What does this spirituality mean? In this moment, Jesus is calling us to a tradition rooted in peacemaking, in resisting the Empire of Death, and in practicing active, nonviolent resistance. It means today to stand up for our neighbors in need, defend those who are most vulnerable and create communities of care. And Jesus reminds them in the best way he know how, in a very personal intimate way, not a quick process, in a ritual.

Therefore, let us commit ourselves to this re-training: let us keep learning, being critical, and dismantling the systems within our own minds. May our protests be loud, our solidarity resolute, and our commitment to migrant justice and Black liberation be unshakable. For this paves the way to reclaim our full humanity in a world that strives to deny it. Let us commit ourselves not just today, but throughout our lives, so that we may leave a legacy similar to the one Miriam left us—and perhaps even a better world.

The goal is nothing less than liberative contemplation: a practice for achieving true freedom by cultivating a deep inner life. This practice connects us to ourselves, others, the divine, and the natural world, empowering us to serve the world more effectively. To make this transformative path universally accessible, we are called to three essential actions: actively invite younger people, restore the full, diverse history of contemplation, and broaden our understanding of what contemplative practice encompasses, embracing diverse entry points.

We were shown some of Mandela’s handwritten notes to his granddaughters and nieces, some pictures which bore shrapnel damage and some of the awards he received. While the highlight for many would be holding the Nobel Peace Prize that Nelson Mandela was awarded for his contributions in the fight against apartheid and the ushering in of a new South African democracy; and while that was indeed very special, for me a different artifact proved more compelling: the Methodist prayer book he held while imprisoned on Robben Island.

So here we are Metro, the last Sunday in which I'm preaching as a pastor of this congregation, a very beautiful community of people rooted in the belief of justice, faith and fellowship as being markers of the faith… Hopefully, it will not be the last time ever. So this will be it for a while… a last word… a last reminder… or as the great prophet of Detroit J Dilla might title it, “the last donut of the night”... that was the first hip hop reference of the day, there will be others.

My friends have been joking that my 2025 schedule is a "world tour," and I've been searching for a name that would fit for that idea. While I initially considered some sort of hip-hop reference, I kept going back to Haitian poet Jean-Fernand Brierre's poem, "Black Soul." I read it while in Barbados, and it has since become the lens through which I see my travels. The poem, a work from the Négritude movement, speaks of a traveler who encounters an unnamed figure, a Black boy, in countless places: on ships, trains, stairwells, and in dance clubs. This figure, this "Black soul," is everywhere life is happening.

What is this "do"? It is to embody greater love, offer wider welcome, and embrace expansive inclusivity. It means challenging empire, advocating for a ceasefire, and demanding an end to supremacist ideologies, both at home and abroad. It compels us to march alongside those who need our solidarity in the fight for Black and trans liberation, all while extending love to our fellow marchers and, indeed, even to those who march against us.

But this brought up an interesting question for me: If we readily acknowledge dance as a form of joy, resilience, and liberation, how can we also embrace it as a contemplative practice and experience? As I was thinking about it afterward, I started to notice how deeply contemplative dance is.

When silence encompasses the spectrum of one's inner existence, how then can we delve into it more completely? I think music serves as that avenue. Music employs silence deliberately to extract deeper meaning, accentuate transitions, or highlight moments. In Jazz and Hip Hop, both genres I frequently listen to, silence is strategically incorporated into any given piece.

“Song of the Motherland” displays a high degree of artistic merit. The fusion of spoken word and musical accompaniment results in a singularly moving experience. The poem, written from the perspective of the African continent itself, is a moving tribute to the land and its connection to the Black Diasporic community. It offers a maternal embrace to those of us in the African Diaspora, acknowledging our struggles and disconnection while providing a space and time for reclamation and a sense of belonging.

But what truly is silence? I propose defining what we can call ‘contemplative silence’ as an intentional and deliberate practice of connecting with ourselves, others, and the Divine to foster conscious contact with God. This silence serves to quiet the internal clamor of our minds, allowing us to discern the inner voice of the Divine deep within.

'Fit out.' I believe that encapsulates the essence of how we must approach missions and evangelism today. We need to cultivate a posture of humble mission and evangelism, one that prioritizes creating pathways for people to shape our practices, ensuring they resonate with their lived experiences, rather than forcing them into our pre-conceived molds.

A church that encourages people to 'fit out' is a church that embraces its God-given diversity. It strives to live out Jesus' example of seeking, not being sought. It's a community that values individual contributions, allowing them to shape its identity. This is a church that understands and reclaims missions and evangelism as pathways to authentic faith expression, not as extensions of imperial power.

My pilgrimage to Keur Moussa, and then onward to Keur Guilaye—more to come on this aspect of my journey—was a very enriching experience, as all pilgrimages tend to be.

Black liberation begins with centering Blackness in our minds, our hearts, and our contemplative practices.

The tension between Black Liberation and Afro-pessimism is similar to what we deal with when we engage with this scripture. We're dealing with the reality of God's absence and, at the same time, knowing that God is there. This tension, this idea of God's presence and absence, Job teaches us, is the discipline of living in the chasm. Living knowing that we may not get tidy answers to these profound questions.

Over the course of the many sermons I have preached, I have included a number of hip hop songs. This below, though not very fancy, is a playlist of the songs I have used. It includes a mixture of jazz, hip hop, reggaeton and even rock. Some people have asked me for it, so, even though I am sure it is incomplete, here it is.

While widespread acceptance of hip hop as contemplative music may be unlikely, I believe it can be a powerful tool for all communities—and specifically for Black communities—to engage in contemplative practices.

We have to engage in these conversations so we change the narratives of Latinidad, the narratives around Blackness and to continue to remember that the revolution doesn't only happen around us, but must begin within us and among us, together.

We must bear the good news somehow. We each carry Christ's message in the world. We do this by talking to people we have not spoken to in a while, by calling and texting friends, by inviting people. We do this by how we walk in the world. We too are called. Even amidst our pain and struggles, we can be bearers of Christ's message. We can do this even when burdened – by our own struggles, the world's suffering, and everything in between.

This was just the start of my connection to James Baldwin as a contemplative guide – someone who helps us become more whole and true to ourselves, someone whose words can change us. We often find these guides in traditional figures like Thomas Merton, St. Teresa of Avila, or, more recently for many, Howard Thurman – all important guides within the conventional definition. But during that first silent retreat at Holy Cross Monastery, Baldwin was mine. A non-traditional choice. He journeyed with me as I sought greater integration within myself.