addictions. On both sides—alcoholism, sex, and love addiction run deep. You could say my genes are steeped in addiction.

More specifically, my struggle with pornography addiction was shaped not only by biology but by deep misinformation. I was taught growing up that porn wasn’t necessarily wrong—it just needed to be approached with “balance.” That sounded reasonable—until it wasn’t. No one knew that my brain chemistry, environment, and genetic wiring wouldn’t allow for such moderation. I was hooked from the first look.

Worse still, I was taught something far more damaging about sex. I remember hearing, more than once: “Man does not live by bread alone—he’s got to have a little bit of ______ every now and then.” You can fill in the blank—a crude, degrading reference to female anatomy. It was passed off as humor. In treatment, I learned this is a form of sexual abuse—misinformational abuse. That message programmed me to believe Jesus was wrong. That sex wasn’t a gift but a need I couldn’t live without.

I internalized the belief that my worth, my identity—even my survival—was tied to sexual experience. That became the defining narrative of my life—not that I was a child of God, but that I was a sexual being who needed sex to be whole. That was the counterfeit spirit—the twisted identity—I took on in the shadow of my father’s voice.

My siblings, much older than me, brought pornography into our home when I was just ten. I will never forget that night. My brother stood by the stairs, coaching me on how to “enjoy” the film he had rented. I remember the couch. I remember the darkness. I remember my innocence collapsing.

I was called: Dumb, stoop (short for stupid), dumbass, dipshit, left field, out to lunch. And it was paralyzing. I thought at times under those disintegrating terms, I was going to literally dissolve. But, this inner pain found protection in pornography. She seem to like me.

There were also names I was called—sexualized, degrading names I won’t repeat here. In addition to physical, verbal, and emotional abuse, my young heart internalized one core belief: I could not say no to sexual experience and still be whole. That belief didn’t just harm me—it fractured me. My childhood was cut short by trauma. Toxic shame became the guard dog in the front yard of my soul. I was divided. Dissociated. Split down the middle.

So, is this about blaming my father, or mother, or brother? Sure sounds like it, right? I get it. But, it’s not. It can’t be. My healing depends on the sanctifying power of forgiveness.

No. It’s not about blame. It’s about the truth. It’s about naming the roots of the pain.

Therapists understand how essential it is for their clients to develop healthy separation from their parents—especially when abuse is involved. They know the invisible cords of codependency run deep. The longing for approval from those who hurt us becomes a twisted form of loyalty. We try to individuate, but we’re haunted by a question we’re too afraid to ask aloud: “What would it take to finally be enough for them?”

Addiction feeds off that question. Yes, we return to the drug because it feels good. But more deeply, we return because it numbs the ache of rejection. It gives us a counterfeit form of connection—a temporary relief from a primal wound: the wound of not being loved as we are. And then it serves as a painkiller for the rage of repeatedly being rejected.

And this—this core wound—is what eventually tied my personal addiction to my calling in racial healing.

What could my fractured childhood possibly have to do with racism?
What does the trauma of my past have to do with the trauma of Black Americans?

Everything.

In the thick of my own suffering, I began to recognize patterns that felt eerily familiar—emotional emptiness, soul-deep shame, rage with no language, and internalized lies about identity, worth, and belonging. These were not just my wounds. They were older. They were generational.

As I studied more about trauma and race, I came across Dr. Joy DeGruy’s Post Traumatic Slave Syndrome. What she described did more than explain the wounds of a community—it helped me understand the architecture of my own pain.

The book examines how race, though biologically insignificant, has profoundly shaped social experiences and institutional behaviors. Dr. DeGruy traces the roots of PTSS to American chattel slavery, emphasizing its uniquely dehumanizing nature and the pseudo-scientific justifications that fueled racial oppression. The effects of this legacy, she argues, persist today in the form of inherited trauma—a concept supported by modern epigenetic research.

This book did something I didn’t know I needed: it gave a name to something that had long lived unnamed in the shadows—not just for others, but for me.

Reading it wasn’t merely an academic exercise—it was a mirror. Dr. DeGruy named what I had been experiencing on an individual level: inherited, embodied trauma. The same symptoms she described—vacant esteem, internalized lies, compulsive behaviors as coping mechanisms—were the very patterns I had lived out in my own addiction.

The sexual programming I received as a child led me to a kind of double vision. I came to see myself as someone with two souls, two warring identities in one body. I judged my insides by the outsides of others, especially women. So when I read W.E.B. Du Bois describe the “double consciousness” of Black folks in America, I could relate—not in a way that erases or appropriates, but in a way that revealed spiritual kinship.

Du Bois writes:

“One ever feels his two-ness,—an American, a Negro; two souls, two thoughts, two unreconciled strivings; two warring ideals in one dark body, whose dogged strength alone keeps it from being torn asunder.”

I am not claiming equivalence between my personal trauma and the generational suffering of Black Americans. That would be dishonest and dishonoring. But I am claiming spiritual kinship.

Du Bois’s words put language to a split I have known for much of my life: the inner war between shame and worth, silence and voice, survival and wholeness. I’ve come to believe that trauma—whether racial or personal—is not just psychological. It is theological. It speaks to how we see God, how we see ourselves, and how we see others.

And just like trauma, healing is both personal and collective. God was calling me not only to confront my own wounds but to enter the pain of others. To walk, as best I could, with those whose trauma was compounded by centuries of racial oppression.

And to listen.

So I ask you to keep looking for God’s call and His gift within this beautiful mess. My hope is that what’s been shared—rooted in personal trauma and collective shame—might help you reconsider how you think about sexual addiction and racial healing. They are more connected than we often allow ourselves to admit.

God remains the faithful character in this story. Through every chapter, every relapse, every injustice—He has been compassionate. It’s the first trait He names about Himself. When Moses asks to see God’s kabod—His glory—God responds:

“The Lord, the Lord, compassionate and gracious, slow to anger, abounding in steadfast love and faithfulness…” (Exodus 34:6)

This is not a God who keeps distance from our grief. This is a God who is acquainted with it. All of it. A God who understands the consequences of sin and trauma, passed down through generations—and yet still forgives to the thousandth.

“As a mother comforts her child, so will I comfort you; and you will be comforted over Jerusalem.” (Isaiah 66:13)

Those who have suffered generational shame and trauma—whether personal or collective—don’t just need to hear about this compassion. They need to see it embodied.

And so I ask you—gently but directly—to let go of any version of God that cannot hold suffering. Let go of the God-in-Christ who cannot or will not sit with pain. Because hurt people hurt people. On micro and macro levels. In private and in public.

We need communities—and a society—that better understands trauma, mental illness, addiction, and the hidden sources of anger and rage…and racist thinking. Because we are all made in the image of God. And if we are going to be agents of healing, we must learn to see that image in every soul—even the shattered ones.