A lot of us feel like our lives should have come with instructions. Or maybe they did, but we lost the only copy a long time ago.

I come from a long line of strong Black women. My grandmother used to share stories about how she caused “trouble” in town when a white man hired her to put up the displays in his store window. At that time, all the Black women in town worked as domestics in the homes of white ladies, or in the...

We have so many opportunities to bless each other in this world, but they don’t always announce themselves as moments of profound transformation.

Surround yourself with skillful teachers. Let them teach you, but don't let them do it for you. That learning is yours to do.

When you’re the only black man in a sea of whiteness, purses still get clutched, and people still cross the street, and hellos still get lost in the void.

We are never numbers to be tallied for turnout. We are more than a sum. Together, we are the hope and courage.

One of my most treasured New Year’s traditions is coming up with a word for the year: a single word that I want to be the theme for my entire year. When I’m questioning what’s the right thing to do, I will look to my word of the year for guidance.

Every year, I tell the congregation not to worry about mistakes because there aren’t any; there is only us, telling an old story about love getting born into this aching world.

It was disruptive and strange to know that someone had died to bring this hope, and to wonder how the donor’s family mourned at the same time we rejoiced.

With a single generous gesture from my older child, her sister's belief in Santa stayed intact that year.

The crisis was an opportunity to learn to be fully me and love it, inner turmoil and all. I learned that strength comes from authenticity, never from perfection.

I was made this way, in this body and this skin. Like all beings, I have an inherent good that cannot be eclipsed.

Can we strive to have the grace to back away when our presence doesn’t feel like safety?

We can be cheerleaders for simple joys (even when we don't share them) and compassionate about the fact that we’re all just trying to survive.

Sometimes grief sends notice ahead of time; sometimes, it shows up as an unwelcome, uninvited guest.

There is relief and remorse equally in my heart as the growing season comes to a close.

This is the beauty and sparkle of spiritual communities: needs arise and beloveds appear to ask, “How can I help?” There’s no fixed timeline, just the spiritual practices of generosity and stewardship.

Coming out to my family was one of the hardest things I’ve had to do. I realized that my choice was one of life and death, and I needed to let my secret out in order to continue living, and to do so authentically.

What I do know for sure is that hope matters. One of the best things we can do is to hold hope for someone when that person cannot hold it for themselves.

May I always remember that Tango, like life, is a dance of the people. It’s meant to be shared, not practiced in isolation.