Witnessed History: Remembering Rev. Jesse L. Jackson

On February 17, 2026, the world lost one of the most consequential moral voices of the last half century—Rev. Dr. Jesse L. Jackson. History will ultimately place him among the small group of leaders who not only spoke about justice, but reshaped the possibilities of democracy itself.

For me, his passing is not only a moment of national reflection, but a deeply personal one.

As a young man growing up in the North End of Detroit, God granted me an extraordinary privilege. I was present in Chicago at the earliest gatherings when Rev. Jackson launched Operation PUSH (People United to Save Humanity) in 1971. At the time, I had no idea I was witnessing the birth of a movement that would influence politics, economics, and civil rights across America.

Looking back now, it seems almost unbelievable that Rev. Jackson and the late Abe Cherry would entrust an unproven young communicator to help co-produce parts of the Operation PUSH conference. But that was part of Jackson’s genius—he saw potential in young people before the world did.

As a private citizen with global influence, he often served as an informal diplomat during moments of international crisis. In 1984, he helped secure the release of U.S. Navy pilot Lt. Robert “Bobby” Goodman from Syria and negotiated the release of American prisoners from Cuba. He engaged leaders across Africa, the Middle East, and Latin America, demonstrating that civil rights leadership could also function as a global moral voice.

Operation PUSH grew from Operation Breadbasket, the economic justice initiative Jackson led under Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.’s Southern Christian Leadership Conference. Through this work, Jackson helped negotiate with major corporations and government institutions to hire millions of Black employees and open doors for minority-owned businesses.

But Rev. Jackson’s vision did not stop with economic justice.

During his 1984 presidential campaign, he created the National Rainbow Coalition, a bold attempt to unite African Americans, Latinos, labor unions, farmers, Native Americans, working-class whites, and peace activists into a powerful political alliance. It was a daring vision of American democracy built around shared struggle and shared hope.

For many of us, the soundtrack of that era was the chant heard in cities across America:

“Run Jesse Run!”

Jackson ran for the Democratic nomination for President in 1984 and 1988, registering millions of new voters and winning several state primaries in 1988. His campaigns proved that a Black candidate could build a national coalition and compete for the presidency. In many ways, those campaigns helped open the door for the election of Barack Obama two decades later.

Yet Jackson’s impact extended beyond American politics.

Like every human being, Rev. Jackson had flaws. But we must never allow those imperfections to overshadow the scale of his contributions.

I was simply a gifted young communicator from Detroit who had been recruited by the legendary Kim Weston and Mickey Stevenson to volunteer with a rising civil rights leader named Jesse Jackson.

For more than five decades, he stood on the front lines advocating for economic equity, voting rights, education access, corporate diversity, and social justice. He spoke out against apartheid in South Africa, economic injustice around the world, and human rights abuses wherever they occurred.

In many ways, his life reflected the mission described in Luke 4:18–19:

“The Spirit of the Lord is upon me, because He has anointed me to proclaim good news to the poor… to proclaim liberty to the captives… to set at liberty those who are oppressed.”

Rev. Jesse L. Jackson lived that scripture.

He lived his purpose.

And for those of us who were fortunate enough to witness his work up close, we know this truth: history did not simply observe Jesse Jackson—he helped bend it toward justice.

Thank you, Rev. Jackson, for a life of courage, conviction, and service to the most marginalized people on this planet.

And thank you to Jacqueline Jackson, who stood faithfully beside him while raising their remarkable children and supporting a life devoted to public service.

The voice that once declared “I am somebody” may now be silent—but the movement it helped inspire will echo for generations, and I’m Just Saying….

The Digital Divide Deepens: How Michigan’s New Phone Ban Hurts Black Students

Once again, government officials have dug a hole for Black children that will be nearly impossible to climb out of—and the fault lies with adults, not students.

To the legislators who supported Michigan House Bill 4141 and Senate Bill 495, and to Governor Gretchen Whitmer for signing them into law: be ashamed. Your decision to restrict the use of cell phones in K–12 public schools during instructional time has not helped our children—it has harmed them.

You may have created a barrier so deep that too many Black students will never recover.

A Divide That Already Exists

Before this law, our students were already behind. Michigan’s own data shows that more than 70% of Black school-age children lack reliable access to the internet or a computer at home. Without broadband access, without devices, without digital resources, Black students in Detroit and across the state are cut off from 21st-century learning. Now you have widened that gap even further.

This is the digital divide—not some abstract concept but a lived reality that shapes educational opportunity, economic mobility, and life outcomes for thousands of children.

You Have Deepened the Opportunity Gap

Let’s be clear: the issue with cell phones in the classroom isn’t inherently about discipline or distraction. It’s about access to tools and the lack of instruction on how to use them effectively. Banning technology that students already use, that they carry everywhere, is not a solution. It is a regression.

In true American fashion, when we don’t master something, we shun it. We demonize it. But our children live in a world defined by digital connectivity—whether educators like it or not. Until our pedagogical methods evolve, Black students will continue to be educated by a system rooted in the past.

Education Must Catch Up With the Times

Education in many classrooms today remains didactic—unchanged since ancient Greek academies. But students today are not passive learners; they are active, digitally connected, and they thrive in environments that are hands-on, interactive, and technology-enabled.

There are proven tools—Learning Management Systems like Google Classroom, Schoology, Canvas, and others—that integrate cell phones and digital devices into teaching. Teachers can use students’ phones as instructional tools for research, collaboration, and real-time learning. Yet rather than harnessing technology, we choose to restrict it.

The New Educational Underclass

By banning phones without addressing access and digital literacy, we are creating a new educational underclass—led not by malicious actors, but by well-intentioned adults who are afraid to embrace innovation.

But responsibility doesn’t stop with legislators.

Other culprits include:

Academic schools of education (colleges and universities) that train teachers in outdated methods.
A public education system driven by middle-class professionals disconnected from the realities of urban Black children.
Community influencers and parents who aren’t grounded in the neighborhoods they claim to serve.
And most troubling, a system that ignores the voice of the very people it is supposed to uplift: Black children in Detroit.

A Call to Action

Governor Whitmer. Michigan state legislators. Suburban educators.

We can be intimidated by change — or we can lead it.

Let’s reverse this curse.

While children in suburban districts walk into classrooms equipped with tablets, laptops, iPads, and an ecosystem of technological support, more than 70% of Black children in Detroit come with nothing to augment or fully participate in this technological era. That is not a discipline issue. That is an equity issue.

We have a powerful opportunity before us: to reformulate classroom experiences into environments that are engaging, interactive, and relevant to the way today’s students actually learn.

Two years ago, we implemented Learning Management Systems (LMS) into our core curriculum. The results have been nothing short of transformational. Each day begins with a dynamic, interactive module reviewing the previous day’s lesson. Students are not passive listeners — they are active participants.

While we have not conducted a formal academic study, I am confident enough to suggest that student retention is at or above 90–95%. Students are not only recalling content — they are internalizing it. They talk about it. They apply it. They retain it.

Can you imagine a classroom environment where over 90% retention becomes the norm rather than the exception?

Instead of banning tools, let’s study how to effectively integrate innovative technology into classroom settings. Let’s listen to our children. Let’s collaborate with educators on the front lines. Let’s empower teachers with the training, resources, and tools required for the digital era. And most importantly, let’s address device access and connectivity not as luxuries — but as educational equity issues.

The future is not waiting for us to get comfortable. The future is demanding, now is the time, and I’m just saying.

Are Our Children Better Off? A Call to Unity and Action in Urban Youth Development: Time to Scale Up!

I have dedicated more than forty years of my life to the work of urban youth development. I walked away from a fairly successful career in communications because I believed—deeply and sincerely—that my life’s work should contribute to building a world where Black and Brown children could thrive, compete globally, and live with dignity, purpose, and hope.

Now, after four decades, I am forced to ask the most uncomfortable but necessary question: Are Black and Brown children and youth actually better off? Because in the end, that was my only objective.

Over the years, I have watched billions of dollars flow into systems, programs, institutions, and initiatives designed to “serve,” “fix,” and “support” Black children. I’ve also had to confront a sobering reality: while some progress has been made, in many ways our children are not better off—and in some cases, they may be worse off. This blog is not an exercise in rehearsing statistics or highlighting deficits; that story has been told repeatedly. My concern is deeper, more existential, and more moral.

As a believer, I was deeply troubled years ago while attending a conference hosted by the Association of American Colleges and Universities. During a keynote address, Peter McPherson, then President of Michigan State University, stated—paraphrased—that we are raising the first generation in American history that will do less with more than any generation before it. Sitting next to me was the legendary Dr. Grace Lee Boggs. We were the only people of color in the room. We looked at one another, stunned. In her unmistakably direct and prophetic voice, Dr. Boggs leaned over and said, “He’s not talking about us.”

I walked away from that conference determined to prove that statement wrong as it related to Black children in Detroit and across the nation. I knew what we were doing on the ground was working—often without gimmicks, without excessive resources, and without national attention. As my former pastor used to say, we were making bricks with leftover straw. And yet, here we are. The community reality remains what it is. We must be honest enough to say that we have failed Black children.

Let me be clear: adults in many sectors have done better. Careers have flourished. Institutions have grown. Professional classes have expanded. I am not asserting that the struggles of Black children are caused by adult success—but the contrast is real and undeniable. Resources did not trickle down in any meaningful or sustained way, even as theory suggested they would. In urban youth development, far too little attention has been given to the true cost of professionalization, infrastructure, administrative overhead, and fragmented systems of service. Too often, the work became about sustaining organizations rather than transforming outcomes.

And yet, I am not without hope.

Across this country—and throughout the African diaspora—there are outstanding programs doing incredible work. Dedicated educators, mentors, faith leaders, coaches, artists, and advocates are showing up daily. The problem is not passion or talent. The problem is scale, coherence, and unity.

The question we must now ask is this: how do we take what works and scale it in ways that are replicable, adaptable, and sustainable across diverse Black communities?

I want to suggest that the time has come for the development of national mentoring models, workforce development frameworks, educational pathways, and character-based youth development systems that can be implemented in local contexts without losing fidelity to core principles. This cannot remain a collection of isolated best practices. It must become a shared architecture.

To that end, I believe it is time—past time—for a true national, and ultimately global, urban youth development convening. A gathering funded not just by institutions, but by Black philanthropists and what I’ll boldly call our modern-day Black superheroes: athletes, entertainers, executives, entrepreneurs, and cultural leaders who have benefited enormously from the sacrifices of earlier generations. Men and women willing to say, for the next ten years, we will focus a significant portion of our attention, influence, and resources on Black children and youth.

Not for branding. Not for ego. Not for temporary impact.

But for the sole purpose of moving the needle toward excellence, achievement, character formation, spiritual grounding, and educational rigor.

This convening must do more than inspire. It must produce agreement around clear community values—values that can be affirmed by the majority and lived out consistently in streets, schools, hallways, homes, and faith institutions across the globe. Values that transcend ideology, denomination, class, and geography. Values that say, plainly: our children matter, and mediocrity is not an option.

Some may say this is naïve. Others may argue that consensus is impossible. I reject both claims.

I am crazy enough to believe that we have the intellectual capital, cultural wisdom, theological grounding, and lived experience to develop a comprehensive and inclusive strategy—one that honors every valuable entity in our communities while calling all of us to something higher. I believe we can set aside unchecked individualism and even lawful, well-meaning self-interest when the stakes are this high.

This is not a call to erase differences. It is a call to prioritize what matters most.

It is time to call the meeting.

A meeting that asks hard questions, names hard truths, and demands courageous commitments. A meeting that centers children rather than institutions, outcomes rather than optics, and unity rather than competition. A meeting grounded in love for our people and responsibility to future generations.

If we cannot unify around wanting more for our children—then we must be honest enough to admit that the problem is not a lack of resources, but a lack of will.

Are Our Children Better Off? A Call to Unity and Action in Urban Youth Development:

Time to Scale Up!

I still believe. I still hope. And I still believe that together, we can do better—because our children deserve nothing less. I’m Just Saying…

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.