Kendrick is executive director of the Cory Glenville Community Center. He has worked with the Greater Hilltop Area Shalom Zone in Columbus serving people in poverty and engaging in advocacy through direct action such as food distribution, low-income housing and job training.
As the pastor of the historic Cory United Methodist Church in the Glenview neighborhood of Cleveland, Ohio, I have seen firsthand the immense value of physical spaces. Our church has been a beacon of hope, a sanctuary for activists and a platform for advocacy during the civil rights movement of the 20th century. The walls of Cory UMC have borne witness to the enthusiasm of passionate leaders and the birth of transformative ideas. In a society increasingly engrossed in digital realities, we must remember the significance of the tangible.
Our focus may have shifted towards developing sophisticated virtual platforms and augmented realities. Still, we must pay attention to physical surroundings – the spaces that foster human connection, house our history and serve our communities. We must recognize the power of place-making and the importance of civic engagement in shaping these spaces.
There is an urgent need to preserve places that foster opportunities for human interaction, self-sufficiency and a healthy community. Historic preservation, however, extends beyond merely saving old buildings, although that in itself is crucial. It is about preserving the stories within these structures, the narratives of our past that shape our present and future.
Historic preservation is at the heart of environmental justice, racial equity and human flourishing. Post-industrial cities are nursing the wounds of disinvestment and historical redlining; we must view these old edifices not as relics of a bygone era but as vessels of potential and abundance.
These places matter because they give life to our stories. "There are stories in these bricks," I thought as I observed our front steps' careful, selective demolition. Each brick, fired in giant kilns by the companies that built our cities, is a testament to the industry and ingenuity of our forebears. Each tells the story of the brick masons whose skilled hands shaped our streets and created our physical world.
These bricks bear the echoes of the congregations that gathered within their walls, the communities that envisioned places where people could debate ideas freely, share dreams and build a future for generations. They are living testaments to the adaptive reuse of our architectural heritage, a key to preservation-based economic development.
Places matter. Stories matter. They are the physical embodiment of our collective history, the tangible anchor to our shared past. They remind us of our journey, the struggles faced, the victories won, the dreams realized. They are the silent witnesses to our evolution as a society, our growth as a community and our potential as a people.
Over the years, my involvement with the Bridge Alliance's leadership initiatives has significantly deepened my understanding of the importance of place and story-sharing. The programs are a tapestry of diverse experiences, ideas and perspectives, exposing me to unique narratives from various communities across the nation. Engaging in meaningful dialogues, sharing experiences and brainstorming solutions to common issues, I've been privileged to witness the power of shared stories in shaping our understanding of place.
Like the bricks of Cory, our stories and experiences highlight a particular place's unique challenges and opportunities, further emphasizing the significance of preserving these physical spaces —the Bridge Alliance's learning exchange helps us discern that every place has a uniqueness to celebrate. Stories build bridges between communities, foster unity and promote understanding. They are reinforcing belief in the power of places and the stories they hold.
As a spiritual and civic leader, I'm committed to preserving and transforming our historic spaces and championing the cause of placemaking and civic engagement. Let us remember the value of our physical world in the age of virtual realities. Remember that in our quest for technological advancement, we must stay in the bricks and mortar that ground us in our shared history and humanity. Because places matter, so do the stories and people that result from them, making the community a reality.
A golden tray sits on the Resolute Desk as President Donald Trump speaks during an announcement on American nuclear innovation in the Oval Office at the White House on July 24, 2026, in Washington, D.C. Trump is signing multiple executive orders targeting the nuclear energy sector and easing rules for new reactors and nuclear fuel supply chains.
Trump’s hubris rivals the fallen heroes of ancient Greek mythology
In January, the New York Times asked President Donald Trump if there were any limits on his global powers.
“Yeah,” the president responded, “there is one thing. My own morality. My own mind. It’s the only thing that can stop me.”
That was eight months ago, but fortunately Christopher Nolan’s blockbuster adaptation of “The Odyssey” has made ancient Greek literature newly relevant. Before that window closes, I’d like to talk about hubris.
Today, the term mostly means excessive pride or arrogance. That’s part of what the Greeks meant by it too, but the meaning was a bit richer and more specific. Hubris was an insolent or outrageous act that offended the gods, often because the transgressor was claiming abilities or authorities that solely belonged to supreme beings.
Nolan renamed and slightly modified the concept of xenia for the film, calling it “Zeus’ law.” In the director’s telling, mortals should follow the rules laid out by the gods, specifically the requirement to treat strangers with respect lest they be gods in disguise.
In a sense, hubris is the opposite, or at least the rejection, of xenia. The hubris of the suitors, and at times Odysseus himself, invites punishment by the gods and their mortal instruments.
Which brings me back to Donald Trump. His claim that there are no constraints on his personal power to dictate events on the global stage was one of the greatest expressions of hubris ever uttered by a political leader.
Trump’s claim was obviously false when he made it.
He vowed that he could end the Russia-Ukraine war in 24 hours. He’s proved powerless to make that happen. If he had divine powers to work his will, why would he have balked at implementing his tariffs so often that Wall Street adopted the “TACO trade” term for his deals? “TACO” stands for “Trump always chickens out.”
And why would Trump have made so many embarrassing concessions to China — from rescinding tariffs on Chinese goods to allowing them to buy crucial and incredibly valuable computer chips?
But Trump saw his success at capturing Venezuelan strongman Nicolas Maduro as proof of his ability to launch missiles to the same effect as Zeus’ lightning bolts. Trump believed he was the most powerful man who ever lived.
This is no exaggeration. In March, when the Iran invasion seemed successful, Trump gave a document penned by“Presidential Historian David King” to New York Times reporters Maggie Haberman and Jonathan Swan purporting to prove that Trump was “the most powerful person to have EVER walked this planet.” King was, in fact, a businessman and occasional caddy for legendary golfer Gary Player.
King compared Trump favorably to many of history’s most powerful, and often heinous, figures: Alexander the Great, Attila the Hun, William the Conqueror, Napoleon Bonaparte, Joseph Stalin, Genghis Khan, Mao Tse Tung, Adolf Hitler and Vladimir Lenin. Many of these men thought they were the most powerful person in the world, too. And many were defeated precisely because they believed it.
At least Napoleon and Hitler had a string of truly impressive victories before they learned the folly of hubris. The limits on Trump’s power have been exposed by far less august forces than the combined might of the allies in World War II or the fearsome Russian winter.
Iran is a comparatively middling power. But the regime’s ability to absorb punishment while imposing its will on the Strait of Hormuz has proved to be a greater constraint on Trump’s power than his morality or mind. We should note that, at least rhetorically, his morality has not proved much of a constraint. He has repeatedly promised to destroy Iranian “civilization” if the regime refuses to capitulate.
But they haven’t — and won’t anytime soon — because the regime’s tolerance for pain far outstrips Trump’s. The combined fear of skyrocketing oil prices, outrage of Gulf state potentates, diminishing weapon supplies and domestic unpopularity is doing the work that international law, congressional oversight and the collective opinion of foreign policy experts can’t or won’t do.
If I considered Trump more heroic than reason and facts could allow, I would say his Sisyphean predicament has the whiff of Greek tragedy to it. Trump is vexed by the fact that the Iranians won’t honor deals or ratify his countless premature claims of victory — giving new meaning to his vow that his presidency would make people tired of winning. It’s almost like they’re out-Trumping Trump.
Things might have gone better if he’d heeded that great Greek tragedian Sophocles: “For Zeus utterly abhors the boasts of a proud tongue.”
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Jonah Goldberg is editor-in-chief of The Dispatch and the host of The Remnant podcast. His Twitter handle is @JonahDispatch.