Transformation and ‘trophy churches’
Are black churchgoers sacrificing their identity at the alter of assimilation?
ALTHOUGH South Africa boasts diverse churches, with a myriad ethnicities, nationalities and cultures represented in our congregations, the question remains: How do we choose to frame the story of students? Students who throw poo at a statue, or burn tyres out of anger at commodified education, expose the power of a privileged few who choose to see “victimised, entitled youth” over generational and structural violence in society.
Who benefits from such a narrative? And what does true transformation look like for the church? Is it about who is visible on the Sunday morning platform? Or who is seated at the boardroom table, influencing decision-making?
Journalist Pontsho Pilane recently noted the black middle class gravitated towards large, wealthy mega-churches in South Africa; an attraction which, she noted, meant sacrificing their racial identity and ideologies for the sake of spiritual development and assimilation into white culture. Congregants are taught that race does not matter.
In a country still staggering beneath the legacies of an unjust past, this creates a culture where black identity and African expression is smothered in places of worship; in which that identity is not affirmed (note: affirmed, not idolised).
What also needs to be noted is that this compromise goes beyond mere spiritual development. Social psychologists note how deeper psychological motivations drive us to be associated with whatever will make us look or feel good about ourselves. Like the African American exodus to mega-churches in the ’80s and ’90s, most middle to upper-class black Africans who have reaped the benefits of a capitalist system built on meritocracy and found material success in the new South Africa want to attend a church which will reflect this new status.
Call it “trophy church”, if you will. This subconscious psychological instinct, when coupled with spiritual underpinnings, combines to create a powerful stimulus to downplay the racial undertones sometimes expressed not only by congregants, but by the organisation itself.
My recent experience with this dichotomy proved this point, when a picture of myself donning my traditional Xhosa headwrap and mbaco top was posted on the church social media page, with a caption saying the church was heading on a mission trip.
My concern with this came from what I believe to be the reason that particular image was used for this particular post. I think it points to a far more unsettling mindset by those who are in positions to craft such narratives, which need to be laid bare and corrected. Some valid questions to ask regarding the image would be: Am I from this particular African country which was addressed? No, but perhaps just having a black face is enough? Was my traditional attire specific to that nation? No, but because it is African, its supposedly sufficient. Was I even going on this specific mission trip? Unfortunately not.
So why was this image used? Call me biased, a conspirator or one of “these entitled millennials”, but I believe I was being used as a token for Africa. Cringe. This incident points to the issue of representation. Sure, there was a recognition that African faces should represent Africa. But instead of tokenism, should we maybe not think of hiring individuals who will add value not only by ticking a “diversity” box, but because of the value of their perspective and their lived experience?
This genuine and equal representation would take intentional effort, but it would also take our churches and institutions of worship towards an active realisation that some individuals may have had more access to power, thereby influencing the ideas and practices of institutions over centuries.
Should any one part of identity trump the other? Does spirituality supersede racial identity and my experience of blackness? Is it possible that my multiple identities – and yes, my blackness – can be affirmed in church in a way that doesn’t venerate but rather gives dignity to an identity which for centuries was deemed inferior?
Is it possible, as rapper and activist Amisho Baraka said, to submit this black identity to a Christian identity in a way that will accentuate an individual’s spirituality and purpose as a God-image bearer?
Some would argue no. Some black folk have all but given up on the church, even Christianity itself. Call us entitled, techno-savvy and narcissistic, but millennials are also a value-driven generation, thoughtful about racial justice among other social justice issues.
Movements like #RhodesMustFall and #FeesMustFall proved the conscious awareness not only of blackness, but the whole black experience. Will these previously degraded identities find distinctiveness in Christ without further minimisation?
Too many have noted the inconsistencies in our churches and the narratives we choose to tell, and are tired of a God and church that has been “captured by white power”, as theologian and pastor Xola Skosana voiced. These young people are leaving the church, tired of a Jesus used to silence them into assimilation.
So my advice to church leaders is: don’t shy away from the charged language of a “decolonised Christianity”. Rather than being slaves to comfort, let’s embrace the awkward and difficult places such conversations will lead us to; let’s not sacrifice them in the name of a superficial “unity” or imaginary apolitical stance. Let’s not let our imperfection be an excuse for inaction.