“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…”

"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."

Recently, Kendall spent two weeks in Durham, NC, working on Asset-Based Community Development, learning firsthand from local leaders and neighbors how collaboration makes a real impact. His experience deepened our belief in Durham’s beauty and story, and we’re even more excited to be part of the good work happening there. Check out the full story in our latest video!

To be a good neighbor, a good friend, is to embrace the fullness of the community of creation as our neighbor. From there, grown from the Earth, we seek to bear the fruitfulness of mutual love in action, care for the entire community, and concern for one another as the most holistic vision for ethical living.

As our friend and mentor, Linda Morris, once said, 'The blood cries out in the soil.' I believe the soil holds much to teach us—if only we take the time to listen. The more we learn about the South and build connections with meaningful churches and organizations, the more it feels like our cultural identity is rooted in the soil—a rich history woven from both the horrors and the beauty of the Black experience in America. It reveals who we are, who we’ve been, and how that shapes who we are becoming.

"I believe that this type of joy, which can lead to dancing and laughter, is not only an act that has allowed African Americans to survive amid great adversity in society today and throughout history, but also a way in which African American communities witness to the rest of the world a type of joy that will be found in God’s kingdom. We can all learn from and live in Black Joy—a type of joy that doesn’t negate life’s problems but empowers us to press forward and uplifts us to face another day."

"We need accomplices, those who are tethered to us. If one suffers, all suffer, and if one is free, all are free. In the legendary and historic 'Letter from Birmingham Jail,' the late Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. reminded us that, 'Injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere. We are caught in an inescapable network of mutuality, tied in a single garment of destiny. Whatever affects one directly, affects all indirectly.' If we are truly serious about the work of justice, we will work daily to lay aside our political and religious differences for the sake of humanity and foster deep relationships that force us to be accomplices, not allies."

Wholistic well-being, as a value, can often feel ethereal. What makes us whole? How does wholistic well-being weave through the diverse parts of our humanity, our mind, body, and spirit? And more complicated still, how is our wholistic well-being enlivened by the multifaceted and complex creation we live among?

"During the racial reckoning of 2020, I began to understand something profound: Jesus, a brown, immigrant child born into poverty and unjustly lynched, mirrors the experiences of many Black and Brown people—descendants of immigrants born into poverty and unjustly lynched throughout history. This realization forces us to..."

"When I look back on my upbringing, I reflect on how frequently the imagery of trees surrounded me in relation to my faith. My father, who grew up in a rural town called Taylorsville, North Carolina, faithfully attended Liberty Grove Missionary Baptist Church—"Grove" referring to a small group of trees. Even though I did not attend the church growing up, it is part of my heritage. My family has been connected to..."

When Jesus speaks of a seed needing to die to bear fruit, I do not believe He is calling us to glorify oppression or to accept enduring oppressive systems and structures as our highest duty. This interpretation, I would argue, is a distortion of Jesus' liberating Good News. Rather, Jesus invites us to overcome our fear of the forces that attempt to bury us.

When we no longer fear the darkness that buries us, understanding instead that we possess the power to rise through it, drawn by the light that beckons us to catch the sun's rays—rays that breathe oxygen back into us. When we appreciate the rain provided by dark clouds, a gift of our ancestors' tears, and recognize that, unafraid, we collectively hold the power to keep each other safe—what then can bury us? 

Southern sacredness is in the texture of the grass, the song of the wind, the hue of the clay. In the whistles of the rivers, the latkes and the streams.

And it has been calling us.

It has been calling us to use our greatness to build it up to the best of what it can be.

To refuse to let the worst of yesterday dictate tomorrow's possibility.

It has been calling us to come back so that we all can move forward together.

As a descendant of Black folks who left their homes and families behind in hopes of a better tomorrow, I’m grateful for organizations like BLK South who are doing the work of honoring and reclaiming Black southern heritage.BLK South is more than a community organization. It’s in many ways a Sankofa movement; it’s a movement that reaches back, that learns from and honors our past, and allows it to inform our present and future as Black Americans.

With more Black Americans becoming educated, they entered academic spaces, producing literature to make sense of the Black American psyche and theology. Historically Black Colleges and Universities (HBCUs) prepared members for leadership roles in the Black community. Passionate preachers in the Black church taught forgiveness and emphasized Jesus' solidarity with the oppressed.