A few years ago, our son Jaden called my wife and me and said he wanted to be a pastor. When we got off the phone, I was excited and fearful. It warmed my heart to hear that my 20-year-old Black son could be a third-generation preacher in our family. But I also knew the road ahead would be tough—especially if it included stops in the land of white evangelicalism.
When my wife asked what we should do, I told her it was important to me that he spend his early years of ministry in Black institutions. The Black church had buttressed my own father and me when we felt lonely and frustrated in our ministry to white evangelicals. And if Jaden were to spend formative years among other Black believers, I knew it would provide the type of affirmation and foundation needed to withstand some expected turbulence.
As a pastor and the son of a prominent Black evangelical, I have spent decades immersed in predominantly white churches and organizations. My father, Crawford Loritts Jr., was heavily influenced by the evangelist Tom Skinner, cofounded a church with Tony Evans, and was mentored by the famed evangelical civil rights hero John Perkins. But even with these connections, I am hesitant with the phrase Black evangelical.
I’ve been thinking more about this lately after watching Black + Evangelical, a new documentary by Christianity Today and Wheaton College that highlights the history and challenges faced by African Americans who identify with the label. Recently, a longtime friend also asked me if I was comfortable with the phrase. He knew about my experiences and that I held to the core tenets of evangelicalism laid out by British scholar David Bebbington. But even though I check off each box, the last one—reform-minded activism—often gives me pause.
The dividing line between white and Black evangelicals in America, after all, is their activism—or lack thereof—on racial justice issues. Historically, white British evangelicals led by William Wilberforce took down slavery in the 19th century. In the early 20th century, it was also British evangelicals who worked to transform the prison system and push for legislation for just child-labor laws and relief to the poor. But across the pond in America, the fundamentalist-modernist controversy caused white Christians to split into two camps, resulting in a self-sorting of impulses. The modernists (the predecessors of white mainline Protestants) cared about their neighbors. But because they did not hold to biblical truths, they fell into heresy. Meanwhile, the fundamentalists (the predecessors of white evangelicals) held fast to the authority of the Bible but did not advocate for the racially oppressed.
This type of split never occurred in the Black church, which held on to the basic tenets of the faith without rejecting social action. Over time, some Black believers began worshiping in predominantly white or multicultural churches, creating a new category of Black evangelicals, many of whom have consistently spoken out about racial issues.
But what makes many Black evangelicals different is not just their activism; it’s also their distance from historically Black institutions. In the documentary, for example, almost everyone profiled or interviewed—from Carl Ellis to Tom Skinner and Jemar Tisby—spent significant time serving in spaces dominated by white evangelicals. Like many in the Black church, they spoken out against racial injustice. However, they had a remarkably different experience from others in American history who protested the white power structure and then went home to minister and serve in Black congregations.
I have often seen that when a Black person leaves a traditional Black church and is dropped into a sea of white evangelicals, the person becomes lonely and frustrated. It’s something I’ve experienced in my own life. I grew up in the Black church and then attended a predominantly white evangelical Bible college, where for the first time in my life I felt disregarded and on edge. In 1992, I remember attending chapel right after a California state court acquitted four white officers involved in the police beating of Rodney King, sparking riots across the city of Los Angeles. Not a single thing was said, nor a prayer offered for King, his family, or the city at large. I was irate and called my father to tell him, only to discover the same thing had happened at a similar type of Bible college he attended in the weeks following Martin Luther King Jr.’s assassination.
I’d like to say things have gotten much better in the 30 years since I’ve graduated from college, but they have not. In fact, there’s a strong case that things have gotten worse. When my father retired from his church 4 years ago, he told me he had never seen our nation so badly divided. It pierced my heart to hear that from a Black man who spent his early years navigating Jim Crow. It seemed as if my hero, who had spent his life immersed in white evangelical institutions, was saying, “I wonder if I’ve wasted my time serving in these spaces.” Now, if you ask him whether he felt that way, he will emphatically say no. But it’s hard not to think it was a waste when the evangelical world has taken serious steps back in the fight for ethnic unity.
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Being a minority Christian immersed in a majority-white culture is akin to being an “estranged pioneer,” Christian sociologists Korie Edwards and Rebecca Kim say in their book by the same name. But while the two may have coined the phrase, the concept is as old as the story of Jonah. God invites Jonah, a Jew, to engage in the missionary task of preaching the message of repentance and God’s forgiveness to the very ones who were abusing his people. One commentator I read says Jonah walking into the city of Nineveh and calling people to repent is the equivalent of a Jewish rabbi standing on a street corner in 1941 Berlin and begging Nazi Germany to turn to God. Nobody is clamoring for that job.
But the beauty of Jonah shows God using a member of a minority group as his vessel to bring the majority culture to himself. When Jonah finally walks into Nineveh and preaches a message of God’s mercy, the people repent. Instead of rejoicing, Jonah expresses his frustration to the Lord and sets out to leave the city (Jonah 4:5). In many ways, the story is a cautionary message to Black evangelicals that it’s possible to minister to people you don’t like. Like me, minorities who minister cross-culturally in traditionally evangelical environments often set themselves up for lives marked by loneliness and frustration. And if we don’t deal with those emotions appropriately, they will manifest in unhealthy ways, like bitterness, hatred, and sometimes even abandoning the faith altogether.
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So what are Black evangelicals to do?
First, I advise them to seek out institutions that welcome their full selves. I remember a time in my ministry when some of our white evangelical siblings courageously expressed biblical issues of diversity and ethnic unity. But they soon encountered pushback from some who accused them of becoming too “woke” or embracing “critical race theory.” As a result, Black evangelicals who worked with them also became victims of the fallout.
Anyone can stand on a stage and proclaim a vision, but if the culture of the place cannot house the vision, catastrophe will come. You cannot put new wine in old wineskins (Luke 5:37–39). Any Black evangelical who chooses to push for racial justice in an environment where so many are against it needs to be secure in Christ. Like Olaudah Equiano, a Black evangelical who advocated for the dismantling of slavery in England, we can’t be intimidated or fearful. A great crowd—including some of the men I’ve mentioned earlier—has taught us how to work with our white spiritual siblings without leaving our Blackness at the door. They have spoken prophetically against racism and injustice, showing they love white evangelicals enough to speak truth to them. If we are too enamored with white evangelicals, we will hesitate to do this. But if we’re bitter or harbor unforgiveness, we will wield the truth like a knife to kill instead of a scalpel to heal. And at this point, the last thing we need is Jonahs who end up burned-out and bitter.
Second, Black evangelicals must unashamedly embrace the ministries to which God has called them. To be a Black evangelical means you not only live under the white evangelical gaze but also have your Blackness questioned by other African Americans who do not share the same ministry calling. As church leaders, we tend to moralize what we do. And when there are racial implications attached, I often see the temptation to judge the authenticity of one’s ethnicity based on how and where they serve—a sad truth as old as the Book of Acts. When God called Peter, a Jew, to take the gospel to the Gentiles, his fellow Jews immediately condemned him (Acts 11). Instead of rejoicing in the work of the Spirit to bring about conversions among the Gentiles, the Jews criticized Peter (vv. 1–2). And truthfully, not much has changed.
Recent calls from fellow Black Christians to leave evangelicalism “loud” reveals this same spirit. There should be a cease-fire among Black believers. Those of us called to labor in white evangelical environments must not grant anyone the power to pressure us out of what God has told us to do. I don’t allow anyone the right to question my Blackness or ministry, and neither should you. Not every Black Christian in ministry is called to minister to white evangelicals. But in this season of my life, I know God has called me to do that. And that knowledge has kept me sane over the years.
Third, we need to include people who look like us in the discipleship process. Too often, we think about discipleship only in terms of what’s being transferred spiritually. But it’s impossible to be molded without carrying some cultural fingerprints of the one who is forming you.
I’ve seen the tragedy of what sometimes happens when Black people come to faith in a white environment and are subsequently discipled there. They become captivated by white evangelicals and begin to critique—and even look down on—the Black church. I’ve heard complaints that Black preachers are not “gospel centered” or expository. Sometimes, they’re even ridiculed as entertainers because they “whoop.” But when these same critics eventually encounter an inevitable racial slight or incident in the evangelical world, disappointment and disillusionment seep in, giving way for the Enemy to plant seeds of doubt about the faith. One way to avoid this is by having Black Christians mentor, coach, and disciple us—not exclusively but as part of our overall process. Personally, I’ve been sustained in ministry because of my father, my Black godfather and pastor Bishop Kenneth Ulmer, and many others to whom I often turn for counsel.
Fourth, Black evangelicals need regular furloughs. Like missionaries whom God sends overseas to engage other cultures, we need to “come home” periodically to recharge in our own culture and community. Many of us know it can be exhausting to be the only Black person—or one of few—in a room. It’s tiring when people constantly examine your social media posts about race or can relate only with the version of you that operates in white spaces. Some of the loneliest days of my life were when I led a predominantly white church plant in Memphis for 12 years. My all-Black golf group, which met once a week for four hours, sustained me. With them, I didn’t have to filter my words or code-switch. And the time we spent together allowed me to recharge and engage my white kingdom siblings from a full and healthy heart.
Finally, Black evangelicals need a specific kind of economic empowerment. After the police killing of George Floyd, a lot of Christian colleges and universities took giant leaps forward in race relations. But since then, some institutions have backtracked. The Trump administration has made clear that it is opposed to diversity initiatives. And because predominantly white Christian organizations tend to have politically conservative donors who side with the current administration, these entities typically follow the money.
The older I get, the more I’m convinced we need to cast a vision for minorities to give generously to Christian organizations so we can be truly free in our activism. But what’s true for us as a group should also be true for the individual. If you are a Black evangelical working these institutions for the check and not the calling, I believe compromise will surely follow.
If you ask me how I think about my place in evangelicalism today, I will tell you I’m comfortable seeing myself as a missionary to white evangelicals who need the whole gospel. And maybe that’s what we need. We probably won’t make many converts, and I’m okay with that. God has called us to faithfulness more than fruitfulness.
Bryan Loritts is the Teaching Pastor at The Summit Church. He is an award-winning author of ten books, including Grace to Overcome: 31 Devotions on God’s Work Through Black History.
