Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. once said, “The arc of the moral universe is long, but it bends toward justice.” A beautiful sentiment, isn’t it? One that has inspired generations to believe that, eventually, justice will prevail, that the dream of equality and freedom will become reality. But as I sit in the shadow of this day’s political theater—the swearing-in of yet another president—I find myself questioning that arc. Does it truly bend toward justice? Or does it twist and warp, bending instead to the will of those who understand how to seize it?

In this treacherous jungle of politics, I’ve always found solace in one word: Cathedral. It’s not a place of worship, but a fortress of thought. A sanctuary where strategy reigns supreme. And in the quiet of that sanctuary, I can see the long shadow of Dr. King’s dream for what it truly is—a beacon for some, but a stark reminder for others of how far we’ve yet to go.

The new president stood on that stage today, reciting words polished to perfection: unity, hope, progress. They are the same words we’ve heard before, from leaders who came and went, leaving behind a trail of broken promises and forgotten people. The dream of Dr. King was not just about lofty words—it was about action, about dismantling the systems that keep so many in chains. And yet, here we are, decades later, still waiting for those systems to change.

Dr. King’s shadow looms large over moments like this. His dream has become a moral yardstick against which every leader is measured. But it has also become a shield, wielded by those in power to obscure the truth. They invoke his name, quote his words, and promise a brighter future, all while preserving the very structures that keep so many in darkness. The dream is refracted, distorted by the machinery of politics into something unrecognizable to those who need it most.

What of the people who live in the shadow of this dream? The ones without money, without power, without hope? For them, the jungle of America is not a game to be played but a battlefield where survival is the only goal. They are the single mother working three jobs, the factory worker watching their town crumble, the student drowning in debt. They are the ones Dr. King fought for, the ones he called to action. And yet, they are the ones left behind.

This new administration, like those before it, promises to lift them up. But progress, as they call it, has a cost—and it’s always the poor who pay the highest price. Affordable housing becomes a distant dream, healthcare a luxury, and education a privilege. The rising tide of progress may lift some boats, but it drowns those without one.

And then there’s the cruel irony: Dr. King’s dream, which sought to bring justice and equality to all, now leaves behind those who cannot keep up. It’s not enough to open doors if the people meant to walk through them are shackled by systemic racism, generational poverty, and an economy designed to reward those who already have more than enough. The dream is no longer a light to guide the way—it’s a shadow that reminds them of what they can’t have.

In moments like this, the Cathedral becomes more than a sanctuary—it becomes a lens. From its heights, I can see the long shadow of Dr. King’s dream stretching across the political landscape. It is a reminder of what could have been, of the promises made but never kept. And it is a stark contrast to the reality of this jungle, where power is not earned through virtue but taken through strategy.

The new president speaks of unity, but unity is fragile. It cannot withstand the weight of inequality, the strain of systemic injustice. Unity, without justice, is nothing more than a facade, a pretty picture to distract from the rot beneath. And justice? True justice? It’s a currency too expensive for most administrations to afford.

Dr. King believed in bending the arc of the moral universe toward justice. But bending that arc requires more than words—it requires action, sacrifice, and a willingness to challenge the very foundations of power. This administration, like so many before it, will likely fall short. Not because they lack good intentions, but because the system they operate within is designed to resist change. The jungle does not reward idealism—it rewards cunning.

And so, I return to the Cathedral. A place not of faith, but of strategy. In this jungle, survival is not enough. One must outlast, outmaneuver, outthink. The Cathedral reminds me of this truth: presidents come and go, policies shift like the wind, but power—true power—endures. It is not held by those who speak the loudest or dream the boldest, but by those who understand how to play the game.

As I write this, I can’t help but think of what Dr. King would say if he were here today. Would he see progress? Or would he see betrayal? Would he find hope in the new president’s words, or despair in the faces of those left behind? Perhaps he would remind us that the arc is long, that justice takes time. But time is a luxury that so many cannot afford.

For those without money, the jungle grows darker by the day. For those left behind by the dream, the shadow grows longer. And for those of us who understand the game, the Cathedral becomes not just a sanctuary, but a throne. In this jungle, the strong do not inherit the earth—they take it. And I intend to take my share.

Dr. King’s dream remains a beacon, a guiding light in the darkness. But for too many, it is also a reminder of what they may never achieve. The Cathedral stands, not because of hope or faith, but because it is built on the foundation of something far stronger: strategy. And in this jungle, strategy is the only thing that endures.