Autumn: Hey everyone, welcome back! Today we're tackling a tough but crucial topic: how institutions, especially those rooted in faith, influence our morality. It's a conversation we all need to be a part of. Rachel: Exactly, Autumn. So, here's the million-dollar question: What happens when organizations that should be beacons of justice and love end up reinforcing inequality? And specifically, what part did the American church play in the history of racism? Let's just say, it's a lot more complicated than most people realize, right? Autumn: Right. That's exactly what Jemar Tisby explores in “The Color of Compromise.” It's a powerful book that walks us through American history, from slavery to the Civil Rights Movement and beyond. It really highlights how Christian institutions often actively supported racial injustice instead of fighting against it. Rachel: Yeah, Tisby “really” doesn't hold back. He points out that racism in the church wasn’t just a few isolated incidents. It was a system, deeply embedded in policies, sermons, even theological teachings. The book is definitely a wake-up call – because, honestly, empty gestures and generic "we're all equal in Christ" statements just don't cut it anymore. Autumn: Totally. So, in this episode, we're going to break down three key things. First, we’ll look at how the church's role in slavery and segregation laid the groundwork for centuries of racial inequality. Then, we'll shine a light on the resilience and hope found in Black church leadership, who stood strong against injustice, even when so many white Christians ignored it. And finally, we'll talk about what true accountability looks like, especially for religious communities today - things like education and reparations. Rachel: Think of it as an archaeological dig into America's spiritual foundations. We're going to get our hands dirty, unearth history that’s been buried or glossed over, and explore how we can build something better, something more just. Ready to dive in?

Autumn: Okay, Rachel, let’s dive right in, starting with the colonial era. Understanding this period is key to seeing how the American church, from its very beginning, unfortunately, set the stage for racial inequality. From day one, European settlers pushed this idea that they knew best, using it to justify the exploitation of both native people and African slaves. The really disturbing thing is how they twisted theology to make this oppression seem not just okay, but like it was what God wanted. Rachel: Exactly, Autumn, and that's where it gets truly twisted. It wasn’t just about grabbing land or getting cheap labor; it was about controlling people's minds and spirits, too. They came up with this concept of “hereditary heathenism,” which basically said that entire groups of people – Native Americans and Africans – were simply incapable of becoming civilized unless they adopted European Christianity. And it is mind-blowing how that idea didn’t just justify colonization at the time, but actually created a framework for systemic racism that we’re still dealing with today. Autumn: Precisely. We can’t downplay the brutality of the time. Stories like Olaudah Equiano’s really bring the horrors of the transatlantic slave trade into sharp focus. Imagine being ripped away from your home, crammed onto a ship with hundreds of others, and suffering things you can barely imagine. But Equiano doesn’t just talk about his own pain; he also calls out those “so-called Christians” for going along with it. He directly asks how people who claim to follow Christ can possibly reconcile that faith with such inhumanity. Rachel: Right, and here's the thing: they did reconcile it, or at least they tried to. Think about those missionaries, like Francis Le Jau. On the surface, they were all about caring for the slaves’ souls. But they made one thing very clear: being baptized didn’t mean you got your freedom. It was basically like, "Sure, we'll help you get into heaven, but let’s not get any crazy ideas about equality down here." It's harsh, I know, but it's almost as if they turned salvation into another tool for keeping people in their place. Autumn: That’s a really good point, Rachel. By not challenging oppression, these early Christian leaders essentially supported it. And that leads us to the Antebellum Era—the time when slavery became deeply embedded not just in the economy, but also in the theology of many Christian denominations. And this is where it gets even trickier. You have theological giants like Jonathan Edwards. Brilliant man, groundbreaking thinker… and a slave owner. Rachel: Ah, the irony is palpable. Here's a guy preaching about grace and how everyone’s equal in God’s eyes, all while owning other human beings. Talk about a disconnect! And Edwards wasn’t alone; he was part of this larger trend where the church cherry-picked theology to prop up slavery. They focused on verses about obedience, and who can forget the infamous “curse of Ham” nonsense, as if misinterpreting that story could justify centuries of oppression? Autumn: It’s disheartening how that mentality led to Black Christians being marginalized within their own faith communities. But you know, out of that exclusion came resistance and strength. Look at Richard Allen, for example. After being forced out of St. George’s Methodist Church simply for praying in an area reserved for white people, he went on to found the African Methodist Episcopal Church. The AME wasn’t just a place to worship; it was a statement that Black Christians wouldn’t be silenced or confined to second-class spaces. Rachel: Absolutely, Allen’s story is inspiring, yet it really highlights how deep the corruption went. I mean, white churches weren’t just tolerating racial inequality; they were actively enforcing it. And when someone like Allen stood up against it, it wasn’t like the white church suddenly let him. He had to fight and create that space for himself. Autumn: Right, and it was that tension—between complicity and resistance—that really exploded during the Civil War and Reconstruction. The Civil War literally split Christian denominations right down the middle, just like it split the country. For example, the Methodist Episcopal Church split over the issue of slavery, with Southern Methodists even justifying pastors like Bishop James Osgood Andrew who owned slaves. It’s one thing to see political division, but when churches—institutions that are supposed to be guiding moral truths—fracture like that? It really shows you where their priorities were. Rachel: Exactly. Spoiler alert: their economic interests won. And even after the war, when Reconstruction was supposed to be putting the country back together, many of these churches stayed completely silent on issues like Black people’s right to vote, their citizenship, or even just their basic safety. And let’s not even get started on how the loophole in the 13th Amendment—with that whole “punishment for crime” clause—led to convict leasing, which was basically slavery by another name. The church could’ve been a powerful voice against these injustices, but instead, it just… wasn't. Autumn: And that silence only deepened during the Jim Crow era. This was a time of rampant racial violence, but most white churches chose to ignore it. Take the lynching of Luther and Mary Holbert. They were tortured and killed in front of a crowd, and their bodies were displayed as a warning to other Black Americans. These public spectacles were moral crises, but instead of rising to the occasion, many churches went along with the systems that allowed this barbarity to continue. Rachel: It wasn't always about actively doing something; sometimes, it was about not doing anything. Not condemning lynchings, not speaking out against segregation, not welcoming Black people into their congregations—it all adds up. And let's not forget about “hush arbors,” those secret places where enslaved and oppressed Black Christians gathered to worship. While white churches were busy segregating and excluding, Black believers were creating their own vibrant, sacred spaces where they could freely express their faith. It's a really stark contrast, isn't it? One side using faith to justify oppression, the other using it as a source of hope and resistance. Autumn: It is. And I think that’s one of the most important things to take away from this history: the strength and resilience of those who refused to let their faith be twisted by racism. At the same time, though, we have to “really” grapple with the legacy of those white churches that essentially did the opposite.

Autumn: So, this historical backdrop is crucial for understanding just how entrenched racism was within the church. And here's where we see a “really” stark contrast: the proactive leadership of the Black church versus the complicity, or even resistance, from white evangelical churches. Rachel: Exactly, it's like two different worlds. You've got the Black church leading the charge for justice – organizing boycotts, protests, entire movements, “really”. Then, on the other side, you have white evangelical institutions holding onto the status quo, or, even worse, siding with segregationists. It's a moral gap that's just impossible to ignore, isn't it? Autumn: Absolutely. The Black church has been a cornerstone in the fight for racial justice. Take the African Methodist Episcopal Church, or the AME Church. It wasn't just a place to worship, it was a direct act of defiance against the systemic racism “within” Christianity itself. When Richard Allen founded it in 1816, it was a response to the humiliation and exclusion he and other Black worshippers experienced. Can you imagine being physically pulled from your knees while you're praying just because of your skin color? That kind of blatant racism in a supposed sacred space demanded a powerful response, and the AME Church “was” that response. Rachel: Richard Allen didn't just preach "turn the other cheek," he built an “alternative”. That's revolutionary faith in action, isn't it? But what's mind-blowing to me is that it even had to come to that. Instead of white churches saying, "Hey, we messed up, let's fix this," they doubled down on exclusion. It's like they were more committed to the hierarchy than to their own theology. Autumn: Precisely. And that's what makes the AME Church so significant. It set the standard for what a faith-based fight for justice could look like. Under Allen's leadership, the church became a center for education, community building, and later, civil rights activism. And you see this legacy amplified in the 20th century with leaders like Martin Luther King Jr., whose entire philosophy was rooted in the teachings of the Black church. Rachel: King’s approach is just night and day compared to the inaction of many white evangelical leaders at the time. His message was clear: faith isn't just a personal thing; it's a call to action. The Montgomery Bus Boycott, for example – he didn't just rely on spiritual platitudes. He organized, strategized, and proved that moral courage could dismantle systemic oppression. Autumn: What's so remarkable is how deeply theological his approach was. For King, nonviolent resistance wasn't just a strategy; it was an extension of his Christian beliefs. Think of his sermon "Love in Action." He presents love not as this abstract idea, but as a powerful, transformative force that confronts injustice head-on. That's the kind of faith-driven leadership that defined the Black church during the Civil Rights Movement. Rachel: Meanwhile, white evangelical churches were either standing on the sidelines or actively opposing this work. Let's talk about Billy Graham for a moment—arguably the most famous evangelical leader of the 20th century. Sure, Graham integrated “some” of his crusades, and he made gestures toward racial harmony. But when it “really” mattered, he refused to get involved in the civil rights movement. He called for unity, but without challenging the systems that caused division – is that “really” unity? Autumn: That's such a critical point. Graham represented this moderate evangelical stance, which sounded good on the surface but lacked the depth needed to address systemic racism. His focus on individual salvation and "heart change" ignored the larger structures of injustice that needed dismantling. It's completely opposite to King's approach, which was inherently systemic and collective. Rachel: And King didn't hesitate to call out this kind of passivity. His "Letter from Birmingham Jail" is the ultimate response to white moderates. He basically said, "Your so-called patience is killing us. Justice delayed is justice denied." He even calls out white Christians for being more committed to order than to justice. It's scathing—and sadly accurate. Autumn: Ultimately, it wasn't just about theology; it was about priorities. Black Christians saw the Gospel as liberatory, a call to break chains, both literally and figuratively. White Christians, on the other hand, often prioritized "unity" in ways that maintained the racial and cultural hierarchies they benefited from. Rachel: And let's not forget how systemic this complicity was. Denominations like the Southern Baptist Convention were literally founded to defend slavery. Even after the Civil War, white churches during Reconstruction either stayed silent on racial issues or openly supported oppressive laws. And then Jim Crow happened, where this inaction turned into outright endorsement of segregation. Autumn: And as awful as that era was, it also highlighted the resilience of the Black church. In the face of lynchings and violent segregation, Black Christians gathered in hush harbors—secret worship spaces where they could freely express their faith—and continued to build their own institutions. It's such a vivid contrast. While white churches clung to segregation, Black churches became havens of resistance and hope. Rachel: And that hope wasn't passive. It was action-oriented. Nonviolent protests, sit-ins, freedom rides—all deeply rooted in those church communities. Look at something like King's Southern Christian Leadership Conference. This was an organization that built on the infrastructure of Black churches, using faith and strategy to confront systemic injustice. Autumn: That's what makes this history so powerful but also so painful. It reveals what the church is capable of, both for good and for ill. On the one hand, you have the Black church embodying the Gospel's call to justice. On the other, you have white churches that twisted theology to justify oppression or stayed silent in the face of evil. Rachel: It forces all of us, especially people of faith, to ask “really” difficult questions. How much of our current church culture is “still” shaped by this history? And what are we doing, “really” doing, to address that legacy today?

Autumn: So, from looking at historical complicity, we see how the church's role has either grown—or, let’s be honest, failed to grow—when it comes to facing racial injustice. What “really” gets me, Rachel, is that Tisby isn't just pointing fingers at these failures. He’s “really” pushing us to think about where we go from here, which is exactly what we’re talking about today: how do we find paths to reconciliation and justice? Rachel: Yeah, and that’s a huge undertaking, Autumn. I mean, we’re talking about going from admitting centuries of injustice—basically, figuring out what the problem is—to actually fixing it. The million-dollar question is: what does that “fixing” actually look like? What can we do in real life? Autumn: Well, Tisby suggests it starts with learning. Things like changing how we teach theology and starting initiatives like Freedom Schools—programs that completely immerse people in the real stories about race and history—are key first steps. Imagine if theological schools “really” took on the Church’s part in racism, offering courses that make Black theology and systemic injustice core topics. Rachel: That would be a game changer. I mean, think about it, the way pastors are trained has a direct impact on what they preach from the pulpit. And for decades—centuries, “really”—that training has been mostly Eurocentric. It’s like we’ve been learning history through a filter that’s edited out anything that might make the guys in charge uncomfortable. Autumn: Exactly. And the goal isn’t just to make people aware, but to change how leaders approach faith and justice. Take the Freedom Schools during the Mississippi Freedom Summer in 1964. They didn't just teach African Americans about voting; they also empowered communities by teaching African American history and civic engagement. What if seminaries did something similar—focused on real-world ways to reconcile race, along with theological ideas? Rachel: Okay, but here’s what I’m wondering: if education is so important, how do we make sure it sticks? It’s one thing to sit in a classroom and grapple with the “really” ugly parts of history, but fighting systemic racism takes action. I’m worried that a changed curriculum might just become another academic thing, unless it’s paired with real changes in how churches work. Autumn: I get what you mean, Rachel, and that’s why education is just one piece of the puzzle. Tisby also talks about something much more real—reparations. This is where people get “really” uncomfortable, because it’s not just about saying you’re sorry, it’s about taking responsibility. Rachel: Reparations is like a hot potato, right? As soon as you start talking about money, people get defensive before you can even finish your sentence! But, if you look at the Bible, it’s hard to ignore what it says. Remember Zacchaeus? He didn’t just say he was sorry; he actually made things right by paying back the people he cheated, four times over. Autumn: Exactly! That’s such an important point. Reparations aren’t about being nice; they’re about doing what’s right. Tisby says it’s about giving back what was taken, which reminds me of the Old Testament rules about making amends when you’ve done something wrong. It’s a big part of our faith, so why is it such a touchy subject in modern Christianity? Rachel: Because it shakes up the power structure. Giving money or resources to fix the wealth gap that history has created feels scary to people who have benefited from those gaps, even if they didn’t create them themselves. But look at the numbers. Black households own less than seven cents for every dollar owned by white households. That’s not just a coincidence. It’s the result of slavery, Jim Crow, redlining...the list goes on. Autumn: That economic difference brings us back to the moral reason for reparations. It’s not about feeling guilty; it’s about fixing relationships and making things fair. Reparations can take many forms: direct payments, scholarships for people from marginalized communities, and investing in Black neighborhoods. The question we need to ask is, why hasn’t the Church—which has a lot of resources—really jumped into this in a big way? Rachel: Right! I mean, how many churches have millions of dollars in endowments that could fund these kinds of initiatives tomorrow if they wanted to? Donating land, creating community spaces, funding education—there’s so much they could do. But instead, we get empty words. It reminds me of the debate around Confederate monuments. These statues literally represent a history of oppression, but people defend them by saying it’s about "heritage, not hate," instead of facing what they “really” mean. Autumn: Confederate monuments are another example of how symbols keep systemic racism alive. These statues didn’t just pop up after the Civil War; most were built during the Jim Crow era to make it very clear that white people were in charge. They glorify a past that ignores the suffering of African Americans. Removing them isn’t about erasing history; it’s about making public spaces welcoming and inclusive for everyone. Rachel: That's the same reason people were so upset about that rally in Charlottesville in 2017. You had neo-Nazis and white supremacists gathering around the statue of Robert E. Lee as a symbol of their beliefs. If these monuments cause that kind of reaction, what more proof do we need that they’re not just harmless historical markers? Autumn: And as Christians, there’s a direct comparison to the biblical idea of tearing down idols. In the Old Testament, physical reminders of injustice or lies were taken down to cleanse the community. Confederate statues are like modern idols of a distorted and harmful history. Rachel: So, can we find some common ground in these debates? Or are we stuck in this endless loop of people clinging to "Southern pride" while ignoring the real damage these symbols cause? Autumn: That’s where churches could step up—by acknowledging the truth and creating spaces for healing together. Churches could organize events where these monuments are replaced with symbols and stories that show how we’re all working towards reconciliation. It’s a chance to rewrite public memory with fairness and justice in mind. Rachel: Okay, I’m following you. But education, reparations, symbolic justice—these are all big ideas. If the Church “really” wants to live out the Gospel, it also has to protect democracy, right? Making sure everyone has the right to vote seems like the most basic thing, but here we are, watching as systems are manipulated to keep Black voters from the polls. Autumn: Absolutely. The 2013 Supreme Court decision that weakened the Voting Rights Act is a perfect example of why this is so important. Since then, many states with a history of keeping Black people from voting have passed laws that disproportionately affect communities of color—fewer polling places, stricter ID requirements, shorter early voting periods. Churches have a moral duty to stand against these practices by teaching their members about their voting rights and advocating for fair elections. Rachel: Because let’s be real—voting isn't just a civic duty; it’s a way to make real change. Without fair access to voting, everything else—education reform, reparations, economic equity—goes nowhere. Following the Gospel means fighting for policies that empower the most vulnerable. Autumn: Exactly. Through these paths—education, reparations, symbolic justice, and voting rights—the Church can find its voice again. It’s not enough to just say we’re not part of the problem; we have to actively tear down systemic racism and build something new based on fairness and grace.

Autumn: Wow, Rachel, what a journey we took today, right? We really dug into history, exposing how the American church, at its worst, has been complicit in racism. But, you know, at its best, it's been this relentless foundation for justice, especially through movements like the Black church's resistance. Jemar Tisby's work is so powerful, reminding us that faith isn't neutral. It’s either fueling justice or, unfortunately, perpetuating injustice. Rachel: Exactly. And Tisby doesn’t just let us off the hook with a simple “oh, we acknowledge it.” He really challenges the church, and all of us, to actively move from confession to real accountability. I mean, that’s talking about reshaping theological education, committing to reparations, actively standing against both symbolic and systemic racism, and—yes—defending democracy itself. But honestly, how many people are willing to take on such difficult topic? Autumn: Well, the big takeaway for me, though, is that this isn’t just a history lesson, you know? It’s a real call to action. To me, it boils down to this: dismantling injustice isn't optional for people of faith. It’s totally intrinsic to the Gospel. It’s kind of the whole point. Rachel: I agree wholeheartedly. But here's the question I keep wrestling with: If the church has played such a pivotal role in, let's face it, upholding systemic racism, what should its role be now in dismantling it? Acknowledging the past is crucial, sure—but it’s really what we actively do today that defines if we truly believe in justice. Otherwise, it's all just talk, right? Autumn: Absolutely, Rachel. So, let’s really reflect on this, and more importantly, let’s not stop at reflection. Let’s actually turn that reflection into tangible actions. Thanks so much for joining us today, everyone. And just remember, the work of reconciliation, it starts with each of us, but it definitely doesn't end there.