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Each February, many in the Black diaspora ask a familiar question: Is it still necessary to sound the horn—again—about the contributions of Black people in the United States and across the world?
From science and medicine to education, economics, politics, and religion, the imprint of formerly enslaved people and their descendants is indelible. Their intellectual capital, moral courage, and creative genius have shaped the very architecture of this nation. I continue to be struck by newly uncovered stories—accounts of invention, bravery, perseverance, and historic “firsts” that recalibrate our understanding of what has always been true.
For communities outside the dominant culture, these narratives are not merely historical footnotes; they are lifelines. They sustain hope. They testify to resilience. They affirm that even within systems designed to marginalize, Black people have built, led, discovered, healed, and transformed. And yet, in this country, progress can still feel like a weary choreography—one step forward, two steps back. As seen in the most recent posting of former President and First Lady Michelle Obama. When will we mature to a place of seeing each other as images of God? When will we no longer need to demoralize others to make ourselves feel superior?
So, we ask: Will another story of an exceptional Black leader make a measurable difference? Will it make our children safer? Will it widen the pathway for emerging Black leadership? Will society learn not simply to “see color,” but to honor the gifts carried in sun-kissed skin rich with melanin?
As Amanda Gorman writes, “perhaps the American dream isn’t a dream at all, but instead, a dare.” To acknowledge Black contributions is not nostalgia — it is a dare toward justice and faith in what is possible. It is a courageous insistence that the promise of this nation must be expanded to include the fullness of our history and the brilliance of our people.
I struggled to write this article. If I am candid, I am weary—tired of raising my voice in spaces where too many remain unwilling to hear the full truth about who Black people are in this country. Yet I also recognize that weariness is not mine alone, and that within the body of Christ we are called to bear one another’s burdens and listen deeply to one another’s stories.
And so, I take a deep breath. So did our ancestors. So do many even now. The breath itself is resistance. The telling of the story is resistance. The insistence on truth—spoken clearly, persistently, and without apology—is resistance. But it is also invitation: an invitation to shared understanding, shared repentance, and shared commitment to a more just and faithful future.
For many in the Black community, this persistence is not simply cultural—it is spiritual. Our faith has never been detached from our struggle. It was forged in brush arbors and praise houses, whispered in fields, sung in sorrow songs, and proclaimed from pulpits that dared to name both suffering and hope. Faith did not deny the brutality of history; it declared that brutality would not have the final word. This is resurrection hope!
To remember our contributions is, in many ways, an act of faith. It is a refusal to accept erasure. It is trust that truth matters, even when it is contested. It is belief that every person bears the image of God and that the church, at its best, reflects that sacred truth in its leadership, its witness, and its life together.
So, we sound the horn again—not because we are naïve about the resistance, but because our faith compels us. We testify because we believe. We persist because we trust that justice, though delayed, is not abandoned.
As a Synod, this moment calls us not only to remembrance but to response. How we listen, how we lead, how we widen the table, and how we steward opportunity for the next generation are spiritual decisions as much as strategic ones.
And in that sacred tension—between exhaustion and hope, between lament and praise—faith becomes not an escape from the struggle, but the very strength to remain in it together.
Rev. Dr. SanDawna Theresa Gaulman Ashley, daughter of Freddie and Dorothy Gaulman, wife of Murphy, mother of Jay, and Grandmother of Christian, Olivia, and Izumi.
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