“Two are better than one, because they have a good reward for their labour. For if they fall, the one will lift up his fellow.” — Ecclesiastes 4:9-10
Mr. President, Reverend Fernander, brothers and sisters in Christ—
Good evening. And thank you for welcoming me into your fellowship tonight.
The theme of this Convention—We Are Better Together—hits close to home for me. Not just because I’ve seen it proven in our national life, but because I’ve experienced it in my own. I have seen what happens when we come together.
I’ve seen it in the smallest acts of kindness—in neighbours sharing what little they have, in families who open their doors when a friend has nowhere to go, in the church members who deliver meals and prayer to the sick and the shut-in. I’ve seen it after hurricanes, when strangers became brothers and sisters overnight. When roofs didn’t matter because hearts were open.
I saw it in Cat Island, where I was raised. We weren’t rich. Far from it. But we were rich in community. If someone’s boat needed fixing, men came. If a child had no shoes, someone found a pair. If sorrow visited one household, the whole settlement felt it.
When I was a boy, there were evenings we’d sit under the stars, sharing stories, passing down wisdom, laughing and sometimes crying. There was a bond—unspoken, unbroken—that carried us through the lean seasons. Those bonds shaped who I am. They taught me that the truest strength is found in unity.
And I’ve seen it more recently too. In the aftermath of Hurricane Dorian. I was there, walking through the wreckage. And I watched people who had lost everything give the shirt off their back to someone who’d lost more. That’s what we’re made of.
In those moments, no one asked who you voted for. No one cared about your last name or what church you went to. What mattered was that you were a human being, hurting, and in need. And someone came alongside you.
That is the best of who we are. That is the spirit that built this country. And it is the spirit that can still move us forward.
When communities band together, miracles happen. A sick neighbour gets better care than the hospital could offer. A young child discovers a mentor who changes the course of their life. A grieving mother finds peace in the arms of a church family.
And when I reflect on all of this, I see the hand of God. I see a divine pattern: that He never intended us to go it alone. He made us for each other. To lift, to carry, to comfort, to celebrate.
We are not just better together. We are only whole together.
But I have also seen what happens when we are divided.
I have seen how lines drawn in the sand can become walls between people. I have seen families split apart over politics. Friends who won’t speak. Churches where the spirit of fellowship becomes cold because of what colours we wear or what party we support.
I have lived long enough to see the damage that division causes—not just politically, but spiritually. And I want to speak honestly tonight.
Too often in this country, we allow PLP and FNM to divide what God intended to be united. We wear party colours like armour and forget that beneath those colours is flesh and blood. People. Souls.
We forget that every PLP and every FNM is still somebody’s mother, father, brother, sister, child of God. We forget that disagreement doesn’t mean disrespect. That we can challenge each other without trying to destroy each other.
And when we forget these things, something precious breaks.
Division leaves us weaker. It blinds us to each other’s humanity. It dulls our compassion. It turns neighbour against neighbour and leaves us vulnerable to every storm.
We cannot afford to be so divided. Not now. Not when there’s so much work to be done. Not when our young men are crying out for mentorship. Not when violence is seeping into our streets. Not when so many families are still one paycheck away from crisis.
I say this as your Prime Minister, yes. But I say it more importantly as your brother in Christ: no party can save us. Only unity, only love, only faith lived out loud can heal this land.
And let me confess something. There have been moments—moments late at night, when the country is quiet but the weight of leadership is heavy—when I’ve asked myself: Are we doing enough? Are we listening enough? Are we healing enough?
And in those moments, it’s not the applause or the headlines that bring peace. It’s the memory of a child’s hug. A handwritten letter from a stranger. A testimony from someone who was down but lifted up by their community.
Those moments remind me: we cannot govern well if we do not love deeply.
So tonight, I want to ask something of you. It’s simple, but it is powerful. I want you to look at the person next to you—really look at them. And remember that they are your brother. Your sister.
Not just in Christ. But in nationhood. In purpose. In humanity.
We don’t need more slogans. We need more seeing.
Seeing the humanity in the single mother juggling two jobs and still making time to come to Bible study.
Seeing the fear in a young man’s eyes when he says he doesn’t know if he’ll live to be 25.
Seeing the dignity in the old woman selling fruits in the sun, still singing hymns under her breath.
Seeing each other not as obstacles but as fellow travelers on a long and often difficult road.
If we can do that—if we can recover the ability to look at one another and see not enemy or rival, but kin—then I believe this nation will be transformed.
We will talk differently. We will serve differently. We will lead differently.
And that transformation doesn’t start in Parliament. It starts right here. In the Church. In the pews. In our pulpits. In our own hearts.
The church must not just be a place of worship—it must be a school for compassion, a sanctuary for unity, a training ground for reconciliation.
Because if we cannot love each other here, then how can we ask the world to love at all?
And this isn’t just about politics or church unity—it’s about how we live every day. When we see our neighbour struggling, do we look the other way or do we ask, “How can I help?” When someone offends us, do we seek revenge or do we seek peace?
Imagine a Bahamas where every citizen saw their fellow Bahamian as sacred. Imagine the kindness, the healing, the restoration that would take root in every corner of this country.
It’s possible. It’s not naive. It’s the Gospel. And it’s our calling.
Every day, we are making choices about what kind of country we want to be.
And that choice is not made once every five years at the ballot box. It’s made in a thousand small moments—how we speak to each other, how we treat the vulnerable, how we respond to those we don’t agree with.
We can choose a version of The Bahamas where we tear each other down, where we live in fear and mistrust, where we let anger define our days.
Or we can choose a version where kindness is currency. Where grace is extended before judgment. Where we build more than we break. Where we lift more than we condemn.
I know what kind of country I want for my grandchildren. I want them to grow up in a Bahamas where people don’t turn their backs on each other. Where government works not just with efficiency, but with empathy. Where the Church is loud in worship and even louder in service.
That country is within our reach. But only if we walk toward it together.
We can no longer afford to wait for someone else to fix it. We are the ones we’ve been waiting for. It is our hearts that must change. Our words that must heal. Our lives that must testify.
And to our young people—I see you. I know that some of you are angry. Tired. Doubtful that this country hears you. But I want you to know this: we need you. We need your dreams. Your honesty. Your voice.
Help us build that better version. Walk with us. Lead with us. Be bold, but be loving.
And so, as I close tonight, I want to offer a prayer—not just with words, but with the full weight of my spirit.
Lord, we need You.
We are a people full of potential, but we are also full of pain. We are gifted, but we are grieving. We are proud, but we are often too proud to say we’re hurting.
We ask You, God, to humble us. But not to humiliate. To mold us. But not to break us.
Remind us that our strength is in our unity, that we are indeed better—stronger, wiser, kinder—when we are together.
Heal the wounds that politics has carved into our communities.
Restore the friendships that have been lost to bitterness.
Rebuild our homes—not just with walls and windows—but with peace and purpose.
Give our leaders, myself included, the wisdom to serve with justice, the courage to lead with integrity, and the grace to admit when we’ve fallen short.
Bless our pastors, who carry the weight of their congregations.
Bless our teachers, who mold young minds in under-resourced classrooms.
Bless our mothers and fathers, who sacrifice in silence.
Bless our children, Lord—keep them safe, keep them hopeful, and let them always know they are loved.
And finally, Lord, help us to see You in each other.
Let us walk out of this auditorium tonight not just inspired, but determined. Determined to be the salt and the light. Determined to forgive. Determined to build. Determined to love.
Because I have seen what happens when we come together.
And I believe that if we do—if we truly come together, heart to heart, hand in hand—then the Bahamas we dream of will become the Bahamas we live in.
Thank you, and may God bless you all.