“As I watched that blood fall, I thought about how easy it would’ve been to stay inside. To tell myself it wasn’t my problem. To stay safe, stay out of it, keep my peace. But that’s the lie of “peace” in this country—it’s really just distance. We mistake our isolation for safety. The truth is, there’s always risk in stepping out. But there’s a greater risk in staying in. Because when you stay in, you become part of the silence that lets systems keep wounding people.”

Howard Thurman’s encounter with Indian students in 1935 forced him to face a troubling question: What does it mean to represent a faith that has failed to live up to its own ideals? This reflection explores how Thurman’s wrestling with the word missionary reveals the moral weight of language and the responsibility of those who claim to speak for faith.

“What if we saw the neighborhood as a kind of church—a place to love and care for folks? What if our neighbors weren’t strangers living behind closed doors, but humans given to us by the Divine to be in mutual care with? That kind of care doesn’t mean trying to change someone or give them what we think they need. It means slowing down enough to listen—to hear what people actually say they want and respond with love.”

“As I walked the track, I asked the trees, What can you teach me about my life? And the trees whispered back: Wait it out, baby. We’ve been here a long time. The seasons will change. Stay rooted. Wait it out.

I know I am not alone in this stress. Our community feels it too—the weight of housing, of bills, of survival under a violent government, of raising children, of keeping our minds whole.”

“Our fathers have given us this practice of patriarchy and racism that remains in our country and in a lot of our churches today. The violent and unjust acts we witness in our world are symptoms of this illness that hides behind American exceptionalism. However, this history reveals, like Kendrick’s song, that this is a generational problem—and our past ‘fathers’ were formed by environments that caused them to harm others.”

Today’s the day — it’s May 1st, and we’ve officially hit the road to Durham, NC!

This summer, we’ll be taking a break from our usual weekly reflections and will return in the fall. Instead, we’ll be sharing more frequent updates about our 12-day road trip and all that we’re learning along the way. You can follow along in two ways:

• Subscribe to our Substack The Way Back Home for real-time updates.

• Bookmark the Pilgrim With Us page on our website: blksouth.org/pilgrim.

“What songs have traveled to you recently?

The other day I woke up in the middle of the night and could not get back to sleep.  After tossing and turning for a while in bed, I knew that the only thing that could help, would be music and song.  So I got out of bed, a ritual that I have known now for many years, and I sat on my couch and got my headphones ready.  I felt in that moment that I needed some old school gospel, words and tunes that had soothed my heart and body aches in years past.  As I listened and as I sang, I began to weep.  I cried and sang for over an hour, releasing much sorrow and sadness.  There has been an overwhelm of sorrow in these past months, moving between personal losses and pain in my own family, to accompanying friends through betrayal, to walking with communities that are facing incredible oppression and challenges today.”

Lately, I’ve been sitting with the idea that our well-being is deeply tied to the well-being of our neighborhoods—not just in theory, but in our bodies, our mental health, our dreams. If my neighbors aren’t okay, then I’m not okay. That simple truth has been shaping how I think about our work at BLK South.

The neighborhood isn’t just a space where we do things—it’s the ground from which we live. It invites us into a deeper kind of solidarity, one that isn’t only project-based but life-based. It calls us not only to ask, What do we want to build here? but How do we want to live here—together?

"We had coffee at Lux this morning with our friend and intern, Justus. He asked Kendall and me how we’ve been feeling, now that our big move is just around the corner.

I was tempted to respond with the usual: ‘Good! Great! We’re excited!’ But the truth is—that’s not really how I’ve been feeling. It’s more like a heavy cloud that I can’t quite explain.

There’s a deep sadness in my body—a weight, a darkness, maybe even a hint of depression. I haven’t been able to shake it, and I’m not entirely sure where it’s coming from.”

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.”

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."