Black History Month is not simply a commemoration of where we have been, it is a sacred pause that calls us to confront where we are and to decide, with clarity and courage, where we are going.
The theme “We Have Come This Far by Faith” is not poetic nostalgia. It is a declaration forged through struggle — and a reminder that faith has always been our response when progress is threatened and power shifts in ways that endanger our communities.
Today, that faith is being tested again.
Across the country, Black and brown communities are experiencing a renewed assault on hard-won gains. Policies and rhetoric emerging from the current administration and its allies have made clear that equity, inclusion, and access are once again being reframed as excess rather than justice.
We see it in:
• The dismantling of diversity, equity, and inclusion initiatives that opened doors long closed to us
• Attacks on voting rights that disproportionately silence Black voices
• Rollbacks of fair housing and consumer protections
• Efforts to erase or minimize Black history in schools and public discourse
• Economic policies that widen wealth gaps while calling inequality “personal responsibility”
None of this is new.
What is new is the expectation that we accept it quietly.
But history tells us that progress has never been preserved by silence, it has been sustained by faith paired with action.
Faith was never passive. Faith carried our ancestors through enslavement, segregation, redlining, and exclusion from capital and opportunity. Faith built institutions when the law refused to protect us. Faith allowed Black families to create stability in systems designed for their failure.
But faith was never passive endurance.
Faith was strategy.
Faith was community.
Faith was preparation for what freedom could become.
And in this moment, when legal, economic, and social protections feel increasingly fragile — we are again being called to transform faith into foresight.
In times like these, legacy-building becomes an act of resistance.
When policies threaten our security, we secure ourselves.
When systems fail to protect our families, we protect them intentionally.
When history is under attack, we document our lives, our values, and our ownership.
Estate planning, business succession, land preservation, and intergenerational wealth transfer are not merely financial exercises, they are civil rights tools.
Every plan that keeps a home in the family.
Every business is structured to outlive its founder.
Every set of instructions that prevents courts or the state from deciding our family’s future.
This is how we push back — not just with protest, but with preparation.
Our ancestors fought to gain rights.
This generation must fight to preserve them.
That requires moving beyond survival and into stewardship.
Stewardship demands that we ask difficult but necessary questions:
• If protections are rolled back, have I protected my family privately?
• If access is limited, have I created structure?
• If opportunity narrows, have I left clarity or confusion behind?
Failing to plan does not punish the system, it burdens our loved ones.
And faith calls us to do better than that.
Black History Month reminds us that history bends because people refuse to let it break them.
This moment is no different.
We are being challenged not only to remember our past, but to defend our future. To ensure that what we have built cannot be undone by policy shifts, court decisions, or political winds.
We have come this far by faith — but faith now requires intention, documentation, and decisive action.
Because legacy is not what we leave behind when power is stripped away.
Legacy is what we put in place before it ever can be.