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It should not be incumbent upon any Black person to spend their time proving to obstinate people that racism kills.
Countless women, named and unnamed like the Syrophoenician woman, have doggedly persisted – would not go away, would not give way, would not be dismissed.
While I’d never claim out loud to be free of wickedness, I sure have found myself acting that way from time to time. Looking like butter wouldn’t melt in my mouth.
When met with disbelief, let’s shift our focus – away from dwindling attendance to the political and economic systems that write off entire categories of God’s children.
We’re a full six months into this pandemic, and here is the final exam for this semester: Where are you feeling almost dead? Where are you coming alive for the first time in years?
I wonder how we might live differently if we turned aside more often to notice miracles, if we called out miracles as steadfastly as we call out sin and injustice.
The psalms tell me that I have to sing, but they never say anything about singing well. As long as this strange season of remote worship lasts, my choir of frogs will be in full effect.
Refusing to name evil does not and will not make it go away. When we do not name evil, we give it unleashed power to prevail.
Tributes are wonderful ways to express gratitude for those who’ve made great sacrifices to make America a more perfect union of democracy. But they are not the best ways.
Imagine the woman giving her alabaster jar one last polish before she takes a deep breath, moves toward Jesus, and breaks things open.