I’m not convinced churches actually intend to do good or stand up for what’s right. They talk a big game about love, community, and moral courage. But when it’s time to act, too many fold into silence.
I’ll give you a personal example. Years ago, at church, a little white girl told my sister—who’s biracial—that she couldn’t walk on the sidewalk because of her skin color. Let that sink in: at church. And you know what happened? Nothing. No adult stepped in. No sermon addressed it. No Sunday school lesson was redirected. Everyone just… moved on.
That silence wasn’t neutral. It was a choice. A whole congregation of people who supposedly follow a man who flipped tables over injustice couldn’t muster the spine to say, “This is wrong.” They didn’t want to disrupt their comfortable little bubble, so they let racism breathe unchallenged on holy ground.
Moments like that make it hard to believe these spaces are truly built to do good. Because if you can’t stand up for what’s right in your own building, surrounded by people who claim to share your values, when exactly do you plan to?
The truth is, churches need people. Not just to fill seats, but to keep a system running. They prey on people’s insecurities about the afterlife to recruit, yes—but they also rely on a steady cycle of insiders and outsiders. Believers and “the lost.” Righteous and unrighteous. Superior and inferior.
That hierarchy is baked in. If everyone stood on equal moral ground, the church would lose its leverage. It wouldn’t be able to keep some people feeling special, chosen, better. So they look the other way when harm happens. They protect the hierarchy, not the people.
When a child’s racism goes unchecked in a church full of adults, that’s not a fluke. That’s the culture.
