I recently participated in a contemplative prayer and discernment retreat in Cullman, Alabama. The purpose of this retreat was simple yet profound: to seek God’s guidance in the face of the crises confronting our nation. But guidance for what, exactly? The first part of this post is sort of introduction to set the context of the retreat.
First, I had to recognize that we were gathering as a prophetic community. Prophets speak truth to power. Rarely are prophets found comfortably settled in the synagogues or temples; instead, they often stand outside, calling both priests and prophets alike to account when they have grown silent in the face of idolatry and injustice. When corruption and oppression settled into Israel’s temple, it revealed that the nation itself was sick. The temple set the moral compass for Israel—either directing the people due north in faithfulness, or else leading them upside down without realizing it.
Today, in the United States, we find ourselves in a similar condition—riddled with idolatry and burdened by social injustice. Our current leadership insists that America is facing a “communist revolution,” portraying the working class and the poor as enemies bent on destruction. Yet, more persuasively, what we are witnessing is not communism but corporate fascism—oligarchs disguising their own economic domination under the language of Marxism. These elites have dismantled factories, replaced them with a fragile high-tech service economy, and bound us to debt and dollar monopolies enforced worldwide.
Meanwhile, millions of Americans have been persuaded that riots, a pandemic, the 2020 election, educational reforms, and wars abroad are evidence of a communist insurrection. In reality, a powerful union of corporations and politicians is orchestrating fear, nostalgia, and disinformation as tools of control. Books like Unhumans: Communist Revolutions and How to Crush Them—endorsed by rising political figures—lay out strategies that accuse the poor and marginalized of revolution, while actually plotting their further dismantling and destruction. In such a context, every accusation becomes a confession.For us as Christians, this reality demands discernment. Retreat is not an escape but a space to hear God’s call more clearly. In these times, we are called to stand with, and even as, the powerless. Jesus not only stood beside the poor—He became poor, dying as the powerless at the hands of the powerful. Our community gathered in Cullman to ask: what does it mean to bear faithful witness in this moment, to stand on behalf of those who cannot defend themselves?
Beneath the political rhetoric, another deeper anxiety is at work: the fear of white decline. Birth rates among white Americans have fallen, and many white supremacists fear the reality of becoming a minority alongside Black, Brown, and immigrant communities. Demographic shifts—such as projections that the Democratic Republic of Congo will surpass 400 million people by the end of the century—remind us that global power is shifting. For those clinging to white dominance, such changes feel like a threat rather than an opportunity for shared flourishing.
This fear is compounded by America’s unresolved history—slavery, convict leasing, lynching, Jim Crow laws, and mass incarceration. White supremacists imagine that if people of color gain sustained political power, they will retaliate for generations of injustice. Into this fear stepped Donald Trump in 2016, offering a nostalgic promise to “Make America Great Again.” Like Hitler in 1930s Germany, Trump used nostalgia to transform despair into rage, igniting a movement willing to follow him blindly, even at the cost of truth and democracy. His defeat in 2020 did not end this movement but deepened its resolve, turning fear and resentment into a dangerous longing for authoritarian rule. Oligarchs have capitalized on these anxieties. Facing shrinking profits and volatile global markets, they craft sweeping narratives to distract the public and consolidate power. Nostalgia becomes a tool to blind even faithful Christians—giving them ears that do not hear and eyes that do not see. Marxism, communism, “cultural revolutions”—all become smoke screens for the same old project: protecting the wealth of the few by exploiting the grievances of the many. History shows us that elites, from Lenin to our own modern corporate class, have often cloaked their interests in ideological rhetoric while dismantling the poor and powerless.
In such a time, God calls us to retreat—not to hide, but to discern. Retreat is the training ground for resistance, a place where the Spirit clarifies the difference between illusion and truth. As a prophetic community, we are summoned to stand with those who cannot protect themselves, to bear witness to Christ who died not simply for the powerless but as the powerless. Our calling is clear: to resist idolatry, confront injustice, and proclaim the gospel that sets captives free.
I recently participated in a contemplative prayer and discernment retreat in Cullman, AL. The purpose of this retreat was to seek God’s guidance. But for what? Well, first I had see that we were a prophetic community. Prophets tell the truth to power. One does not often see the prophets (if ever) in the synagogues. Often time they are speaking truth to other prophets and priests who are not speaking. When idolatry and social injustice settled into the temple, it meant that the nation was sick. The Temple set the tone for spiritual leadership. This is where the moral bearing was set. Thus Israel was morally set due north or found herself flying upside down without even knowing based upon the leadership in the Temple.HERE IS THE REFLECTION I WROTE AFTER THE RETREAT
The problem is a virus—a parasitic bug in the mind. It infects the collective consciousness of humanity. We all suffer from a kind of spiritual psychosis. At the core of this brilliant but destructive force is a sinister lie: it convinces us that we are free of it, even as it quietly leads us toward destruction.
Its slow advance is no mercy; it is strategy. It must preserve the host long enough to sustain its corruption. This virulent force is adaptive—it morphs to survive, to deceive, to dominate. Sex, money, and power are its tools—its instruments of seduction and control in a deranged quest to usurp the throne of God Himself, the source of the holiest fire.
But in the end, it will be consumed by the very fire it seeks to claim. These deceivers—the virus and its manifestations—will burn in the hearts, minds, and bodies of humankind until the end of time, or until they are incinerated by the purifying fire of God’s holiness.
The only way to accelerate their destruction is to expose them. That is half the battle. They are embedded deep within the human psyche—and if anyone believes they are immune, then the virus is likely already at work.For me, this contemplative retreat illuminated several critical truths.
First, I became more aware of the evil still at work within my own mind and heart—and how, at times, I collaborate with it. Subtly. Quietly. Often through the ways I help keep it hidden.
Second, being part of a discerning and deeply committed community helped me reconcile spiritual opposites. This should not have been surprising—God is not constrained by contradiction. Jesus is fully God and fully man. God, by nature, cannot be a man. And yet, God became a man.
One particularly challenging tension that took root in me during our time in Cullman was the urgent need for the white church—particularly those aligned with white Christian nationalism—to repent. And yet, equally present was a sincere, loving call to journey alongside these brothers and sisters as the eyes of their hearts are opened to truth.
Immediately upon returning, I began engaging with my coworkers using hypothetical scenarios—ones that helped them imagine the consequences of authoritarianism, the disenfranchisement of the powerless, and the spiritual blindness that so often accompanies privilege and power.
I posed this question to them: If I called you blind, would you be offended—if it were a diagnosis rather than a slur?Cullman empowered me to think creatively and compassionately about how to speak truth in love to people I care deeply about—people who, in many cases, are blind to the spiritual, political, and social dangers that surround us.
Finally, and perhaps most profoundly, I walked away knowing I am not alone. The Holy Spirit has begun weaving a fabric of deep, spiritual brotherhood—a community of men who walk with me in prayer and presence, even from afar.
This truth bore immediate fruit. Upon my return, our community was shaken: a seventh-grade African-American boy was held at gunpoint by a 16-year-old white teenager. The young victim was forced to do jumping jacks, repeatedly called the N-word, and pistol-whipped. Adding further insult to the wound, the sheriff’s department charged the perpetrator with only a misdemeanor.
In the wake of this trauma, I was able to turn to the Cullman brothers for support, wisdom, and courage. Their presence reminded me that community, healing, and resistance are not theoretical—they are happening here, now, in Lowndes County.
I am being called to participate in the healing of Jesus Christ in this place—to bring truth to power, to confront injustice, and to walk with others into the light of liberation. We established that our hearts have been taken up into the fire of the Sacred Heart of Jesus. He has taken our hearts, pulled them out, set them aflame with the hottest fire of heaven, and placed them back in. And, it will burn us completely up without being consumed—only we will spread His fire all over the places where he has placed us to live.
One Blood Coalition
“The One Blood Coalition exists to reflect Christ’s love and unity by confronting racism and healing divides in Lowndes County.”
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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.
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Prayer Breakfast
Introduction and Welcome
It is, at least for me, and I know for so many who love the churches in our nation, quite painful to see and experience the depths of division in the churches and throughout our good land. Of course, there are different dimensions and facets to division. There are political divisions, social divisions, and economic divisions. One kind of deadly division we’ve experienced in our country as well as in churches is racial division.
Many mistakenly believed that we lived in a post-racial America. Yet, in recent years the curtain hiding the division and hatred has been pulled back. We are in fact not living in a post-racial America. Americans and churches throughout America are disdainfully divided still along “racial lines”.
We need to pray for unity and healing. And this morning, I thought we might pray, especially for churches that in particular proclaim a strong allegiance to the Christian gospel.
I want to tell you a story to help us know how to pray.
One qualification, first.
I am speaking to you as white evangelical Christian, at least I want to address the problem from that perspective. On the one hand, I do not intend to indict all white evangelicals; many care deeply about these issues. On the other hand, historically, white evangelicals have possessed the majority of power in this country. Furthermore, not to be too frank, I believe we have acted as if the race problem is not our problem and I believe it is our problem. It’s not all our problem. But it is our problem.
Hot ChickenI was in Nashville, Tennessee for class in July. One Wednesday night, we were invited to a conversation on racial injustice. There was a very kind, white evangelical couple who had invited a very ethnically diverse group of people into their home: one Indian, several African Americans, and the remainder were white. She worked for Intervarsity Press, a very well respected Christian evangelical publication company; he was an accountant with a masters in business. This couple struck me as not only kind, but sensitive, intelligent, and hospitable, not to mention humble. The discussion was over hot chicken. Basically, there was a small mom-and-pop restaurant owned by African Americans that fried up good hot chicken. Apparently a big a company came in making hot chicken the biggest newest thing in Nashville. But this mom-and-pop had been there for years! This became a story of possible racial injustice and made a popular Nashville news magazine. And, we came around the table to discuss this. It was very stimulating! I learned a lot.
Before our discussion, and while we were eating hot chicken, I made the comment to the husband that I did not believe many of Christians I grew up with were aware that certain texts in the Bible on ethnic and racial division existed. For example, I never heard Ephesians 2:11-22, preached. At that moment I lost him. He was no longer present in the conversation. He dismissed himself and I kept on eating good hot chicken!
In a short time, he came back and asked me if I come sit with him for a minute. He had taken his Bible and looked at this passage in Ephesians 2:11-22. Humbly, he began to show me all the areas that were marked up.
Of course chapter one speaks of all these great blessings people have who follow Jesus. He’d marked up plenty chapter 2:1-10…all those bits about being saved by grace through faith. Said, he’d heard it all his life. There was plenty marked up in chapter three, particularly the prayer about the God of the Bible’s never ending love. Chapter four and the way Paul calls Christians to live…chapter five and the metaphor of marriage, chapter six and all that stuff about who the battle is really against, and the famous passage describing the armor of God.But, there was not one mark on Ephesians 2:11-22 and it just happens to be the one and only place where Paul explicitly mentions the cross–a pretty important part of the Christian faith!!
The verses are situated in this racially loaded section where Paul calls out jews and gentiles for their racial hatred. They call each other racial slurs “you circumcised” and “you uncircumcised.” But, the passage with the cross, nothing. And, he said, “I really never have read it.”
Paul, The cross and RacismPaul deals with racial hatred. He argues the Jews and Gentiles received two things. Verse 18 they both get access to the Father. Neither one came to the Father except through the son…a message folks in my circles understood quite well (John 14:6).
But, not only to the Father. Notice in verses 16-17, says it gave us access to each other. The cross that made peace between me and God has also made peace between me and anybody who does business with God at the cross. Listen from the Message:
“Instead of continuing with two groups of people separated by centuries of animosity and hatred, he created a new kind of human being.” Verses 15 from the Good News Version– “By his death on the cross , Christ destroyed their enmity.”
That doesn’t mean we can’t hate one another. It means we have no basis for hating one another. You can’t find theology that will support hate. The cross has destroyed any reason for hatred of other people group. Because that group has the possibility of coming into the Messiah by the blood of Jesus poured out at his death on the cross….This just hasn’t been preached.Perhaps part of the reason the churches I grew up in are losing credibility is because of something Dr. King warned us of only a few years ago… “In the end, we will remember not the words of our enemies, but the silence of our friends.”
We’ve been silent.
The message of the cross has something powerful to offer when we churches preach and embody its lavish love to one another and the community.
So, my encouragement to us this year as we pray for our nation, is to pray for the churches in our nation. We claim to have salt, light, and leaven…touched by Prince of Peace.
Let us pray for bravery in white pulpits. Black pulpits. Let us pray for ministers and pastors and priests to check our egos at the door and come together around the table like Jesus did and think prayerfully and creatively about how to demonstrate what self emptying love looks like. It will at least listen.
Let us pray for courage to share the whole counsel of God. Let us pray for the many hearts that still sit on pews every Sunday in cities just like this all over the nation….pray that they might be open to the message of reconciliation. Many churches have been nourished in the doctor of justification by faith, to the neglect of Paul’s doctrine and reconciliation.
Let us pray that God will give us a second chance to seek community and not chaos.
University of Mississippi wasSpeaking of chaos, only 60 years ago there was a riot on the Ole Miss campus. Some of you still remember it like it was yesterday–in 1962 James Meredith attempted to enroll at the University. During the mayhem and violence…a car screeched into the Armory parking lot, and a federal marshal raced inside to ask Chooky Falkner (William Falkner’s nephew) for as many gas masks as he could spare.
Falkner ordered a man to fill up a duffel bag with masks for the marshal. But, they thought Ole Miss students supposedly murdered by the marshals, the Mississippi soldier refused. Falkner issued the same order to another Guardsman, but he refused as well, so Falkner had to fill up all those bags himself. After the U.S. marshal left with the masks, Falkner called his men into formation.
A Corporal Antwine described what happened next. “This is a court-martial offense,” Falkner told the two soldiers. “You disobeyed a direct order.” Addressing the whole formation, Falkner declared, “We’re now federal troops. You’re federalized. It had better not happen again.” If it did, Falkner promised, he’d launch a court-martial.
As the Guardsmen fell into formation, Falkner called his immediate superior, Lieutenant Colonel J. P. Williams, at squadron headquarters in Ripley, Mississippi to confirm the unusual order. “I just got the craziest chain of command,” Falkner said, explaining the presidential command that had just managed to bypass the entire U.S. military command structure. “Better do it,” Williams noted, “JFK is the commander in chief.”
Doyle, William (2002-02-05). An American Insurrection: The Battle of Oxford, Mississippi, 1962 (Kindle Locations 3335-3339). Knopf Doubleday Publishing Group. Kindle Edition.
I This morning let us pray for the nation and let us pray for the churches. That we will be in the headlights driving through the dark toward reconciliation, mercy, love, and justice.
Instead of staring at the tale lights as in the 60’s.
The commander-in-chief has given churches an order. We have not been called to like it. We’ve been called to follow it.Let us pray…
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Racial Healing?
Introduction
Nine years ago, I preached this sermon in a Church of Christ context. I am re-sharing it now on behalf of a new coalition of diverse Christians in Lowndes County, Mississippi who are seeking racial healing at every level—personal, communal, and systemic.
Although this message was originally delivered to Churches of Christ, and it reflects some denominational language, I believe its central convictions are relevant far beyond our fellowship. The call to racial healing is not confined to one church tradition—it is a gospel imperative for all who follow Jesus, and it speaks urgently to the wounds in our culture today.
Our coalition, the One Blood Coalition, seeks to embody unity and reconciliation in Christ. My prayer is that these words, though first spoken years ago, may serve as a timely encouragement to continue this work together.
Move I: A Call to Speak
This message has two aims:
- To name the challenges and fears we face when talking about race.
- To clarify what God has done in Jesus Christ that makes racism impossible.
Many of us would like to believe we live in a post-racial America—and a post-racial church. But reality tells a different story. From the O.J. Simpson trial in the 1990s to the more recent deaths of young Black men and the rise of violent backlash, it is clear that our society remains deeply divided along racial lines.
Even in the church, Sunday morning is still one of the most segregated hours of the week. Our Christian colleges and institutions remain overwhelmingly white-led. And on social media and in political discourse, contempt and malice continue to flow freely.
I am not here to debate monuments or flags. I am here to speak theologically about racism, unity, and justice—and to ask what God says about these matters.
But to tell you the truth, I have been afraid to preach this message. Afraid for three reasons.
Move II: Afraid to Speak
1. Afraid of offending my non-white brothers and sisters.
I have never lived as a Black man. I know my ignorance may cause me to say something clumsy or even offensive. I ask forgiveness, and I ask for dialogue.2. Afraid of offending my white brothers and sisters.
Among white Christians, there are several groups:- Those who quietly still believe in the “rightness of whiteness.”
- Those who admit racism exists but insist it’s not their problem.
- Those who excuse themselves with “I didn’t own slaves” or “I have Black friends.”
But these attitudes do nothing to confront racism. As one preacher observed: if nine white kids watch one white kid beat up a Black kid, it is no comfort that nine did not participate—they were still silent.
And then there are those who want to act but don’t know how. And Satan, our adversary, makes sure confusion keeps us paralyzed.
3. Afraid because racism is ultimately a spiritual battle.
Racism is not merely social or political; it is fueled by the powers and principalities of darkness. To speak against it invites spiritual opposition. That is why I ask for prayer.
Scapegoating and Silence
Dave Fleer once described the “art of scapegoating.” In Leviticus 16, one goat was sacrificed and another—the scapegoat—was sent into the wilderness. Today, we often scapegoat others so we do not have to confront our own sin.
It’s easy to condemn obvious racists, lynch mobs, or even “those people up North.” But scapegoating does not remove our sin. It only drives it deeper, where it festers into systemic racism—insidious, entrenched, and unacknowledged.
Dr. King’s words ring true: “In the end, we will remember not the words of our enemies, but the silence of our friends.”
Move III: The Cross as the Foundation
Racial hatred is nothing new. In the first century, Jew and Gentile lived with deep animosity. Paul confronted this directly in Ephesians 2:11-22.
At the cross, Paul declared, Jesus gave both Jew and Gentile two gifts:
- Access to God the Father. No group comes to God apart from the cross.
- Access to one another. The peace made with God at the cross creates peace with anyone who kneels at the cross.
Paul wrote that Jesus created “one new humanity” out of divided peoples. The cross destroyed enmity and formed a new race—the Christian race.
Therefore, racism has no theological foundation. You cannot find a biblical defense for racial hatred. The cross has already torn it down.
Move IV: Down Here Like Up There
Do we really believe heaven will be segregated? Revelation 7 gives us a picture of a vast, unified multitude from every nation and language standing before the Lamb. Heaven is an “all skate,” where everyone is on the floor together.
Jesus taught us to pray, “Thy kingdom come, thy will be done, on earth as it is in heaven.” If heaven is unified, then God’s people on earth must pursue the same. Government can legislate integration. Only the church can embody reconciliation.
Move V: Clarence Jordan’s Challenge
The story of Clarence Jordan, founder of Koinonia Farm during Jim Crow, reminds us of the cost of discipleship. When his brother Robert refused to legally represent the farm because of political risk, Clarence replied:
“You’re not a disciple, you’re an admirer. Jesus has many admirers, but few disciples.”
Clarence’s commitment to reconciliation, despite threats and violence, came from the cross. He believed Jesus had created a new race of people—the reconciled Christian race.
Conclusion
The work of racial healing is not optional for Christians. It flows from the cross of Christ, where hatred was destroyed and peace was made.
Today, as our coalition in Lowndes County begins this journey, I invite you to pray with us. Pray for our churches, for our communities, and for the courage to move beyond admiration of Jesus into true discipleship—discipleship that embraces the cross and the reconciling love of Christ for all people.
✍️ Lendy Bartlett
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Steal No More
Steal No More
A Lesson from an Unlikely Source on Doing Good and Helping the Poor
The Trouble with Over-Simplified Scripture
As is often the case in our readings of Scripture, we tend to oversimplify. We reduce profound truths to narrow interpretations. We read a verse and confine it to a single dimension—either/or, black/white. But the Bible rarely speaks in such reductive terms.
Take Ephesians 4:28, for example:
“Let the one who steals steal no longer; but rather let him labor, working with his own hands what is good, so that he will have something to share with the one who has need.”
Most of us read this and think, “Don’t steal candy bars!” But that’s a comically limited view. They weren’t exactly stocking Snickers in ancient Roman markets. Today, in an age of widening inequality and systemic economic injustice, we must read this passage more deeply—and more courageously.Paul’s Transformative Formula
What Paul offers here is not just prohibition—it’s a transformative formula:
1 Cease stealing
Labor with integrity
Do good
Share generously
He doesn’t just say, “Stop it.” He says, “Replace it.” The thief must move from extraction to contribution, from selfishness to service.
Work is not a curse—it’s part of creation. Just as God infused rest into the cosmos, He embedded purpose in work. Paul emphasizes, “performing with his own hands what is good.” Not just any labor, but good labor—redemptive, healing, dignifying work. As Jesus said, “Out of the overflow of the heart, the mouth speaks.” In the same way, out of the overflow of the heart, the hands either steal or build.
This isn’t a hand problem. It’s a heart problem—a problem only healed by reorienting the purpose of work: to bless othersWhy We Work: A Radical Purpose
Paul gives us the purpose of work plainly:
“So that he may have something to share with the one in need.”
Not so he can hoard wealth. Not to climb a social ladder. But to restore community through generosity.
And if we’re reading carefully, deeper questions begin to emerge. What exactly does Paul mean by steal?
Stealing Reconsidered: From Wallets to Systems
Of course, “lifting a wallet” is theft. But in Scripture, stealing is much broader. In Leviticus 19, after commanding Israel to leave the edges of their fields for the poor and foreigner, God says:
“Do not steal.”Withholding excess when others are in need—that’s theft.
To hoard your blessings, to refuse to share your overflow, to weaponize your privilege—that is theft.
Maybe Paul would say today:
“Don’t just stop robbing people. Stop reinvesting all your surplus back into your own account. Share it. Because to hoard is to steal.”
Theft on a National Scale
Sociologist Matthew Desmond puts it bluntly:
“The United States now stands as one of the most unequal societies in the history of the world. The richest 1% of Americans own 40% of the country’s wealth… while a larger share of working-age people live in poverty than in any other OECD nation.”
Desmond recounts the case of Daraprim, a life-saving drug that was once $13.50 per pill—until a man gained the rights and hiked the price to $750 a pill. His defense?“This is a capitalist system, and capitalist rules.”
Many churchgoers may disagree with his behavior—but agree with his logic. That’s the tragedy.
Would Moses call it theft? Absolutely. Would Paul? No doubt. This isn’t theft that leads to hunger. It leads to death.
“Low-Road Capitalism” and the Theft of Generations
Desmond also describes America’s legacy of “low-road capitalism”—an exploitative system rooted in slavery, segregation, and unregulated profiteering. The financial power of early America was shaped not just by free markets, but by stolen labor, stolen land, and systemic oppression.
“New Orleans once boasted more banking capital than New York City.”
Why? Because it was the epicenter of the slave economy.This isn’t just economic history. It’s moral history—and the church must reckon with it. We cannot continue to sanctify capitalism without critiquing its sins.
A Better Way: Baltimore’s Model of Economic Liberation
But in Baltimore, I saw a radically different economic vision—one rooted not in competition, but in community, healing, and liberation.
As a teacher and mentor at Elev8 Baltimore, I witnessed a miracle in motion. Elev8 creates liberating opportunities for youth oppressed by white supremacist systems. They build partnerships, equip students, and restore dignity through wraparound support.
At Career Academy, Elev8 offers a full after-school program:
• Vocational training
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• Academic tutoring
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• Mentorship
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• Healing-centered experiences
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The director, Deja Joseph, is a visionary leader. Week after week, she organizes dynamic, hands-on learning for youth who’ve had few chances and even fewer advocates.
Speakers from across industries—plumbing, real estate, podcasting, carpentry, social work—don’t just share careers. They share hope. They help students turn pain into purpose.
One student is launching a barbershop where every barber is a licensed social worker. Another, Shakira, runs “Theez Handz Styling,” a salon that doubles as a summer educational hub for underserved Black youth.
She’s not just styling hair. She’s shaping futures.
A New Business Model: Profits with a Purpose
These entrepreneurs operate on a powerful formula:
Use your God-given gifts
Make money—yes, unapologetically
Help others make money
Address social injustice through business
This is economic discipleship. Not just a “platform to share Jesus,” but a business modeled after Jesus: redemptive, restorative, and radically generous.
One group, Social Seeds, helps Black entrepreneurs turn their skills into scalable, healing enterprises. Students brainstormed business models that addressed the deepest wounds in their communities—addiction, poverty, homelessness, violence. The result? Hope with a business plan.
The Questions We Must Ask
We must begin to interrogate our own economic assumptions. Let’s ask:
• Why did you open your business?
• Growing up, what were your experiences with business owners?
• Can you identify similarities or differences with the models in Baltimore?
• Beyond profit, what is your business for?
• What does it really mean to be “a platform for Jesus”?
• Does your business look like Jesus?
Conclusion: From Hustle to HealingMany of the students and entrepreneurs at Elev8 and Career Academy have come from a life of hustle—born into poverty, boxed in by systemic barriers, and branded by felonies that were unjustly assigned.
And yet—they rise.
They choose to believe that God has given them gifts. That their hands can heal. That their work can bless. That their businesses can liberate.
And in a world stained by economic theft, their model stands as a bold declaration:
Steal no more. Work. Share. Heal. Build a kingdom that looks like Jesus.
One Blood Coalition 