Long before I became a pastor, advocate for good neighboring, or a nonviolence educator, I was shaped by a community that taught me to ask not only what America is, but what America can become.

Those questions have accompanied me throughout my life. They have followed me into schools where I have led National Service programs; sanctuaries where I have proclaimed the grace and redemptive power of Jesus; virtual and in-person spaces where I have taught Kingian Nonviolence; organizing tables where I have joined diverse people in grappling with difficult issues; and communities where I gave facilitated neighbors searching for more just and humane ways of coexisting. Again and again, I have discovered that the deepest questions confronting our nation are never merely political. They are spiritual. They concern how we see one another, whose humanity we affirm, and whether we are willing to organize our lives around the thriving of every neighbor.

No modern theologian has helped shape my understanding of those questions more than Howard Thurman. In Jesus and the Disinherited, Rev. Thurman invites me to see Jesus through the eyes of people whose backs are against the wall. He reminds me that injustice does more than produce inequitable outcomes. It wounds the human spirit. It cultivates fear where there should be security, deception where there should be trust, and hatred where there should be love. Rev. Thurman convinced me that justice requires far more than changing laws or winning elections. It requires protecting the human soul from becoming captive to the very forces it seeks to overcome.

As I have traveled, taught, and listened to people across communities, I have become increasingly convinced that Rev. Thurman’s insight is deeply relevant as America enters its next quarter millennium. Although our nation has made some progress, it continues to produce what Rev. Thurman described as the disinherited. When I consider who the “disinherited” encompass, I do not think only of people living in poverty, though they are certainly among the disinherited. I think of every person denied what God intends every human being to inherit: dignity, safety, opportunity, and meaningful participation.

I think of children whose futures are too often determined by their ZIP codes rather than their potential. I think of families choosing between rent and medicine, workers whose labor is essential but whose wages are still insufficient, immigrants searching for safety, unhoused neighbors, people with disabilities confronting barriers they did not create, and communities carrying the weight of environmental injustice.

Over the years, my understanding of neighboring has continued to expand. The more I have studied the teachings of Jesus, and the philosophy and method of Kingian Nonviolence, the more persuaded I have become that neighboring cannot end where national borders begin. That belief has become one of the defining themes of my own work: the globe is our neighborhood. These five words are not a slogan. They are a spiritual conviction.

If every human being bears the image of God, then every human being belongs within the circle of our moral concern. Children in Sudan, Iran, Gaza, Haiti, Ukraine, Lebanon, the Democratic Republic of Congo, and every community scarred by war, hunger, displacement, or injustice are not strangers to me. They are my neighbors. Their suffering calls for more than awareness. It calls for courageous, compassionate action. Distance does not diminish dignity, and geography must never decide the limits of our love.

That conviction has also reshaped how I understand patriotism. I love this country enough to tell the truth about it. Honest self examination is not an act of disloyalty but of hope. Patriotism worthy of a democracy celebrates genuine progress while refusing to ignore unfinished work. It recognizes America’s extraordinary achievements while insisting that our ideals are still incomplete whenever neighbors continue to live on the margins of opportunity, belonging, and justice.

Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. provided language for that unfinished work through his vision of the Beloved Community. He challenged America to confront the intertwined, evil realities of racism, poverty, and militarism because he understood that these forces continually produce new generations of the disinherited. As someone who has devoted an incredibly significant part of my life to teaching Kingian Nonviolence, I have come to appreciate that the Beloved Community is not simply Dr. King’s dream. It is a practical framework for organizing society around justice, reconciliation, and the sacred worth of every human being. It remains, I believe, America’s (and the world’s) greatest possibility.

That possibility will never become reality by happenstance. America produces what it organizes for. If we organize around fear, fear will shape our future. If we organize around domination, domination will shape our institutions. If we organize around profit detached from human dignity, inequity will continue to expand. However, if we organize around neighboring, justice, and nonviolent solutions, we begin creating the conditions in which every person can live well. 

For this reason, I affirm my dedication to helping individuals, congregations, organizations, and communities cultivate the character and practices necessary to channel love into action. We must organize justice as intentionally as people organize injustice. Neighboring must become more than an occasional act of kindness. It must become a public ethic.

Fannie Lou Hamer, Diane Nash, and Ella Baker each remind me that movements are sustained not simply by inspiring leaders but by ordinary people who refuse to surrender their humanity. Fannie Lou Hamer teaches me that democracy is about belonging. Diane Nash teaches me that nonviolent solutions require disciplined people. Ella Baker reminds me that perseverance is the price of freedom. Together, they reinforce what I have come to believe through years of ministry, teaching, and advocacy: sustainable transformation begins with transformed people who are willing to build transformed communities.

As America turns 250, Ella Baker’s words resonate in my spirit: “We who believe in freedom cannot rest [until it comes].” I embrace these words as both a calling and a responsibility. We cannot rest while children inherit violence instead of possibility. We cannot rest while poverty, racism, and every form of dehumanization continue to deny our neighbors the inheritance of dignity that God intends for them. We cannot rest while Indigenous peoples are yet seeking justice for generations of displacement and broken promises, and while our LGBTQ neighbors face discrimination, violence, and rejection. We cannot rest while democracy excludes rather than embraces, while militarism + bigotry consume countless lives, while faith becomes detached from justice, and while neighboring stays optional instead of becoming the way we coordinate our common life.

We cannot rest until Black people no longer bear disproportionate burdens simply because they are Black in a nation that refuses to renounce racism and white supremacy finally and comprehensively. We cannot rest until the enduring consequences of slavery, segregation, discrimination, and racial inequity no longer shape where people live, how they are treated, or what opportunities they can access. We cannot rest until Black humanity is consistently honored, protected, and celebrated, and until our nation reflects the truth that every person bears the image of God and has immeasurable worth.

I am still hopeful. Not because history inevitably bends toward justice, but because people can choose to bend with it. I am also hopeful because hope works for our good. Hope organizes, tells the truth, and forms character. Hope builds unlikely relationships and imagines futures that fear cannot see. Hope refuses to believe that the disinherited will be disinherited forever.

As America begins its next 250 years, I am holding on to hope. The defining question is not simply what kind of nation we have been. It is what kind of neighbors we will become. My prayer and commitment are that we will become a people who enlarge the circle of belonging, organize nonviolent solutions to our greatest challenges, and ensure that every neighbor inherits dignity, justice, opportunity, and hope.

Until that time, my work is unfinished. And so is America’s. For we who believe in freedom cannot rest until it comes. Do you believe? 

Vonnetta L. West is a pastor, human rights advocate, writer, and convener known for advancing a culture of neighborliness, justice, and nonviolence through initiatives such as the Neighbor Up Summit. She is a leading U.S.-based nonviolence trainer, educator, and strategist recognized for her work helping individuals and communities move from dehumanization and distrust toward connection, compassion, and collective responsibility. Vonnetta is a Senior Nonviolence Trainer and Instructor with The King Center.

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