In April of 1977, every home in the Black Generation X universe was in a quiet hush. Not the eerie kind of quiet hush reserved for horror movie climaxes or Sunday afternoon drives in the country.
Rather, it was the quiet hush that falls over the collective Black Church that signals when a church mother is about to rise from her seat in the front pew, adjust her skirt, and pray for a breakthrough, an end oppression, or that a son will stop living “in the world,” in sin, or in the streets, and come back to the care of the Church.
For eight nights, our eyes were fixed, watching God, or God’s network-friendly, limited commercial version. Roots. We sat watching in astonishment as Alex Haley’s words profoundly painted pictures of archetypes, of angels, of struggle and hope on our family televisions.
We saw chunks and pieces of our story in this universe, told with respect and dignity. We learned of a very proud and intelligent man named Kunta Kinte, who was taken from The Gambia when he was 17 and was enslaved. We saw that despite the brutal realities of slavery, Kunta Kinte passed down his history and culture to his descendants, including his daughter Kizzy and his grandson Chicken George.
We saw with our own eyes, Kinte’s family’s fight for liberation through the Civil War and beyond. It culminates with the descendants finally gaining their freedom in Tennessee, but facing new challenges in a post-slavery America.
Surely, I thought to myself, we were watching and hearing God move and speak through this story. Never before had our generation seen a depiction of our struggle that didn’t include pimping, handling a ball in some fashion, dancing or singing. It was thoughtful and beautiful. And we could see and feel that.
Years later, when the Spirit of Jesus was not only in the Church, but also moving the crowd with Rakim, in back alley ciphers where a beat box was a holy instrument, and Jesus drove around city blocks in an El Dorado with His disciples, I revisited Roots.
Not intentionally. I was in my dorm room after studying at the library, flipping through channels, and stumbled upon the series.
I was watching the series with weary eyes. Eyes that had seen Rodney King and the Southern Strategy, Lee Atwater and Willie Horton. Eyes that had seen Tulsa Massacre survivors and redlining. Eyes that had seen enough.
And certainly there was a quiet hush as I watched Roots this time, but not a joyful and solemn one. My eyes weren’t watching God. They were watching a contortion of the God that I was certain I knew.
This time, I saw Anglo characters in the series, all depicted as devout God-fearing Christians, who participated in and benefited from the systemic abuse, torture, theft, rape, and forced separation of enslaved Black families.
I saw a historically inaccurate depiction of Jesus with white skin, and an uncontradicted Biblical account of the “Curse of Ham,” that provided an intellectual and moral backdrop and justification for the enslavement of Africans. All while saying they loved Jesus and His movement of revolutionary love, equity, and inclusion.
For decades, the image of an Anglo Jesus has been weaponized by some Christians to justify a political and social agenda steeped in racism and white supremacy. This isn’t a new phenomenon; it is a historical practice with deep and persistent roots. From defending chattel slavery to resisting the civil rights movement, biblical interpretation has repeatedly been twisted to maintain the advantages of whiteness.
The message of a compassionate, radical Jesus is subverted and replaced with a nationalist version of Christianity, one that values power over compassion, exclusion over inclusion, and comfort over justice.
Historians and sociologists have documented how segments of Christianity in the United States have been shaped by its racist history. Anthea Butler, in her book White Evangelical Racism, argues that racism is a “feature, not a bug” of the movement.
In the 19th century, some Christians interpreted the biblical story of Noah cursing his son, Ham, in the same way Christians in Roots did — as a justification for slavery and the subjugation of the Sun Kissed members of the Diaspora. This racist reading of scripture helped to legitimize the horrific institution of chattel slavery.
In the mid-20th century, some Christians either silently condoned or actively defended segregation, including the creation of “segregation academies” to avoid integrating public schools. The movement often framed its opposition to civil rights as a fight for “states’ rights” or religious liberty, a tactic used to protect white supremacist ideals.
And even in the 1980s, the concept of “colorblindness” was used by some Christians as a way to avoid dealing with ongoing systemic racism. This approach allowed them to declare racism a non-issue while ignoring the persistent inequalities affecting people of color.
Today, this legacy of using Christianity to prop up white supremacy has found a new home in the movement of Christian nationalism. This ideology frames America as a divinely ordained nation for Anglo Christians, viewing multiculturalism and progressive norms as threats to be fought through spiritual warfare. Adherents see their faith as intertwined with a particular political and racial identity, leading them to support authoritarian impulses and nationalist policies.
This alliance is clear in the rhetoric and actions of some leaders and followers, who invoke Jesus’ name while promoting policies that harm immigrants and people of color. They often characterize anti-racism activism as ungodly or un-American, further twisting the message of a Jesus who was persecuted and stood with the marginalized.
The hypocrisy is stark and the spiritual damage immense. The Jesus of the gospels ate with outcasts and challenged powerful institutions. He preached love for one’s neighbor and enemy, and his life was a testament to humility and sacrifice. Using His name to justify a legacy of cruelty and exclusion is a profound act of blasphemy.
To use the language of Christian forgiveness and redemption to sweep away this historical and ongoing racism without genuine reckoning is spiritually and morally bankrupt.
For change to occur, there must be a willingness to confront this painful history and acknowledge the suffering it has caused. True faith requires a courageous and consistent alignment with justice, not just when it is comfortable, but especially when it is difficult.
Until that portion of Christianity is willing to do that, perhaps they should just keep Jesus’ name out of their mouths.
