An Exhortation to the Exhausted Black Christian

PART I

Between 2015 and 2020, something broke inside of me.

I was a devoted Christian, a student of Scripture, and a public voice for the gospel.

But I found myself angry, grieved, and deeply disillusioned as I repeatedly watched—and read—about unarmed Black men and women being killed.

Their names, and lives, are now etched into history books: Trayvon Martin, Michael Brown, George Floyd, Breonna Taylor, and others who were gone too soon.

I was grieved, and assuming most Christians cared about their deaths, I raised my voice. I thought this was a chance for the church to be salt and light.

But what I saw from some of my white brothers and sisters was something else:

Silence. Dismissal. Deflection.

And in some of the places I trusted most, outright resistance to acknowledging the injustice in front of us. I was haunted by a question—not “What’s happening in America?” but “Where are God’s people in all this?”

Soon, that turned into a crisis of faith, not in Jesus but in his body.

PART II

My mother was shaped by the Civil Rights Movement. She raised me on Black pride and culture and gave me the writings of prominent activists, like Malcolm X and W. E. B. Du Bois.

When I found Jesus in college, my world changed.

I became a student of theology and followed my Savior with a thirst for spiritual growth.

I wanted truth. I took in—and read—whatever I could and did not care about the color of the author who wrote it.

I became a student of African and Black theologians, like Augustine and Tony Evans, but also white ones, such as John Piper and Tim Keller.

I was discipled in predominantly white spaces, not because I rejected my culture but because that’s where I was spiritually fed.

I believed the gospel was the solution to everything. To racism, poverty, brokenness, and addiction.

And it is. But what I did not realize back then was how shallow our application of the gospel often is.

PART III

In the past five years, we’ve seen a quiet exodus.

Black Christians who believed in multicultural ministry, racial reconciliation, and the dream of “kingdom diversity” began slipping out of the back doors of the churches they helped build.

Some went back to historically Black churches, where the gospel was preached holistically and lament was welcome.

Some started new churches with leaders who looked like them and understood their experience.

Some are still wandering, without a church home.

And some of my friends, sadly, walked away altogether.

They weren’t looking for attention or trying to be edgy. Nor were they trying to escape church accountability or sound doctrine.

They were simply trying to make sense of a faith (and a people) that told them to love their neighbor but could not love them back.

And if I’m honest, I almost joined them.

PART IV

I know people who left the church because they were deeply hurt by the silence of white leaders.

And sometimes, even more painfully, by the silence of Black ones who should have known better.

I have heard white pastors say they “did not know what to say,” so they said nothing. But silence isn’t neutral; it speaks.

And for many Black believers, it told them, “Your pain is too complicated for us.”

Worse than silence, though, was the misuse of language. The word unity was used like duct tape over a broken pipe.

Some accused those of us who spoke out of being “divisive,” which often meant “Don’t make us uncomfortable.”

But I’ve come to know that unity built on avoidance isn’t biblical unity. Real unity is forged through truth, repentance, and love.

And true love doesn’t shun conflict; it stays at the table during it.

PART V

Somewhere along the way, we started acting like justice and Jesus were enemies, signaling that many of us had become disciples of our culture instead of the Bible.

Christians acted as if caring about police reform, equity, or the dignity of Black life somehow meant we had strayed from the truth of the gospel.

As if caring about the poor and the needy while acting justly and showing mercy were optional electives.

As if the God who delivered Israel from slavery has no interest in systemic oppression today.

But God is not allergic to justice. The gospel is justice.

God secured our salvation in a just manner. But Jesus did not just come to save our souls.

He also rose to redeem a broken world personally, relationally, and yes, even structurally.

Our God didn’t ignore the marginalized. He centered them.

Nor did he avoid hard conversations for the sake of comfort.

PART VI

Some people who have left the church never looked back. And I get it. I have been there.

I have felt the sting of betrayal. I have wrestled with the hypocrisy. I have stood on stages, smiled in interviews, and quietly wondered if I still belonged.

But I’m still here.

Not because the church has always been good to me. But because Jesus never stopped being good.

Not because I found the perfect community. But because I believe in what the church could be if we lived out the gospel we preach.

This is reconstruction.

It is not about rebranding a broken system, but searching the Scriptures to see what God says about himself.

It comes in abandoning the shifting views of American Christians and replanting our faith in the deeper knowledge of the triune God.

When the walls fall, reconstruction allows you to discard fragile materials and rebuild with truth, integrity, justice, grace, love, and hope.

We can grieve the loss of what was but refuse to settle for shallow answers, and plant seeds for what could be.

When everything else feels unstable, we can grab hold of the God who never changes.

PART VII

If you’re still here, still believing, still showing up even when it’s hard—I see you. You are not alone.

And if you’re on the edge and your faith is held together by threads, I get that too.

But don’t stop at doubt or despair. And don’t let pain be the period at the end of your sentence.

Here’s my prayer for the church:

I pray the body of Christ doesn’t flinch at hard conversations. That it doesn’t choose comfort over conviction.

I pray that we learn how to lament and repent.

I pray that we make room for the voices of people of color.

I pray for a church that doesn’t dilute justice but disciples people in how to act justly.

I pray for a church that sees past political binaries and picks up a cross instead.

I pray for a church that looks like Jesus.

And I believe, deep down, we can get there.

But only if we’re willing to reconstruct.

Lecrae Moore has won multiple Grammy Awards and is a bestselling author, activist, and founder of Reach Records. He has led conversations on justice and faith through public engagements, chart-topping albums, and his hit podcast, The Deep End.