Why We Still Gather

Gathering as an Act of Hope

By Andrew Lyke

There are moments when gathering is more than attending an event.

Sometimes gathering is an act of resistance.

Sometimes it is an act of remembrance.

Sometimes it is an act of healing.

And sometimes, perhaps most importantly, it is an act of hope.

Those thoughts stayed with me after a recent conversation with two brothers I have known and admired for many years: Fr. Ken Hamilton, SVD, and James Watts. We had gathered to talk about this year’s Father Chester P. Smith, SVD National Black Catholic Men’s Conference in Birmingham, Alabama.

At least, that was our plan.

But like so many conversations among old friends, we quickly wandered beyond schedules and speakers. We found ourselves remembering people who shaped us, ministries that changed us, struggles that tested us, and the quiet faith that continues to sustain us.

By the end of our conversation, I realized we had answered a much deeper question than, “Why should someone attend this conference?”

We had answered the question:

Why do we still gather at all?

More Than a Conference

Every few years someone asks, usually with good intentions,

“Why do Black Catholic men need their own conference?”

It’s a fair question.

After all, aren’t we simply Catholic?

Shouldn’t one men’s conference be enough for everyone?

On the surface, those questions sound reasonable.

But they assume that gathering is merely about sharing information.

It isn’t.

Gathering is about formation.

It is about finding ourselves reflected in one another.

It is about discovering that our struggles are not ours alone.

For Black Catholic men, our lives have been shaped by histories that cannot simply be checked at the church door.

We come carrying generations of faith born under oppression.

We carry stories our grandparents whispered because they dared not shout them.

We carry songs that taught hope before many of us could read.

We carry prayers spoken by ancestors who believed God was listening even when the world wasn’t.

Those experiences are not distractions from our Catholic faith.

They are the very soil in which our faith has grown.

When we gather, we are not separating ourselves from the Church.

We are strengthening ourselves for service within it.

A Different Kind of Hope

During our conversation, Fr. Ken and I found ourselves reminiscing about what many of us remember as a remarkable season in Black Catholic life.

The leadership of Archbishop James P. Lyke.

The witness of Sr. Thea Bowman.

The vision of Frs. Chester and Charles Smith.

The excitement surrounding the Bowman-Francis Ministry.

There was energy.

There was creativity.

There was expectation.

But neither of us was romanticizing the past.

Those years were not easier.

Racism had not disappeared.

Justice had not arrived.

The Church still struggled to recognize the gifts Black Catholics brought to its life.

What we remembered was not comfort.

We remembered hope.

At one point I heard myself say,

“I’m a prisoner of hope.”

The words surprised even me.

Not because hope comes easily.

But because, after all these years, I have learned that hope is no longer a feeling.

It is a discipline.

Hope is choosing not to surrender your imagination to despair.

Hope is refusing to believe that hatred gets the final word.

Hope is trusting that God is still writing a story whose ending we cannot yet see.

Brotherhood Changes Us

As we talked, memories surfaced that I hadn’t expected.

I remembered attending the conference after my battle with leukemia.

My body was still weak.

My strength had not fully returned.

But I knew I needed to be there.

Then Men In The Fire began to sing.

Something happened.

Even now, I struggle to describe it.

It wasn’t merely beautiful music.

It wasn’t simply emotional encouragement.

It felt as though strength returned to my body.

Not all at once.

Not magically.

But unmistakably.

Looking back, I finally understand what happened.

That is our spirituality.

Not entertainment.

Not performance.

Healing.

The Church often speaks of grace as something communicated through visible signs.

Sometimes those signs look like bread and wine.

Sometimes they sound like Black men singing from the depths of their souls.

Sometimes grace arrives through a brother placing his hand on your shoulder and saying nothing at all.

That, too, is sacramental.

We Need One Another

The older I become, the more convinced I am that no one survives alone.

Faith may be personal.

It was never meant to be private.

Black Catholic men have always needed places where they could encourage one another, challenge one another, pray for one another, and remind one another whose they are.

That is what this conference has quietly been doing for more than twenty years.

It has built friendships.

Mentored young leaders.

Comforted grieving husbands.

Inspired fathers.

Strengthened ministers.

Reminded weary souls that they are not walking this journey alone.

The workshops matter.

The speakers matter.

The liturgies matter.

But beneath all of those is something even more important.

Brotherhood.

Gathering Is a Ministry

This October, brothers from across the country will travel to Birmingham.

Some will come expecting a conference.

I hope they leave having experienced something much deeper.

I hope they discover that gathering itself is holy work.

Because every time Black Catholic men come together, we remember something the world constantly asks us to forget:

We belong.

We have always belonged.

Our stories belong.

Our spirituality belongs.

Our voices belong.

Our gifts belong.

Not someday.

Not when someone else gives permission.

Now.

Perhaps that is why we still gather.

Not because we have all the answers.

But because every time we come together, hope finds another place to live.

And in times like these, hope may be the most important ministry we have.