There’s a rare phenomenon that happens when artists possess an exceptional command of language—when their words reach the pinnacle of precision and power. In those moments, they somehow recover words I’ve long lost—words I couldn’t find on my own. That’s exactly what happened when I listened to Clipse’s new album, Let God Sort Em Out. By the time the final track faded out, I was wiping tears from my eyes.

I’d been anticipating this release for weeks—counting down to July 11 with the kind of expectation I hadn’t felt since high school. Back then, we were obsessing over the tension between Graduation and Get Rich or Die Tryin’. I haven’t felt that kind of excitement for a hip-hop album in years. From the rollout—real hip-hop journalism, strategic features, an incredible single, and a whisper of something bigger—I knew we were in for something special. The fact that Clipse hadn’t formally reunited in so long made it even more significant.

As a Christian and a rapper, I had already been aware of Malice’s conversion and his brief stint as "No Malice." But truth be told, I never listened to his solo work. That’s partly because I’ve always had a complicated relationship with Christian hip-hop. The CHH world has never fully embraced me, and the secular world considers me too Christian. I’ve existed as a creative nomad—too explicit for one crowd, too holy for the other.

My subject matter, my collaborations with non-Christian artists, and my belief that language is a divine tool in the hands of the Creator all make me a misfit. I’ve always known my calling wasn’t necessarily to the church, but to the hip-hop heads and the culture we came from. I’ve chosen not to abandon my sound or expression to appease either side. I tell real stories. I use the language of the streets and the church. And I do it not to shock, but to shepherd.

So when I heard this album, I felt seen.

At first, I wondered how the Clipse brothers—Pusha T and Malice—would share the mic again. One has remained the street prophet, still “the who’s who with what’s what.” The other has been captured by the grace of God. But the magic is in how they didn’t compromise. Pusha didn’t pretend to be what he’s not—he’s still “send[ing] a hit through a text, ain’t no shouts in here.” And Malice didn’t water down his transformation—he still brings “hands 3 & 9 on the wheel as I’m crossing the state line. Dum diddy dum diddy dum.”

This album is honest. It’s raw. It’s two brothers showing up exactly as they are.

You feel it in every verse. These aren’t just raps; they’re decades of sharpened swords. As they open with the loss of their father, I was struck. Two Black boys from Virginia grieving publicly, vulnerably, and musically—it took me somewhere. I still have my father in my life, but like them, I didn’t always appreciate him growing up. As an urban Black boy raised in a two-parent home, I got no “cool points” for having stability. But Clipse captured it: that strange ache of being blessed but misunderstood. Like them, my dad was the father figure for all the neighborhood boys.

As the Clipse weave us through the loss of their parents and the day their father was found dead, I sat with two truths—my role as a son and my calling as a father. I have two sons, and they are already growing up as the only boys on the block with a dad in the house. I know the world will tempt them to reject me, to resent my presence. And I’m already praying for the day they’ll understand what I was trying to protect in them.

The album is flawless. No skips. No filler. Each song gives us what we’ve always loved Clipse for—intense, lyrical drug rap and elite storytelling. But it also gives us soul. You’ll hear bars that make you rewind. You’ll find depth that reveals new meaning on the fifth listen. And for heads like me, that’s what makes real hip-hop—its replay value, its layers.

There are tracks that use alliteration and syllabic structure so tightly, the entire rhyme scheme is built around the title itself. That’s genius. That’s hip-hop.

And that’s also the coded language of our culture.

This album reminds me that hip-hop was born as a cypher—messages layered in metaphor and rhythm to survive the gaze of the oppressor. “We was powerlifting 2.2s, nah we ain’t throw gang signs. My brick walk was second to none,” Malice raps. That’s coded language. Just like the spirituals of the enslaved. Just like the blues. If you’re not from the culture, you won’t catch it. But if you are—you hear everything.

It saddens me that this art of code is dying. As someone who teaches hip-hop in NYC schools, even in Harlem—one of the Blackest and most iconic neighborhoods in America—I’ve seen a heartbreaking illiteracy in our youth when it comes to deciphering hip-hop. That’s why this album matters.

But more personally, it matters to me.

Because it confirms I’m not crazy.

Because it affirms that my storytelling style, my language choices, my commitment to both God and the streets—it’s valid. It’s effective. And it's powerful enough to be received and celebrated as the number one album in the country.

Those who don’t understand Let God Sort Em Out likely won’t understand my music either—and that’s okay. But if you do love this album, then I encourage you to give my catalog a listen. We are of the same cloth. The same soil.

The standout for me? F.I.C.O.. Without question. It’s the perfect blend of production, concept, storytelling, and lyricism. “Dance music on my neck. Where’s your water bottle diamonds? The light show looking like the sun in the club.” Only Clipse could paint that image with that kind of detail. Only real writers could lace verses with both pain and poise: “The feds came and collected my guys. The rain pours and I’m hearing their cries.”

This isn’t just great rap. This is gospel.

Not gospel in the genre sense—but in the redemptive arc. From grief and loss to grace and glory. From street tales to spiritual truths. Even the final song, By the Grace of God, ends like a doxology—a praise break.

It’s also gospel in the love between these brothers. One saved, one not. But still united. Still creating. Still committed to each other. That, too, preaches. That’s the kind of love Jesus calls us to: “Fuck around and get your body traced tryna chess me. ‘Cause niggas that I’m with like to draw when it’s sketchy”—that’s not just a bar; it’s the tension of grace and grit, of justice and mercy, of who we were and who we’re becoming.

If you’re wondering where Malice stands spiritually, you’re probably not listening closely enough. Or maybe you’re not fluent in the language. But his clearest confession comes on So Far Ahead. That verse is a sermon.

And so is this entire album.

This is a moment in hip-hop history that demands appreciation—not just for the artistry, but for the story it tells. For the redemption it embodies. And for the real ones who still know how to speak the code.