I have vivid memories of being in civil rights marches with my father, a Presbyterian seminary professor in Louisville, Kentucky, in the 1960s. My parents and I were moving along in a crowd of mostly Black faces. Pressed within that sea of sweaty adult bodies, I felt small and different, a stranger, and self-consciously white, but I also sensed that I was part of something large, something significant. Because our marching was punctuated by praying and singing hymns, faith became intimately connected to justice, to movement, doing something with others to make a difference.