There are some people God plants in the earth not simply to live—but to anchor a community, steady a generation, and remind us what realness looks like in a world full of noise. For me, that man was Deacon Dennis Hayes.

I didn’t know, ten years ago when I first joined Universal Ministries Worldwide Assembly, that a quiet giant was already walking the halls. He wasn’t loud. He wasn’t flashy. He wasn’t trying to be seen. But he was present—faithful, consistent, and rooted like an oak planted by the rivers of water.

Year after year, I would see him in the fellowship. A nod here. A handshake there. But life never gave us the moment to sit down and truly talk—until one day, downtown, in a simple restaurant, destiny pulled up a chair.

We recognized each other instantly. And what started as a casual greeting turned into a conversation that stretched into hours. We discovered we liked some of the same drinks, but more importantly, we shared the same heartbeat for the community. That day, something clicked. A brotherhood was born—not out of church titles, but out of truth, transparency, and the kind of authenticity you can’t manufacture.

From that moment on, our conversations became a rhythm—community affairs, injustices, who needed help, who was struggling, who had passed away, who needed the church to show up. He didn’t waste time with empty church rhetoric. He didn’t hide behind clichés. He talked about the streets, the people, the politics, the money, the movements, the needs. He talked like a man who lived in the trenches, not the balcony.

And he did.

I remember being on assignment, doing videography at faith gatherings, political meetings, community forums—mayors, chiefs of police, sheriffs, dignitaries. And there he was. Always in the mix. Always in the room. Always with that bright, unmistakable smile. When I look back at the photographs I’ve taken over the years—of leaders, parishioners, officials—somehow, Deacon Hayes is always there. Not posing. Not performing. Just present. Just serving. Just being who he was.

One day he told me how he became a member of Universal. One of his parents had passed away, and the former pastor was unavailable to do the eulogy. After decades of family membership, he felt abandoned—until Apostle William Melvin Payne stepped in, embraced him, and walked him through his grief. From that moment, he said, “I’ve been faithful ever since.” And he meant it. Whether he agreed with every decision or not, he never wavered. He showed up. He stood strong. He stayed committed.

That was the man he was.

I’ll never forget the night of my six-year “Bring the Glory Back” Conference. After the message, he walked up to me with that signature grin and said, “Man… your message was awesome.” Then he leaned in and said something I’ll never forget:

“We were planning to bring in Rev. Al Sharpton for our Black History celebration… but I’m canceling him. I want you to be our keynote speaker.”

That moment shook me. Not because of the honor—but because of the trust. The belief. The affirmation. He didn’t flatter. He didn’t exaggerate. He spoke truth. And when he said the message was great, I knew he meant it.

Our relationship grew into something powerful—educational, motivational, strategic, community-driven. We talked movements. We talked solutions. We talked about how to build an inclusive philosophy that reached hundreds—maybe thousands—across our city and beyond. He was a man of honor. A man of strategy. A man of movement. A man of realness.

And now… he has transitioned.

We feel the loss deeply. But Heaven feels the gain even deeper.

He leaves behind a legacy that cannot be duplicated, a ministry of presence that cannot be replaced, and a testimony of service that will echo long after our tears dry.

As many have gone before us, he now joins that great cloud of witnesses. And to my brother, my friend, my fellow laborer in the community trenches, I say:

I’ll see you in the morning.

Rest well, Deacon Dennis Hayes.

Live forever in the legacy you built.