On Martin Luther King Jr. Day, Minister Marvin K. White lead the crowd in prayer. The event was an interfaith commemoration of Martin Luther King Jr.’s civil rights accomplishments. The prayer took the form of this beautiful justice-seeking poem in the tradition of GLIDE founder Janice Mirikitani. We are sharing this poem on our website to uplift and inspire all of you in your own spiritual and justice-seeking practices.  Enjoy!  

A Prayer at the Ledge 

Let us pray. 

God of the ledge and the long view, 
God of unfinished sentences and interrupted lives, 
God who does not flinch when history leans forward— 

We gather in this interfaith prayer, 
honoring the birth and the burden of Martin, 
speaking the words Liberty, Justice, and Beloved Community 
not as a slogan, 
but as a question history is asking us again. 

History pretends it is new, 
but our ancestors whisper, 
“You’ve been here before.” 
Beloved— 
this moment remembers us. 

We come not at a crossroads, 
but at a ledge— 
where truth is treated like contraband, 
where cruelty has learned to sound official, 
where Black memory is erased with spreadsheets, 
where queer and trans lives are debated like abstractions, 
where women’s bodies are managed by strangers, 
where migrants are hunted for sport, 
where ICE stalks neighborhoods, workplaces, and doorways, 
teaching whole communities to live braced for disappearance, 
where queer white women mothers and Black sons— 
Keith Porter, Renee Nicole Good— 
are martyrs and movement saints now, 
new ancestors we seek for guidance, 
where healthcare is rationed like mercy instead of named as justice, 
where unions are broken on purpose, 
where whole nations are flattened into headlines, 
and where fascism no longer whispers— 
it files paperwork. 

And still—you have gathered us. 

We came tired. 
We came angry. 
We came grieving. 
We came laughing anyway. 

Which tells us something holy: 
the people are not asleep. 
We are being summoned. 

Today we remember Martin— 
not the statue, not the slogan, not the safe version. 
We remember the witness who warned us about militarism and materialism, 
who said silence is betrayal, 
who told us that waiting is often violence 
dressed up as patience, 
who knew that love without truth is sentimental, 
and truth without love is terror. 

So we confess before You and one another: 

Some days we are tired. 
Some days we scroll instead of organize. 
Some days hope feels naïve, 
and despair sounds reasonable. 

But still—you keep breathing through us. 
Still—you drum in our chests when the world says surrender. 
Still—you sing through us when cruelty tries to sound inevitable. 
Still—you call us back to the long, unfinished work of liberation. 

So meet us here, God—not with comfort, but with courage. 

Plant us in our bodies, 
where fear lives and courage hides. 
Steady our feet at this ledge. 
Give us breath that says: 
We are still here—and we are not neutral. 

Turn our fear into fuel. 
Turn our anger into clarity. 
Turn our grief into organizing love. 

Make us dangerous to despair. 
Make us allergic to lies. 
Make us faithful to one another. 

Because the next move is not coming from palaces or podiums. 
It is coming from living rooms and kitchens, 
from classrooms and union halls, 
from sanctuaries and sidewalks, 
from the way we refuse to let each other disappear. 

When history asks what we did at the ledge, 
let it not say we complied, 
or went quietly, 
or mistook remembrance for responsibility. 

Let it be said: 

We loved loudly. 
We told the truth. 
We held one another. 
We pushed back together. 

And we did not disappear. 

Amen.