All people deserve to be seen as fully human, no matter their skin color, cultural background, socioeconomic class or life circumstances. This is a truth Dr. Terence Lester refuses to budge on, and one to which he’s devoted his life’s work as a storyteller, public scholar, speaker, community activist and author. He’s founded several organizations and movements to advocate for the vulnerable in society, including Love Beyond Walls, the Dignity Museum and Zion’s Closet. His books promote justice with passion, authenticity and moving stories, including his latest, Zion Learns to See, which teaches kids about homelessness and the power of community.

Today, Terence is opening up about how poetry heals and gives voice to overlooked wounds, how a life-altering accident forced him to learn to rest and how the sacred rhythms of service and solitude keep his soul close to God.

QUESTION #1: ACQUAINT

Food is always about more than food; it’s also about home and people and love. So how does a go-to meal at your favorite hometown restaurant reveal the true you behind your web bio?

I grew up in Atlanta, Georgia, and for me, food has always been about more than what’s on the plate — it’s about family, memory and belonging. My grandmother, Jessica Lester, who’s 93 now, was a chef, and her kitchen was where I first learned that food can tell a story. I can still see it in my mind: the earth-toned walls, the hardwood floors, the tile and that rounded table where my grandfather used to sit. We’d eat fried fish and grits there, and somehow, no matter what was happening outside, that table felt like home.

Cooking became part of who we are as Lesters. My uncles, my father (Tyrone Lester) and I — we all learned by watching my grandmother’s hands. Before my father passed, he’d come over to my house, and we’d cook together: red snapper with onions and lemon, parsley potatoes and asparagus — a spinoff of the seafood dishes my grandmother used to make. That meal became our ritual. It wasn’t just food; it was time carved out for connection. Standing side by side, slicing onions or seasoning fish, we talked about life, faith and dreams.

Those moments taught me that home isn’t just a place — it’s people. Home is the place where your identity is shaped and stories are passed down from generation to generation. I learned who I was around meals, conversation and being close to those who came before me. Cooking with my father kept us close, and even now, every time I make that meal, I feel him right there — and my grandmother’s love and legacy, still alive in every detail.

a microphone in a club — Bogomil Mihaylov; Unsplash

QUESTION #2: REVEAL

What “nonspiritual” activity have you found to be quite spiritual, after all? What quirky proclivity, out-of-the-way interest or unexpected pursuit refreshes your soul?

I remember the first time I stood on stage at the Apache Café, this small poetry spot tucked in the heart of Atlanta where neo-soul artists, jazz musicians and poets would gather to share their art. I was a novice back then, tired of scribbling in my notepad as a hobby and ready to put my words out in the open. I put my name on the open mic list, palms sweating, heart racing. When they finally called me, I walked up and shared a poem about my life.

I stumbled a little, but the crowd applauded anyway. That moment was healing. Something I’d once kept hidden became a doorway into connection — and I found my voice there. Long before I was connected to any faith community, poetry gave me permission to wrestle openly with my story.

I used to collect poems, quotes and anything layered with artistic soul. Spoken word gave me a way to name what I didn’t yet have language for. Over time, I’ve realized that what felt like just an outlet was deeply spiritual. Standing under those lights, speaking truth and feeling people lean in — that’s sacred to me. Even now, writing poetry and quotes slows me down and reminds me who I am. It still refreshes my soul.

Finding my voice in a space gave me a liberation I didn’t know I needed. There was no spiritual pressure to be perfect or polished — just honest. And in that honesty, something raw emerged. The process of shaping a voice — of learning how to speak from your wounds, your questions, your hopes — is powerful. It gives you a sense of agency. It teaches you that your story matters, that your words can hold weight and offer healing, not just for others but for yourself.

QUESTION #3: CONFESS

Every superhero has a weakness; every human, too. We’re just good at faking it. But who are we kidding? We’re all broken and in this thing together. So what’s your kryptonite, and how do you confront its power?

Growing up, I was taught over and over again that as a Black boy who would become a Black man, I’d have to work twice as hard to succeed. And honestly, it was true — not because of lack of effort or talent, but because of the systemic barriers that marginalized Black communities like the one I was raised in. Those messages — to grind, to never stop, to always push — got deep into my heart and soul. Before I knew it, I was always working around the clock, saying yes to everything, afraid that slowing down meant I’d fall behind or fail.

It became unhealthy. I was always on the go. I tied my worth to what I produced. I let the grind convince me I didn’t have permission to rest.

Then in 2022, I was in a life-altering accident that nearly took my life and left me unable to walk for almost a year. I spent over a month in the hospital. I was confined to a bed. I had to learn to walk again. And it was in that stillness — in that pain — where I finally realized something: I am more than what I produce. My worth is not measured by my output.

With the help of my wife, Cecilia, and my children, I slowly began to rehabilitate — not just physically, but emotionally and spiritually. I started to reprioritize how I show up in the world. Not that I hadn’t always loved my family — but now, I started to love myself enough to protect my health, peace and joy, too.

Today, I move differently. I eat differently. I say no without guilt. I practice self-care, I rest and I lead from a place of wholeness — not depletion. And somehow, the work is even more powerful now because I’m bringing my full self to it.

QUESTION #4: FIRE UP

Tell us about your toil. How are you investing your professional time right now? What’s your current obsession? And why should it be ours?

I started Love Beyond Walls 12 years ago with the belief that no one should feel invisible. Over the years, we’ve done a number of things to advocate for and walk alongside people who are unhoused — from launching mobile showers and sanitation stations to ID recovery, wellness checks, storytelling campaigns, food access initiatives and the creation of the Dignity Museum — the first traveling museum in the country dedicated to building empathy and addressing homelessness. It lives inside a shipping container and immerses people in the human stories behind housing insecurity.

But right now, my heart is all in on Zion’s Closet.

The idea came after I spoke with a principal who told me that homelessness among students in our city was growing. She said how hard it is for school social workers and counselors to constantly reach outside the building to find help for students and families. That hit me. I thought: What if the help wasn’t “out there”? What if it was already inside the school walls?

That’s when my daughter and I decided to retrofit unused classrooms in Title I schools and call them Zion’s Closet. We’ve turned them into dignified spaces with washers and dryers, refrigeration for groceries, school supplies, clothing, uniforms, technology for parents to fill out applications and even safe space corners for mental health check-ins. So far, we’ve built two — and we’re just getting started.

The project grew out of “Zion Learns to See,” a children’s book I co-authored with my daughter — but more than that, it reflects our shared belief that education is a pathway to possibility. Dignity belongs to every student, housed or unhoused, and each one deserves the chance to reach their full potential. The future doctor, lawyer, artist or inventor might already be sitting in a classroom — not held back by lack of talent but by unmet basic needs.

Zion’s Closet is about removing barriers. It’s about meeting dignity at the door. It’s about making sure every student — no matter their housing status — knows they matter and can dream freely.

QUESTION #5: BOOST

Whether we’re cashiers or CEOs, contractors or customer service reps, we all need God’s love flowing into us and back out into the world. How does the Holy Spirit invigorate your work? And how do you know it’s God when it happens?

After we built the first Zion’s Closet at Finch Elementary — a school in Atlanta with one of the highest populations of unhoused students — we hosted a grand opening. There were school board members, local politicians, community leaders, volunteers, parents and reps from the superintendent’s office all packed into the classroom we had retrofitted with dignity: fresh uniforms, hygiene products, school supplies, a washer and dryer and even a fridge. We cut the ribbon, walked people through the space and shared the vision. It was beautiful.

But the holy moment came after the crowd left.

A teacher quietly walked a young student into the room. His shoe had busted, and she said he had been unable to focus in class. She looked around, spotted a brand-new pair on the shelf, handed them to him — and I watched his joy return. His posture changed. He lit up. And then he went back to class with his head high.

That’s when I felt the Holy Spirit.

It wasn’t loud or performative. It wasn’t a flash of light or some big emotional moment. It was quiet. Tender. Sacred. A whisper saying, “This is it — this is what I called you to do.” That moment — that child — reminded me that the Spirit moves in acts of restoration, in the dignity of small things, in the everyday miracles that come when someone feels seen.

One of my favorite verses is Matthew 9, where it says Jesus was moved with compassion when he saw the crowds — and then he says something that’s stuck with me: “The harvest is plentiful, but the laborers are few” (v. 37). That part always gets me. It reminds me that I’m part of the few — not because I’m perfect, but because I said yes to the work. And it’s the work that matters.

I don’t always know what’s next. But I know it’s God when my heart burns for the invisible — when the work is bigger than me but still feels personal. That’s when I know the Holy Spirit is not just flowing through the work but is the work.

QUESTION #6: inspire

Scripture and tradition beckon us into the rich and varied habits that open our hearts to the presence of God. So let us in. Which spiritual practice is working best for you in this season?

These days, my most sacred rhythm happens after I’ve been on the streets — after I’ve spent time with our unhoused neighbors, listened to their stories or helped build out something like Zion’s Closet. It’s when I’ve just seen the need up close — the pain, the resilience, the broken systems and the beautiful humanity — that I retreat into worship, prayer and writing.

It’s not flashy. No platform. No mic. Just me, some instrumental worship playing softly, and a journal cracked open with ink stains and prayers scratched across the page.

Sometimes I’ll sit in the corner of my home office with the lights low. Other times I take walks and talk to God under my breath. But it always begins the same: I let the weight of what I just witnessed settle in. I don’t rush past the ache or the questions. I lay it all before God — raw and unfiltered. And slowly, in the stillness, something shifts.

Worship tunes my heart back to God’s rhythm. Prayer gives language to my exhaustion, hope and dependence. Writing helps me process what I saw — and what I felt — in a way that becomes honest dialogue with the Spirit. Sometimes I write letters to God. Other times, I just jot down a single line that captures the ache. Either way, it becomes sacred.

This practice grounds me. It reminds me that proximity to suffering isn’t the end — it’s the doorway to deeper compassion and renewed calling. And I can’t do this work on my own. I need God — not just for direction but for restoration.

In those moments, I don’t just feel like I’m practicing something spiritual. I feel like I’m being held by it.

QUESTION #7: FOCUS

Looking backward, considering the full sweep of your unique faith journey and all you encountered along the way, what top three resources stand out to you? What changed reality and changed your heart?

There are a few resources that have stuck with me and continue to shape my heart and work:

First, Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie’s TED Talk, “The Danger of a Single Story,” deeply impacted me. It reminded me why I must continue to fight against harmful narratives that flatten and dehumanize people — especially those who are vulnerable. I’ve lived what it’s like to be reduced to a label. Adichie’s talk put language to what I was already doing through storytelling, advocacy and presence. It challenged me to keep expanding who gets to be seen as fully human.

Second, Bryan Stevenson’s TED Talk, “We Need to Talk About an Injustice,” helped frame my advocacy work through the lens of proximity and justice. He confirmed what I already knew in my bones: getting close to suffering changes your theology, your posture and your purpose. That talk helped me see my lived experiences not as deficits but as fuel for systemic change.

Third, Marvin Gaye’s song “What’s Going On” is more than a classic to me — it’s a prophetic soundtrack for this work. When I hear it, I’m reminded of how relevant that question still is. It stirs my soul and re-centers my purpose: to be someone who doesn’t just ask that question but does something about it.

Certain things can be godsends, helping us survive, even thrive, in our fast-paced world. Does technology ever help you this way? Has an app ever boosted your spiritual growth? If so, how?

One of the most grounding spiritual rhythms in my life right now is listening to the “Get in The Word with Truth’s Table” podcast by Ekemini Uwan and Dr. Christina Edmondson, in partnership with IVP. It’s a daily Bible reading podcast that walks through Scripture using the Bible Study Together plan, and honestly, it’s become a sacred part of how I begin my mornings.

There’s something about hearing the Word spoken by two Black women of faith who bring cultural depth, theological clarity and spiritual care to every episode. Their voices are steady, rooted and pastoral. They don’t just read Scripture — they hold space for it to speak. And in a world that often rushes past reflection, this practice has helped me slow down.

Most days, I listen in the quiet — either before I jump into meetings or while I’m sitting with a cup of coffee after being proximate to deep need in the community. Whether I’ve just come from a Zion’s Closet buildout, a street outreach or a speaking engagement, these episodes reorient my heart. It’s a reminder that even in the work, I’m still being formed.

This isn’t just tech for convenience. It’s a spiritual tether — something that reminds me, daily, that God is still speaking, and I need to pause long enough to listen.

QUESTION #8: dream

God’s continually stirring new things in each of us. So give us the scoop! What’s beginning to stir in you but not yet fully awakened? What can we expect from you in the future?

Looking back on my faith journey — from being a high school dropout and ex-gang member to earning a Ph.D. and starting a nonprofit — there are so many people and moments that shaped me. But if I had to name three resources that changed my life, one wouldn’t be a book or a sermon. It would be a person: Ronald Eason.

Ronald was a deacon at the church I was attending when I was in one of the lowest places of my life — navigating poverty, trauma and pain. He created space to listen to my story without judgment. He saw something in me I didn’t yet see in myself. He encouraged me to go back and finish college. He supported me emotionally, spiritually and even financially. He walked with me through marriage, fatherhood and ministry. When my wife’s father couldn’t walk her down the aisle because he was incarcerated, Ron did it.

Before he passed, he texted me: “You were one of my greatest investments.” That still brings me to tears. This was a wealthy real estate developer who followed Jesus so deeply that he sowed into my life not just with words — but with presence. You’re reading this because he showed up for me.

That legacy is part of what’s stirring in me now — not just the desire to continue serving, but to build something bold that can shift narratives and make space for others the way Ronald did for me.

Right now, I’m dreaming of building a national landmark here in Atlanta — something that reclaims space and reimagines how we talk about homelessness in this country. It’s called the Dignity Center. But it’s not just a building. It’s a living museum. Not a place that archives the past — but a place where the work continues every day.

It will be a hybrid space: part educational experience, part resource hub, part storytelling sanctuary. It will house exhibits and immersive activations and also host empathy trainings, community events and provide real-time support for those experiencing housing insecurity. It will be a space where people can both learn and act. A place where advocacy and proximity meet. A place where dignity is not studied — it’s extended.

I won’t lie — it scares me. It’s big. It requires funding, land, ongoing vision and community. But I’m reminded daily that if God brought me from sleeping in a car to building mobile museums — then maybe this is just the next step of faith.

I want to leave something that outlives me. Something that says: we saw people. We listened. We stood in the gap. We built something where dignity could dwell.

There’s an old, pervasive mindset that says children should be seen and not heard — a mindset that, when you dig a little deeper, actually says children are less valuable than adults.

Jesus didn’t agree.

“Let the little children come to me,” he said, “and do not hinder them, for to such belongs the kingdom of heaven” (Matt. 19:14, ESV).

Something powerful happens when we minister to little ones. When we entrust truth to their hearts. When we sacrifice to care for them and meet their needs. Terence saw this up close when that first little boy received a pair of shoes from Zion’s Closet. How do you see it in your own life?

🎉 Easter Egg Activated!

Terence Lester