jesus – Dr. Charles W. Ferguson

The Cost of Staying Free

Author’s Note:
This reflection emerges from a season of silence, discernment, and refusal to trade conviction for comfort in a time that rewards noise over truth.

I haven’t been in the blog space for a while—not because I lost my voice, but because life demanded more than commentary, and I refused to cheapen clarity in a season full of noise.

Life, transitions, and responsibilities all played a role. But if I’m honest, the deeper reason was bandwidth. There’s only so much energy one person has to respond to everything at once. What I still struggle to believe is that my writing took a back seat to the constant barrage of trash flooding timelines and media sources.

It’s official: I’m over selective outrage, incomplete assessments, entitlement, and hatred covered in bright paint.

The longer I live, the more I understand why reading is fundamental, why critical thinking matters, and why Jesus looked at the people and saw sheep without a shepherd. I am genuinely bothered by how easily folks justify—no, align themselves with—platforms and ideologies that stand in direct opposition to truth and justice.

I cannot understand how descendants of kings and queens continue to accept scraps from massa’s table just to remain in the big house.

I don’t understand how marginalized people consistently choose against their own self-interest in an attempt to be supremacy-adjacent.

Maybe it is environmental. Some of us have stared at the current state of affairs for so long that we can’t imagine anything more—unless we sell out for less.

Maybe Jay-Z’s words from The Story of OJ have created a different mentality: If they think I’m a nigga whether successful or not, I might as well give them what they want.

I thank God—from the bottom of my American African heart—that a different mentality was instilled in me long ago.

God gave me reason.
God gave me purpose.
God gave me a sound mind.

And that mind will never submit itself to legalistic, suppressive, and destructive systems built by weak-minded, impotent people.

My mind will never accept respectability politics from those who share my melanin count. My mind will never justify the belittling of the weak. And I refuse to waste my energy trying to convert keyboard cowards into moral thinkers.

This season we’re in? People who have practiced evil are learning that FAFO isn’t slang—it’s reality, unfolding in physical, spiritual, and psychological ways.

Joshua once told the people a decision had to be made.

Not a threat.
Not a demand.
Just truth.

Choose God—or settle.

Before they answered, Joshua drew the line:
“As for me and my house, we will serve the Lord.”

This moment isn’t about groupthink. It’s not about siding with whoever looks like they’re winning. It’s about the life you actually want.

If you want what this depreciating world offers—stand on that.
If you want more—stand on that.
If you ride bandwagons, don’t complain when they drop you off and keep moving.

As for me?

I’m staying free.

—

Conviction costs, but captivity costs more.

Where the Strong Finally Rest

“I can no longer be the strong one in rooms where others refuse to use their own power.
This isn’t reinvention. It’s clarity.”

For the first time in my life, I find myself with all of my emotional wounds wide open.

For forty-four years, I have tried to understand why my introverted self still needed the charge of community. At times, I believed that longing came from a lack of acceptance. At other moments, I buried myself in productivity—believing usefulness might substitute for belonging.

Now I know better.

The deepest need I have carried is not recognition, affirmation, or achievement. It is community.

Achievement feels good. Being seen for giftedness is affirming. But what happens when you don’t have your tribe? What happens when the community that once anchored you begins to disappear?

Over the last seven years, one by one, the bedrocks of my development have faded—for many reasons. Each loss required just enough grieving to remain functional. I could not afford to mourn too long. Responsibility demanded movement. Ministry required output. People needed strength.

For a long time, I was better at being a machine than being human.

I did not know how to lean into my humanity.

After three long weeks marked by emergency room visits, relentless physical pain, internal turmoil, misplaced blame, and a fatigue unfamiliar to my spirit, I now understand something I can no longer ignore: community is not optional. It is necessary. And it is not accidental. It is intentional.

This coming year requires a reassessment of our circles.

I can no longer accept being the “strong one” in rooms where others defer rather than step into their own power. My capacity for friendship, kinship, and even surface connection can no longer sustain relationships unwilling to reciprocate the act of pouring.

This is not a “new year, new me” statement.

It is clarity.

It is the recognition that my life has requirements if it is to continue with integrity. I must reinvest in what actually matters. I cannot afford to run out of gas anymore. I have a purpose and a charge to keep.

This is the stop where stowaways must get off the train.

The journey ahead requires willing participants—people who see the God-sized picture over my life and who are brave enough to acknowledge the God-sized calling over their own.

If you find yourself in the same place, perhaps this is the moment to pause—not to abandon the journey, but to assess it. Are we carrying unnecessary weight, or are we finally prepared to go further?

This is where the strong finally rest—not because the work is finished, but because strength was never meant to be carried alone.

Christianity, Empire, and the Loss of Uniqueness

I am concerned. Deeply concerned.

First, I’m watching people buy into the lie that Christianity and empire belong together—that somehow following Jesus is compatible with maintaining the power structures of American society. At the same time, I see people I love and respect losing their capacity to understand why others are outraged by the rhetoric (or silence) shaping this country.

I sit in this world as a Black man who loves God and follows Jesus. I serve as a leader in a predominately white denomination. I rest my hat on the conviction that I am called to ministry. And yet, I remain bewildered by the idea that logic, reason, and decency are often treated as if they must remain separate from authentic faith.

But maybe I should be used to this by now.

From preschool to the 10th grade, I attended private “Christian schools.” The goal was always to set myself up with the best education possible. I excelled academically. I was well-liked. I did my best to get along with everyone—and for the most part, I succeeded. But I knew I would never truly fit the mold those environments expected.

The truth is those institutions offered what they called “Christian education,” but what they taught didn’t fully reflect the principles Christ taught and lived. I was taught history from books written to redirect the truth. I heard narratives that erased my people’s story rather than acknowledge the tragedy of this nation. I wasn’t as vocal then as I am now, but I felt the pressure to mute my true voice, to conform, to blend in.

Leaving those institutions changed everything. At East High School, a public school, I found an incubator for my identity as a preacher, leader, scholar, and man. Ironically, it was there—outside the walls of so-called “Christian education”—that I discovered my uniqueness had a place in the world.

Why? Because I was constantly surrounded by believers who demanded my best, but who also showed grace. They celebrated my uniqueness instead of demeaning it. They encouraged me to live out my convictions, not just pay lip service. They gave me space to be both faithful and authentic without requiring me to erase anyone else’s story in the process.

A public school gave me more grounding in spirituality and faith than a “Christian school” ever did.

That realization stays with me as I watch this society slip back into a season where “faith” is a buzzword rather than a true practice of embracing humanity in all its forms. And it’s not just the church. This nation also treats faith like a slogan, uniqueness like a threat, and justice like a bargaining chip.

Here’s the tension: the Church—the body of Christ—embraces the uniqueness of God’s creation. But the church as an institution struggles to walk out the principles of Christ, too often latching onto political platforms and power structures that couldn’t care less about His kingdom. And likewise, society claims to uphold liberty and equality while writing policies and creating cultures that suppress both.

The Apostle Paul wrote in Romans 12:1–2:

“Therefore, I urge you, brothers and sisters, in view of God’s mercy, to offer your bodies as a living sacrifice, holy and pleasing to God—this is your true and proper worship. Do not conform to the pattern of this world, but be transformed by the renewing of your mind. Then you will be able to test and approve what God’s will is—his good, pleasing and perfect will.”

Authentic faith demands nonconformity. Authentic citizenship demands truth-telling. Both require refusing to be squeezed into the molds of empire, silence, or status quo.

And in that spirit, I hear the words of Robert Jones, Jr.:

“We can disagree and still love each other unless your disagreement is rooted in my oppression and denial of my humanity and right to exist.”

This is where we are. Too often, the institutional church dismisses the uniqueness of God’s creation in the name of keeping peace. Too often, society itself props up empire rather than dismantling it. Both settle for comfort over transformation.

But Jesus never called us to be monolithic believers. And justice never thrives in a monolithic society. Christ lifted up the least, the last, the lost, and the downtrodden. He called people into the fullness of who they were created to be. He pushed people to live authentically, courageously, and faithfully—not to shrink themselves for the sake of the status quo.

I wonder: if we truly paid attention to the teachings of Jesus, would we be in this situation today? If we stopped trying to tell the Teacher that He is wrong, and instead examined what He actually taught, maybe the Church would look different. Maybe society would look different. Maybe we would look different.

Until then, I will continue to believe that authentic faith is not about empire, not about silence, not about conformity. It is about uniqueness. It is about courage. And it is about following Jesus—even when the world tells you to mute your voice.

A Call to Action

For the Church: Refuse cheap alliances with platforms that profit from fear, division, or silence. Recover the radical dignity of Christ, who lifted the least and challenged the powerful.
For Society: Stop treating liberty and equality as slogans and begin embodying them in policy, education, and everyday interactions. Hold systems accountable when they suppress humanity.
For Each of Us: Renew your mind (Romans 12:2). Resist conformity to empire. Speak truth even when it costs. Protect the uniqueness of your neighbor as fiercely as you protect your own.

Because transformation—in both church and society—will only happen when people of courage decide that God’s truth is more important than empire’s comfort.