The youth of Christ Church will once again host our annual Shrove Tuesday Pancake Supper on February 25th! Serving begins at 6:00 p.m. and we'll have pancakes, ham, sausage, milk, and honey. We'll also have beverages and desserts on offer. Seating is available until 7:15 p.m. Advance prices are: $7. for an adult, $5. for a child, and $22. for a family. The price for tickets at the door on the day will be slightly higher, so get your tickets on sale after this Sunday's service.

I am yet to come across anyone who isn’t motivated by something. A couple of days ago, I overheard a parishioner say to another that as much as Lent is noted as a period of giving up something as part of our spiritual practice, she is instead taking the opposite tack, which is, she is going to be for something. Instead of giving up something, she wants to be for something. I didn’t ask about the something she plans to be, but I suspect that this something would be to enrich her spiritual life. I must admit that this was the first time I ever heard someone take such an approach to the season of Lent. I was intrigued by the thought of being for something. "What is the ‘something’ that I can be for?" I asked myself. And what’s that something that you can be for? In a sense, this piece is organized around the idea of being for something. One of the challenging tasks of the Old Testament prophets was calling Israel back to its covenantal relationship with God. At the back of their minds was the gift of God’s salvation, which was made possible by the journey from Egypt to the Land of Promise. Beginning with the first words of the Ten Commandments: “I am the Lord your God who brought you out of the land of Egypt, out of the house of bondage,” the prophets cited the divine redemption to rebuke Israel for being faithless, ungrateful, and for running after other gods. The prophets always reminded the people of Israel that God had elected them for a purpose, and that they were supposed to be the light among the many nations that surrounded them - that they were to be for something. The classical idea of salvation points to the reality of being saved from something for something. You can then argue that Israel’s salvation was not only realized in its freedom walk into the Promised Land, but that there was a corresponding responsibility relating to Israel’s decision to live into the vision of God - to be for something. To extend this argument a little further is to argue that you and I have not only been saved from something, but that we have been saved for something - to make God’s glory ever so present. And if only then, we can realize our redemption through the paradigm of being for something. This idea reminds me of a story I heard about Jimmy Durante. Jimmy was an incredible performer, comedian, singer, and actor. A story is told that after the Second World War, many of the wounded soldiers were brought back to the United States. Jimmy frequently entertained the wounded soldiers who were brought to New York City. As many of you know, there was no TV, or internet, or many of the wonderful other technological advancements that make our lives so comfortable today. And so for many of these soldiers, the challenge of living day-to-day with their brutal injuries and inadequate medical know-how was in itself deeply depressing. It so happened that Jimmy was scheduled to be at two places at the same time, but in his deep desire to support the wounded troops and to keep his other commitment, he decided that he would spend just about an hour with the soldiers and then head off to the other engagement where, after all, he would be paid. During the performance, he realized something so unusual, touching, and uplifting. As a result, instead of stopping the show, Jimmy kept going on and on, well past his one-hour commitment. People were surprised that Jimmy was still on stage performing. What motivated Jimmy was that he saw something that no one probably saw - something that became more than a reality check for him, it actually became his inspiration. Right in front of the stage on which he performed were two young soldiers who were wounded in the war. One of them had lost his right hand, and the other had lost his left hand. They sat next to each other, but what touched Jimmy was that after each performance these two young soldiers would, together, clap for him - one would use his left hand, and the other would use his right hand. That sight alone was so humbling, and far too emotional for Jimmy to simply walk away after an hour of performance. At that moment, more than being an entertainer, he was inspired to be for something. Two young soldiers who offered their lives to serve their country and subsequently lost an arm each, could yet find in one another’s arm the motivating strength and inspiration to be for something - to clap for Jimmy, the man who lightened life’s load, and made people laugh through life’s injuries. am convinced that if Lent is going to be as meaningful as we would want it to be, we dare not recognize our individual deficiencies as setting limits for us, but rather like the two young soldiers we dare to be for something, be motivated enough to recognize our collective challenges as brimming with opportunities for God’s glory and human edification. Let’s be for something this Lent. ~Manny

This is the Sixth Sunday after the Epiphany Readings for today: Deuteronomy 30:15-20 Psalm 119:1-8 1 Corinthians 3:1-9 Matthew 5:21-37 The Collect of the Day: O God, the strength of all who put their trust in you: Mercifully accept our prayers; and because in our weakness we can do nothing good without you, give us the help of your grace, that in keeping your commandments we may please you both in will and deed; through Jesus Christ our Lord, who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, for ever and ever. Amen.

I grew up in a home where my father wasn’t married to my mother. My maternal grandfather was aware my father was seeing my mother, and my paternal grandmother knew that my father was seeing my mother. Both families knew my father had children with my mother. There was no ceremony to consummate their relationship and, if ever there was, it was the birth of my brother, my sister, and I. We consummated that relationship. I have no idea when or how my father met my mother, or what brought them together. We’ve never had that conversation. But it is likely that my dad saw her in our neighborhood - my paternal grandfather’s house and my father’s house were in the same general area - and my mom lived in my grandfather’s house. So here are three children, but no ring on her finger, nor was there any traditional ceremony of recognition. However, there was a general understanding that without a ring or recognition, there was some semblance of loyalty and commitment to raising my brother, sister, and myself together. My mother’s situation may not be the reality of women in mainstream American society, which is a good thing. But then, equally within this American mainstream, there is a pervasive culture that kills my spirit. The pervasive culture I am referring to is divorce. Divorce tears a family apart and ruins relationships built over years. My heartbreak has always been about moments children are made to choose between father and mother. A few weeks ago, I was invited to be a character witness for a colleague who is also a relation. I have known him for as long as I have lived in the United States. I know how much he adores the daughter he shares with his ex-wife. I am very much aware of the extent to which he went to marry his ex-wife and relocate her to the United States. I know how much he wants to be in the life of his daughter. But here you have a mother who is deliberately building walls between a father and a daughter, and frustrating attempts at a healthy relationship in the process. If I had my own way, there wouldn’t be any divorce. But I also affirm the words of the hymnist Leighton Hayne, who wrote that “…by many deeds of shame, we learn that love grows cold.” For that reason, I am open to the idea of divorce - as difficult as it may be. But I do not understand how and why we so suddenly forget the love which first brought a couple together, and then become so bitter to one another that the children who consummated our marriage become a pawn in our sad saga. There’s a story of a husband who came home with divorce papers, confessed to his wife that he was seeing someone, and asked her for a divorce. The disappointed wife couldn’t believe her husband, but she agreed to sign the divorce papers on two conditions: first, that they would both act civilly in the presence of their daughter, so she would always know that mom and dad loved her. Secondly, she asked that he carried her to bed each night for seven days. The man was surprised. Those are easy, he must have said to himself. I can accomplish them without breaking a sweat. The first request wasn’t complicated - he could fake being all nice in the presence of his daughter. The second request, however, was. Each time the husband lifted her, she recounted a story that took them back to the very place he emotionally didn’t want to be. Those stories took them to their first night out for dinner. Those stories also took them to the night of their wedding. And those stories took him to the night when her water broke at home with their daughter. He was familiar with the stories. He knew how much those stories meant to him. Those are the very stories that bind a couple together, and it is within those stories that we find the strength and a reason to behold each other, and lift each other up, even when we have more than enough reason to walk away from each other. After the last night, he couldn’t go ahead with his plans to divorce his wife; the memories written on his heart were so transformational. He went back to the lady he was seeing and plainly told her that he loved his wife, and that he was going back to her. It was, however, too late; the wife had died. But before she died, she left him a note, a kind heartfelt note about her love for him and their daughter. Tomorrow is Valentine’s Day. It is a day dedicated to sharing love with the people we love. Yes, there may be times when we can say with such gusto that we don’t love such and such person any more, that we’ve moved on. But I don’t really buy that and never will, for love is too costly a commodity for one person to say he/she doesn’t have any more for the very person whom he/she couldn’t wait to embrace. Trust me - if I could love a total stranger, then I can still love that someone with whom I once fell in love with, because I believe what Shakespeare wrote in Sonnet 116: “Love isn’t love that alters when its alteration finds… Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks, but bears it out, even to the edge of doom." Tomorrow is Valentine’s Day. You may be on the verge of divorce, or you have already signed your divorce papers. I may not know how bitter you are, or how bitter your partner may be. But one thing I can say is that you cannot "out-bitter" each other, nor can you close down shop on each other. There’s a part of you - and there will always be a part of you - which is familiar with the good old stories. You don’t have to remember all of them - or even some - but if you do, let them shape your temperament, and let those stories remind you of that unique ‘gift’ that first brought you together. Tomorrow is Valentine’s Day. You may have some elaborate plans or you may have none - that’s alright. Whether you do or not, remember what first brought you together. Life is lived in stories, so go ahead and create more beautiful and wonderful stories. For, those stories maybe the only way we can be civil even in the midst of divorce, save our relationships or bring life and energy into those relationships. Happy Valentine’s Day. ~Manny

The first time I stepped into an elevator was in a high-rise SunTrust Bank building in downtown Atlanta. One of the parishioners at my new parish - All Saints - had invited me to join him for breakfast. I arrived in the lobby looking all surprised and dumbfounded. Having been directed by one of the security officers to an elevator, I joined other people who looked like employees of the bank in one of the multiple elevators. I don’t remember the exact floor, but it was very high. When I walked in, I didn’t know what to do but someone who looked at my confused face asked me which floor, I mentioned the floor number, and then he/she pressed a button. The door closed, and there I was, being lifted high. Ever since my first ride, I have been on countless elevators that run into the mid tens. I knew about elevators because I saw them in movies and read about them in books. But riding in one for the first time was something else - it was a good feeling being lifted up. What I came to realize on the ride up was that the elevator would stop, the doors would open, and some folks would get off. "Interesting," I said to myself. Each floor had its own passengers. Over time, what I have come to appreciate about the elevator is that it doesn’t climb sideways - it only climbs up and down. And the uniqueness of being in one is that people get off and join as you climb up, and people get off and join in as you climb down. So, whether we’re going up or down, people get on or step off. And that, alone, is the nature of life - people join in or step out of our lives whether we are climbing up or down. But the sad reality is that oftentimes when people step out of the elevators of our lives, either by death or by deeds of shame, we fail to do the hard work of going to the basement, that metaphorical place where you are the only person who has access. And in the basement, our primary question is not why, but how. I share a story of a parishioner, Cheryl, who lost her husband, Richard several years ago. Richard was a beloved member of Christ Church. According to Cheryl, upon the death of Richard, Saturdays became the most difficult of days. Prior to his passing, Saturdays were one of the important days of their lives where they got together and did something fun and enriching. But here she was, dreading each upcoming Saturday and the wonderful memories that flooded her thoughts. Feeling lonely and despairing, her response to her Saturdays was a trip down to the basement. See, as the elevator climbs up and down, and as people get off or on, the one button in the elevator that we hardly press is the one that takes us to the basement…the very place of our lives where we go to make sense of everything that happens in it. The very place where we ask ourselves some of the most difficult questions of our lives. The very place where, like Cheryl, we acknowledge that Richard is no longer on the elevator, and Saturdays wouldn’t be the same, but if I want to make the best out of each and every Saturday, what do I do? How do I do it? Some of us, indeed, are satisfied with the daily mundane of the elevator going up and down. If it ever occurs to us at all, we hardly reflect on why someone got on at a particular floor in our lives, or why someone got off at a particular floor in our lives. I was in Atlanta a couple of weeks ago for a conference. One of the seminars was on the last floor - the 25th floor - of a hotel. The floor was covered with glass. I could view as far into the distance as my eyes could see. Being on the last floor may be synonymous with being on a mountain top. In traditional Jewish thought, the mountain top - being the highest point - was where one could meet God. Think about Moses on Mount Sinai. Think about Jesus with Peter, James, and John on the mountain top during the Transfiguration of Jesus. Think about how you’ve climbed up. All you see is up. It is fun to be moving on up. Being up or on the mountain top often commands a peculiar aura; it is one of invincibility, pride, and a false sense of self-importance. The elevator does take us up there, and looking downwards we may feel like being on top of the world. The tragedy is that we tend to forget that the elevator which took us up to the last floor is often the same elevator which will bring us down to the ground floor - where we have to walk into that metaphorical basement ourselves. There’s a story in scripture where Satan took Jesus to the highest mountain and showed him all the splendor of the world and its riches. He then promised Jesus that he would give all to him if he were to bow down and worship him. To understand why Jesus rejected this proposal is to understand why we have to create that metaphorical basement for the purpose of asking how. Life is full of ups and downs, and so is the elevator - it goes up, and it comes down. And so whether you are up or down, give thanks to God. St. Paul admonishes us with these words “In everything give thanks: for this is the will of God in Christ Jesus concerning you.” To understand your own desire to give thanks and to live thankfully, you must be willing to go to the metaphorical basement - that place in your heart where you are the only person who holds the key, and ask how. If your elevator hasn’t already taken you there, then the one thing limiting you is yourself. ~Manny

The Presentation of Our Lord Readings for today: Malachi 3:1-4 Psalm 24:7-10 Hebrews 2:14-18 Luke 2:22-40 The Collect of the Day: Almighty and everliving God, we humbly pray that, as your only-begotten Son was this day presented in the temple, so we may be presented to you with pure and clean hearts by Jesus Christ our Lord; who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, now and for ever. Amen.

Many are the parishioners who have shared with me the impact of the final blessing at the end of our Eucharist on Sundays. Many are the parishioners who love the blessing. Some have actually suggested that I include the blessing in the bulletin so they can take it with them and reflect on it. A few months after I began offering the blessing a parishioner asked me to email it to him, and I gladly did because I believed that like many others the prayer found a home in his heart. And if I remember correctly, each night before he retires to bed, both he and his wife pray that blessing. The blessing was authored by Henri-Frédéric Amiel, a Swiss moral philosopher and poet. He writes “Life is short. We don't have much time to gladden the hearts of those who walk this way with us. So, be swift to love and make haste to be kind.” It is such a powerful prayer. I have no idea what motivated Henri to author a prayer so profound and focused not on anything lofty, but on the essence of life and what life is all about. To the many people who have stopped to talk to me about the prayer, I can tell that something about that blessing evokes in them the core of what life should be about - kindness and love on a journey so fraught with meaninglessness, depression, chaos and death. Yet, in the midst of these darknesses, we are invited to trust and hope in a God who appears esoteric. I was at a memorial in Ghana many, many years ago. And the interesting thing about the church in Ghana is, when you are a member of a parish and you do not tithe, when you die, your Burial Office is said at home. Well, it so happened that a parishioner of the local Anglican parish passed. But because this person didn’t tithe, the Burial Office was read at home. A local Anglican Evangelist was asked to preach since no clergy would preach. In the course of his sermon, the evangelist pulled an egg from his pocket, and invited everyone to look at the egg, and then out of nowhere, he dropped the egg. And because the floor was concrete, the egg fell apart upon impact. The shell was broken into many pieces and the yoke was splattered on the floor. That was a visible demonstration of the fragility of life. That image had stuck with me ever since. And anytime I offer that prayer, it is as if I am looking at an egg in a pocket, and watching the egg drop and scatter. Such was my feeling this past Sunday when I read the TMZ report of the passing of Kobe Bryant. I thought it was a joke and so I checked the New York Times, CNN, Washington Post, LA Times, ESPN and Yahoo News to confirm for myself what I just read. But none of the news outlets had broken the story. For that brief moment where I was searched for any information or confirmation, I was in denial. It felt to me that nothing like death would ever befall on Kobe - especially at this most prime of his life. He was way too young and talented to die. He had a beautiful and full life ahead of him. For that brief moment of living in denial, we don’t question at all because we are soaked deep in an assurance built on the wild illusion that a basketball star, a young person, or a loved one doesn’t deserve to die. He is your star as well as mine. I loved him. I loved his dedication to higher standards. I loved his distaste for mediocrity. I loved his dislike for lazy people. I loved his work ethic. I loved his dedication to his family. I loved everything Kobe. It breaks my heart that he died alongside his daughter, other parents, and children who were in the same basketball team with his daughter. My stomach churns over the fact that he passed whiles doing what he loved to do - being a dad, full of kindness and love. All of our lives are like an egg in a pocket. We really don’t know which egg the evangelist will pick, and whether the egg bears your name or another person’s name. We live on borrowed time, and Job rightly reminds us that “Man (woman) that is born of a woman has but a few days and is full of trouble.” It is therefore for the sake of all the troubles which consume our lives that the Psalmist prays the Lord to“Teach us to number our days that we may apply our hearts unto wisdom.” For this reason it hurts me deeply when I come across those who are so consumed with themselves that they simply cannot enjoy the gifts that others and life have to offer. It saddens my heart when I come across those who are so full of themselves that they believe they own their space - no, you don’t. You have but a few days to live. It frustrates me ever deeply when we hang on to stuff that, in the long run, do not matter, define who we are, or diminish us in any way. It distresses me ever more deeply when we hold on to little things, grudges which destroy relationships because of wrongs done to us. It breaks my heart when we miss the most important things in life - kindness and love because of betrayals, disappointments and hurt feelings. During times like these, I ask myself what this is all about. Maybe, you have also asked yourself that same question or something similar. The emptiness which cloud our lives gives us no other option but to be hopeful in a God who offers us more than the solace of a new day, He prods us to walk on a path of kindness and love. For, after all is said and done, these two words - kindness and love - are all that will matter. This is one of the difficult times when my faith in God is rather strengthened. For if I opt not to believe in God, what then do I believe in? Myself? Heck no!! I cannot even help myself, much more to believe in myself to save myself. And so in the midst of our helplessness and deepest grief, let me share with you a prayer by Bishop Steven Charleston-a retired Native American Bishop of The Episcopal Church. He writes “Fill me again, great Spirt, with all that I need to make it through this life of mine. Give me the vision I need to see clearly. Give me the strength I need to keep going. Give me the love I need to share what I have with others. Let me have a little courage and lot of wisdom, as much hope as you can spare…please give me your blessings again, dear Spirit, for I use them up so quickly in these dark times.” I have come to learn that oftentimes it isn’t about what we have, or even that which expresses our worth, but what we are. And in all cases, we are an egg in a pocket. To understand this is to live with a kind of humility that values all relationships and seeks to empower others to be their better angels. To understand this is to be thankful, and to live thankfully. With whom do you have to reconnect? To whom do you have to express your love? Who deserves your kindness today and always? Life is short…be swift to love and make haste to be kind. ~Manny

On Monday evenings at 6:00 p.m., Christ Church hosts Centering Prayer in Old Brick. This is a prayer method based on the intuitive prayer rooted in Lectio Divina, silent worship that prepares us to receive the gift of contemplative prayer in which we experience the Divine’s presence with us. Centering Prayer is grounded in our relationship with God, through Christ, and is a practice to help nurture that relationship. We hope that you will come and be a part of this new gathering of reflection.

Last week, I had the privilege of joining several Christian, Jewish, and Muslim leaders at the Seventh Day Adventist Center here in Columbia. This event is an annual gathering of religious leaders from various faith traditions. Some of these events offer faith leaders the opportunity to meet their counterparts and to share thoughts and reflections on many of the challenges we all share, and how best to work together in confronting these challenges. The main speaker for the event - a pastor of an African Methodist Episcopal Church in Bowie - expounded on a thought that I have not only heard several times before but also one which is prevalent up and down this great country. The thought he expounded upon is that “11:00 A.M on Sunday morning is the most segregated hour in America.” That is the time when Whites worship in White churches and Blacks worship in Black churches. But he didn’t stop there; he boldly lumped together the weekend days and stated, “Weekends are the most segregated days of the week in America.” We generally gather at different places of employment for business affairs from Monday through Friday. And it is the case because we are literally forced to do so since the culture of our jobs or business doesn’t tolerate the contrary. But for the most part, we really can’t wait to go home to our neighborhoods, to our friends, and spouses who look like us. We are keenly aware that no one requires of us to have any number of different people in our house, and the comfort in knowing that often perpetuates our penchant for desiring to live with a "silo mentality". This speaker then traced the history of the AME Church, which began in Philadelphia on a Sunday morning as Black worshipers, who had gathered at the altar rails in the front of St. George’s United Methodist Church to pray, were asked by a White usher to move and give way to White worshipers who wanted to pray at that same spot. Out of deep frustration, the Blacks left that church and, over time, began their own churches; Richard Allen founded the African Methodist Episcopal Church, and Absalom Jones became an Episcopal priest with his own congregation, which is now the African Episcopal Church of St. Thomas. Although there was a pushback against the formation of African American congregations, that incident in itself was the catalyst that helped create the segregated worship experience. Unfortunately, however, that tradition permeated and tends to continue to this day, where we have majority of our churches populated by worshipers who look like each other. When I was serving in one of my former parishes, I couldn’t get my wife to come to that church with me. We argued and quarreled over why she wouldn’t join in for worship. At the time, she had never shared with me the underlying basis of why she wouldn’t worship there until, one day in the heat of our dispute on this topic, she exclaimed that "As an African American, I don’t feel comfortable in that church." My initial reaction was one of dismay. "What do you mean you don’t feel comfortable?" I asked. Her response to me was, "Because it is all White." "So what?" I asked. "You do not understand," was her reply. Of course, I did not. I was raised in a society, and with a kind of consciousness, that took for granted the very idea that people of all races could worship together. I barely saw a White in my local church, and if there was one, it was a good feeling. I, myself, have never had any problem with worshiping anywhere. But she doesn’t share the same consciousness as I do. Being an African American, she was raised in a Black church tradition and with a consciousness which said that, on Sunday mornings, Blacks worship in their own churches and Whites worship in their own churches. Although that was antithetical to all that I had ever known and experienced in my life, it surely gave me something to think about, and forced me to ask myself questions that go to the core of what it is to be human, and to be different, and what might it take for all of our communities to outgrow our ‘silo mindedness?' Christ Episcopal Church is an outlier, and we must never take for granted that we are a crucible that hold a rich variety of God’s creative wonder. Christ Church is one of the churches where you can assure yourself that 11:00 a.m. isn’t the most segregated hour, and it is this way because we have insisted and worked very hard in creating a long tradition of offering a sacred space where we all can worship with the same people we work with, and see, from Monday to Friday. We offer a different narrative, and we should never limit ourselves in stepping beyond human categories. To a very great extent, it is a unique gift and witness that Christ Church offers to the broader church. There’s an Akan (I am a member of the Akan tribe in Ghana) proverb which states that ‘All of our fingers aren’t the same.’ Each is different, each is unique, each plays a particular role, each has its own identity - fingers tell the broader human story - we are never the same and will never be the same. As uniquely separate as each finger is, they together can fold into a fist, and are stronger together than individually. In that same vein, each person is individually unique in their own way. But the crucial point is, much as it is never a sin for me to be Black, nor a sin to be White, so is it never a sin to be anything human - do not confuse differences with defects. We reduce human nature and our unique identity to a verb when we claim that human identity, our core, is an act that is manufactured or man-made. It is not, and never has been. We have come a long way, but still have ways to go in creating trust in each other, and honoring the debt we owe one another - it’s the debt of dignity rooted in love, the kind of love that overthrows anything that isn't justice. We may not have the power to choose those we work with, but we have the power to choose where we want to be at 11:00 A.M. on Sunday morning. Use the power that you have to counter the 11:00 A.M. narrative. ~Manny

Second Sunday after the Epiphany Readings for today: Isaiah 49:1-7 Psalm 40:1-12 1 Corinthians 1:1-9 John 1:29-42 The Collect of the Day: Almighty God, whose Son our Savior Jesus Christ is the light of the world: Grant that your people, illumined by your Word and Sacraments, may shine with the radiance of Christ's glory, that he may be known, worshipped, and obeyed to the ends of the earth; through Jesus Christ our Lord, who with you and the Holy Spirit lives and reigns, one God, now and for ever. Amen.

I grew up by a slave fort in Ghana - Fort Orange, which was built by the Dutch in 1640. It is interesting to note that Albany, New York also once contained a Fort Orange, built by the Dutch in 1624. Both of these were built sixteen years apart. The fort in Ghana stood on a hill, and had an incredible view of the Atlantic Ocean. As kids, we would occasionally tour that Fort Orange, walk through the iron gates to the courtyard, climb the stairs that led to the upper level, and walk through the living quarters. We'd sometimes sit on the concrete stairs outside the fort, or across from it, and simply watch the ocean. The history of the fort wasn’t of any particular relevance to us; ours was simply to explore and enjoy the fort as best as we could, and simply walk back home. Occasionally, we would see tourists in our neighborhood who were either on their way to visit the fort, or had just completed their visit. We'd simply jump at the sight of tourists and if we got a chance to be close to them we would ask for candy or some other gift. For many of us, it was simply a joy to see tourists in our neighborhood. And I am sure it was a joy for the tourists to also see local kids who were simply excited that they were in their neighborhood to visit Fort Orange. Today, as it has been for many decades, Fort Orange has been converted from a Slave trading post to a lighthouse. Much of its Slave trading character - especially the dungeons that held the Slaves - has been lost to history. As kids, we didn’t know the history of Fort Orange, the Slave Trade, or the thousands of our ancestors who were chained and forcibly driven through Fort Orange and shipped into the New World as merchandise. As human merchandise, they had to deal with the horrors in the fields of cotton, tobacco, sugar cane, and maize, among others. There was really no difference between them and the crops they were forced to plant and harvest. The brutalities of their taskmasters and so-called ‘owners’ led many a Slave to wake up each morning and question their very existence and dignity. The added layer of Segregation and Jim Crow suffocated and squeezed every single breath from them. But throughout the dark days that turned into years, there was no hope lost in the light that shines over darkness - our lighthouse. The keys that once held the chains that kept Slaves together in Fort Orange, and together in line, was now invisible. In fact, this time there were no keys, no locks, and no chains to hold and keep Blacks together, but Dr. Martin Luther King did not have to look very far to acknowledge the prevalence of those invisible instruments that dehumanized Black people, making visible what was designed to be invisible. Dr. King, himself, was a lighthouse - shining light on the ills that have followed Blacks since their dark days in Fort Orange, Sekondi. It is such an irony that Fort Orange now stands as a lighthouse, guiding ships to a nearby harbor. Life, in general, is such an irony, if you ask me. If a Slave fort can be turned into a lighthouse, then indeed any voice that provides the basis or rationale for the dehumanization of anyone, any voice that believes in separate but equal, any voice that still believes in condemning a segment of our population to a dungeon experience and so continues to convince itself that human nobility rests in a perceived superior nature, or human nobility depends on being superior over the other, can and must be open to experience a change that turns that voice into a lighthouse. Ernest Hemingway reminds us with these wise words: “There is nothing noble in being superior to your fellow man; true nobility is in being superior to your former self.” That self whose darkness is eerily similar to the darkness of the dungeons of Fort Orange. Remember, the former self is not so much an old self which has been made new by regeneration, but rather is a new self that emerges from the kind of reality that appreciates the dignity of every human being, a new self that pursues wisdom for its beauty and the radiance it exudes, a new self that embraces work and life with integrity, honor, and truth, a new self that is faithful in seeking the common good, is steadfast in its search for justice, fairness, and equality, is devoted to the affirmation of all men and women, and is fervent in its belief that whatever gift they possess - including themselves - is meant to be employed as a lighthouse, metaphorically guiding human ships. This week, we celebrate the life of Dr. Martin Luther King Jr - a lighthouse. There’s no way we can tell if any of his ancestors ever walked in the darkness of the dungeons of Fort Orange. But he calls on us to be lighthouses; to accept this particular invitation would mean freeing ourselves from the temptation of believing that the old familiar voice which used to question the dignity of African Americans and instill fear in people still holds sway, because it does not, and it can not. Responding to Dr. King’s call would mean accepting an invitation to walk hand-in-hand with neighbors, friends, strangers, co-workers - with anyone - believing that, in the grand scheme of things, the content of a person’s character is all that matters. We are all thankful for where we are. We are not yet where we need to be, but thank God Almighty that Fort Orange is now a lighthouse. As we celebrate Dr. Martin Luther King Jr., may you resolve that you cannot be everything, nor can you do everything, but resolve to do that which you can - be a lighthouse. Happy Martin Luther King Jr. Day. ~Manny