The Rev. Traci Blackmon refused the easy framing. What the country was experiencing, she argued, was not a God-appointed kairos moment, but the cumulative consequence of political, moral, and theological failure. Her assessment was not rooted in cynicism, but clarity. And with the distance of more than five years, her words read less like commentary and more like diagnosis.

At the time of that interview, Blackmon served as the associate general minister of Justice and Local Church Ministries for the United Church of Christ (UCC) and senior pastor of Christ The King United Church of Christ in Florissant, Missouri. She is currently Pastor-in-Residence and Lecturer at Eden Theological Seminary and also founder of HopeBuilds LLC, a consultancy focused on building just and equitable systems.

Blackmon warned that the upheaval of 2020 could not be understood apart from a longer erosion already underway — one that had normalized cruelty, rewarded dehumanization, and sanctioned racialized violence through both policy and rhetoric. She named not only physical harm, but what she described as emotional, verbal, and spiritual violence: a culture shaped by leadership that abandoned restraint and invited others to do the same.

That framework matters now.

The fatigue many White Americans voiced not long after Floyd’s death — the desire to “move on” — and the eventual retreat from racial justice commitments — was already anticipated in Blackmon’s analysis. She understood that solidarity untethered from structural change would evaporate. And that the church, in particular, would be tempted to exchange truth for civility and reconciliation for comfort.

What many experienced in 2020 as revelation, Blackmon insisted, was simply exposure. The violence was not new; only the visibility was.

That exposure did not stop with policing. It has expanded.

In 2026, the same moral logic Blackmon identified is visible in the nation’s immigration crackdown. The language of “law and order,” the expansion of detention and deportation, and the tolerance for tearing families apart reflect the same hierarchy of human worth she warned about more than five years ago.

The church’s response has revealed its own fault lines.

Over the past five years, many congregations that once declared themselves “sanctuary churches” have quietly retreated from the practice, recalibrating commitment when legal risk, donor discomfort, or political backlash emerged. Trump’s chaotic and corrupt immigration crackdown has been reframed as a policy disagreement rather than a theological crisis. The biblical call for empathy has been reframed as “sin,” while appeals to Romans 13 have been deployed as moral cover for silence and inaction.

Blackmon’s critique in 2020 anticipated this narrowing of imagination. Her challenge was never limited to policing. It extended to the deeper stories America tells about itself — through statues, institutional memory, selective repentance, and theological silence. The question, from her perspective, was not if Christians felt compassion, but whether they were willing to relinquish power.

Hope, in Blackmon’s telling, was never sentimental. It was disciplined. Demanding. Rooted not in political turnover or symbolic gestures, but in the stubborn insistence on human dignity — even when public leadership, public theology, and public discourse abandoned it.

Reading her words now, the uncomfortable truth is this: the question was never whether 2020 would change everything. The question was whether we would listen to those who understood what was being revealed — and act accordingly.

What Has Not Changed

In 2026, police still kill Black people at disproportionate rates — a trend that has remained tragically consistent since 2020, with Black Americans still being killed at more than twice the rate of White Americans. Public support for racial justice remains cyclical and conditional. And the immigration system has hardened into a mechanism of fear, marked by violent enforcement and policies that preference whiteness and wealth.

Churches remain fractured along political lines while calling that division “theology.” Many have chosen proximity to power over proximity to the vulnerable, accepting an enforcement regime that racially profiles as regrettable but necessary.

What has not changed is the through-line Blackmon named in 2020: a society increasingly willing to trade human dignity for the illusion of order. What has also not changed is Black clarity.

Blackmon’s insistence that the church must decide whether it will restore dignity or reinforce exclusion remains unanswered. The reckoning she described did not end. It metastasized, finding new targets and familiar justifications.

👉 Read the full, previously unpublished Q&A with the Rev. Traci Blackmon

👉 Read the original feature with other Black Christian leaders: “Redeeming the Time: Black Christian Leaders on the Nation’s Reckoning and Racial ‘Awakening’”

Editor’s note: This article was drafted with the assistance of AI and edited by a human for accuracy, clarity, and context.

But if we look closer at the history, and the theology, the picture often looks quite different than the Eurocentric, porcelain figures many may be accustomed to seeing.

For this holiday edition of Rewind, we are reaching back to a conversation with author Dorena Williamson about pivotal children’s book, Brown Baby Jesus. While the book is for children, the message is a sophisticated and necessary challenge for adults, especially today.

In a time when cultural divisions may feel sharper than ever, and the question of “who belongs” dominates news headlines, Williamson invites us to look at the Incarnation as it actually happened: A Middle-Eastern child, born into a messy, multiethnic family tree, who would soon become a refugee in Africa.

This isn’t just about historical accuracy (though a brown-skinned Jesus is certainly more historically accurate than a blue-eyed one). It is about the theology of belonging. As Williamson notes, when we whitewash the Nativity, we inadvertently tell a vast majority of the world that they are spectators to the story of God, rather than participants in it.

The story of Christmas is that God entered the world through a specific lineage, one that includes outsiders and those ostracized (like Rahab and Tamar) to save everyone.

We are re-sharing this Q&A today because, amid the wrapping paper and the Christmas hymns, we need to be reminded of the radical inclusivity of the manger.

Take some time and read (or listen to) the original interview with Williamson, which explores why representation in the Nativity matters not just for our children’s self-esteem, but for the integrity of our faith.

Read the full, original interview: ‘Brown Baby Jesus’ Celebrates Jesus’ Messy, Multiethnic Family Tree

Editor’s note: This article was drafted with the assistance of AI and edited by a human for accuracy, clarity, and context.

Now, after a deadly shooting, immigration from “third world countries” are being “permanently paused.” Trump’s announcement, also initiating what he calls “reverse migration,” has likely intensified fear and uncertainty among immigrants and their loved ones.

For some U.S.-born Christians, these policies may seem like a win for national security and the rule of law. But for many others, including those with a heart for the missions and evangelization, these headlines should trigger a deep, uncomfortable dissonance.

That dissonance is exactly what Beth Watkins captured in her prophetic essay, “The Great Commission, Immigration and Christian Hypocrisy.”

Although written years ago, Watkins’ words feel like they were penned just yesterday. In our latest Rewind, we are bringing this piece 👇 back to the forefront because it exposes a spiritual blind spot that has become dangerous in 2025.

The ‘Good’ Illegal vs The ‘Bad’ Illegal

Watkins, a former missionary in North Africa, pulls back the curtain on a dirty secret of U.S. missionaries abroad: they are often the illegal immigrants.

She describes how American missionaries frequently enter “closed countries” on tourist, business, or student visas. They often lie to customs agents about their true intent. They overstay. They “flout the rules.”

And the U.S. church applauds them. We call it “creative access.” We say they are obeying God rather than man. We justify their deception because the mission — spreading the gospel — is too important to be stopped by a border agent.

But when the roles are reversed?

Watkins writes:

“When it comes to Christian missions and service, we grant ourselves benefits we would deny others, and flout rules abroad that we fervently demand adherence to at home. We are immigration hypocrites.”

Why It Matters in 2025

Today, as the White House revokes thousands of visas and targets international students under the banner of “America First,” this hypocrisy is apparent.

If American Christians support policies that categorically view international students and migrants from the “Third World” as threats to be purged, how can we simultaneously expect those same nations to welcome American students and American workers?

If we cheer when the U.S. tightens its visa regime to “protect our culture,” do we lose the right to complain when a North African or Asian government denies a visa to a missionary to protect theirs?

Watkins recounts a stinging encounter with a missions professor who aggressively advocated for Muslim bans and border walls in the U.S., only to turn around and ask for prayer regarding his own difficult visa renewal in a foreign country. He wanted open borders for his ministry, but closed borders for his neighbor.

As ICE agents rappel out of helicopters over Chicago apartments, stake out schools, and raid churches, we have to confront the uncomfortable question: Is our commitment to the gospel real, or is our theology of migration dictated by the comfort of citizenship rather than the commands of Christ?

Read Watkins’ full, original essay: “The Great Commission, Immigration and Christian Hypocrisy” here.

Editor’s note: This article was drafted with the assistance of AI and edited by a human for accuracy, clarity, and context.

In a conversation from the Faithfully Magazine Archives (👇🏾), author Alicia Akins shares a powerful memory from a time she was unemployed and struggling to make ends meet. “I didn’t have enough money to eat,” she recalls. “I was just looking for coins and things around my house to go to the dollar store.”

Yet, during a Thanksgiving dinner that same year, a friend asked a question that changed her perspective: “What makes you rich?”

“I thought, with no money to my name, what made me feel rich?” Akins says. “I started to think about how God had sustained me and fulfilled me and sort of been there for me during that time.”

That moment launched her journey toward writing ​Invitations to Abundance​, a look at how the feasts of the Bible — and our own tables today — are designed to transform us. Her conclusion? True gratitude always spills over.

“A deep enjoyment of God’s mercy and abundance leads to us being merciful and generous with others,” Akins says. “If you want a sneak peek [of heaven], widen your tables now.”

Read the full archive interview with Alicia Akins here 🔒.

Editor’s note: This article was drafted with the assistance of AI and edited by a human for accuracy, clarity, and context.

But if we revisit our 2020 FM interview (👇🏾) with Chicago pastor Daniel Hill, we’ll understand that this administration’s open implementation of a hierarchy of human value isn’t just political, but also deeply spiritual.

Hill argued that white supremacy is not just a social structure, but a spiritual formation system. It functions essentially as a “rival gospel,” one that is constantly discipling us. This reality is evident in the ongoing, unashamed public emergence of White male pastors and influencers who espouse racism and cruelty as theology.

The current Republican administration is engaging in aggressive discipleship, constantly signaling from the top down who matters to God and who doesn’t.

The ‘Lie’ in Policy Form

Hill, author of White Lies and White Awake, defines the central “lie” of white supremacy as the belief that White lives are the standard of human value, and all others are deviations or threats.

When the administration attacks DEI initiatives, it is legally protecting that standard. When refugee policy explicitly preferences White South Africans — on false pretenses — it is reinforcing the narrative that whiteness is “endangered” and deserving of special protection, while Black and Brown lives are disposable.

This isn’t just politics; it is a theological claim. It is an assertion that the Imago Dei (Image of God) is hierarchical.

As Hill told FM then:

“I can’t be a faithful follower of Christ without absolutely hating white supremacy and doing everything I know how to resist, confront, and uproot the ideology.”

Moving from ‘Woke’ to ‘Resistant’

In 2020, many of us fell into the trap of thinking “being woke” (aware) was the finish line. Hill warned against this. He argued, in a sense, that awareness without resistance is just voyeurism.

The events of 2025 are exposing the difference between those who know racism is wrong and those who are spiritually formed to resist it. There are some Christians who see the dehumanizing tactics of ICE agents and simply feel terrible. Then there are others who know that what they see is an assault on the Body of Christ.

If Hill is right in his claim that “to love Jesus is to hate white supremacy,” then the response to these policies cannot be passive. Christians cannot claim to love the Creator while remaining neutral toward policies that hunt down His creation based on their skin color, accent, or perceived ethnicity.

A Liturgy of Resistance

The “white lies” interview should reminds us that we are in a battle over truth.

The administration tells a story of scarcity, difference, and fear: They’re taking your jobs, eating your pets, and jumping ahead of you at the E.R.

Christians are called to tell a better story. A Jesus story. A true story. A story where the refugee is Jesus in disguise (Matthew 2), where the wall of hostility is broken down (Ephesians 2), and where our security comes from God, not from a white ethnostate.

If Hill is right — if loving Jesus requires hating white supremacy — then this moment demands practices of resistance: prayer that forms courage, worship that unmasks idols, solidarity that costs something, and public witness that refuses to be silent.

We are being discipled daily. The only question is: by whom?

With the threat of a third Trump term looming — whether through strong-arm tactics or subterfuge — being better voters is not the goal; we need better worshippers. We need Christians whose worship of Jesus is so authentic that they cannot stomach the idol of white supremacy, no matter how legally it is packaged.

Read the full archive interview with Daniel Hill here 🔒.

Editor’s note: This article was drafted with the assistance of AI and edited by a human for accuracy, clarity, and context.