Some prophets shouted from mountaintops. Anna prayed in the shadows.

Some stories are loud and fast  -  miracles in motion, angels and announcements.

As we come to the eve of December 17, this day of remembrance, we hold space not only for grief but also for vision.

December 17 is a day of remembrance - but it has always been more than mourning.

If we want to end violence against sex workers, we need to start following the money.

Solidarity is not abstract - it’s something you practice.

When we talk about ending violence against sex workers, one of the most powerful tools we have isn’t another round of policing or another set of restrictive laws - it’s decriminalization.

In every conversation about sex work - whether it’s policy, research, or “rescue” - one question should guide us: who is speaking, and who is missing?

Tamar doesn’t usually make it into Sunday School flannelgraph sets. Her story in Genesis 38 is messy, scandalous, and uncomfortable for anyone who wants the Bible to be a neat moral guidebook. She was Judah’s daughter-in-law, widowed twice, promised security but denied it, and ultimately forced to take matters into her own hands.

In New Orleans, Calvin Duncan - a man who spent 30 years incarcerated for a murder conviction later vacated - has just been elected clerk of criminal court. His victory isn’t just historic; it’s a reminder that the people most harmed by the criminal legal system often understand its failures better than anyone else. 

There’s a story making headlines again - a powerful man, a teenage girl, and a media cycle eager to flatten everything into a tidy narrative about “trafficking.” But when you read past the outrage and into the details, something else becomes painfully clear: this isn’t a story about sex work.

Every few years, the anti-trafficking field releases another report diagnosing its own dysfunction. The Safehouse Project’s recent white paper is the latest to outline the emotional toll of the work, the predictable cycles of vicarious trauma, low wages, inconsistent leadership, and the churn that destabilizes survivor support. 

If you’ve ever heard Rehab’s name in church, it almost always comes with a label:  “Rehab the prostitute.”  Out of all the things she did, all the roles she played, the one word attached to her forever is her occupation.