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We have passed the halfway point in our Lenten Journey to Freedom. It is a journey that invites us into the wilderness. Traditionally, it's a journey marked by reflection, repentance, and resilience—a time to face hard truths and find strength for the road ahead.
This year feels different. It feels like the stakes are higher, the options fewer, the urgency more pressing. And in this moment, I find myself returning again and again to the words from columnist Jamelle Bouie in an interview he did on the New York Times Podcast The Opinions, with Aaron Retica on March 25. The entire interview was compelling, but his words at the end of the interview linger in my ears. They are:
“If sharecroppers and domestics in mid-century Mississippi can stand up against genuine autocracy then we, who are in a much better position than they were, can stand up to all of this.”
Bouie is reflecting on the generations of Black Americans who lived under the grip of Jim Crow, who organized and resisted, laughed, sang, celebrated and thrived in the face of systemic violence, disenfranchisement, and fear. He went on to say:
"My parents were born in the 1960s, into a South where the Civil Rights Act had not yet been passed. My grandparents raised families in that world, long before they could vote.... I am part of this community of Americans who experienced one party autocracy for the better part of a century. The denial of political rights, the denial of civil rights, arbitrary violence, disappearances, either by the state or by people with the sanction of the state, all these things that people associate with authoritarian regimes, happened in Virginia where I live. They happened in the places my family lives - Louisiana, Mississippi, South Carolina, Florida, Georgia. And through all this, black Americans, even at the absolute nadir of it, continue to act and organize politically and continue to do everything that was within their power to try to either ameliorate conditions or overturn the regimes themselves."
This is not just history. It is testimony.
It is the kind of faith spoken of in Hebrews 11:1 — “Now faith is the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen.” It is the kind of faith that believes change is possible even when everything suggests otherwise.
It is the kind of faith that organizes voter drives under threat of violence, echoing the call of Proverbs 31:8-9 — “Speak out for those who cannot speak, for the rights of all the destitute. Speak out, judge righteously, defend the rights of the poor and needy.”
It is the kind of faith that walks miles rather than sit at the back of the bus, the faith that mirrors the persistent widow in Luke 18:1-8, who refuses to give up until justice is done.
It is the kind of faith that sings “We Shall Overcome” not as wishful thinking, but as a claim on the future, like the song of Mary in the Magnificat (Luke 1:46-55) — a song of liberation and reversal, declaring that the mighty will be brought low and the humble lifted up.
The 1963 March on Washington is not just a historical event; it is an embodiment of this faith. It was a claim on a future beyond segregation, beyond violence, beyond disenfranchisement — a vision of the promised land.
Lent calls us into that kind of faith.
Lent calls us to have a claim on the future that is about freedom and transformation, a claim on a future that is about the Kin*dom made real in this here and now — just as Jesus proclaimed in Luke 4:18-19: “The Spirit of the Lord is upon me… to bring good news to the poor… to let the oppressed go free, to proclaim the year of the Lord’s favor.”
It is a claim that says we will see the promised land, like Moses glimpsing it from the mountain in Deuteronomy 34, and like Martin Luther King Jr. reminding us on the night before his death, “I’ve seen the promised land.”
We walk this Lenten path not simply to “give something up,” but to practice endurance because building the Kin*dom is a marathon, not a sprint (Hebrews 12:1-2). “Let us run with perseverance the race that is set before us, looking to Jesus the pioneer and perfecter of our faith.”
We remember the 40 days Jesus spent in the wilderness, tested and tempted, preparing for a ministry that would shake the powers of empire and religion alike.
And we are reminded that discipleship isn’t comfortable. It’s costly. But it is also filled with grace, and joy, and peace as we run the race before us, trusting that we do not run it alone.
The history Bouie points to reminds us that the wilderness isn’t new terrain. Our ancestors have been here before. And they made a way. They bore witness, resisted despair, and trusted that their labor would not be in vain. This is what Lent asks of us—not just personal piety, but public courage. Not just reflection, but resilience.
As historian John Compton writes in The End of Empathy: Why White Protestants Stopped Loving Their Neighbors, many white Protestant churches retreated from public social witness in the late 20th century, becoming more privatized and less willing to take risks for justice. His work reminds us that faith disconnected from justice loses its transformative power. Lent invites us to repent of that retreat—and to return to the public, courageous, justice-seeking faith that has always marked the best of our tradition.
And, this is nothing new to our congregation. First Congregational Church UCC of Salem, Oregon has a long history of stepping forward in moments of struggle—whether through its early stands for abolition, support for civil rights, or more recent commitments to LGBTQ+ inclusion and racial equity, our witness links past and future, reminding us that the work of liberation is both our heritage and our call.
So let us remember...
If our ancestors could stand, we too can stand.
If Bouie's ancestors could keep going, so can we.
Lent is not only a personal journey but a communal one. We run this race together, as the Body of Christ, called to live out God’s justice in the here and now.
As we make our way through the morass of daily shock-and-awe during this Lenten Journey to Freedom, let us pay attention to the turning points that invite us to walk with our ancestors in faith and life. Let us draw from their courage, their clarity, their stubborn hope. Let their witness remind us that faith is not about avoiding the struggle but meeting it with everything we’ve got—and trusting that resurrection is always on the horizon.
In solidarity and peace,
Pastor Robin
Reflection Questions
Where have you witnessed or experienced the kind of faith that Bouie describes — a faith that organizes, endures, and hopes against all odds? How might this inspire your own Lenten journey?
In what ways have you (or your faith community) been tempted to retreat from the public work of justice, as Compton describes? What would it look like to return to a courageous, justice-seeking faith today?
As we walk this Lenten path, what “promised land” are you longing for — in your life, your community, or our world? What steps of endurance, sacrifice, or hope might help bring that vision closer?