Matthew Rushing and Du'Bois A'Keen pictured on a dark stage. Rushing sits in a chair while A'Keen sings with his arms raised.

Sacred Spaces


Welcome

Welcome to Sacred Spaces. This work is a reckoning with our humanity, with joy and hope, with lament and memory, with the things we carry, the things we inherit, and the things we are still learning how to name.

At the heart of this work is the Negro spiritual: music born from a people who found ways to make sound out of sorrow, possibility out of pain, and hope out of what seemed impossible. We have returned to these songs not simply to preserve them, but to reimagine and resurrect them, allowing them to breathe again through new sonic frameworks, new genres, new bodies, and new generations.

The movement, the music, the conversations, and the films are all reaching toward the same question: in troubling times, is there something here that can help us, heal us, and hold us? Is there something in this music, in these bodies, in this remembering, that can still teach us how to endure, how to gather, and perhaps even how to hope?

If you feel invited, sing. Move. Laugh. Respond. Watch quietly. Take notes. Bear witness. And most importantly, journey with us.

This space is sacred not because of where we are, but because you are here, gathered with us.


Program

SACRED SPACES

SHOW ORDER

ACT I

1. OVERTURE

“Overture” into “Glory Glory”
(Live)

2. WELCOME & OPENING REMARKS

Matthew Rushing & Du’Bois A’Keen

3. ARCHIVAL FILM I

Sacred Songs: The Movement Process
(Film)

4. CREATIVE PROCESS DEMONSTRATIONS

Mother Phrase — Matthew Rushing
“I Feel Like Going On”
(Dance Solo)

“My Lord, What a Morning” – Kingston Trio
(Playback)

“When the Stars Begin to Fall”
(Live Music)

Matthew Rushing & Du’Bois A’Keen
Creative Process Conversation

5. ARCHIVAL FILM II

Sacred Songs: The Music Process
(film)

6. ELIJAH ROCK / ELIJAH RIFF

“Elijah Rock” – Moses Hagon Arrangement 

(Playback)

“Elijah Riff”
(Live Music)


INTERMISSION


ACT II

7. PANEL DISCUSSION

Matthew Rushing & Du’Bois A’Keen
with Ellen Davis & Luke Powery

Conversation

THE BIG THREE

8. PASSAGE SONG

Dance + (Sacred Songs Suite Album- Playback)

9. BY THE WATERS

Live Music + Dance

10. TROUBLES TROUBLING

Live Music + Dance

11. CREATIVE PROCESS / GESTURE DEMONSTRATION

Matthew Rushing & Du’Bois A’Keen
Creative Process Conversation

Gesture Demonstration — Matthew Rushing
Featuring Celeste & Alyxx

Precious Morning: Music Process — Du’Bois A’Keen

12. PRECIOUS MORNING

(Live Music + Dance)

13. WATER / SELAH, BE STILL

“Water”
(Sound / Playback)

“Selah, Be Still”
(Live Music)

14. AUDIENCE REFLECTION & ENGAGEMENT

Matthew Rushing & Du’Bois A’Keen

Audience Conversation

15. COMMUNITY FINALE

“By the Waters”

Live Music + Audience Sing-Along 


About the Artists

About Matthew Rushing

A professional headshot of a bald man wearing a blue suit jacket and white shirt.

Matthew Rushing is an acclaimed dancer, choreographer, educator, and artistic leader whose more than three-decade relationship with Alvin Ailey American Dance Theater has established him as one of the defining interpreters and stewards of the Ailey legacy. Born in Los Angeles, Rushing began his training with Kashmir Blake in Inglewood before attending the Los Angeles County High School for the Arts. A Presidential Scholar in the Arts and recipient of both a Spotlight Award and Dance Magazine Award, he continued his training as a scholarship student at The Ailey School and member of Ailey II before joining Alvin Ailey American Dance Theater in 1992. Over the course of his distinguished performing career, he appeared internationally and performed for Presidents George H. W. Bush, Bill Clinton, George W. Bush, and Barack Obama, as well as at the White House.

As a choreographer, Rushing has created a significant body of work grounded in Black history, music, faith, memory, and cultural inheritance. His works for Alvin Ailey American Dance Theater include Acceptance In Surrender (2005), created with Hope Boykin and Abdur-Rahim Jackson; Uptown (2009), an exploration of the Harlem Renaissance; ODETTA (2014), honoring the legendary singer and activist; Testament (2020), created with Clifton Brown and Yusha-Marie Sorzano in tribute to Alvin Ailey’s masterwork Revelations; and Sacred Songs (2024). Originally commissioned in conjunction with the Whitney Museum of American Art’s landmark exhibition Edges of Ailey, Sacred Songs resurrects and reimagines spirituals removed from the original 1960 version of Revelations, extending Ailey’s artistic and spiritual lineage for a new generation. The work premiered with Alvin Ailey American Dance Theater at New York City Center in 2024.

Beyond Ailey, Rushing created Moan (2012) for PHILADANCO!, which premiered at The Joyce Theater, and Beauty Chasers (2025) for Hubbard Street Dance Chicago. His ongoing exploration of the spiritual continued at Duke University, where, as an Artist in Context with Duke Divinity School and Duke Initiatives in Theology and the Arts, he developed Sacred Places: Decoding the Spiritual (2026), expanding the world of Sacred Songs through research into the Negro spiritual, liturgy, faith, and the social practices of art.

Rushing became Rehearsal Director of Alvin Ailey American Dance Theater in 2010 and was appointed Associate Artistic Director in 2020. From 2023 to 2025, he served as Interim Artistic Director, guiding one of the world’s most celebrated dance institutions through a pivotal chapter in its history. He has since resumed his role as Associate Artistic Director, continuing a remarkable career dedicated to honoring the depth of the Ailey tradition while carrying its artistic, cultural, and spiritual possibilities forward.

About Du’Bois A’Keen

Professional headshot of a Black man with natural hair, looking at the camera with a neutral expression. He is wearing a blue and white shirt and a brown leather watch.

Du’Bois A’Keen is a composer, choreographer, writer, director, and educator whose interdisciplinary practice spans music, dance, opera, contemporary performance, and scholarship. Rooted in Black cultural traditions and shaped by a career across performance, composition, choreography, and teaching, his work examines memory, spirituality, identity, formation, and the social possibilities of art.

A former touring company member of Urban Bush Women, A’Keen has performed works by Jawole Willa Jo Zollar, Alex Ketley, and Carl Flink and has been commissioned as a choreographer by Arizona Opera, Red Clay Dance Company, and Harlem Stage through its E-Moves series. His creative practice moves fluidly between concert dance, theatrical performance, sacred music, and interdisciplinary collaboration.

A’Keen served as Creative Associate and Music Director for Matthew Rushing’s Sacred Songs (2024) for Alvin Ailey American Dance Theater, contributing original music and musical direction to a work that premiered during the Company’s New York City Center season and was developed in connection with the Whitney Museum of American Art’s landmark exhibition Edges of Ailey. He later reunited with Rushing to co-create Sacred Places: Decoding the Spiritual (2026), expanding that artistic inquiry through a collaboration with Duke University and Duke Divinity School.

In 2026, A’Keen made his Lincoln Center debut at Alice Tully Hall as Director of the Harlem Gospel Ensemble and a featured solo vocalist in Carrie Mae Weems’ Contested Sites of Memory, appearing alongside Nona Hendryx, Carl Hancock Rux, Helga Davis, and Craig Harris. He previously served as Associate Director of Music and Programming for Sing Harlem at the Mama Foundation for the Arts, with performance appearances including the Clooney Foundation for Justice’s Albie Awards and Glamour’s Women of the Year celebration honoring Mary J. Blige.

A’Keen is the founder and artistic director of the Harlem Gospel Ensemble and Sacred Groove. His growing catalogue of original music spans gospel, soul, R&B, contemporary classical, and experimental performance. Recent recording projects include Sacred Songs Suite (2025), a collection of original compositions developed from his work with Alvin Ailey American Dance Theater, and the double-sided EP A’ LOVE NOTE (2025), which he celebrated with his Apollo Theater Music Café debut. His artistic work and performances have been featured by The New York Times, The Washington Post, Los Angeles Times, NPR, Dance Magazine, and OperaWire.

Alongside his artistic and literary practice, A’Keen serves on faculty at Columbia University’s Climate School and School of Professional Studies in the Sustainability Management program, where his teaching and advising extend his interdisciplinary approach to systems thinking, creative inquiry, and collaborative problem-solving.


No Us in “We”

An Artist on Language, Inheritance, and America at 250
By Du’Bois A’Keen

In a few weeks, I’ll return to Duke University with my collaborator Matthew Rushing, Associate Artistic Director of Alvin Ailey American Dance Theater, to continue a creative conversation we’ve been having for years.

We’re returning with Sacred Spaces, our latest collaboration, as part of We the People, a Duke and Durham initiative marking the 250th anniversary of the Declaration of Independence through art, scholarship, and civic dialogue.

I keep getting stuck on those three words.

We the People.

Maybe I shouldn’t be surprised.

As an artist, composer, educator, and increasingly as a researcher and essayist, much of my work begins with questions I don’t yet know how to answer. I make in order to understand. I read. I listen. I enter rehearsal rooms. I sit with scholars and artists. I write songs and essays.
Somewhere in the process, language begins giving shape to things I could previously only feel.

At the center of the creative conversation Matthew and I have been having for years is something deceptively simple:

Words.

Or, perhaps more specifically, our search for the right ones.

Matthew and I first began working together on Sacred Songs, a dance work that premiered as part of Edges of Ailey at the Whitney Museum of American Art before entering the repertory of Alvin Ailey American Dance Theater. I composed and arranged the music for the ballet and later
released Sacred Songs Suite, an album built from the original compositions and arrangements created for the work.

But the work kept moving.

Matthew’s subsequent artist residency brought us to Duke Divinity School, where we spent several weeks developing another iteration of this creative world: Sacred Places: Decoding the Spiritual.

Now we are returning to Duke under the auspices of Duke Arts with Sacred Spaces, another evolution of an inquiry that neither of us seems to have exhausted.

At the center of all three works is the spiritual.

Not simply the Spiritual as a genre of music, but the spiritual as an inheritance. Songs passed from generation to generation.

Language carrying information across time.

Melodies holding histories their original singers could not write down.

Music somehow surviving the bodies that first carried it.

Throughout this process, Matthew and I have spent countless hours in conversation with each other, with artists, theologians, scholars, musicians, and thinkers at Duke and beyond, trying to understand what the Spiritual still means in a contemporary context.

Again and again, we’ve found ourselves reaching for words.

Early in the process, Matthew offered three:

Lament. Joy. Hope.

They became anchors.

Then other language began surfacing through our conversations and research.

Memory.

Sorrowful joy.

Rupture.

Remembrance.

Each word gave us another way into something the music had been carrying long before either of us arrived.

Perhaps that is what has fascinated me most about this entire process.

We keep searching for language to describe experiences that are older and larger than us.

Complex human emotions.

Nuanced realities.

What it means to be Black.

What it means to be American.

What it means to be a spiritual being inside the complicated context of the American experiment.

The Spirituals have survived because generation after generation has inherited them, interpreted them, rearranged them, sung them differently, danced to them differently, and asked them new questions.

The songs remain.

But we keep changing.

And somehow, they continue speaking.

I’m beginning to think that inheritance is not preservation.

To inherit something is to enter into relationship with it.

To carry it.

To question it.

Sometimes to argue with it.

Sometimes to discover something inside it that those who handed it to you may not have been able to see.

Maybe that’s why, as I’ve been preparing to return to Duke under the banner We the People, another set of words has begun pressing on me.

I’ve always had a peculiar relationship with words.

Long before I understood myself as a songwriter or writer, I knew myself as someone captivated by language.

Words have a way of finding me long before I understand them.

A lyric will arrive, and I’ll spend years growing into it. A phrase will appear in a notebook, then resurface in a song, then find its way into a lecture, a grant proposal, or an essay, quietly insisting that it means more than I first imagined.

Sometimes I think I’m writing.

Other times, I think language is writing me.

I’ve come to believe that the greatest works of language are never finished when they’re first spoken, written, or sung.

Their real life begins when someone else inherits them.

If you’ve ever read the Bible, even if you aren’t Christian, one of the first things you encounter is a God who creates through language.

“In the beginning…”

God speaks.

“Let there be…”

And there is.

Whether you understand that literally, poetically, or somewhere in between, the proposition has always fascinated me.

Words don’t simply describe reality.

They invite reality.

They imagine it.

They build worlds.

Which is to say, language has a strange way of becoming larger than the person who first speaks it.

And now, as America finds itself in this season of celebration, acknowledgment, and reckoning around the 250th anniversary of the Declaration of Independence, I haven’t been thinking primarily about history.

I’ve been thinking about language.

About the words we inherited.

About the words we’re still trying to live into.

And about one word in particular that I haven’t been able to escape.

We.

Which brings me back to another phrase that has been following me for years.

No Us in “We.”

It first appeared as a lyric in my song “STEADY.”

Later, it became the working title of a performance I began developing while applying for a series of grants.

Each time I thought I understood it.

Each time it asked more of me.

Now I think it has become something else entirely.

Not a title.

An inquiry.

I’ve realized something that feels almost embarrassingly obvious now.

When America celebrates its 250th birthday, we aren’t simply celebrating the founding of a nation.

We’re celebrating a document.

A declaration.

A manifesto.

A daring act of imagination.

A draft of a dream.

That strikes me because I’ve spent my life watching language do exactly that.

A poem becomes a movement.

A sermon becomes a community.

A song becomes someone’s survival.

A single sentence becomes the language another person has been searching for their entire life.

The Declaration belongs in that lineage.

Not because it is perfect.

But because its language has refused to die.

The men who wrote it lived their lives.

History has judged them and will continue to judge them.

But they are no longer the people we contend with.
Their language is.

Political theorist Danielle Allen has spent years asking readers to return to the Declaration not simply as an artifact to revere, but as language with which we remain in relationship. In Our Declaration, Allen argues for the political power of language itself and for an understanding of democracy in which citizens participate in creating and recreating their shared world.

That idea has stayed with me.

Because artists know something about the afterlife of language too.

We don’t return to James Baldwin because he is still alive.

We return to his words.

We don’t inherit Zora Neale Hurston.

We inherit the worlds she imagined.

We don’t contend daily with Martin Luther King Jr.’s biography.

We continue wrestling with the language of his dream.

Even songs have afterlives.

Every day, somewhere in the world, someone presses play on a voice that outlived the body that carried it.

Perhaps that’s what great language does.

It refuses to remain inside the lifetime of its author.

But inheritance carries another responsibility too.

Words can be misunderstood.

They can be stripped of context.

Sanitized.

Weaponized.

Made to serve worlds their authors never imagined.

Once language leaves us, we cannot entirely control what someone else will make of it.

So perhaps the question is not simply whether language survives.

It is how we choose to carry it.

The more I think about it, the more I wonder if the history of America is, in many ways, the history of a nation trying to catch up to its own language.

The Declaration proclaims that all are created equal.

Yet many of the people already living on this land, enslaved Africans, Indigenous peoples, women, and countless others excluded from political power, were not imagined as full participants in the freedom being declared.

That contradiction cannot be ignored.

But neither can the astonishing possibility contained within the words themselves.

Whether the authors fully grasped the implications of what they were writing, I can’t say.

What I can say is that the language has continued to exceed the world they built.

For two hundred and fifty years, generation after generation has inherited those same words and demanded they become more truthful.

Not different words.

The same words.

Perhaps that’s the real story.

Not that the language failed.

But that the language kept asking more of us than we were prepared to give.

There is something else about Duke’s commemoration that I find unexpectedly moving.

This fall, three historic copies of the Declaration will travel to Durham, first to the Durham County Main Library and then to Duke’s Nasher Museum of Art. Part of the invitation surrounding the exhibition is to consider how the document was circulated and visually rendered in the nation’s early decades.

Circulated.

There’s that idea again.

Words survive because somebody carries them.

The Spirituals moved from mouth to mouth, body to body, generation to generation.

The Declaration moved through broadsides, engravings, classrooms, courtrooms, speeches, protests, and movements.

Baldwin survives because someone keeps opening the book.

A song survives because someone keeps pressing play.

Language may outlive its author, but it does not travel by itself.

We carry it.

And there is a strangely literal dimension to all of this.

The Declaration we so often reproduce as an icon is rendered in a script many young Americans have had far less opportunity to learn than generations before them. Cursive instruction declined significantly in American schools for years and is now experiencing something of a return.

There’s something almost poetic about that to me.

A nation trying to read its inheritance must retain the tools required to decipher it. Perhaps that is true beyond handwriting too.

Maybe that’s why the Declaration still matters.

Not because it perfectly described the world in 1776.

It didn’t.

But because it imagined a world that history has continued to argue toward ever since.
Frederick Douglass inherited those words.

The suffragists inherited those words.

The Civil Rights Movement inherited those words.

Immigrants inherited those words.

Disability advocates inherited those words.

LGBTQ+ communities inherited those words.

Each generation has asked the same question:

If these words are true…

…who else must belong inside them?

And perhaps no word has carried that question more than the first person plural.

We.

There may not be another word in the English language with greater moral consequence.

It can unite.

It can exclude.

It can comfort.

It can colonize.

It can liberate.

It can erase.

Every “we” quietly answers another question:

Who do we imagine belongs here?

Deborah Rutter, Duke’s Vice Provost for the Arts, has described the institution’s hope that people encounter the Declaration not only as a treasured artifact, but as a “living document,” one that continues to provoke questions about democracy, belonging, and civic life.

I like the idea of a living document.

Because living things change in relationship to the worlds around them.

They breathe.

They encounter.

They reproduce.

They acquire new meanings.

And perhaps most importantly, they require participation.

I’ve spent much of my adult life trying to build communities.

Choirs.

Dance companies.

Classrooms.

Bands.

Churches.

I’ve learned that a “we” doesn’t happen because people occupy the same room.

It happens because they begin breathing together.

Listening together.

Singing together.

Risking together.

Belonging isn’t declared.

It’s rehearsed.

Maybe democracy isn’t so different.

Maybe every generation rehearses the kind of “we” it hopes to leave behind.

As an artist returning to Durham, I’m not arriving with answers to these questions.

I’m arriving with the work.

With research.

With music.

With bodies.

With questions.

With a collaborator and a community of artists who have spent years listening to songs that have already survived more history than any of us will ever witness.

That feels important to name.

Because Sacred Spaces is not a performance about the Declaration of Independence.

It doesn’t need to be.

It is a work about inheritance.

Memory.

Lament.

Joy.

Hope.

About what human beings carry forward and what changes in the carrying.

And perhaps that is precisely how it enters this larger conversation about We the People.

As America marks 250 years since the Declaration of Independence, I find myself less interested in celebrating the age of a nation than in contemplating the life of its language.

Perhaps that’s what we’re really inheriting.

Not merely a country.

A vocabulary.

A collection of unfinished words still asking something of us.

I’ve spent years watching lyrics reveal meanings I couldn’t hear when I first wrote them.

And now, through Sacred Spaces, I find myself participating in the inheritance of songs whose original authors I will never know.

Songs that have survived centuries.

Songs that have crossed bodies, generations, sanctuaries, stages, and histories.

Songs that are still teaching us how to name lament.

Joy.

Hope.

Memory.

I wonder if nations inherit language the same way.

Perhaps the greatest works of language are never finished when they’re written.

They begin when someone else inherits them.

And inheritance asks something of the inheritor.

What will we preserve?

What will we question?

What will we reinterpret?

What will we carry forward?

Maybe that is what has arrested me about the invitation to return to Duke under the banner We the People.

Not simply the history contained in those words.

But the question still living inside them.

Two hundred and fifty years later, who is the “we”?

Who are “the people”?

And what might those words still be asking us to become?

Perhaps that has been America’s work all along.

Trying to become worthy of the world its words first imagined.

Trying to catch up to one unfinished sentence.

Trying to grow into one small word.

We.

Dancers

Musicians

Vocalists

Production Support

Rehearsal Assistant & Creative Collaborator: Alexandria Johnson
Lighting Design: Emma Sabulsky
Stage Management: Lee Edwards
Line Producer: Emily Liptow
Audio Production Lead:  Reed Smith
Audio Technician: Bill Peebles
Production Manager: Nick Bria
Costume Supervisor: Caroline Vance
Production Support: IATSE Local #417

A photo of a grey haired woman with glasses, smiling warmly at the camera.

Having grown up on a farm in Wisconsin, Cici Stevens is most at home outdoors- exploring wild lands, old buildings, scrap yards, rivers and waterways. A former cabinetmaker in Chicago, she came to North Carolina to study metalwork at Penland School and fell in love with the mountains.

Cici’s sculptural installations have sprouted up in galleries, storefront windows, and outbuildings across North Carolina. She has presented ‘active installations’ at historic sites and in rivers from the Big Horns to the Green Mountains. Cici collaborates with choreographers to create otherworldly stage sets. She worked with students to create a fantasy entryway for Raleigh’s Contemporary Art Museum, and with clients & staff to transform the meeting rooms at Durham Mental Health. Cici was selected as a NC Visiting Artist and received grants from the Durham Arts Council, Alternate Roots, and the NC Arts Council. She has been awarded artist residencies in North Carolina, Wyoming and Vermont.

Acknowledgements

Thank you to Duke Arts for bringing this iteration of Sacred Spaces to life. Special thanks to Deborah Rutter.

Gratitude to DITA and Duke Divinity School, Dr. Ellen F. Davis, Dr. Dan Train, Dr. Quinton Dixie of the Office of Black Church Studies, Dr. Natalie Carnes, and Rev. Dr. Luke Powery.

This project has emerged with the support from the following residencies and collaborators over the past two years: Creative Collective Belmont University for developmental support of Sacred Places: Decoding the Spiritual; Alvin Ailey American Dance Theater; Sacred Groove Original Band Members for music collaboration and Sacred Song Suite Album Recording; 92nd Street Y Early Developmental Residency; and the Whitney Museum of American Art.