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.

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.

Every song is worthy of listening, including “End of Innocence" and "I'll Do Whatever You Want" but it is "Song of the Motherland," the final track of the album, which answers the question Shabaka is asking of us in a way that truly moved me. It feels like the perfect ending, the album's ultimate message.

“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. This verse perfectly captures the essence of the poem's message:

‘Take me / Like comforting hands / Born Black sincere / Strong to your face / And knowing I am undeniably yours / Wipe your tears’

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.

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.

But when we reclaim our stories, we embrace all of who we are, and all of whom everyone else is and this allows us to live intensely, because as Audre Lorde also says “there is no separate survival” we need each other. And we need each other to undo negative stereotypes of God.

Harmonia Rosales is asking us to change the master narratives we hold within and that we tell ourselves, even as Black people. She is asking us to look at the divinity of Black Lives, not only in Black depictions of deities, but in depictions of quotidian Black people. She is communicating to all visitors that Blackness is divine, and that Blackness is sacred. This aspect, the sacredness of Blackness, is not usually mentioned by any of the narratives we traditionally hold.

All writers make observations, but what sets these writers apart is that they are not just observing; they are also grappling with questions and expressing their perspectives on society from a contemplative heart. At the center of their work is a response to a call: a call to ensure that love is what guides our future and brings us closer to ourselves, one another and the Divine. I would argue that this contemplative outlook on society may be inherent in Black writers.

James Baldwin talks about salvation and something that is communal, something that is not on the individual, but that is enacted by the entire community because of love, that unites and does not divide us.