Parables often arrive disguised as ordinary moments.
A seed.
A child.
A widow’s coin.
A stranger on the side of the road.
This weekend, another parable emerged in a photo taken on a Washington, D.C. Metro train. The image revealed a cluster of men clothed alike, their faces hidden beneath white masks. And among them, one Black woman, sitting quietly, unmasked.
I saw the picture in the morning just before embarking on the next portion of a Camino de Santiago pilgrimage with my daughter. The ancient trail gave me plenty of time to consider what felt like an ancient image.
Ancient, because white supremacy is old. So old, in fact, that every generation has mistaken it for strength when it’s always been a confession of fear.
Ancient, because violence has always hidden its face. Empires wear armor. Tyrants build walls. The Ku Klux Klan wore white sheets. Their descendants, whatever banner they march beneath, still find comfort in concealment, because hatred has never wanted to be known. Only obeyed.
Ancient, because the cowardly have always gathered in crowds as crowds manufacture the courage individuals do not possess. It shouts because it fears silence. It performs strength because, beneath the performance, it knows its foundation is fragile.
The foundation of their masked movement is built upon the sands of greed. The illusion of self-sufficiency. The lie that some belong while others do not. The fear that there will never be enough unless someone else has less. This is the architecture of every empire that has ever emerged. Every one of them has fallen.
Then there is the woman in this iconic photograph.
She doesn’t preach. She doesn’t perform. She simply remains. Unmasked. Present. Unmoved.
In her quiet presence I see the long, sacred tradition of Black resilience: the strength that survived slave ships, auction blocks, lynching trees, segregated lunch counters, red-lined neighborhoods, and prisons disguised as justice. I see mothers who kept singing when every reason to sing had been stolen. I see saints who kept forgiving when vengeance would have seemed more reasonable. I see a people who have taught us, again and again, that hope is not naïveté. Hope is resistance.
The more I considered this woman, the more she reminded me of Jesus. Here was a woman who refused to surrender her humanity in the presence of hatred. Here was a woman who stood with magnificent defiance as hatred marched toward her.
In my imagination, this woman sat fully present. Fully truthful. Fully loving. And, in so doing, she revealed the strange, right-side-up Way of Jesus.
You see, being human according to the masked men is about domination, exclusion, certainty, and fear. It’s existed for thousands of years and has crucified prophets, enslaved neighbors, colonized nations, and baptized its violence with the language of religion.
Though causing so much destruction, this movement is dying.
Her way of being human has been quietly breaking into the world ever since a crucified rabbi walked out of a borrowed tomb. Its foundation is belovedness. Its economy is generosity. Its politics are reconciliation. Its strength is costly love.
This is the way the world has always called weakness, but that Jesus called “life to the fullest.” This movement, though quiet, is gaining momentum.
The invitation before us, then, is not merely to condemn the masked men on the train. It’s to notice where their masks still live within us.
Every time we protect privilege rather than people. Every time we choose exclusion over encounter. Every time fear becomes easier than love. Every time we hide instead of being known.
Every time…the Spirit invites us to remove the mask. To step out from the crowd. To become the kind of people who no longer need enemies to know who we are.
Because the future doesn’t belong to those who frighten the world into submission. It belongs to those who, like Jesus, possess the courage to remain fully human in the presence of inhumanity.
When courage and cowardice ride the same train, they may appear to occupy the same car. But only one is carrying the world toward resurrection.
Editor’s Note: This article was originally published on July 6, 2026 on Hopeful Alternative, a free Substack by Dr. Jer Swigart, co-founder and executive director of Global Immersion. Featuring “provocations for disarming conflict and remaking our world,” Hopeful Alternative invites readers into the everyday work of peacemaking. (Learn more)
