By Ta’Tyana Leonard
A window to worship.
A floor above suffering.
A door to church, while others had no door to freedom.
During my second visit to Ghana, West Africa, I made sure I captured this image.
Along Ghana’s coast stand what were once called slave castles, first established by the Portuguese and later occupied by the Dutch, French, Spanish, and British. Inside those walls are dungeons where captured Africans were held before being forced through what became known as the “Door of No Return.”
This image was sketched into my soul for nearly 10 years — the sole window inside a woman’s slave dungeon looks out to a blue church door.
And beneath the floorboards of that church, men and women cried out in chains.
It is difficult to comprehend — a window to worship, a floor above suffering, a door to church while others had no door to freedom.
Standing there forces an uncomfortable question:
Where have we grown comfortable with a faith that does not require us to hear the cries around us?
It feels impossible to imagine worshipping, studying Scripture, and singing praise while cries of suffering echo beneath your feet. Imagine the mental gymnastics required to call that faithfulness. Imagine the numbness that must settle over a soul to survive that contradiction. Imagine a theology shaped not by compassion, but by comfort — a faith quiet enough to ignore chains.
One of my closest friends traveled to Ghana with me. She left, no longer identifying as Christian. “If this is Christianity,” she said, “I want nothing to do with it.”
I understood her grief.
Holding on to Hope Through the Gospel and the Church
This year, during Black History Month, I had the honor of inviting Bishop Kenny Martin to our university to celebrate his historic election as the first African American bishop in our denomination. His appointment was not merely symbolic. It was the fruit of decades of patient, steady faithfulness.
I had the privilege of being ordained by Bishop Kenny. I was also a delegate during the General Conference when he was elected. I witnessed the weight and the wonder of that moment.
During his visit, Bishop Kenny prayed over me and over our university. He prayed that we would be marked by holy courage — that we would never separate holiness from justice, nor worship from compassion. He asked God to make us a place where students encounter the liberating Christ of Scripture. He prayed that the Spirit of the Lord would rest upon us for the sake of the poor, the captive, the blind, and the oppressed.
It was not a political prayer.
It was a Jubilee prayer.
The Sermon: Jubilee
There is a common narrative that African Americans are Christians only because Christianity was forced upon them. But if this faith had only been forced, it would have been abandoned at emancipation.
Instead, they gathered in hush harbors. They were baptized in secret waters. They jumped the broom to honor covenant when legal marriage was denied to them. They strengthened one another through hymns and spirituals. They discerned a Christ who was not defined by their captors.
Even when enslavers distributed edited versions of Scripture, removing passages that proclaimed liberation, they could not erase Jesus’ first sermon.
In the Gospel of Luke, chapter 4, Jesus stands in the synagogue and reads:
“The Spirit of the Lord is on me,
because he has anointed me
to proclaim good news to the poor.
He has sent me to proclaim freedom for the prisoners
and recovery of sight for the blind,
to set the oppressed free,
to proclaim the year of the Lord’s favor.”
At first, the people spoke well of Him. They were fascinated. Luke tells us they were amazed at His gracious words.
But fascination quickly turned to fury.
By the end of the passage, the same congregation drove Him out of town. They led Him to the edge of a cliff with the intent to throw Him off.
How does a sermon about good news to the poor, freedom for the prisoner, sight to the blind, and rest for the oppressed lead to a death threat?
We must ask ourselves a similar question today: How do we respond to sermons about poverty, immigration, racism, and disability?
Are we filled with gratitude because God’s Word is living and active, relevant and still speaking into our culture and current realities?
Or do we grow uneasy, quietly labeling these themes “political” because they confront our comfort?
The people in Luke 4 were not angry because Jesus was unclear. They were angry because the message did not center them.
It called them higher to see the poor and the oppressed the way God sees them: not as issues, but as His children.
Jesus Is Our Jubilee
“… to proclaim the year of the Lord’s favor…”
Luke 4 takes place in the backdrop of Jubilee — a biblical year of liberation and restoration, when debts were canceled, slaves freed, land returned, and God’s people reminded that all creation belongs to Him. In Leviticus 25, the Year of Jubilee was a profound social and economic reset: freedom from slavery (verses 39–41, 54), return of land (v. 13, 23–28), and fairness in trade (v. 14–17, 37), all preventing generational poverty and permanent bondage.
Amidst their discomfort, the listeners missed the gift of His message.
Though they were not the focus in that moment, the freedom Jesus proclaimed was for them too. Jesus offers release from debt, restoration of what was lost, and a return to right relationship with God and one another — forgiveness given even when one has mishandled or been careless with finances and actions.
We all stand in need of that kind of freedom.
Celebrating Black History
In the same way, when we honor the history, faith, and testimony of our Black brothers and sisters, we are not centering one story to exclude others; we are witnessing the faithfulness of God in a way that strengthens the whole body of Christ.
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“We all stand in need of that kind of freedom.”
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My story and Bishop Kenny’s story remind us that God restores, God sustains, and God liberates. This kind of restoration always calls us to see, hear, and respond to the cries around us.
Because Jubilee is never private.
Freedom in Christ is always communal.
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