The Rev’d Marlene E. Forrest, Rector, St. Philip’s Episcopal Church
Beloved in Christ,
As I step into this sacred work with the Truth and Reparations Task Force, I do so carrying not only my faith, my calling, and my commitments but also the weight and witness of my ancestors. This work is not abstract for me. It is not theoretical. It is not merely administrative or procedural. It is deeply personal. It is spiritual. It is ancestral. It is woven into my very DNA.
This summer, I traveled to Ghana with my 86‑year‑old father, a journey that became a pilgrimage of memory, truth, and profound spiritual encounter. Together we stood on the edge of the Atlantic Ocean, the same waters that carried my ancestors away from their homeland. We stood in the waters of the Last Bath, the place where captured Africans were washed before being marched to the slave dungeons and shipped across the ocean like cargo.
In that water, I felt something I cannot fully describe. It was something holy, something heavy, something alive. I felt the presence of my ancestors. I felt their sorrow, their strength, their endurance, their dignity. I felt the truth of their suffering and the truth of their resilience. I felt the echo of their voices saying, “Remember us. Carry us. Continue the work.”
And as I stood there with my father, our feet in the same waters where our ancestors last stood on African soil, I realized that I would soon return home and stand on the other side of that same ocean. I would stand on the land where my ancestors were taken, sold, exploited, and dehumanized. I would stand on the land where their descendants still face injustice, discrimination, inequity, and harm. I would stand on the land where repair is still needed. Where healing is still unfinished. Where truth is still emerging. Where grace is still required. Where justice is still calling.
This realization was not simply emotional, it was vocational. It clarified for me that the work of truth, healing, and repair is not something I do because I am a priest. It is something I do because I am a daughter of this history. A granddaughter of those who fought for dignity. A descendant of those who refused to surrender their humanity. This work runs through my bloodline. It is the inheritance of my people. It is the legacy of my family. It is the call of my ancestors. I carry their courage. I carry their hope. I carry their unfinished work.
And now, as Chaplain to this Task Force, I carry the spiritual responsibility to help us hold this work with reverence, honesty, and holy courage. This work requires truth‑telling. This work requires lament. This work requires repentance. This work requires repair. This work requires abundant grace.
Grace that does not deny harm but confronts it. Grace that does not erase history but honors it. Grace that does not rush healing but makes space for it. Grace that does not give up on people, communities, or institutions. Grace that refuses to let the Church remain unchanged.
Howard Thurman teaches that grace is the power that meets us in our weakness, restores our dignity, and frees us to see the humanity in others. Grace, he says, is God’s refusal to give up on us. And if God refuses to give up on us, then we cannot give up on the work of truth and repair.
Bryan Stevenson reminds us, “each of us is more than the worst thing we’ve ever done.” That is true of individuals—and it is true of institutions. The Episcopal Church in Virginia has a painful history. But we also have a holy opportunity. We can choose repair. We can choose justice. We can choose grace.
As Chaplain, my prayer is that we will walk this journey with humility, courage, and deep spiritual grounding. That we will listen to the voices of those harmed. That we will honor the stories of those forgotten. That we will face the truth without fear. That we will seek repair without hesitation. That we will trust the Holy Spirit to guide us toward a future shaped by justice, mercy, and beloved community.
I stand in this work with the strength of my ancestors behind me, the faith of my father beside me, and the hope of future generations before me. And I stand with all of you, believing that God is calling us to become a Diocese where truth is spoken, where repair is made, and where grace is abundant.
May we be faithful. May we be courageous. May we be transformed. Asé! May it be so!
Asè (pronounced ah-shay is a word originating from the Yoruba language of West Africa. It represents a spiritual concept of power, authority and affirmation. Roughly translated to “and so it is” or “let it be.”