I had a dream that Randy Woodley was leading a group of people in the art of pigeon washing. Soap suds and brushes. The most sudsiness lather was needed. Bubbles floated around our heads. The birds were alive and receptive to the cleaning. Quite calm, cooing tender. Alive in our hands. 

A large group of people were participating,  diverse in both ethnicity and age. While I could not identify their faces, it sure seemed like the array of people Dr. Woodley draws to his unique ways of teaching. 

We were eager to learn and participate. 

We are so captivated by the violence we can see—gunfire, protests, burning buildings, police brutality—that we have built entire systems of moral reasoning around it. Our collective consciousness creates narratives to explain what we are witnessing. But I wonder if perhaps the solution to the violence we can see lies not in moralizing it differently, but in addressing the deeper violence we cannot see.

But invisible violence is quieter. It hides in bureaucracy, in budgets, in zoning laws, in school funding disparities, and in militarized policing justified by fear that those harmed by empire will one day fight back. It’s the forced poverty of land, place, and people. It’s the structural design that makes certain neighborhoods food deserts and others Whole Foods havens. It’s how Raleigh, North Carolina justifies a $22 million police budget under the guise of safety while exploiting the poor to meet quotas that disproportionately impact Black and Brown bodies.

These artists remind us that art is not just a reflection but a force, a catalyst for social change and cultural preservation. Like trees planted by rivers of history and struggle, their art draws sustenance from the roots of Black Southern identity. Whether through portraiture, mixed media, or community collaboration, Black Southern artists continue to inspire and lead the way.

Looking back, I realize how deeply rooted art is in understanding the South—not as a monolith, but as a mosaic of voices. Their work teaches us that growth, like a tree's roots, is grounded in perseverance and connection. Just as healthy roots sustain mighty trees, the resilience of Black Southern artists nourishes the spirit of justice and creativity.

“This country has an abnormal obsession with blood, especially the blood spilled of innocent lives who prematurely become pummeled bodies, so we commemorate tragedies but fail to disrupt the bloodletting systems. We also love dead heroes, well some of them, despite often hating them while they are living.

In this season, it will take many of us taking action where we are to ensure that no matter how many times we have to cross the bridge toward justice we will stay in the fight. Our names may not appear in history books, someone else may get all of the credit but building a pathway to liberation, fighting for justice is the real work of saints, sheroes and heroes.”

“‘Don’t ask what the world needs. Ask what makes you come alive and go do that, because what the world needs is more people who have come alive.’

This most famous quote of Howard Thurman is not some inspiring statement that he developed to launch a career as a spiritual guru. Instead, this quote is found in the acknowledgements section of Gil Bailie’s book, Violence Unveiled. Turns out Thurman offered such words in the midst of a conversation where Baile was seeking advice as he contemplated what needed to be done in the world. I’d love to ask Thurman that question today. 

And so I’m asking of my own life, for the umpteenth time: What makes me come alive?”

"Erasure is a paradox. Though it stems from a desire for something not to exist, its very attempt acknowledges that existence. To erase something, you must first recognize its presence. And in doing so, you create a new memory in those who witness the act—the memory of what was and the deliberate effort to make it disappear. The removal of Black Lives Matter Plaza is not just about paint on pavement; it is an act of strategic forgottenness, a state-sanctioned effort to edit out a movement that challenged the violence of the state. But here’s the truth: memory fights back.”

I’ve heard it said before that you can speak

That within you lay the stories untold

The stories of the losers and the lost ones

Only you and God have born witness to the things that would leave people aghast

We have named you many things but I wonder what you would name us

Monsters or humans?

I cannot hear you.

And that grieves me.

Perhaps because there is too much noise

Too much street traffic overriding your thoughts and tales

“How is it that a veve tops what was the St. Joseph AME Church? The building was completed in 1915, and those churchgoing members conceded to placing a veve where the traditional symbol of their faith normally stands. Vodou takes the place of the cross. Given the name of the community—Hayti—it’s clear that those who built their lives here were inspired by Haiti’s fight for liberation. Perhaps they weren’t as uptight when it came to the practice of vodou. Maybe they understood it as a merging of Catholicism and African religion, practiced among those who attended the church. If that is true, it may be a part of Durham’s religious history that no one wants to address.”

It’s winter, yet this island never stops growing.

Cobblestone homes, roads, and fences stand firm, softened by moss that thrives wherever water and earth meet.

Colors emerge in unexpected places—on tree trunks and bare branches, laid bare by the gentle wind and rain.

The air is crisp, fresh, carrying the scent of the sea. Hills roll in endless shades of green, dotted with clusters of family trees.

Birds fill the sky—chirping, singing, soaring—finding homes and making friends.

This is a beautiful country. A place where Frederick Douglass first felt he was “not treated as a color, but as a man.”

This is IRELAND.

"Countless other unsung individuals played pivotal and often overlooked roles in advancing civil rights. These undervalued heroes were faith leaders, grassroots organizers, legal advocates, students, and ordinary citizens who risked their lives and livelihoods to transform the world. Their contributions not only shaped history but continue to hold critical lessons for today's ongoing struggles for justice and equity.

The stories of these unsung heroes remind us that meaningful social change is rarely achieved by a few charismatic leaders alone. It is the collective effort of everyday people who challenge injustice and demand accountability from those in power. In today’s world, where racial disparities persist and new forms of discrimination emerge, the courage and strategies of these heroes remain deeply relevant."

“Heroes and saints aren’t just figures from the past; they walk among us today, embodying God’s love and justice in tangible ways. They interpret Scripture not just with words but with their actions, showing us what it means to follow Jesus in our everyday lives. As we honor the legacy of Dr. Martin Luther King Jr., I’m reminded of how his life was a living sermon—a demonstration of love, justice, and courage. Through his marches, letters, and unwavering stand against injustice, Dr. King showed us what it means to live out the Gospel.

I’ve also found inspiration in Archbishop Oscar Romero, who preached hope and justice in the face of violence and oppression in Central America. Like Dr. King, he stood with the poor and spoke out against injustice, even at great personal risk. Heroes like…”

“The idea of heroism has taken on new meaning in today’s world. It’s no longer just about grand adventures or epic victories but the quiet, persistent acts of love, care, and presence that define true courage. From first responders risking their lives in wildfires to everyday people mentoring youth or listening deeply to a friend in need, heroism is being redefined in ways that are more human, grounded, and accessible.

As we reflect on the theme of heroes and saints, we are reminded that movements of change are rarely the work of a single individual. Instead, they are carried forward by communities of people answering the call in their own unique ways. Whether it’s through small, simple acts or collective efforts for justice, the true heroism of our time lies in the courage to respond to the needs around us with compassion and imagination."

"The journey makes you a pilgrim because the Camino is not only a track to be walked but a parable and a reality all at once. It transforms you, working within and outside of you, not just during the time it takes to walk each stage but throughout your entire life—if you allow it. Walking this holy way alongside eleven centuries of pilgrims, I’ve learned that pilgrimage is more than movement; it’s a practice of trust, endurance, and finding grace in every step."

“Heroes are found among the deer who have dodged the death dealing wrought by vehicular warfare, pump action rifles, high definition scopes. Bounding so, bent on survival, but still bounding. A vision of joy and enduring. To think of all the years they lived in a roadless world, a motor-free society. They were here, and there, before we paved our way through their homeland, shooting out a clearing for the construction. And so, in the early stages of praying for the deer between my home and the church office, I merely whispered: Keep us safe."

Mentorship is often thought of as a formal relationship, but what if it’s already happening all around us, shaping us in ways we don’t realize? Reflecting on my journey as a camp counselor, a mentee, and a leader in ministry, I discovered that mentorship is deeply tied to imitation—a concept explored both in first-century discipleship and René Girard’s mimetic theory. Through the lens of my own African American faith experience, I came to see how culture, values, and traditions mentor us in profound ways. This article invites you to reflect on your own desires and ask: Who or what are you imitating, and how does that shape the person you’re becoming?

"In the aftermath of the US presidential election, I’ve found myself navigating a whirlwind of emotions—anger, betrayal, grief, and resolve. This year, instead of resisting the premature arrival of holiday decorations, I surrendered. Perhaps we need the festive lights, the laughter of children, and the glimmer of hope they bring. Oh, how we need light.

Thanksgiving is a complicated season—a reminder of empty chairs and histories of injustice. Yet, amid the complexity, I find solace in the wisdom of ancestors and intentional village celebrations. In this time of uncertainty, we are called to let our light shine, even in the darkest moments."

This morning, as I prepared my son’s birthday breakfast, I was reminded of the traditions and rituals that ground us in our humanity and connect us to something greater. Growing up, my father showed his care by making breakfast every morning, believing a good day began with a full stomach. Today, I find myself continuing that tradition with my son, weaving his story into the communal liturgy of care that shaped me.

Reflecting on his birth in Mexico City, I am struck by how I was held by a village when my own plans unraveled. Women in the neighborhood welcomed us with love, their wisdom and rituals guiding me into motherhood. These moments of shared reliance and interconnection remind me that we are not made to go it alone. The liturgy of the “we” – traditions of care and presence – is sacred, teaching us to embody new postures of interdependence and hope for today’s challenges.

“If it is not possible to disengage from the political affairs of our country, and I contend it is not because we make political decisions everyday, then what lies ahead for those who seek to embody the way of “doing justice, loving mercy, and walking humbly with God?” 

When I awoke on the morning following the election, and the results of it were confirmed, my spirit was spiked with a combination of grief and fear. The grief was for people I care about, the fear was for people I care about. However, it was not so much about a fear of what is to come for the marginalized, poor, and oppressed among us under a Trump presidency (although I fear that, too!). Instead, it was a grief and fear directed at the ways…”

"In that moment, I was reminded that, despite our differences, we have to coexist, working and raising our children in this shared space we call home. But what that moment also taught me, post-election, is that much of that 'unity' is false—a facade, a social display of organized harm, parading with joy over those it brutalizes... How can those who find entertainment in our culture continue to vote in ways that keep us oppressed, upholding their values as a measure of 'winning'—a false American dream?"

“I believed that what I had to offer the youth would greatly benefit their lives and our community. While I thought I was being humble, there was a part of me that felt my ideas were what they should follow. This mindset is one we all struggle with, especially during election years, when judging and shaming others becomes second nature. Many of us are held captive by our own way of seeing, doing, and being in the world that causes us to dismiss others. True discipleship, as Archbishop Oscar Romero described, requires a deeper 'second conversion'—a reorientation toward community, solidarity, and social change. May our votes, voices, and actions embody this mission."