By Subhasree Nag
Back in the mid-1900s, something big started happening in Black churches. They weren’t just spaces for Sunday worship anymore—they became engines of change.
By the 1950s and ’60s, pastors and church folks were stepping up, using their moral weight and community strength to go head-to-head with segregation.
And honestly? They played a massive role.
Historian Henry Louis Gates Jr. put it plain and simple: without the Black church, those major wins—the Civil Rights Act in ’64, the Voting Rights Act in ’65—probably wouldn’t have happened when they did. Maybe not at all.
For people like John Lewis, being part of that fight wasn’t separate from faith—it was faith in action.
What Was The Black Church In Black History?
The Black Church is a deeply-rooted institutional backbone of the African American community and symbolizes the collectivistic culture that is deeply ingrained in the lives of African Americans.
It has remained the focal point of faith, spiritual nourishment, and social connection for African Americans
But what about the history? What was the Black Church in Black history? If that is what you want to know, here are a few things that you need to know:
Mass Meetings And Marches
The churches? Yeah, they were the heartbeat of it all. Not just for praying, but for planning.
Like in Selma—Brown Chapel AME wasn’t just a building; it was the launchpad. That’s where the Selma-to-Montgomery marches took off.
According to the National Park Service (and really, just about everyone who was there), Brown Chapel and the people inside it were key.
It became a home base for organizers, especially the Southern Christian Leadership Conference (SCLC).
Then came Bloody Sunday—March 7, 1965. Hundreds gathered at Brown Chapel, even though protest marches had been banned.
They marched anyway. They didn’t make it far. At the Edmund Pettus Bridge, state troopers went after them—hard.
People got beaten, bloodied… and the cameras caught it. That footage spread across the country, and public support exploded. Five months later? Boom—the Voting Rights Act was signed.
But this wasn’t just about Selma. All over the South, churches were buzzing—Ebenezer Baptist in Atlanta, Dexter Avenue Baptist in Montgomery, First Baptist nearby.
Leaders like Martin Luther King Jr., Ralph Abernathy, Fred Shuttlesworth, Joseph Lowery—these weren’t just preachers, they were fighters, grounded in their faith.
The SCLC, founded back in ’57, was all about nonviolence powered by Christian love. Churches gave people space to learn, to practice peaceful resistance, to figure out bus boycotts, to get folks registered to vote.
And when folks ended up in jail (which happened a lot), the churches had their backs—raising money, feeding their families. The music, the sermons—they kept everyone going when things got rough. Which they often did.
Tensions With Black Power And The Rise Of Liberation Theology
But, as the civil rights movement picked up speed, not everyone agreed on the direction. A lot of younger folks were done waiting. They didn’t want slow change. They wanted it now.
That’s when the Black Power movement really started gaining traction. Groups like the Nation of Islam and other more radical thinkers started challenging the idea of just blending into white society.
They said, “Why not build our own power instead?”
The Nation of Islam? They pushed hard for Black businesses, Black schools, Black-led everything. No more relying on systems that never really cared in the first place.
They had their own paper—Muhammad Speaks—and a powerful voice in Malcolm X, who used the pulpit like a sword. His message? Liberation, by any means necessary.
Now, not all Christian leaders liked this shift. The militant vibe made some of them nervous. But others leaned in.
That’s when Black liberation theology started taking shape. In Detroit, Rev. Albert Cleage—who eventually changed his name to Jaramogi Abebe Agyeman—started preaching something different.
He said Jesus wasn’t some pale figure on a stained-glass window—Jesus was Black. And not just Black, but a revolutionary. For Cleage, fighting racism wasn’t separate from the gospel—it was the gospel.
Then James Hal Cone came in with a bombshell. In 1969, he wrote Black Theology and Black Power, and it didn’t pull any punches.
He said liberation was the core of Christianity and straight-up called out white churches for their role in slavery and silence on racism.
Cone insisted that God’s voice was in the Black experience and that standing with the oppressed wasn’t optional—it was the whole point of the gospel.
His words gave a lot of people permission to blend their faith with a fierce, unapologetic Black identity.
Women, Youth, And Everyday Activists
Here’s the truth: while the headlines were full of men in suits, the real fuel behind the movement often came from women and young folks.
Septima Clark and Ella Baker? Powerhouses. They ran grassroots education programs and pushed back against the “boys’ club” vibe in both churches and civil rights groups.
And Fannie Lou Hamer—man, what a voice. She wasn’t polished, but she was real. She once said, “I’m sick and tired of being sick and tired,” and that line stuck with people. She brought scripture into her speeches like it was second nature, and people listened.
Behind the scenes, church ladies were holding it down. Cooking, organizing, babysitting, teaching—turning their homes into freedom schools.
Youth choirs turned hymns into protest anthems. Their energy, their grit—it showed that the Black church was way more than Sunday morning sermons. It was in every pot of soup, every picket sign, every shared ride to a meeting.
From Civil Rights To Black Lives Matter
Fast forward to now, and that same energy is still alive, just in a different form. Henry Louis Gates Jr. sees Black Lives Matter as the modern child of the Black church.
And he’s not wrong. A lot of Black pastors today are marching, too. Their churches are opening doors to organizers, offering support, and lending that same moral backbone.
Of course, the issues have shifted somewhat. There’s LGBTQ rights, police brutality, and the rise of “nones” (folks who don’t really go to church anymore).
The Black church isn’t this one, unified voice anymore. Some worry it’s losing its grip. Others think it’s just evolving.
But one thing’s for sure: that tradition of tying faith to freedom? Still breathing.
Take Philadelphia Christian Church—they’re still out here doing the work. They pray, sure, but they also fight for justice, teach financial literacy, and invest in the next generation. They haven’t forgotten the lessons of Selma or the fire of liberation theology. Their sanctuaries are still places where change gets planned.
The civil rights and Black Power era taught us something big: when people bring their faith into the fight for justice, it doesn’t just change communities—it can shake the entire nation.
