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Good morning. Over New Year, two elite Premier League clubs decided being in the top six wasn’t good enough, and they needed a new manager. One of them, Chelsea, has appointed the man currently in charge of Strasbourg, Liam Rosenior. Rosenior becomes one of only two Black managers among the 20 Premier League clubs—making him one of just 12 Black individuals to hold a managerial position in the Premier League since Ruud Gullit's appointment in 1996. 43 per cent of Premier League players are black. Yet a contrasting 97 per cent of their exec and non-exec leaders are white. Rosenior’s demeanour taking up the role has been gracious. Unusually, he gave a press conference at the club he’s left, thanking them for the opportunity and expressing his affection for the team. He has a history of writing a column for a national newspaper and raising issues of race and justice. Wayne Rooney’s among those who’ve lauded his coaching style. I have a friend who, when he married a white woman, had to wait six years before he was welcomed in her parents’ home. But I’ve never heard him utter a word of reproach or introduce race as a reason for any denial of opportunities elsewhere. By contrast I have another black friend who’s repeatedly been subject to projections about her volatility, unreliability and lack of organisation, whereas I’ve always found her meticulously well prepared and even-tempered. We’ve often spoken about whether making a formal complaint would be wise or counterproductive. Last week the Australian cricketer Usman Khawaja, announcing his retirement, looked back over his 88-test career. He said, ‘I had to work harder than everyone else, score more runs than the rest, and make sure I didn't give them any excuse not to pick me.’ Like my two friends, Liam Rosenior and Usman Khawaja have had to choose when to fight and call out, and when to put their head down and trust their own ability and the goodness of the system they’re in. Jesus did both. He certainly preached humble faithfulness and self-denying sacrifice. But if that’s all he’d said, he’d never have been crucified. He was crucified because he told the political and religious leaders of his time they were wrong about truth, about justice, and about God, and because he proclaimed and modelled a society where everyone belonged with one another and with him. For him, social change was about setting an outstanding example, but also taking the risk of directly and unflinchingly highlighting where that ideal was being blocked or subtly subverted. Two thousand years later, nothing much has changed.