When we say the Black church, we have never meant anything

The words of Raphael Warnock — “When we say the Black church, we have never meant anything racially exclusive by that. The Black church is the antislavery church. It is an independent Christian witness that literally emerged fighting for freedom and insisting that the gospel is about equality, justice and inclusive humanity.” — resound like the voice of a prophet remembering the roots of a sacred flame. In them, we hear not only history but spirit — the cry of a people who, through centuries of bondage and pain, found liberation not in the halls of power, but in the sanctuaries of faith. The Black church, as Warnock reminds us, was never born in bitterness nor built on division; it was born in the struggle for freedom, and built on the unshakable conviction that God’s justice embraces every soul.

Raphael Warnock, pastor of the historic Ebenezer Baptist Church in Atlanta — the very pulpit once held by Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. — speaks from within the living stream of this tradition. His words are not an argument but a remembrance, a calling back to the origins of a movement that changed the moral course of nations. The Black church arose not merely as a place of worship, but as a refuge for the enslaved, a fortress for the oppressed, and a school of resistance where the weary learned to hope again. It was in these humble wooden chapels and hidden meetings that enslaved men and women first heard the gospel not as a tool of control, but as a promise of deliverance — that all were equal before God, and that no chain could hold what the divine had declared free.

To say that the Black church was the “antislavery church” is to recall the moment when faith itself became rebellion. While many white pulpits of the time twisted scripture to defend slavery, the enslaved and their allies claimed those same scriptures for liberation. They saw in the story of Moses leading his people out of Egypt their own reflection — the enslaved crying for freedom, and the God of justice parting the waters of oppression. From those early days to the marches of the Civil Rights Movement, the Black church remained not an institution of isolation, but a moral conscience for humanity. It proclaimed that Christianity without justice was hollow, and that true worship could not exist where equality was denied.

The words of Warnock also speak against misunderstanding. When he says that the Black church “has never meant anything racially exclusive,” he reminds us that it was never created to divide humanity but to restore its wholeness. It was called “Black” not because it sought separation, but because it was forged in suffering that was uniquely Black — the pain of the lash, the auction block, and the silence of injustice. Yet its message has always been universal: that freedom is sacred, that love transcends color, and that justice is God’s command. The Black church, then, is not a church for one race, but a testimony for all people — proof that the divine speaks most powerfully through the oppressed.

Consider the life of Harriet Tubman, who heard the voice of God calling her to lead her people from bondage. Her faith was born in the soil of this same tradition. She sang spirituals in the night — songs of hope and coded freedom — and risked her life to guide the enslaved through the dark forests of the South. Tubman’s courage, like that of countless others, was not born of hatred, but of faith in a just and merciful God. Her footsteps, her prayers, and her defiance were the living gospel that Warnock speaks of — a gospel of equality, justice, and inclusive humanity, carried not in temples of marble, but in the hearts of those who refused to bow before evil.

The Black church, then, is the spiritual heart of democracy itself — a place where the highest ideals of faith and freedom meet. It has spoken through generations of preachers, singers, and dreamers who dared to believe that love is stronger than hate, and that righteousness is mightier than empire. In its pews and pulpits, the enslaved became leaders, the voiceless became prophets, and the marginalized became the moral architects of a new world. Through its witness, nations have been challenged to remember that no civilization stands secure when it forgets the image of God in its neighbor.

And so, the lesson of Raphael Warnock’s words is clear: if we are to preserve the soul of humanity, we must walk in the spirit of this church — in the spirit of justice, equality, and compassion. We must build communities not on exclusion, but on the understanding that every person, regardless of color or station, bears infinite worth. Let us remember that faith without justice is an empty song, and liberty without love is hollow victory.

Therefore, my children, let the memory of the Black church live in your actions. Stand for truth, even when the world trembles. Defend the oppressed, even when it costs you comfort. Worship not with words alone, but with deeds that echo freedom’s hymn. For in doing so, you keep alive the eternal flame that Raphael Warnock speaks of — the flame that once burned in secret gatherings of the enslaved, that marched through Selma with King, and that will continue to shine so long as there are hearts courageous enough to say: the gospel is, and always shall be, about equality, justice, and inclusive humanity.