Revd Charity Tozivepi-Nzegwu, a Methodist Presbyter, East Anglia District shares some personal experiences of racism in the church.
We were discussing same sex marriage when a trusted colleague, someone I deeply respect and have always seen as an ally, turned to me with a question. “What does the Q in LGBTQI stand for?” they asked. Without hesitation, I answered, “Queer.” The reaction was immediate. Their face hardened, and with a sharp tone, they pointed a finger at me. “I should never hear you refer to anyone in my congregation as queer!” The force of their words stunned me. I was not expecting anger. I was not expecting to be spoken to as if I was nothing. Then, without hesitation, they turned and walked across the chapel to where my white middle class female colleague was standing. I watched as they asked her the same question. Her answer, of course, was the same as mine. But the response was starkly different. A warm smile, an affirming nod. “Oh, thank you! You are lovely! You always have the answers to everything!” I stood there, feeling small. Patronised. Diminished. Hurt.
It was not just about the words exchanged, but about what lay beneath them. A white middle-class man had the audacity to speak to me with anger, to make me feel like my knowledge was suspect, my presence a provocation. Yet, when the same knowledge came from someone who looked like him, it was met with appreciation, even admiration. I was left reeling. The double standard, the casual dismissal of my voice, the ease with which I was reduced while my colleague was lifted, it was all too familiar. To this day, I have never received an apology.
Moments like these settle deep in the bones. They expose a truth that is difficult to name but impossible to ignore. One can be welcomed, respected, even seen as a colleague or friend, but there are limits. There are unspoken rules. There are moments when the illusion shatters, and one realises that respect is conditional, credibility is filtered, and acceptance can be withdrawn in an instant. Naming it comes at a cost. Speaking out risks discomfort, fractures, the loss of relationships that once felt safe. The temptation to let it go, to smooth things over, to pretend it did not matter, is strong. But silence is its own burden.
The prophets knew this well. Truth-telling is rarely easy. It unsettles, disrupts, and demands reckoning. But silence does not heal wounds. It only lets them fester. Jesus understood this cost. He did not temper his words to make people comfortable. He spoke, knowing it would cost him everything. To follow in his path is to insist on truth, even when it is costly. It is to say, without apology, that racism, whether blatant or subtle, whether conscious or unconscious, is a wound in the body of Christ. And wounds, left untreated, do not heal.
So, one counts the cost and speaks. Because to remain silent is to allow oneself to be diminished. To name the wound is to resist erasure. To tell the truth is an act of prophecy.
“Then Jesus said to them, ‘A prophet is not without honour, except in his own town, among his relatives and in his own home. Mark 6:4 (NRSV)
Chantal Noppen, IC National Coordinator adds: ‘I know that the example Charity gives us here, is only one of many she could pick from. Far too often in her ministry Charity has experienced her colour influencing and impacting the actions and attitudes of others. Sometimes in innocent but thoughtless ways, and other times in outright rudeness.
Societal racism and assumptions we have about others are too often deeply embedded in the way we respond and react to others. Not intending to be racist or sexist, or ableist or homophobic, or the myriad other examples we can think of, does not defend or mend our behaviour, it may help explain it, but it does not excuse it.
If we are automatically assuming that someone should offer pastoral care, extra time, or additional support to another because we assume their matching colour, gender, sexuality etc puts them in the best place to do this, we risk reducing people to their labels and not recognising the full beauty of our diversity and the very really blessing differences can bring.
We’re not seeing or affirming the full picture of someone. We are limiting them. Because we are limited in our understanding. If we give more to weight and credence to someone’s opinion than others, it is good and right that we check our reasoning. Are we really listening to them, or hearing what we think we want to hear because of external factors?
Not every act of rudeness or disrespect a woman experiences is as a result of her gender, not every dismissal or overlooking of a black or brown person’s contribution is because of their colour. But sometimes it is. Sometimes they really are. It is important that we are willing and able to check ourselves and address our biases and assumptions, refining and retuning them in response. Then having the grace to offer an apology, to admit and own our error, may be a more healing necessity than we might realise, for everyone. May our pride not get in the way of us seeing the reality of ourselves clearly.’