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Being Black in America has never been an easy proposition. While the Black experience in this nation has known moments of profound hope—emancipation proclaimed, rights codified, barriers broken—we must not deceive ourselves into believing that the original sin embedded in the American enterprise has failed to leave an indelible mark on the nation’s soul. That sin has shaped not only institutions and laws, but the collective psyche of every generation and every person whose fe

One of the great gifts education offers us is learning to see the world through new lenses. Too often, Black History Month becomes a moment rather than a practice. The Black experience in America is not a single story, but a tapestry—woven from faith, struggle, joy, and resistance. The story of Babel reminds us that the danger is not working together, but building without humility or listening. May this month help us see, learn, and live differently.

Standing at the threshold of a new year, we often feel pressured to plan, perfect, and resolve. Yet Scripture offers a different posture. The Apostle Paul admits, “It’s not that I have already reached this goal or have already been perfected.” Faith, he reminds us, is not about arrival but becoming. We press on not by sheer resolve, but by grace—because Christ has already taken hold of us, and God is not finished with us yet.

The birth of Christ reminds us that the story of Christmas is indeed a story of love, hope, and faith. Love between God and humanity. Hope that a wounded and weary world can still be restored.

I began my professional career at sixteen, serving as the IT manager for a university campus in Rio de Janeiro. Surrounded by people far older and more experienced than I was, I quickly learned that leadership was not about control or having all the answers. What mattered most was presence—showing up, listening, learning, and helping others succeed. Long before I could name it, I was discovering that true leadership is less about authority and more about cultivating trust.

Community does not happen by accident. It is not created by proximity or shared space, but by intentional commitment and personal transformation. True community requires a willingness to be changed by one another. Scripture reminds us that fellowship is not optional—it is essential. The early church devoted themselves to life together, sharing meals, prayers, and resources. In community, faith deepens, joy multiplies, burdens are shared, and we are shaped into who God is call

In our Rooted in Discipleship journey, we turn to the vow of presence. Presence is more than attendance—it is showing up with our whole selves for God and for one another. Drawing from Hebrews, we are reminded that faith was never meant to be lived alone. When we gather, encourage, and remain engaged, grace flows between us. Presence costs us time and vulnerability, but it is where transformation happens and where God meets us in community.

There’s something quietly beautiful about a tree that didn’t plant itself. No tree ever chose its soil; it was placed there—by a gardener’s hand, a scattered seed, or a passing wind. Scripture begins not with ceaseless striving, but with fruitfulness rooted in grace. Jesus says, “I am the vine; you are the branches.” Discipleship begins not with our effort, but with God’s invitation. We are planted by grace, called to abide, and formed to bear fruit in God’s season.

Weddings have a way of gathering people from near and far, reminding us that invitations matter. In Luke 14, Jesus tells of a wedding banquet where the expected guests refuse to come, offering excuses instead. The host responds by opening the doors wide, inviting those who never imagined they belonged. This parable

No tree chooses its soil; it is planted. Scripture begins with this truth: fruitfulness grows from being rooted, not restless motion. Our culture prizes output, but the blessed life begins in stillness—receiving before producing. Grace comes first. Faith is not achievement but participation, an open hand. To be planted by grace is to live knowing our very existence is a gift, and that fruit comes in its season, not ours.

Discipleship is a word we hear often, but it is far more than a slogan or church program. From the earliest days of the Church to the Wesleyan movement, discipleship has meant a way of life—rooted in grace, shaped in community, and lived out in love. To follow Jesus is to grow continually, to do good, avoid harm, and remain connected to God and one another. Discipleship is not a destination, but a lifelong journey of transformation.

The call of Jesus to the first disciples still echoes today. Matthew and Mark offer no backstory—Jesus calls, and they follow. That simplicity amazes us. When we focus too much on why they said yes, we risk missing the one who called them. As Bonhoeffer reminds us, Jesus calls not as a teacher but as Christ, and that call demands obedience. “Come, follow me” remains the invitation—to leave behind what no longer defines us and step toward transformation.

The parable of the Prodigal Son is one of the most well-known stories Jesus ever told. It’s often read as a moving portrait of repentance and forgiveness, a celebration of grace. But hearing it as good news for everyone —especially when we identify more with the older brother than the wayward son—requires a kind of inner transformation. Years ago, while teaching on this text, someone asked a question I’d never considered: “Did the younger brother receive another inheritance a

My father, if nothing else, is an interesting man. Over a lifetime, he carried more callings than seems possible—soldier, architect, musician, theologian, union leader, radio host, and pastor. Yet what made him remarkable was not the titles, but his intentional love. He made space for family and faith, inviting us into his world and teaching us to love God, God’s people, and the Church. Even now, as memory fades, his faith remains—anchored, clear, and unwavering.

Last week, over shared food and stories, a friend asked a simple but profound question: “What’s unique about being a Methodist?” It’s a question I’ve asked myself often, especially in recent years. If I had to name one heartbeat of our identity, it would be grace—not just as a doctrine, but as a journey. Prevenient, justifying, and sanctifying grace remind us that God meets us before we’re aware, reconciles us in Christ, and keeps transforming us in love.

In this opinion brief we offer a framework to discuss the connection between extension ministers’ calling and the nature and mission of the United Methodist Church. We focused on primary theological sources, including Wesley’s sermons and various written works. We suggest that the Instituted Means of Grace and ordinances of God function as ecclesial orienting traditions, connecting the church to the world and the world to the church through extension ministers...

As a young adult in Brazil, my father was told by American missionaries that, as a Black man, the dream of living in the U.S. was not meant for him. Yet that dream found fulfillment in his children. My own immigration journey—marked by hope, sacrifice, and a long path to citizenship—echoes the truth of Acts 10:15: never call unclean what God has made pure. When compassion is on trial, the gospel itself is at stake.

The passing of Pope Francis marked more than the end of a papacy—it recalled a profound shift in how the Church understands itself. As the first Latin American Pope, Francis embodied a global, Gospel-shaped vision rooted in humility, mercy, and justice. Like Óscar Romero, he stood with the poor, challenged systems of oppression, and reminded the world that holiness is found not in power, but in faithful love lived among the people.

The story of Mary and Martha lingers because it refuses easy answers. Are we called to sit at Jesus’ feet like Mary, or to serve faithfully like Martha? What if this passage is not a choice between faith and works, but an invitation to hold both together? Jesus does not condemn service—he calls us to a rhythm where our doing flows from our being, and our work becomes an offering shaped by presence, not anxiety.

I do not approach the intersection of faith and politics lightly—not because the Gospel is apolitical, but because it is profoundly consequential. Jesus spoke directly to power, justice, and the systems that shape human life. The Gospel is political not because it serves a party, but because it challenges injustice, confronts abuse, and calls us to live rooted in love, mercy, and truth. To follow Christ is to care deeply about what happens to our neighbors.