Last week I received a phone call from a veteran urban youth worker. During our conversation, he spoke from a place of deep pain and honesty. He said something that stopped me in my tracks:
“Dennis, I’ve spent more than 50 years serving children and youth. And in the end, I can’t even take care of myself or my family. I had to sell everything and move in with relatives in another state.”
All I could say in that moment was “Wow.”
For the next hour, I did my best to remind him of the truth. I reminded him of how consequential his life had been. I reminded him of the young people whose lives were shaped because he showed up when others would not. I reminded him of how his work influenced my own journey in youth ministry. Because we had worked side by side for so many years, I was able to call names, recall moments, and recount the countless ways he had invested in young lives.
Still, I could hear the weariness in his voice.
Then, just days later, I received another call from another veteran youth worker—someone whose ministry literally changed the trajectory of youth work in Detroit-area Black churches. He happened to be a white man who loved Jesus deeply and was willing to surrender his life to loving Black children into the arms of Christ.
Both of those conversations reminded me of a story I heard years ago.
The story was about a missionary who had spent more than twenty years serving in Africa. Because of declining health, he was returning to the United States on a cruise ship. As the ship docked, he looked out from the deck and saw large crowds gathered on the pier—families cheering, balloons waving, people embracing loved ones who were returning home from vacation.
But no one was there for him. This man had spent decades serving thousands on the mission field, and yet he arrived home to no welcome, no recognition, no support. The story says that for the remainder of his life he lived in isolation, poverty, and loneliness until the Lord finally called him home.
When I first heard that story years ago, I remember praying: “God, please don’t let that be me.”
But the truth is, this is the reality for thousands of urban youth workers in America. I have watched men and women dedicate their lives to serving young people only to lose their families, their homes, and even the communities they once served.
A few years ago, during one of our church’s homeless outreaches, I encountered a former youth pastor living on the streets of Detroit. He eventually began sleeping at our church simply to escape the brutal winter cold. Someone said to me, “He made a series of bad decisions.”
Maybe that’s true. Or maybe, by the standards of the kingdom of God, he was simply living out his calling.
Because the men and women I know who have ended up in situations like that were not lazy. They were not selfish. They were sold out. They gave their lives for the sake of young people. And the fruit of their labor will one day be honored by God. They lived the words of Jesus: “I am the vine; you are the branches. If you remain in me and I in you, you will bear much fruit; apart from me you can do nothing.” — John 15:5
Over the years, I have come to a painful conclusion. We don’t love Black children.
Now, before anyone gets defensive, let me be clear. Many of us love our own children deeply. But as a community, the evidence suggests that we do not truly love Black children and youth the way we claim. Because if we did, there would be overwhelming evidence of that love.
Look at our urban schools.
Look at the lack of sustainable youth development programs.
Look at the messages in the music and media we often celebrate.
Look at how few resources are directed toward nurturing young minds and spirits.
And for those of us in the church, the evidence can often be found in something very simple: our budgets.
Jesus said it plainly: “Do not store up for yourselves treasures on earth, where moths and vermin destroy… but store up treasures in heaven… For where your treasure is, there your heart will be also.” — Matthew 6:19–21
If we truly loved Black children as a community, our resources would prove it. The truth is, the amount of wealth circulating within the Black community could literally change the course of history for our children and youth.
But that requires a shift in mindset. It requires us to move from “me” to “us.” It is a tragic state of affairs when communities are unwilling to support the very men and women who sacrifice their lives to serve in spaces most people would never choose.
And after reflecting on those two phone calls, I found myself hearing the familiar words from Scripture: “Whom shall I send? And who will go for us?”And I said, “Here I am. Send me.” — Isaiah 6:8
You don’t even have to be a Christian to understand the power of that call when it comes to Black children and youth. I could write volumes about the state of our young people and the lack of support for those who serve them. But the answer, at least in part, is painfully simple:
Invest in the people, programs, and ministries that actually give a damn about our children. That’s it. That’s the work. I’m just saying….
I'm Just Saying 