We recently connected with Jerry Taylor and have shared our conversation below.
Jerry, thanks for taking the time to share your stories with us today What’s the kindest thing anyone has ever done for you?
In the quiet rural spaces of Shelby County, West Tennessee, where the boundaries between childhood and adulthood were often blurred by the freedom of the open road, lessons in responsibility and consequence came not only from our actions but from the reactions of those around us. Driving cars at a young age was more than just a rite of passage; it was a symbol of trust, a delicate balance between independence and the ever-present potential for error. My parents, like many in our community, entrusted me with their old ’63 Plymouth, allowing me the liberty to drive up to Pouncey Grocers. It was an implicit lesson in autonomy, where freedom was both a gift and a test.
But it was on an occasion of failure, not success, that the most profound philosophical lesson unfolded. My brother, fresh from the discipline of the Army and Alaska’s vast distances, had left behind his brand new 1971 Monte Carlo for safekeeping while he reenlisted. The car, a gleaming emblem of his personal achievement, stood in sharp contrast to the weathered Plymouth that belonged to my parents. With excitement that only a young driver can know, I asked my mother if I could drive to the store. Permission was granted, and in that moment, the excitement gave way to the error that would shape my understanding of kindness and grace.
Backing the car out with an eagerness untempered by experience, I collided with my brother’s Monte Carlo, leaving a conspicuous dent that mirrored the sudden dent in my pride. Panic set in. I parked the Plymouth, retreating to the house, with the intention of concealing my mistake from the world. When my stepfather discovered the dent, his frustration exploded in a torrent of curses aimed at the unknown perpetrator. As his anger mounted, so too did the burden of my conscience, until the pressure of unspoken guilt became unbearable. I confessed to my mother.
In that moment, I braced for the storm—a verbal reckoning that would surely match my stepfather’s. But instead, my mother’s response was a quiet act of transcendence. Her eyes, filled not with judgment but with understanding, conveyed a deeper truth: “I know it was a mistake, son. You didn’t mean to do it.” In her simple, gentle acknowledgment of my error, she conveyed a philosophy of forgiveness that reached far beyond the specific incident. My mother’s reaction spared me not only from external scorn but from the self-condemnation that so often follows our missteps.
Her kindness in that moment was more than an act of maternal compassion; it was an existential affirmation of my humanity. Where condemnation could have crushed my budding sense of self-worth, her grace and kindness uplifted it. In sparing me, she imparted a crucial lesson: mistakes, when met with love rather than punishment, become moments of growth, not shame. This single act of kindness reshaped the trajectory of my life. It became the foundation upon which I built my own responses to others’ mistakes, whether they be physical or emotional.
Life, after all, is filled with collisions—some literal, others metaphorical. People, like cars, often crash into one another’s lives, leaving dents and scars. Yet it is not the collisions that define us, but how we respond to them. My mother’s choice to extend mercy rather than wrath in a moment where shame could have easily reigned supreme taught me the power of tender love in the face of human frailty. Her grace became my guide, shaping how I would respond to the emotional “hit-and-run accidents” that inevitably occur in relationships.
In forgiving me, my mother affirmed a truth that is central to our shared human experience: to err is inevitable, but to be forgiven is transformative. Her reaction has lived on within me, a constant reminder that loving kindness, when extended in moments of vulnerability, has the power to preserve the dignity of another. It is in these moments that we glimpse the profound potential of humanity—to lift one another up, even in our mistakes, and to offer the gift of grace where condemnation could so easily reside.
Jerry, love having you share your insights with us. Before we ask you more questions, maybe you can take a moment to introduce yourself to our readers who might have missed our earlier conversations?
I was born and raised in the depths of one of the most racist parts of the United States, where the very air seemed to carry the weight of prejudice, and where the color of one’s skin determined not just the way others saw you, but the value they ascribed to your existence. In those early years, I came to understand racism not as an abstract concept, but as a lived reality—an insidious force that shaped the minds and hearts of those around me. The faces of those who despised me because of my black skin revealed a distorted moral compass, one that they believed was justified by their whiteness. I witnessed, time and again, the corrosive effects of this belief, as it poisoned their humanity and strained the very fabric of our shared existence.
Yet, even in the midst of this hate, there came moments of clarity, moments when the truth of our common humanity broke through the haze of division. One such moment came when I was 11 years old, when I encountered the documentary Eyes on the Prize, a chronicle of the Civil Rights Movement and its relentless struggle against the deeply ingrained racism of the time. This documentary was not merely an educational film for me—it was a mirror that reflected the ugly underbelly of America’s soul. It laid bare the raw and visceral resistance that rose up against those who dared to demand the full humanity of black citizens. It showed me the cost of justice, the sacrifice of countless individuals who gave their lives to the pursuit of equality, and the brutal backlash they endured.
In witnessing this history, I found myself forever changed. The harshness of what I saw did not harden my heart, but rather kindled in me a fire, a determined desire to carry on the work of racial unity. I could not turn away from what had been revealed: that the fight for justice was ongoing, and that I was, in some way, part of that struggle. The scars of racism I had seen in my own life, and in the lives of those portrayed in Eyes on the Prize, were a call to action—a call to live my life in such a way that I would stand on the side of unity, justice, and reconciliation. This burning aspiration spilled over into my adult years leading me to start Emancipation Fellowship Ministries in June 1999.
The roots of this commitment, however, go even deeper. They trace back to when I was just seven years old, when I witnessed my mother’s reaction to the assassination of Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. Walter Cronkite’s voice echoed through our home as he announced Dr. King’s death on the evening news, and in that moment, I saw the weight of loss reflected in my mother’s eyes. Her sorrow was not just for the death of a man, but for the death of hope, the shattering of a dream that had offered a vision of a better, more just America. It was in her grief that I realized the depth of the wound inflicted on our people, and on the very soul of the nation.
At that young age, I could not fully articulate what I felt, but I understood enough to know that something had been stolen from us. Dr. King’s death was not just a loss to our community, but a reminder that the path to justice was fraught with danger and betrayal. His assassination symbolized the resistance to the idea that black lives, black dreams, black aspirations were just as valuable as those of anyone else. It was at that moment, sitting with my mother in our living room, that I made a decision that would shape the course of my life: I would dedicate myself, heart and soul, to the problem of racial division. I would strive to build bridges where others sought to erect walls, to foster understanding where ignorance reigned, and to pursue unity in the face of deep-seated hatred.
This commitment is not merely a moral obligation, but a philosophical stance on the nature of our existence. The divisions between us, though they appear to be insurmountable, are ultimately artificial. They are constructs built on fear, ignorance, and the refusal to see the inherent dignity in every human being. At the core of my life’s work is the belief that our shared humanity transcends the superficial differences that racism seeks to magnify. The hatred I witnessed as a child was the result of a profound failure—a failure to recognize that beneath the color of our skin lies a common spirit, a shared capacity for love, pain, joy, and sorrow.
To commit oneself to the work of racial unity is to engage in a philosophical battle against the forces of division that have plagued humanity for centuries. It is to stand in the face of hatred and say, “We are one.” It is to acknowledge the depth of our historical wounds while believing in the possibility of healing. It is, ultimately, to live in hope, even when hope seems elusive.
And so, from those early moments—watching my mother’s tears for Dr. King and witnessing the brutal reality of racism in Eyes on the Prize—I have carried with me a burning desire to bridge the divides that others have accepted as inevitable. My life is dedicated to this pursuit, knowing that the work of justice is never finished, but also believing that every step toward unity, no matter how small, is a step toward the fuller realization of our common humanity.
What else should we know about how you took your side hustle and scaled it up into what it is today?
The journey from occupation to vocation is one many of us navigate, often without realizing it. In my case, my side-hustle turned into a professorship at a major university in Texas. I never envisioned myself as an academic, but life has a way of guiding us to places we do not plan. When the opportunity came, it was the only path open to me that could provide for my family. So I stepped through that door, not out of passion but out of necessity.
With this occupation came remarkable benefits. My wife and two children were able to attend and graduate from the university almost entirely cost-free. In a world where education is often inaccessible, this was an immeasurable blessing. Yet, as gratifying as these practical rewards were, my soul remained restless. This job, though stable, was never my true calling.
My true vocation, what I had placed on hold, began calling to me with increasing intensity. As I went through each semester, fulfilling my duties, I felt the quiet stirrings of something greater. This was not just a desire to change careers; it was a deeper, existential pull—a yearning to align my life with what I am truly here to do.
Eventually, the pull became too strong to ignore. I realized that I could no longer let my occupation hold my vocation in check. I chose to retire in May, to step fully into the calling that had been waiting for me all along.
There is a significant difference between finding a job and finding a vocation. A job occupies our time, providing money and security. But vocation—the work that calls to us from within—offers something deeper: peace, fulfillment, joy. It’s as if we are each wired with a purpose, something we are meant to care deeply about, and until we surrender to that purpose, no occupation can truly satisfy.
Now that I have embraced my vocation, I am filled with a joy that my occupation never gave me. I no longer work just to occupy time or to meet material needs. I work from the wellspring of my own passion, and in doing so, I find not only sustenance but deep contentment. True fulfillment comes not when we work merely to survive but when we live and work in alignment with our calling. Only then do we experience the harmony of a life well-lived.
Any advice for managing a team?
Managing a team and maintaining high morale is not merely a matter of external leadership skills, but an internal practice rooted in self-care. How can we care for others if we do not know how to care for ourselves? The relationship between self-care and leadership is often overlooked, yet it forms the very foundation of a healthy workplace. When we neglect our own well-being, we lose the awareness of how to treat ourselves with the dignity we deserve—and this inevitably extends to how we treat those who work with and for us.
Leadership begins with self-awareness. If we fail to slow down and tend to our own emotional wounds, how can we expect to have the sensitivity required to care for a team of individuals, each grappling with their own personal struggles? Every day, people come to work carrying invisible burdens, and if we are blind to our own, we will remain blind to theirs. The leader who ignores their pain will cultivate a work culture devoid of empathy, creating a space where deep, unresolved hurt festers in silence.
A toxic leader breeds a toxic environment, and such environments have a peculiar effect: only those who are equally toxic find them bearable. Those who long for health and harmony will inevitably wither or leave. If we wish to maintain morale and foster a healthy team, we must be vulnerable enough to confront the emotional toxicity we carry—much of which may stem from childhood wounds, traumas, and unhealed experiences that we unconsciously bring into the workplace. Toxicity, when left unchecked, spreads like a disease, suffocating collaboration, creativity, and care.
To counter this, we must create environments where healing is possible—where people are encouraged to pause, to be still, and to reclaim their well-being. It is essential to foster a workplace culture that prioritizes emotional health over constant, relentless productivity. Encouraging team members to take vacations, to step away from multitasking, and to focus on themselves is not an indulgence but a necessity. In doing so, we affirm that their worth is not tied solely to their work output but to their well-being as whole human beings.
The paradox is clear: the more we help people nurture their health, the more they will want to be a part of the organization. In caring for themselves, they will naturally care for one another. A workplace that values empathy, vulnerability, and personal growth will not only be more productive but will be a place where people actually want to spend their time—a rare and precious thing in a world increasingly driven by toxic competition and burnout.
In the end, managing a team is not just about keeping morale high or meeting performance goals. It is about creating a space where people can bring their whole selves to the table—flaws, wounds, and all—and still feel valued. Only in this kind of environment can true collaboration, innovation, and connection thrive. A healthy workplace begins with a healthy leader, and health, both personal and communal, begins with the courage to be vulnerable.
