I think we've made tremendous progress on racism. We've even

Hear now the words of Andrew Young, a son of struggle and a servant of justice, who once declared: “I think we've made tremendous progress on racism. We've even made progress on war. We've made almost no progress on poverty.” These words are not merely the reflection of one man, but the lament of many generations who have walked through fire and shadow, who have wrestled with chains both visible and unseen. They echo across the ages like the voice of an elder seated by the hearth, speaking truth that burns yet heals.

Indeed, the struggle against racism has borne fruit, though watered by the blood and tears of countless souls. The marchers in Selma, the students who braved the mobs in Little Rock, the workers who raised their voices in Memphis—all gave their strength so that the dignity of one race might not be trampled beneath the pride of another. And though the serpent of hatred still hisses in hidden places, its coils are weaker, its venom diluted by law, by love, and by the vigilance of the just. Thus Andrew Young, himself a companion of Dr. Martin Luther King Jr., knew of what he spoke: that the mountain of racial oppression, though high, has seen climbers nearing its summit.

Likewise, humankind has taken steps, however faltering, toward restraining the beast of war. From the ashes of world conflict rose covenants and councils, where nations sought to bind their swords and weigh grievances with words instead of weapons. The horrors of Hiroshima and Auschwitz seared into memory a sacred warning: never again. True, wars still scar the earth, yet treaties, dialogues, and the weary wisdom of survivors have slowed the drums of ceaseless battle. Young, who walked the halls of diplomacy, saw glimmers of peace forged where once there was only blood.

Yet in the matter of poverty, progress lies shackled. The widow in the alley, the child with hollow eyes, the worker who labors yet hungers—these remain among us as though time itself refused to move forward. Here lies Young’s deepest sorrow: that while nations spend fortunes on weapons and monuments, they stumble to feed the hungry or clothe the naked. Poverty is not a storm that comes unbidden; it is a wound we have chosen to leave open, though the balm is near.

Consider the tale of the Reverend’s friend, Dr. King, who, in his final years, turned his gaze from the triumphs of civil rights to the plight of the poor. In 1968, the Poor People’s Campaign was born. Black and white, Native and immigrant, laborer and farmer—they came together to demand bread, shelter, and dignity. But the dream was cut short when King fell to the assassin’s bullet. The encampment they called “Resurrection City” was washed away by rain, leaving behind not victory but the unhealed wound of poverty. This story is the living example of Young’s lament: that even prophets and martyrs could not bend the stubborn will of nations to lift the lowly from dust.

The lesson, O children of tomorrow, is carved deep: do not rest content with progress on one front while the weakest among us still cry out. For justice is not whole when it is partial, and peace is not true when it feeds only some. If poverty endures, then hatred and war shall find fertile ground again, for despair breeds conflict as surely as drought brings fire.

What, then, must we do? First, let each heart be awakened to compassion, not in fleeting charity but in steadfast solidarity. Give bread to the hungry, yes, but also lift your voice to demand systems that do not grind the poor into dust. Learn the names of those who labor unseen around you, and see in them not servants but brothers and sisters. Teach your children to measure greatness not by wealth amassed, but by burdens lifted from another’s shoulders.

Thus Andrew Young’s words call us not to despair, but to vigilance and to action. Let the victory over racism inspire us, let the strides against war embolden us, but let the battle against poverty become our shared covenant. Only then shall we say with clear conscience: progress is not only partial but complete, not only for some but for all. And the song of humanity, once fractured, shall rise in harmony like a hymn carried to the heavens.