A View from a Pew: When the Bible Calls Our Names

As we celebrate the life and legacy of Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King Jr., and anticipate the coming of Black History Month I find myself listening for something deeper than the familiar quotes and commemorations. From the pew, I hear a question echoing through Scripture and history alike: Do you recognize your name when God calls it?

There is a quiet erasure happening in this country—a steady, strategic effort to whitewash history, to soften truth, to bury the stories of those who built this land but were never meant to thrive in it. From banned books to watered-down curriculum, from school boards to statehouses, the full story of African Americans is being pushed into the shadows.

But from the pew, I hear something else.

Maybe—just maybe—this is also our moment.

Maybe this is the divine nudge the Black Church has been waiting for. Not simply to react, but to reclaim. Not just to preach on Sunday morning, but to teach with purpose and intention.

For centuries, the Black Church has never been just a house of worship. It was our first schoolhouse when classrooms were closed to us. Our first courthouse when justice could not be found. Our first newsroom when truth had nowhere else to go. It was the place where faith and freedom walked hand in hand.

So perhaps now is the time to return to that sacred tradition.

What if Sunday School became more than memory verses and coloring pages?
What if we used that sacred hour to teach our children both Scripture and struggle? What if the church once again became a stronghold of sacred memory in a time when truth itself is under attack?

Call it Freedom School Sundays—a space where history meets hope, where faith fuels knowledge, and where the next generation learns they come from a people who have always made a way out of no way.

We don’t need permission. We already have a pulpit. We already have a platform. And most importantly, we already have a purpose.

Let the politicians try to erase us. Let the textbooks leave us out.

As for us—we will tell our children.

Because we still believe what the Bible says in Hosea 4:6: “My people are destroyed for lack of knowledge.” And we refuse to let another generation be lost.

This is our moment to rise, to reclaim, and to remember—not just in our sermons, but in our Sunday Schools.

From the pew, Scripture doesn’t feel ancient or abstract. It feels familiar. It feels like us.

Our ancestors didn’t cling to the Bible because it ignored their suffering—they clung to it because it named it. When enslaved Africans heard these stories, they didn’t imagine strangers. They recognized patterns. They recognized people. They recognized themselves.

They saw Moses—and they saw Harriet Tubman, who never reached a promised land of comfort, but made sure her people did. Both heard a call that put their lives in danger. Both went back again and again for those who could not save themselves. Neither waited for permission. They moved because God said, Go.

They saw Joseph—brilliant, gifted, punished for it—thrown into a pit and locked in a prison, yet preparing for leadership. They understood Booker T. Washington’s patience, discipline, and long vision, navigating hostile systems without losing sight of Black uplift.

They saw Esther standing in the palace and Shirley Chisholm running straight into power. Both understood timing, courage, and the danger of silence. “If I perish, I perish,” Esther said. Chisholm said it another way: Unbought and unbossed.

They saw David—young, underestimated, told he didn’t belong—and they saw Muhammad Ali, loud, confident, and ordered to stay in his place. Both refused armor that didn’t fit. Both faced giants that represented entire systems. Both won not just with strength, but with faith in who they were.

They heard Jeremiah speaking truth nobody wanted to hear and read James Baldwin writing truths America tried to deny. Both were labeled troublemakers. Both wept for their people. Both loved their nation enough to tell it the truth—without apology.

And when they read about Jesus—surveilled, misquoted, arrested, executed by the state—they understood Dr. King. Watched. Slandered. Jailed. Killed. Both preached a love that disrupted power. Both were more dangerous alive than silenced. And both taught us that resurrection doesn’t always look like a body leaving a tomb. Sometimes it looks like a movement that refuses to die.

From the pew, here’s what I know:

The Bible is not just God’s Word—it is our witness. It tells us oppression is never the end of the story. That leadership is often lonely. That justice may be slow—but it is certain. And that God has always had a special concern for people the world tried to erase.

And let’s be honest about something else. In nearly every Black church across this country sit retired educators—teachers, principals, counselors, professors—men and women who spent their lives shaping minds, building lesson plans, and refusing to give up on children the system had already written off. Their wisdom did not retire when their paychecks did.

What if we invited them back into sacred service?

What if those seasoned educators came together—not as separate churches or competing ministries—but as one collective, developing a curriculum rooted in truth, faith, and history? A curriculum that teaches our children who they are, where they come from, and why their lives matter.

Imagine Sunday Schools led by elders who know how to teach, who understand child development, who can connect Scripture to lived experience and history to hope. Imagine classrooms where the Bible sits beside Black history—not in conflict, but in conversation.

That kind of teaching doesn’t just inform—it fortifies. We don’t need to reinvent the wheel. The gifts are already in the pews. The knowledge is already in the room.

All that’s missing is the invitation. And maybe—just maybe—this is it.

The same God who spoke then is still speaking now. The question is whether we recognize our names in the text—and whether we have the courage to answer.