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.

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…

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….

The Black Christian Church is beginning to look more like a Cult than Christ

This is a hard statement to make about an institution that I have loved and served nearly all of my life. But the black church appears to have lost its way, and we have become more entrepreneurial and business-centered and less Christ-centered, mission-driven, evangelistic, and social justice-oriented.

I grew up in the AME Zion church, where we were taught the principles of Christ in the New Testament, but with a sense of being my brother’s keeper. My AME Zion pastors and bishops were not perfect men, but they were committed men of God. They clearly understood that salvation was from the Lord and righteousness was bestowed upon them. Bishop Stephen Gill Spotswood would regularly visit and share the responsibilities of black Christians to shift the culture of not just our community but the world. Pastor William Hillard and his wife, who served as my first pastor, were elected Bishop and moved to serve God on the continent of Africa as full-time missionaries and church planters. The church (St. Paul AME Zion) had a tremendous commitment to education through its financial and academic support of its HBCUs, Livingston and Paine Colleges.

My family shifted to the CME church in my teen years, where I met Dr. Isaiah Sciptio, MD, DMin. Dr. Scipio, who was 6’8 and played college basketball at UCLA and attended medical school at UCLA. While completing medical school at UCLA, he sensed a call from God to full-time Christian ministry, shifted his focus after graduating, and received his doctorate in ministry. Dr. Scipio was perhaps one of the most eclectic brothers, who was like a chameleon that could fit in both a boardroom and a hood. He served on several corporate and non-profit boards of directors, including that of Monstono Corporation, a global corporation, as a voice of corporate responsibility. Needless to say, one of my Sunday School teachers was “Reperation Ray,” Detroit’s Ray Jenkins, a Detroit real estate broker who was committed to the reparations movement.

I mention all of the above to lay out my background and inspiration for ministry, as well as my reference points and expectations for the Black church. After 30 years of serving within the Black evangelical church, it has been a unique experience participating in a community of believers who sought acceptance from White Christians to affirm their existence and reaffirm their value and work.

Rediscovering Our North Star: A Call to the Black Church

Something about the current state of the Black church feels… off. Almost cultic. It seems we have lost our North Star — the guiding light of Christ that once anchored our identity and mission.

Take, for example, the elevation of the senior pastor to a celebrity status and the designation as the sole prophetic voice of God. In Acts 17:11, we see the Berean ministry leaders collectively diligently study the scriptures. Or the rise of the prosperity gospel, which promises wealth and blessings without demanding the cross or sacrifice. We have forgotten that Christianity is foundational to sacrificial living. Even more troubling is the lack of collaboration among Black churches to collectively advance both the Gospel of Christ and the upliftment of Black people — especially our youth.

How is it that in major cities across America, there can be over 3,000 Black-led churches, and yet the conditions in our communities remain so dire? How is it that Black children continue to suffer in broken systems, and the church — the very institution historically known for liberation and justice — seems paralyzed? Either our light is dimming, or we’ve been seduced by a system that has worked against us as a people.

And here’s what’s even more perplexing: every Sunday, thousands of sincere, loving men and women gather for spirited worship, dynamic preaching, and passionate praise — yet nothing seems to change. Our neighborhoods remain in crisis. Our children are still being left behind. Our prophetic voice has been muffled.

Years ago, I remember when a white worship ministry from Alabama introduced a simplistic three-line model for worship music. Slowly, the Black church began to conform. Traditional “Songs of Zion” and rich Gospel anthems were quietly pushed aside. In their place came two new categories: Worship and Praise music, Christian music — as if Black Gospel was somehow neither worship, nor praise, nor even Christian. That reclassification was more than a musical shift; it was a cultural dislocation. It was another sign that we were drifting from our roots — from our North Star.

I can’t tell you how many battles I’ve fought just to preserve Gospel music in Black church spaces. Not because I’m nostalgic, but because I believe our tradition holds a powerful theology that speaks to suffering, struggle, hope, and redemption — all wrapped in the lived experience of Black people in America.

This blog is a call — a plea — for the Black church to rediscover its mission and its first love. As the Spirit says in Revelation 2:4 5:

“Yet I hold this against you: You have forsaken the love you had at first. Consider how far you have fallen! Repent and do the things you did at first. If you do not repent, I will come to you and remove your lampstand from its place.”

We are not just another religious group. The Black church has a unique calling — to embody the life, love, and liberation of Christ in a broken world. We are meant to be a living witness to the transformative power of the Gospel — not just within our sanctuaries, but in every school, street corner, and system where our people cry out for justice and hope and beyond.

It’s time to return. To repent. To reclaim the mantle of mission. If we truly believe in the power of the Holy Spirit, then we must reflect it — not only in praise breaks, but in broken neighborhoods. Not only in sermons, but in systems change. Not only in church growth, but in community transformation.

We have wandered. But it’s not too late to find our way back.

Pastor Dennis Talbert, a Social Justice Pastor from Detroit, Michigan – What Say You…..

Should the Church Be Taxed? A Conversation worth having

by: Dennis Talbert

Let me be clear from the start: I am not advocating for churches or religious organizations to be taxed. But I am saying this — we need to have a serious conversation about the tax-exempt status of religious institutions, their role in philanthropy, their involvement in community economic development, and their responsibility as stewards of the communities they serve.

This is a weighty topic, with layers upon layers of complexity. It may be impossible to fully unpack it all in a single blog, but I will attempt to raise some key points that I’ve been sitting with for decades.

A Concern That Started in the ’70s

I began questioning the implications of church proliferation during the 1970s when I worked as a city employee in Detroit, responsible for community and economic development. It wasn’t the growth of churches that troubled me—it was the way zoning laws and city codes affected them. At that time, businesses were restricted from operating within a certain distance of religious institutions. I began to notice how the influx of small storefront churches impacted the economic vitality of Detroit’s commercial corridors.

Fast forward over 40 years, and I recently drove down Puritan Avenue — from 12th Street for nearly four miles — and to my dismay. What used to be a bustling commercial district has become a corridor dotted with closed church buildings, abandoned lots, and shuttered storefronts. What happened?

While there are theological layers to this, which I’ll set aside for now, it was hard not to conclude that the unchecked proliferation and eventual closure of tax-exempt churches had decimated a once-viable commercial zone.

These local observations reminded me of conversations in various African countries with young ministers seeking to become lead pastors. We discussed launching churches in new regions and often looked to the Apostle Paul as the biblical model for church planting.

Paul’s efforts were transformative. His churches not only spread the Gospel but also created vibrant, empowered communities. So I began to wonder: Is this the model of church planting we’re following today? And more importantly, is this the model Christ intended?

There’s a growing trend in the U.S. called the church planter movement, where individuals, groups and denominations — often sincerely- believe God calls them to start churches. However, many churches, especially in urban communities, shut their doors within a few years. That raises a spiritual and practical question: What happened to the call?

A Brief History of Church Tax Exemption

Let’s step back for a moment. During the colonial era, churches like the Anglicans and Congregationalists were state-sponsored, particularly in Virginia and Massachusetts. This created tensions within the Christian community over state involvement in religious life.

Most states moved away from government-established churches after the American Revolution, influenced by Enlightenment ideals and a desire for religious freedom. By the 20th century, the Revenue Act of 1913 formally exempted churches from federal income tax, and Section 501(c)(3) was created for charitable organizations. Lawmakers seemed to assume that these entities would act in the public good, and for a time, many did.

But 112 years later, is it time to revisit those assumptions?

The Black Church: Mission, Vision, and Stewardship

Let me be clear: we need the Black church. Its historical contributions to education, liberation, and civil rights are unmatched. The mission to love, serve, and advance Christ has not changed.

Consider this: estimates suggest that the Black church in America collects between $100–$250 million every Sunday, more than $7.8 billion annually. That’s more than the annual GDP of Liberia, Haiti, Kosovo, Sierra Leone, Gambia, Burundi, and several other small nations combined.

According to Pew Research, over 85% of Black philanthropy in some neighborhoods flows through the church. That’s a staggering number.

Despite the presence of hundreds of churches in Detroit and cities like it, far too many of our children, families, and neighborhoods continue to struggle with poverty, violence, educational gaps, and broken systems. A few years ago, a philanthropic foundation in Detroit attempted to mobilize Black churches to engage children in after-school programs. Despite the city’s high concentration of churches, the outcomes were limited.

We cannot afford to ignore these questions any longer. Are we truly being good stewards of the resources entrusted to us? Are we investing enough in the long-term success and transformation of Black children, youth, and families? Are we aligning our methods with our mission?

This conversation isn’t just about tax codes — it’s about Kingdom purpose. The moral and spiritual decline we see in America cannot be reversed by government programs or legislation alone. It demands a revitalized church — one that is committed to economic justice, social transformation, spiritual renewal, and community accountability.

We have the intellectual, theological, and moral capacity to explore these questions honestly and constructively. It’s time for the church — especially the Black church — to reimagine its role, revisit its vision, and renew its commitment to the cause of Christ in the 21st century. We can reimagine a tax code that reflects the economic and social justice issues of the 21st century, that creates a matrix that advances God’s kingdom-building agenda on earth, and fulfills the philanthropic needs of our communities and their residents.

I’m just saying. What say you? Let’s get the conversation going,,,,

I’m a Bigot!

By: Pastor Dennis Talbert

This week, I faced a hard truth—one I never thought I would apply to myself. I just might be a bigot. That’s a shocking realization for someone like me, a near lifelong Christian who has poured countless hours into mentoring and empowering thousands of young people through ministry, missions, and service projects around the world. And yet, here I am, saying it plainly: I am a bigot.

Bigotry, as I’ve come to define it, is more than just open hostility or hate. A bigot is someone who is intolerant of people who are different—be it in race, religion, gender, sexual orientation, or political belief. It’s an attitude, a posture, a resistance to seeing the humanity and dignity in others when they don’t mirror your own values or experiences. A bigot holds strong, unreasonable prejudices and often refuses to see things from another perspective, let alone treat those people with fairness or love. By that definition, the spirit of intolerance has, at times, influenced my own life. It has subtly and steadily crept in, impacting the very essence of who I am and distorting my grasp of the fruits of the Spirit described in Galatians 5:22–23: love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control.

I never wanted this. I never meant for intolerance to settle in my heart. My Christian witness has long been centered on Romans 12:18: “If possible, as far as it depends on you, live at peace with everyone.” But I now find myself asking—how can one live at peace when bigotry poisons the soul and breeds division, anger, and even hate?

Growing up in the Church, I often heard the phrase attributed to St. Augustine: “Love the sinner, hate the sin.” It sounded noble, maybe even biblical. But in recent years, I’ve begun to question its true intent and impact. That phrase—repeated so often in Christian circles—now strikes me as a contradiction. It creates emotional distance, allowing us to avoid the messy, costly love that Jesus actually modeled. Jesus didn’t merely “tolerate” sinners. He embraced them. He ate with tax collectors, allowed a prostitute to anoint his feet, spoke freely with outcasts, and taught in parables that exalted acts of mercy over piety. He fed the hungry, welcomed the stranger, and clothed the naked. His love was complete, relational, and redemptive. If we say we “love the sinner,” shouldn’t that love resemble the embrace of Christ—patient, kind, and unflinchingly real?

This moment of self-reckoning compelled me to do what I’ve always done when facing a spiritual dilemma: I studied. I read the Scriptures, reflected on history, and dug into the roots of prejudice and hatred. What I discovered, and perhaps what you already know, is that bigotry has always been about more than feelings. It’s about power—who has it, who keeps it, and who is kept out. Bigotry is entangled with colonialism, racism, religious extremism, xenophobia, and nationalism. It’s been the fuel behind wars, oppression, and systems of injustice that continue to this day.

When I look around at the cultural climate we live in—politically divided, racially charged, and spiritually adrift—I understand how I got here. But my concern now stretches beyond myself. I am deeply troubled by what I see within the Body of Christ. Are we truly influencing the world for good? Or are we, in fact, being influenced by the world—conforming to its divisions and prejudices while hiding behind spiritual language?

One of Detroit’s great spiritual giants, the late Dr. Frederick G. Sampson, regularly prayed, “Lord, help me to rescue your church from your church.” That prayer echoes in my soul today. It might also be the silent cry of a generation of young people who keep walking in and out of our churches like they’re moving through a revolving door. They may lack formal theological training or institutional titles, but they know when something doesn’t add up. They can feel the dissonance between the Jesus we teach and the church we run. And many are choosing to walk away.

Perhaps it’s time for a new movement—not built on branding or tradition, but on truth and love. A movement that dares to preach the Christ of the cross, not a Christ of cultural conformity or political convenience. A movement that reclaims the radical humility and holy justice that defined the life of Jesus. Not a new denomination or a trendy campaign, but a rescue mission. A spiritual lifeboat for a church that may be drifting. I’m just saying: What say you? Does the church need rescuing? Do we have the courage to confront our own prejudice, our institutional complacency, and the ways we’ve quietly accepted intolerance under the banner of faith?

P.S. As for me, I return to the words of 1 Corinthians 9:27: “But I discipline my body and keep it under control, lest after preaching to others I should be disqualified.” I do not want to be disqualified—not from the race, the call, or the love I’ve spent a lifetime trying to embody. I need the Holy Spirit and my community to hold me accountable.

I am a sinner saved by grace and covered by mercy. But even grace demands that I grow.

Everybody Needs a Pastor

This has been a traumatic week.

Death and grief have visited our community through the tragic, accidental loss of a loving husband and wife, faithful urban missionaries serving in the Brightmoor neighborhood of Detroit. Their sudden departure has left five boys under the age of 15 without their parents, and a host of family members and friends drowning in sorrow.

Many Christians are quietly (or not quietly) asking: “Why, God?”

Because in the end, everybody needs a pastor.
Not just a preacher. Not just a leader. A pastor with the heart of Christ.

As I’ve sat with the weight of this trauma—both the personal grief and the collective grief of our believing community—it hit me deeply: we are like sheep without a shepherd. The same words that described the crowds in Matthew 9:36 and Mark 6:34 now describe the ache I feel for our city.

I remember during the height of the pandemic sensing this same void. And once again, the Spirit whispers: Lord, as pastors, we must have a resolve—mixed with a Word, connected to an action—for the people.

We need pastors in the spirit of Galatians 4:19, where Paul doesn’t speak of position or prestige, but of laboring in love “until Christ is formed in you.” That’s the heartbeat of faithful pastoral ministry. Yet, somewhere along the way, we’ve drifted.

Today, many pastors have become church administrators, strategic planners, authors, influencers, bible scholars, and church planters. There’s nothing inherently wrong with any of those roles—but when the art and love of pastoring God’s sheep falls out of fashion, we’re in trouble.

Revelation 2:4 echoes in my spirit: “You have forsaken the love you had at first.”

There’s a powerful little book called They Smell Like Sheep. Its message is clear: real pastors live among their people. Real shepherds carry the scent of the sheep. These past few days, after attending several homegoing celebrations and sitting with grieving souls, one truth rang loudly in my spirit:

Everybody needs a pastor.

Not one perched above the people, but one who walks with them. Through the mess. Through the pain. Through the grief. A shepherd, like the one described in Psalm 23, who leads, restores, comforts, and remains present in the valley of the shadow of death.

And here’s another truth that pierced me this weekend:

Even pastors need a pastor.

As someone who has launched mentoring programs and worked with youth for years, I’ve often said, “Everyone needs a mentor.” The same is true in ministry: everyone needs a pastor.

A real pastor doesn’t lead with control, but with care. They don’t see people as numbers, but as souls. They are teachable, humble, and submissive. They don’t isolate themselves in pride or burnout because they know—they’re sheep too.

We don’t need to be Superman or Superwoman. We just need to be servants of Christ, not with pessimism, but with hope. Trusting Christ to be Christ and to do what only He can do: transform lives.

True pastors give more than inspiration.
They give biblical direction—even when it’s hard.
They preach truth, not trends.
Their goal is not to entertain, but to equip.

We must return to our first love—not the platform or programs, but the pastoral vocation—to love people deeply, walk with them patiently, correct them biblically, and carry their burdens when life becomes too heavy for them to bear alone.

As They Smell Like Sheep reminds us, ministry isn’t clean.
It’s relational. It’s gritty. It’s deeply personal.

This week has reminded me:
The world is full of people silently crying out for care.
Let us not forget our call.

Everybody needs a pastor.

I’m just saying… what do you think?

Reclaiming Racial Reconcillation: Why the Wounded Must Lead the Healing

In the United States, the language of “racial reconciliation” is increasingly invoked in churches, corporate boardrooms, nonprofit organizations, and political platforms. Yet too often, the process is led and defined by the descendants of those who benefited most from racial injustice, rather than those who bore its deepest wounds. This imbalance not only distorts the process but also undermines its potential to be genuinely transformative.

True racial reconciliation cannot be orchestrated by those who have historically held the power, dictated the narratives, or controlled the systems of wealth and influence. It must be led by those most impacted by racial violence, dispossession, and systemic exclusion. Anything less risks becoming either a symbolic gesture or, worse, a retraumatizing reenactment of colonial power dynamics dressed in the language of healing.

When descendants of slaveholders, colonizers, or beneficiaries of racial hierarchies lead the reconciliation process, the outcomes often center on comfort and image management rather than truth, justice, or repair. Apologies are issued, but no reparations follow. Dialogues are held, but decision-making remains centralized in historically white institutions. Workshops are facilitated, but budgets remain unequally distributed. These patterns reinforce the status quo, pacifying discomfort without redistributing power.

This dynamic also privileges the emotional ease of the dominant group. The goal becomes creating a sense of closure, of “moving on,” rather than honestly confronting the enduring consequences of racial harm, including generational poverty, institutional mistrust, educational disparities, cultural erasure, and political disenfranchisement. In this sense, mainstream racial reconciliation efforts often cater to white guilt and fragility rather than Black trauma and resilience.

Having lived in the Black Christian evangelical world for the past 35-plus years, I have witnessed firsthand, across a wide range of Christian organizations, the bastardization of the concept of racial reconciliation. Sadly, even many Black Christians have internalized these diluted versions. As a result, the underserved — especially Black believers — have been marginalized within evangelical spaces, excluded from preaching opportunities, board leadership, and publishing platforms. Even when access is granted, it often benefits the individual rather than the broader community.

One of the critical missing links in all of this is the power of the Holy Spirit. As John 3:30 reminds us, “He must increase, and I must decrease.” The Spirit empowers us to think differently — to imagine reconciliation not as a symbolic gesture, but as a transformative, systemic process rooted in humility and divine justice.

There’s an expression that says, “Power concedes nothing.” Jesus understood that. In fact, He changed the game. He led with a radically inclusive vision — one that built a level playing field for all people, especially the poor and the oppressed. His Beatitudes are a blueprint for this reversal of worldly power: “Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the earth” (Matthew 5:5).

If biblical reconciliation is to reflect the heart of Christ, then power must be conceded, and systems must be redesigned and transformed. Acknowledgment and apology alone are not enough. What is needed is a rebalancing of power, voice, and resources. This shift must be systemic, not symbolic.

Here are five key principles I believe are essential for genuine reconciliation:

1. Leadership by the Wounded

Those most harmed — descendants of enslaved people, Indigenous communities, and historically marginalized groups — must lead the process. Their lived experience must shape the design, language, timeline, and goals of any reconciliation efforts. Healing must be led by those who know the pain.

2. Narrative Control

The stories and frameworks used to guide reconciliation must come from the grassroots. This includes centering oral histories, truth commissions rooted in community, and cultural practices that reflect the values of the oppressed, not sanitized retellings curated for institutional comfort.

3. Structural Reparations

There can be no true reconciliation without a material response. That means wealth redistribution, divestment from oppressive systems (such as the prison-industrial complex and exploitative corporations), and reinvestment in Black, Brown, and Indigenous futures.

4. Shared Governance

Institutional power must be shared — or surrendered. Boards, churches, universities, and civic bodies must include and empower those who were previously excluded, not as tokens but as equal—if not primary—stakeholders in decision-making.

5. The Right to Say “No”

True reconciliation honors the right of harmed communities to decline participation in performative or insufficient efforts. They must be able to reject gestures that do not lead to meaningful change and protect their own boundaries around trauma and healing. Without consent, any effort risks becoming a reenactment of control.

The future of racial reconciliation in America depends on a righteous disruption of the old frameworks. We must unlearn models that prize politeness over justice and comfort over truth. We must reject the temptation to “move on” before we’ve even faced the truth.

Churches, Christian organizations, universities, and governments must go beyond panels, pledges, and performative diversity campaigns. They must make room for radical honesty, historical reckoning, and the tangible restructuring of power. Without this, what is meant to heal will only deepen the wound.

This is not about revenge — it is about repair.
It is not about guilt — it is about justice.
It is not about erasing anyone’s humanity — it is about finally affirming the full humanity of those whose dignity has been denied for generations.

The path toward racial healing must be built by those who know the terrain of suffering and survival best. Their leadership is not only legitimate but also essential. Until we understand that reconciliation without justice is not true reconciliation, we will continue to mistake performance for progress.

Now is the time to shift the center —
From the privileged to the oppressed.
From symbolic gestures to systemic change.
From control to shared liberation.

Only then can the body of Christ begin the work of true reconciliation — not as a moment, but as a movement. I’m just saying…. What say you?