The Bell Family, The Pearl, and the Sacred Thread that Still Holds Us. Can I share a story with you? My daddy’s name was Ronald. His father’s name was Charles. Charles’ father’s name was Percy. Percy’s father’s name was Henry. And somehow—Henry Bell was family to

I have never been comfortable with the name Black Harry. “Black” was not a neutral descriptor. It functioned as a divider in the road—marking Harry Hoosier as ‘other’ to white Methodists while quietly reminding him that he was not quite the person that the movement claimed

There are moments in the life of a community when faith is not loud, not dramatic, or rushed—but firm, quiet, and deeply rooted. This past Sunday we sat with one of those moments as we listened to the words of Psalm 46: “Be still, and know

Beloved, When I was in high school, I served as president of the Youth NAACP for our county. One of our first goals was bold but simple: we wanted Black History taught as an independent course in our high school. We had a plan. We formed

One question has been sitting heavy in my spirit this past week: What do you do, when by all visible evidence, the bully is winning? I could not shake it off. It followed the current headlines, conversations, and the quiet moments when hope felt thinner than

Often, when I prepare a sermon, I begin with a question—usually one that doesn’t have a clean or easy answer. I let that question sit at the center of the text and then begin the slow work of listening. I research history and commentaries, trace connected

FAITHFUL IN EVERY SEASON: AN UPDATE ON CARING FOR OUR SANCTUARY AND EACH OTHER! Beloved Church Family, Grace and peace to you. I want to share an important update regarding our worship space. Over the past two Sundays, our sanctuary has been without heat. After prayerful

WHEN HEAVEN SPEAKS A NAME! My grandmother, Viola Bell, gave birth to eleven children! And twice, she carried double the blessing—two sets of twins. The names of the first pair were Darleen and Doreen. But when my father and his twin brother were born, the weight

There is a moment tucked into the opening chapters of Luke where silence becomes a sanctuary! Zechariah, a seasoned priest, stands in the Temple doing what generations before him had done for four hundred years — offering incense, lifting prayers, tending sacred routines even when heaven

The story of Jacob and Laban has always captured my attention. Two men: kinfolk, covenantbound, blessed by God yet continuously locked in a cycle of suspicion, protection, and oneupmanship. They mirror each other more than they realize. They are not villains. They are not wicked. They