Re-Examining Christian Brotherhood and Sisterhood

A unique Biblical Perspective

Last Sunday, my pastor made a striking statement: “The church is a mess.” He was not referring to any one congregation, but to the Body of Christ as a whole. Later that day, in a conversation with one of my favorite sons in the faith, that statement resurfaced as we began talking about Christian brotherhood. As often happens, he was surprised by my perspective. That conversation compelled me to put my thoughts in writing—to re‑examine, biblically and honestly, what it truly means to call someone a Christian brother or sister.

Within the Black community, the terms brother and sister have long been used beyond the boundaries of biological family. For me, this practice goes back to the late 1960s and the rise of the Afrocentric movement, when greeting one another as “brother” or “sister” became an expression of shared identity and collective dignity. It signaled a common ethnic bond and, more deeply, a shared struggle for justice, liberation, and unity.

Even today, I maintain deep and meaningful relationships where this language remains natural and sincere. In those spaces, brother and sister function as markers of solidarity—an acknowledgment that our lives are, in some meaningful way, bound together. Yet over the years, I have found myself wrestling with a troubling question: What is truly being communicated when these words are spoken?

I have had individuals—people who actively sought to harm my reputation, undermine my work, or act as adversaries—address me as “brother.” Social etiquette often required that I return the greeting, even when internally I rejected the notion that such a person was, in any meaningful sense, my brother. This tension exposes a deeper problem: when brotherhood is reduced to a greeting, it loses its moral and spiritual substance.

From the perspective of a believer—an ambassador of Christ—we must ask harder questions. What does Scripture mean when it asks, “Am I my brother’s keeper?” (Genesis 4:9). What does it demand when it proclaims, “How good and pleasant it is when brothers dwell together in unity” (Psalm 133:1)? The Bible is filled with rich and challenging portrayals of brotherhood and sisterhood—portrayals that go far beyond familiarity or shared identity.

One often-overlooked example appears in Judges 11:37, in the story of Jephthah’s unnamed daughter and the sisters who mourned with her. These women ministered with and to her until her death. In my view, this narrative offers one of the most profound models of biblical sisterhood and brotherhood in all of Scripture, rivaled only by the relationship between Jesus and His disciples. It reveals companionship rooted in presence, faithfulness, and shared suffering.

So the central question remains: Is there a distinction between cultural brotherhood and Christian brotherhood? I believe the answer is yes—unequivocally.

Jesus presents a model of brotherhood forged in suffering, sustained by communal survival, and grounded in dignity and covenant responsibility. Scripture defines Christian brotherhood and sisterhood as spiritual kinship in Christ. This means we do not simply recognize one another—we belong to one another. We are commanded to bear one another’s burdens (Galatians 6:2), reminded that if one member suffers, all suffer together (1 Corinthians 12:26). In Christ, your pain is no longer yours alone. I would argue that true biblical friendship demands selflessness—placing the call to honor Christ and nurture the growth of another above one’s own priorities (Galatians 4:19). This, my friends, is just one of the characteristics that make us different.

This spiritual interconnectedness echoes Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.’s assertion that “injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere.” Writing from a Birmingham jail, King articulated a truth that resonates deeply with Christian theology: when one part of the body is wounded, the entire body is compromised. Christian brotherhood cannot coexist with indifference to inequality, oppression, or suffering—especially within the household of faith.

True manhood, then, is not measured by dominance, physical strength, or cultural posturing. It is measured by the strength to love—to care for a brother or sister in their darkest hour and to stand faithfully in their moment of victory. Jesus defines this love clearly: “Love the Lord your God… and love your neighbor as yourself” (Mark 12:30–31). Yet we have often allowed the world to distort manhood, shaping it from the brain—the spiritual and emotional core—to the bronze—the muscular, authoritarian image celebrated by culture.

Christian friendship, when rightly understood, mirrors the work of a shepherd. It is sacrificial, sacred, prophetic, and liberating. It guards dignity, tells the truth in love, and refuses abandonment. In this sense, brotherhood is not a label—it is a covenant.

This is the vision Jesus prayed the world would see: “That they may all be one… so that the world may believe” (John 17:20–23). When our relationships lack this depth, we are not living in Christian brotherhood—we are merely participating in an ambiguous membership model that demands little and offers less.

My prayer is that we would learn to shepherd our friendships as Christians—to cultivate relationships that are unmistakably shaped by Christ rather than convenience or culture. When Christian brotherhood is lived authentically, it does more than affirm identity; it draws others to Jesus.

I’m just saying.

How I Got Over

(A Year-Ply Narrative Project on the Resilience of Black and Brown Single Mothers)

Introduction and Personal Calling

In the coming year, I am stepping into a deeply intentional calling: to tell the stories of Black and Brown single mothers. This project, titled How I Got Over, has lived quietly yet persistently in my spirit for several years, shaped by moments of ministry and memory that refused to release me. One such moment came when a mother joyfully shared her son’s two-page newspaper feature, her pride unmistakable, yet her own sacrifices left unspoken—though I, as his youth pastor, had a front-row seat to the fierce discipline, protective love, and steady presence that shaped his becoming. She said, “I guess I didn’t do anything.” Another moment arrived at the funeral of a young man raised in our community. As he lay before us, I watched his mother’s face wrestle with grief, faith, and unanswerable questions—questions born long before that day, forged in years of loving a son through profound challenges. Responsibilities and time delayed this work, but the calling never faded. The stories remained—carried in silence, sustained by grace, and waiting to be told.

This project is not driven by statistics alone, though the numbers are sobering. Nearly half of Black households in America—between 47 and 49 percent—are led by single mothers. Within Hispanic and Brown communities, the figure exceeds 25 percent. These numbers represent more than demographics or sociological trends; they represent lived lives, untold sacrifices, invisible labor, spiritual endurance, and generational impact. How I Got Over seeks to move beyond percentages and into the personal, the sacred, and the real.

Black and Brown single mothers occupy a unique and often misunderstood position in American society. They are frequently spoken about, yet rarely listened to. They are analyzed, criticized, romanticized, and politicized—but seldom given the space to tell their own stories in their own voices. This project exists to change that.

At its core, How I Got Over is a narrative project centered on resilience. It will document stories of survival and struggle, but also of joy, dignity, humor, faith, disappointment, creativity, leadership, and triumph. The title itself—How I Got Over—draws from the Black sacred and cultural tradition, echoing the old spiritual that speaks of crossing dangerous terrain through divine help, inner strength, and communal support.

This work will intentionally resist one-dimensional portrayals. Black and Brown single mothers are not a monolith. Their journeys include women who are young and older, urban and rural, immigrant and native-born, college-educated and self-taught, deeply religious and spiritually searching. Some chose motherhood under difficult circumstances; others had motherhood thrust upon them through abandonment, divorce, death, incarceration, or systemic failure. What unites them is not victimhood, but perseverance.

The vision of How I Got Over is threefold:

To honor lived experience – allowing women to narrate their own journeys without interruption, judgment, or institutional framing.
To disrupt harmful narratives – challenging stereotypes that frame single motherhood solely as a deficit, pathology, or moral failure.
To preserve testimony – creating an archive of stories that will educate, encourage, and inspire future generations.

This project is not about fixing single mothers, studying them from a distance, or rescuing them. It is about listening—deeply, respectfully, and consistently.

Stories will explore themes such as:

Faith, doubt, and spirituality
Becoming a single mother
Economic survival and creativity
Parenting sons and daughters alone
Moments of victory and quiet strength
Love, loss, and partnership
Mental, emotional, and physical exhaustion

Participants will have agency over how much they share and how their stories are represented.

While How I Got Over is not narrowly theological, it is deeply spiritual. Many Black and Brown single mothers draw strength from faith traditions, ancestral memory, and communal wisdom. Others wrestle with God, institutions, and silence. Both postures will be honored.

The project will explore questions such as:

What does faith look like when survival is daily?
How do women mothers with little support yet great responsibility?
What wisdom have single mothers developed that society overlooks?
How have systems—church, government, education, healthcare—failed or supported them?

Serve as a teaching and discussion resource
Preserve stories that might otherwise be lost

These sistas are not statistics. They are architects of families, keepers of culture, and carriers of hope. This project exists so that the world might finally hear them say, in their own words, how they overcame.

This is an open invitation to join How I Got Over in several meaningful ways. First, if you are a single mother, I want to listen to and help tell your story—regardless of where you are in life or your social, religious, economic, or geographic context. Your experience matters, and your voice deserves to be heard without judgment, editing, or expectation.

Second, I am seeking to form a council of elders—women and men of wisdom, discernment, and lived experience—who can help steward this project and ensure these stories are narrated in ways that honor the dignity, complexity, and legacy of Black and Brown single mothers. This council will help guard the spirit of the work, ensuring it remains truthful, respectful, and rooted in care.

Third, there are opportunities to serve as part of the creative and storytelling team. I welcome volunteers who are willing to contribute as writers, interviewers, videographers, graphic artists, social media consultants, or digital storytellers. Each gift, whether visible or behind the scenes, helps bring the larger narrative to life.

This is a volunteer-based project, rooted in service rather than profit. I hope to create a living archive that will remain freely available to the public—a source of encouragement, reflection, wisdom, and testimony for sistas past, present, and future who are navigating or will one day navigate single motherhood.

I offer this invitation with humility. I am learning as I go, and I freely admit that I am green in many ways. Still, I believe God has placed this work on my spirit, and obedience often begins before clarity. Together, I believe we can help break the silence that has too long existed in the Black church and in the wider world around the lives of single mothers.

So I ask, simply and sincerely: Will you join me? In the end, this is nothing more—and nothing less—than an invitation to witness, to honor, and to help tell the truth. I’m Just Saying….

Think Differently!

Happy New Year.

Over the Christmas season, I shared meals with several young Christian brothers I’ve had the privilege of serving over the years. Each one of them is exceptionally talented, gifted, well-educated, and deeply committed to finding meaningful ways to serve Christ throughout their lives.

Yet, across different tables and conversations, the same question kept surfacing:

How do I serve Christ fully—within my gifts, calling, passions, and education—without becoming a preacher?

That question stopped me in my tracks.
Because nearly fifty years ago, I wrestled with the same struggle.

I knew even then that I was not a gifted orator. Preaching was never my strength. But I was deeply passionate about Christ and profoundly committed to God’s people—especially young people. I understood my calling clearly. What I struggled with was where that calling could live.

Within the confines of the Black church at that time, it often felt as though my passion would be wasted energy—misaligned with a system that appeared to be shifting away from serving Black children and youth and toward the prosperity gospel, individual kingdoms, and the replication of Eurocentric models of “charity.” Too often, we served symptoms through handouts rather than addressing root issues that lead to transformational change.

Let me be clear—this is not an indictment of all churches. I was blessed to witness phenomenal models of ministry in my formative years—people of integrity, passion, and purpose who lived their faith beyond the pulpit. Historically, the Black church has always been a driver of youth development and social transformation. In fact, many of our Historically Black Colleges and Universities were founded by the Black church with the explicit purpose of investing in the next generation—young men and women who would go on to change the world.

As I reflected on my conversations with these young brothers, I realized something had to be challenged—perhaps even dismantled.

So I made a statement that immediately shifted the room:

Preaching should be no more than 10% of a biblically centered ministry.

That declaration opened the door to a rich and necessary dialogue. We began to explore what gospel-centered ministry could look like if it were fully unleashed across every sphere of life.

What if there were ministries specifically designed for hip-hop culture and rap artistry? During my years as a youth pastor, I once gathered nearly twenty members of my church who were actively engaged in hip-hop and challenged them to build outreach to the culture, not away from it.

Then we talked about athletics. Where are the ministries designed specifically for professional athletes? Or for high school and college athletes? In a world where Black men comprise nearly 70% of the NBA, 60–70% of the NFL, 44% of NCAA basketball, and nearly 40% of NCAA football—how is this not considered a mission field?

These are not extracurricular interests.
These are gospel opportunities.

We already know how to educate Black children and youth. The real question is whether the Black church and Black Christians are willing to make education missional. According to the National Black Church Initiative, there are over 150,000 Black churches in the United States. If education were truly valued and mobilized as a Christian mandate, we could eradicate illiteracy in the Black community in less than five years—just as Cuba did, achieving a 99.8% literacy rate, according to the World Bank.

The same is true for health and wellness. What would happen if Black Christian scientists, doctors, and medical professionals collectively aligned their faith, intellect, and research to address the health disparities that disproportionately impact Black communities—not just in the U.S., but globally? What a testimony that would be to the name of Jesus Christ.

From education to government, philanthropy to social work, the mission is clear: empower the next generation of Christians to approach their fields not merely as a means to make money—but as a calling infused with purpose.

But this requires a seismic shift.

We must move our Sunday morning gatherings from being centered solely on biblical knowledge to being grounded in biblical missional calling (Luke 4:18–19). Knowledge informs—but mission activates.

Growing up, signs across the nation read: “Uncle Sam wants you.”
Today, I would reframe that declaration:

God wants you—and needs you.

Not just your attendance.
Not just your tithe.
But your gifts, your education, your creativity, your influence, and your vocation.

If we truly embraced this shift, we wouldn’t just grow churches—we would raise up young people who understand the call of God on their lives and are equipped to use their gifts, passions, and purpose for God’s glory and the good of humanity.

This is my prayer for the new year.

And here’s the curious thought I can’t shake:

What if the greatest untapped mission field isn’t outside the church—but sitting quietly in the pews every Sunday, waiting for permission to be called?

I’m just saying…

I’m Just Saying: It’s Time to Take Back Public Education

Somehow, the people who lead our governmental, philanthropic, and corporate sectors have decided that urban public education should be shaped and guided by corporate executives. Let me say this plainly: that decision is one of the greatest educational atrocities of our time. It may very well be the reason our children continue to be failed by the very systems meant to uplift them.

What troubles me even more is that we, as a society, don’t seem to recognize how deeply capitalism—unchecked, unchallenged, and unexamined—has damaged the world we live in. And before anyone starts labeling me a communist or socialist, let me be clear: I am a follower of Christ. Through a Christian lens, I view this conversation about education, human dignity, and communal responsibility.

Recently, I attended the screening of a new documentary produced by Mr. Quan Neloms. In it, a community activist said something that struck me with the force of a thunderbolt:
“Our students are not failing; our system is failing our students.”
That statement alone is worth a hundred billion dollars—especially since we’ve begun evaluating everything through the lens of dollars and cents.

For more than twenty years, I have watched our public educational institutions shift from being grounded in urban pedagogical wisdom to being transformed into corporate training centers. The focus is no longer on children, families, or community. Instead, the agenda is shaped by corporate profitability and workforce preparation. We have displaced parents from the center of their children’s educational journey and handed that authority to corporate and philanthropic executives—many of whom have never taught, never lived in our communities, and never raised a Black or Brown child.

And the justification seems to be rooted in a dangerous, unspoken theory:
that urban parents lack the love, care, or competence to know what is best for their own children.

What’s even more alarming is that far too many faith-based institutions have bought into the same narrative. Churches—historically the backbone of Black educational empowerment—are now echoing corporate talking points rather than community wisdom. Our system has shifted from prioritizing the public good to prioritizing profit. From nurturing critical thinkers to mass-producing compliant workers.

I often wonder what Horace Mann, the father of American public education, would think about the direction in which we’ve drifted. He fought for an education system that served everyone, but he was not confronted with the realities of race and diversity as we are today. Would he be shocked? Or would he say that the inequities we see are intentional design?

And that’s the question I wrestle with:
Are those in high places truly committed to giving Black and Brown children a quality education—one that would make them competitive with the privileged?

Back in 1973, my dear friend Judge Longworth Quinn Jr., who served on the Detroit Public Schools Board, said something I’ll never forget:
“The only hope for educational reform would be to blow it up and redesign it.”
More than 50 years later, he might very well have been an educational prophet.

We cannot allow our system to be reimagined by people whose primary interests are reform metrics, funding streams, and political agendas—not the dignity and destiny of our children. As my friend and retired educator William Batchelor often reminds me,
“We know how to educate our children.”
And my response today is: Let’s move the systems out of the way and let the educators do what they were called to do.

Beginning this February, Be-Moor Radio and the Be-Moor Radio Institute will launch an educational podcast series titled “Class Is in Session.” This platform will feature students, educators, retired educators, parents, community leaders—and yes, we want you to be part of it. Our goal is to build a real, authentic grassroots movement that transforms education with tangible, measurable results.

We hope to uplift the legacy of champions like Helen Moore, Judge Longworth Quinn Jr., Fannie Jackson Coppin, Benjamin Banneker, Mary McLeod Bethune, and my aunt Katie E.M. Mallett—a proud Jackson State graduate who, as a young girl in Kosciusko, Mississippi, taught all her siblings before moving to Detroit and serving the Highland Park School System. These are the giants whose shoulders we stand on. And they are joined by thousands of unnamed educators who have carried the torch of Black educational excellence quietly and faithfully.

It is time—past time—to reclaim public education for our Black and Brown children. Time to rewrite our academic agenda based on our history, our values, our culture, and our vision.

So I ask you—
What say you?

Scam Alert – A Note to Senior Citizens

I want to warn all my fellow seniors to stay alert — a very convincing T-Mobile scam is making the rounds, and I fell victim to it this weekend. Here’s how it works:

Scammers call claiming to be from the T-Mobile Loyalty Department. They sound professional and offer tempting deals, such as a new phone or smartwatch, along with a credit on your bill. They’ll even say you just need to pay the taxes on the new device.

What makes it frightening is that they appear legitimate — they have access to your T-Life account information, which makes it seem like they’re truly from T-Mobile. But it’s a scam! Once they get your payment, you’ll never see the phone, the credit, or your money again.

Even worse, when I reached out to T-Mobile customer service, I received no real help or compassion. Their response was essentially, “There’s nothing we can do.”

My story started when I called T-Mobile about a mysterious line on my bill — one I never opened or used. Days later, I got a call from “the loyalty department” offering to fix it. That call was from scammers. This may even involve overseas access to customer information or apps like T-Life.I’ve been using computers since the early days of the early Radio Shack TRS 80 in the early 80’s, and I still got caught. If it can happen to me, it can happen to anyone. There are so many varibles in the world of scammers. Here a few suggestions:

First, please, my friends, be careful. Never share personal or payment information over the phone. Hang up and call T-Mobile directly using the number on your bill or their official website, although they may, as in my case, offer little assistance. Monitor your accounts and report any suspicious activity immediately. Use a credit card versus a bank card!

We are all vulnerable in this new world of high-tech scams. Don’t let them fool you — stay alert, stay skeptical, and protect yourself!

I’m Dennis Talbert, and I’m Just Saying….

Calling All Cass Technical High School Alumni: A Century of Excellence Worth Celebrating

This month marks a remarkable milestone — the 100th Anniversary of the Cass Technical High School Harp and Vocal Program. In a time when we so often hear what’s wrong with public schools, especially within the Detroit Public Schools Community District (DPSCD), it’s important to pause and celebrate what’s right. Hidden within DPSCD is a shining jewel — the Cass Tech Harp and Vocal Program — led by the incomparable Ms. Lydia Cleaver.

Ms. Cleaver, a devoted educator and faithful member of my church, embodies what it means to serve with excellence and love. Day after day, she stands in the classroom as a steady force, doing the sacred work of teaching amid the chaos and challenges our community brings to her through its children. No matter their circumstances, Ms. Cleaver finds ways to lift, inspire, and prepare her students to rise beyond what many could ever imagine.

Think about it: teaching the harp — one of the world’s most delicate and expensive instruments — to Detroit’s young people, many of whom rely on public transportation just to get to school and benefit from free and reduced lunch programs. Yet when you encounter Ms. Cleaver’s students, you feel as if you’re standing in the presence of royalty. Their poise, grace, and confidence radiate urban sophistication and class.

Ms. Cleaver doesn’t seek recognition. She’s too busy molding the next generation of classical musicians. But her impact deserves to be acknowledged. Over the years, she has taken her students to Carnegie Hall in New York, to Europe, and to national and international competitions — all on what she calls a “McDonald’s hamburger budget.” Through sheer faith, creativity, and sacrifice, she has found ways to make the impossible possible.

It’s time we — the Cass Tech alumni community — rise to honor her and this program that has produced legends such as Dorothy Ashby and Alice Coltrane, and nurtured the same caliber of artistry that once surrounded Diana Ross. Ms. Cleaver herself is a proud Cass alumna and a graduate of the University of Michigan School of Music. She continues to campaign tirelessly to place harps in the hands of her students so they can practice and perfect their craft beyond school hours.

A hundred years of excellence is no small feat. It’s a living testimony that greatness still flows from the Detroit Public Schools Community District. Ms. Cleaver represents hundreds of dedicated teachers — past, present, and retired — who pour out their hearts and lives so our children can succeed, even in the most challenging circumstances.

To all Cass Tech alumni, and to all who love Detroit — this is our moment to say thank you. Let’s show our gratitude by showing up, giving back, and celebrating what is still beautiful and powerful about our schools.

🎶 Cass Tech Harp Program: A Centennial Celebration
100 Years: 1925 – 2025
📅 Thursday, October 24th, 7:00 PM
📍 Wayne State University’s Saint Andrew’s Memorial Episcopal Church
5105 Anthony Wayne Drive, Detroit, MI 48202

🎵 Master Class with Patricia Terry-Ross
📅 Friday, October 25th
📍 Old Main, Wayne State University
4841 Cass Avenue, Detroit, MI

Thank you, Ms. Lydia Cleaver, and thank you to every teacher who has ever sacrificed, inspired, and believed in our children. We may not say it enough, but today, from the bottom of our hearts — we are grateful.

A Call to Wake Up: Giving Our Children a Fighting Chance

On Thursday, October 9, 2025, a seventeen-year-old young man was shot in the back—just twenty feet in front of my home—by a white adult male. I mention his race not out of racial animosity, but because it’s uncommon to see a white man on my street, and this man needs to be found and taken off the streets of Detroit.

Yesterday, I learned that the young brother died from his wounds.

As I sat in my home office that day, I heard a single gunshot. When I opened my blinds, I saw the young man lying motionless in the street and the White man running to his white Ford 150. I rushed outside, joined by a young man working in my home. As we knelt beside him, he kept repeating, “I don’t want to die.” We tried to reassure him that he would live while calling 911.

Within minutes—no more than three or four—Detroit’s first responders arrived and worked with professionalism and urgency. The police investigators spent over an hour inside my home and at least three hours outside gathering evidence and statements. But the young man never had a fighting chance. He was shot in the back.

That night, I lay awake hearing his words—“I don’t want to die”—echoing in my mind. Those words still ring in my ears. And the painful truth is this: just as that young man didn’t have a fighting chance, so it is for far too many children and youth growing up in our communities across urban America.

The next morning, I had to return to the rhythm of my daily ministry—praying with high schoolers at 6:30 a.m., as I’ve done for over 25 years, and later launching a new small group of young leaders through Be-Moor Radio.

That same day, only a few blocks from my house, tragedy struck again. At our neighborhood elementary school, a young girl stabbed another student—using a knife her mother brought to the school and handed to her. Yes, the mother gave her daughter a weapon and told her to use it.

Our children are in trauma. Our communities are in trauma. And too many have no fighting chance.

We no longer have a North Star—no shared moral compass or value-centered community. Black church, wake up! This is our role, our commission, and our divine assignment. Luke 4:18-19 makes it clear: “The Spirit of the Lord is upon me, because He has anointed me to preach good news to the poor…”

We need a reset—a return to our mission, our values, and our call to a people-centered spiritual renewal. Genesis 4:10 reminds us, “The blood of your brother cries out to me from the ground.” The blood of our sons and daughters is crying out from our streets for justice. They must not be forgotten.

Every child living in an urban community is experiencing trauma. In truth, every person in our communities is carrying trauma. We all need healing, hope, and an intervention—and the Black church, as the ambassador of Christ, is God’s chosen instrument for that healing.

Jesus said in John 10:10, “The thief comes only to steal, kill, and destroy; but I have come that you might have life—and have it more abundantly.”
An abundant life is a trauma-free life.

After decades of serving as an urban youth development specialist, I’ve seen more death and destruction than I care to recall. Yet this moment feels different. The urgency is greater. It was at my front door! The cries are louder.

Black church, wake up! It’s time for a people-centered revival—a movement that heals, restores, and reclaims our communities. Everything else we’re doing is insignificant compared to this call. As God said in Amos 5:21–23, “I hate your festivals (could it be our church services)… take away from me the noise of your songs (could it be our praise and worship).”

Let’s resolve, together, to give our children—and our communities—a fighting chance.

P.S. There is a Truth and Trauma Conference—sponsored by the Detroit Leadership Foundation—that will be held on Saturday, November 18th, from 9:00 a.m. to 3:00 p.m. at the McGregor Memorial Conference Center on the campus of Wayne State University.
Get healed. Get equipped. And let’s get to work.

Innovation: A Holy Calling for the Black Church

Innovation can sound like a curse word in some Black church circles. But for me, it’s never been about chasing trends or stirring up controversy. It’s always been about one thing—staying faithful to Christ’s call in ways that truly speak to the times.

I’ve always been drawn to swimming upstream. Not because I love conflict, but because I love discovery. I love finding new ways to reach Black children, youth, and families with the timeless message of Jesus.

Just this week, I found myself on the phone with a young man, talking about a church experimenting with fresh approaches to worship and community. At first, we both slipped back into the comfort of “how we used to do things.” But when I hung up, the Spirit convicted me: Talbert, are you losing your edge?

I’ve always believed that innovation should beat at the heart of every urban church that’s serious about advancing the Kingdom of God. The world may call it innovation, but I call it being in the right place, at the right time, with the right message—Christ.

Paul captured this spirit in 1 Corinthians 9:19-23 when he said:

“Though I am free and belong to no one, I have made myself a slave to everyone, to win as many as possible… I have become all things to all people so that by all possible means I might save some.”

That’s the essence of innovation: freedom to meet people where they are without ever compromising the gospel.

Of course, innovation comes at a cost. Financial risk. Skepticism from leaders. Resistance from traditionalists. I’ve paid that price, but I’ve also seen the fruit—and I’ll keep paying it, because innovation is the only way the church will stay effective in reaching our children, our neighbors, and the nations.

Hip Hop Sunday

Years ago, I grew weary of “Youth Sundays” that had become more about performance than proclamation. In my heart, it felt like heaven’s heartbreak hour. So, with my pastor’s blessing, we tried something different—Hip Hop Sunday. We filled the sanctuary with beats, rhymes, and the gospel, led by the old-school group Transformation Crusade.

From the very first track, something powerful happened: the seniors in the congregation lifted their hands in worship. God reminded us—it’s not about the style, it’s about the message. What started as one Sunday grew into a month. Young people packed the sanctuary, bringing their friends in droves. Attendance exploded to the point where men had to line the walls just to make room. One parent was so moved he bought every single youth a CD from the artist The Truth—not for himself, but to flood the community with gospel Hip-Hop music.

Eventually, Hip Hop Sundays ended—not because the Spirit wasn’t moving, but because the offering dipped and the men grew tired of standing. But for a season, God showed us what could happen when we broke free of tradition and let Christ lead us into new territory.

Sending Black Students to Africa

Later, while leading a major urban conference, I invited Rev. Bekele Shanko, a powerful African leader, to speak. His presence sparked resistance. Some didn’t think he belonged on that stage. But we pressed forward.

That night, Rev. Shanko called hundreds of Black college students to missions in Africa. The Spirit fell. Students pledged or gave more than $68,000 for ministry in Southeast Africa. The following summer, hundreds of young people—Black students—spent their summer serving people who looked like them, across the ocean.

Twenty years later, many of them are still on the field. Still serving. Still carrying the gospel. That’s the fruit of daring to innovate.

Why It Matters

Innovation is rarely comfortable. It can isolate you, even make you an outsider—especially in traditional Black church settings. But let’s be clear: innovation is not a threat to theology or doctrine. It’s an invitation to growth. When it’s rooted in Scripture and led by the Spirit, innovation strengthens the church.

Jesus Himself was an innovator. He broke religious traditions, shattered social barriers, and rewrote the script of history. His ministry birthed the New Testament church—the greatest innovation of all time.

I’m Just Saying….

A Tribute to the Chairman

Yesterday, I learned of the well-earned retirement of Mr. Mayce Webber as Chairman of the Deacon Board at Rosedale Park Baptist Church. And immediately, a flood of gratitude came rushing in.

If you know me, you know how much I love salmon. Like that determined fish, you have supported my swimming against the current —pressing upstream to create a first-class, Christ-centered, Black church-based youth ministry right in one of Detroit’s toughest neighborhoods. Looking back, I realize the vision I carried wasn’t always crystal-clear to you, or to most of the congregation and leadership. But you were steady, wise, and faithful—choosing to encourage and support me anyway, even when the path was hard to see.

Mr. Webber, you carved out space for our young people to dream big and thrive. Because of your unwavering “yes,” the Student Ministries Department (SMD) set a standard of excellence that rippled far beyond Detroit’s Black church community. I still remember the day we invited you into our little office down the street. Donnell Harlin and the team, along with me, shared our wild vision for youth outreach. Your face held the mystery of uncertainty, yet the words that leapt from your mouth—“You have my full support!”—ignited something powerful in us. Those words fueled our courage.

And we went to work. With your blessing, we did what once seemed impossible:

Built a Habitat for Humanity home from the ground up—the first youth group in the organization’s global history to lead such a project—partnering with Comerica Bank.
Adopted three neighborhood schools, forging genuine relationships with Vetal Elementary & Middle, Redford High, and Mann Elementary School.
Helped families move from homelessness to homeownership, with several of those households now boasting college graduates in every room.
Created a school-based program designed for underachieving elementary students that ultimately moved several students to Vetal’s 4.0 Club. Rosedale High School and college students developed the program and curriculum for Super Kids. It created a hands-on and active learning environment as an after-school program.
Built three homes in Matamoros, Mexico; remodeled an orphanage in Jamaica; and hosted vibrant Vacation Bible Schools in the Bahamas, Jamaica, and in Detroit.
Launched countless Five-Day Backyard Bible Studies with a curriculum our own youth designed.
Advocated for Operation Sunrise, ultimately helping send more than 300 Black college students—including Rosedale youth—to serve in Southeast Africa, and Rosedale’s students in Ethiopia.
Leading thousands to Christ either directly or indirectly through our partnerships, affiliations, or SMD.

These achievements matter—but what mattered most was knowing, deep down, that you had our backs. When our spirits sagged and our human batteries ran low, your words of encouragement lifted us.

On a personal note, your ministry of presence still humbles me. You sat with my brother through every one of my surgeries and hospital stays. I will never forget waking from recovery and hearing the very first voice—it was yours.

And, Mr. Chairman, you never missed an opportunity to exalt the name of Jesus. Whether holding the mic on Sunday or speaking quietly to one soul, you kept Christ at the center, always.

Your children—Chris, Jeffrey, Jason, David, and Rachel—are stars in their own right. But to me, you are a SUPERHERO.

Thank you, Mr. Webber, for showing us what steadfast faith, quiet strength, and joyful service look like. May God bless this new chapter as richly as you have blessed all of ours.

Are Black Children Resilient – Or Just Surviving?

The older I become, the more it feels as if the axles of this earth are moving faster and faster. The summer of 2025 has been a revealing one for me. I had the honor of serving 43 young people as interns—most from Detroit, a few from other parts of the country. What I witnessed in their lives has both inspired me and deeply troubled me.

What stands out most is how much adult trauma rests on the shoulders of our young people—trauma created by adults and absorbed by children. In just six weeks, I walked with young people through experiences that could shake anyone to the core.

One young man whose father was murdered by his grandmother.
A young lady, not yet twenty, is already raising three sons.
At least five who faced homelessness, forcing them to relocate—some across the city, others out of state.
A 21-year-old is already addicted to drugs.
Several more caring for an adult, whether a sick parent or a struggling grandparent.
A young man who was finishing his last treatment for cancer
A significant number of these young men and women are afflicted with ADHD

I spent my summer counseling, listening, and encouraging. And yet, I left with a sobering question: Are Black children truly resilient, or are they simply survivalists?

We know the story of Black people in this country. Oppression, racism, and systemic mistreatment have weighed heavily on our community. Out of that suffering, we have often celebrated “resilience.” But what if what we call resilience is sometimes just survivalist self-reliance—a posture that helps us endure, but also leaves us carrying wounds too heavy to heal on our own? Gina Samuels, writing about young people in the foster care system, calls this tension: “What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.” But strength without restoration still leaves scars.

Resilience, in truth, is not just grit. It is the ability to manage stress and still function in the face of challenge. It is not a personality trait—it is a learned ability, something nurtured in families, churches, and communities. And because the adversity Black children face is often unlike that of others, our parenting, mentoring, and ministry must go deeper.

The Scriptures remind us of the truth of who our children are:

“Black children are fearfully and wonderfully made in the image of God (Psalm 139:14; Genesis 1:27). Though they may face trials, injustices, and obstacles, they are more than conquerors through Christ who loves them (Romans 8:37). The Lord is their refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble (Psalm 46:1). No weapon formed against them shall prosper (Isaiah 54:17), for God has plans to give them hope and a future (Jeremiah 29:11). Their resilience is not just survival—it is a testimony of God’s power, endurance, and faithfulness working through them (2 Corinthians 4:8–9).”

That’s why Christian urban youth development must move beyond pizza parties and Sunday School as usual. We are not just entertaining teenagers or babysitting children. We are confronting trauma, cultivating resilience, and building the faith that heals. This is the work of raising a generation that “knew not Joseph”—children growing up without memory of God’s wonders, unless we remind them.

This reality hit home again just last week. I stood among young adults in my neighborhood at the funeral of a young leader I had known since he was about 10 years old. He died of an overdose. His death haunts me—as should the death of every child who ever set foot in a Black church. Each life lost reminds us: our work cannot wait.

The question remains: Will we help our children do more than survive? Will we nurture a resilience rooted in faith, family, and community that allows them to thrive?

That is the calling on us all, and I’m just saying….