“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.”

A couple days after the presidential inauguration of Donald Trump, Kate and I took to the air, a planned excursion months in the making, but one that seemed a bit like flying away. On our flight to Argentina I was thinking about what has become (and what has always been) of my home country.

In flight I found myself scouring the words and pages of Barry Lopez in search of something to illuminate a path on which I might continue to write and work for the greater good. In one of his essays titled, “Love in a Time of Terror” I expected to encounter a vision to guide me (and perhaps the title was enough). I did and I didn’t find what I was looking for.

Lopez quips that “evidence of the failure to love is everywhere around us.” This is the pulse to my rage, a rage aimed mostly at the Trump regime and his cronies. A movement famous for a failure to love. But my frustration is not only fueled by the failure to love present within the MAGA movement, it is that it is glaringly obvious that a Trump presidency is devoid of love,  assuring he’s placed in the pantheon of Bullies.

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."

“Dr. Perry’s book caused me to reflect in the reverse: What does it mean to be Black? Many say every Black American has to think about this question, but I hadn’t examined it critically enough—at least not in the ways that Dr. Perry presented it to me through her book. Her work is scattered with American and international stories, some of which offer powerful reflections on how a color became a culture and what being that color has meant to us historically and today. Dr. Perry presents these ideas in a poetic way, as is her style. She entrances you with her words, leading you to curiosity and pondering their meaning. She does this in the most creative and imaginative way by telling the story of being Black through the color blue. The book allows you to see how blue is entangled with the history of being Black, from the indigo plantations to artistic choices. While reading, I couldn’t help but think about how much my wife loves the color blue and how she had us paint our living room walls a dark ocean blue. The interior of her parents’ house is the same blue.”

“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."

"Silence is not simply the absence of noise but a sacred space where transformation begins. In this space, we are invited to listen—not just to the voices around us, but to the voice within that calls us to a life of meaning and purpose. Howard Thurman’s wisdom reminds us that slowing down and attuning to our inner voice is not just an act of reflection but a step toward becoming fully alive. This practice of stillness invites us to shed false narratives, expectations, and fears, allowing us to reconnect with our truest selves. As we step into the New Year, Thurman challenges us to…”

“I feel at peace yet overwhelmed, as if the soil has cried out and finally taken a breath from calling my name—because I answered. My ears are still ringing. That compass-guided heart, once racing, now attempts to steady itself as I take in all they wanted me to see, feel, hear, and know. ‘From dust you came, and to dust you shall return.’ The Durham dust is in the soil, the Durham soil is also standing, speaking before me—a mutual rhythm of formation: they shape the city; the city shapes them. They are sacred, clay-like vessels, animated by a bleeding love for history, humanity…collective memory.”

"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?

“To be a Black woman is to be Elphaba—born different, scorned, and misunderstood. It’s carrying the weight of explaining your existence every time someone encounters your voice, your perspective, your presence, your body, your hair. It is wrestling with identity, healing, and re-membering yourself, only to eventually break free from the systemic lie called Oz. To be a Black woman is to learn, like Elphaba, to defy gravity—claiming your beauty, power, and freedom in a world that often tries to deny them.”

"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…”