I Will Keep Walking into Samaria pt. 3

At first, I rejected the offer to leave Howard and go to Johns Hopkins. Even then, I could still hear God’s gentle whisper, calling me to step away. Eventually, I had to face the truth I had been avoiding—I had made an idol of Howard. That realization was painful. But any time we choose our own comfort or desires over obedience to God, we are placing something above Him. Even our love for our community can become an idol if it keeps us from following God’s command to build bridges.

I didn’t care that I would likely remain a lecturer. Howard was my safe place—my happy place. I didn’t care that my scholarship on the Black Intellectual Tradition had no real space to thrive there. What mattered most to me was being with my people. But God was calling me beyond safety and sentiment. He was asking me to let go of the place I loved, in order to step into the unknown and do the work He had prepared for me.

God said go, so I had to obey.

Just as God told Peter to go to Cornelius—a Gentile—breaking Peter’s assumption that his calling was only to the Jews, He is still calling His people to expand their vision of who belongs. God gave Peter a revelation: the gospel is for all people. This is the calling for every believer. We are not called to segregation. We are not called to elevate our own race or ethnicity above others. We are called to go into all the world.

But history has shown how quickly this calling can be distorted. While Martin Luther helped spark the Protestant Reformation, he also wove German nationalism into the Christian identity, setting a dangerous precedent. That thread of nationalism evolved—spreading like a cancer—even influencing American Christianity becoming a breeding ground for a “biblical” justification of slavery and the oppression of Black and Brown people. In response, Black communities developed their own form of nationalism as a way to survive and protect their dignity.

Even as I recount all the spaces where my family and I experienced racism, I must also say—those same spaces were where I encountered racial healing. I have seen firsthand what is possible when we choose to come together to heal the wounds of racism. Not by retreating behind the safety of our color lines, but by moving toward one another with the kind of intentional love that Christ showed us—like the Good Samaritan who crossed boundaries to care for the wounded man, despite the social and ethnic divisions that should have kept them apart.

Child Evangelism Fellowship became a major part of my spiritual growth and ministry formation. Over time, their leadership meetings were held in our home, and I served as a summer missionary. Through them, I met Ms. Erickson, a sweet elderly White woman who came to our church faithfully to teach Bible stories and loved all of us children with such genuine care. The Christian school I graduated from gave me a beautiful extended family of teachers and classmates—many of whom still pray for me and whom I deeply love. And God has also gifted me with a rich classical education family, united by a shared belief that this tradition has the power to bring people together across lines that once divided us.

These experiences, and many more, are what give me the courage to keep walking in Samaria. Not because I’m doing this work alone, but because I’ve lived what’s possible when people come together with the mind of Christ and choose to love across boundaries. Some have said that when I speak of Cornelius and Peter, or other New Testament examples, I am confusing racial healing with the gospel itself. But the gospel is not just about Jesus dying for us—it’s about how we live in response to that love. It’s about agape. It’s about embodying Christ’s love in how we treat one another. Racial healing isn’t separate from the gospel—it is one of the most visible ways the world can see the gospel lived out.

And now, we find ourselves in a nation where Sunday mornings still reflect the deep divisions of race, ideology, and history. The Church—meant to be a beacon of unity—remains fragmented, and this fragmentation continues to uphold America’s original sin of racial separation. It’s a painful contradiction to everything the gospel proclaims. And yet, in the most unexpected place, I have found a sense of home—at Catholic University. Here, there is a quiet but powerful understanding of the universality of the gospel, and I am still somewhat in awe that God would place me here. It’s a space where my faith and scholarship can coexist—where the things I’ve carried quietly for years now have room to breathe, speak, and grow.

In Heaven, we won’t be segregated. We will all be gathered around the throne—every tribe, tongue, and nation. That is what we are called to mirror here on earth. We can’t let fear of rejection from our communities or misunderstanding of our intentions for building a bridge stop us from going where God sends us. We must go—even into Samaria.

So here I am—emerging from a season of deep uncertainty, taking time to reflect on the journey that brought me here. And as I look back, I see more clearly now: God has been preparing me for this moment since I was a child. These transitions, though painful and disorienting, are not a surprise to Him. They are part of His divine plan. I must keep moving forward. He has called me to a work centered on reconciliation and unity—to help bring people together.

Some do not understand my fight. Many think I should retreat and stay safely within the sanctuary of my own community. But Jesus didn’t avoid Samaria. He walked straight into it—so that the gospel could draw all people to Himself. And so, I too will keep walking into Samaria. I will walk forward with the hope that my work—particularly in the classical tradition, which at its roots belongs to all of our ancestors—can serve as a bridge.

Globally, I hope it brings people closer together. But more urgently, I pray it helps heal the Christian Church, which continues to suffer from the long-standing wound of racial division. This is the work God has entrusted to me. I do it for Him—and no one else.

If you’ve made it this far, and you find yourself in a confusing, disorienting season—where it feels like God has completely upended your life and the dreams you once held tightly—know this: you are not alone. People may not understand what God is asking of you. They may question your choices, your direction, even your faith. And that’s okay. You don’t owe anyone an explanation for the path God has called you to walk. Just keep following Him. Obey, even when it’s hard. Trust that He is doing something in you—and through you—that will one day shine light into the lives of others.