A Bit of ‘Workin it Out”: Colonialism, Slavery, Religion, and Leadership
Current Knowledge and Belief
I approach colonialism, slavery, and religious empire with a mix of conviction and ongoing uncertainty. My theological formation and pastoral experience predispose me to view human dignity and the image of God as central. Human flourishing is undermined by humanity’s rejection of God in the Garden of Eden, which ushered in violence, conflict, power struggles, oppression, and coercion. I feel morally compelled to name and lament it. Educationally and theologically, I have been shaped by a Christian anthropology that acknowledges human depravity and the recurring misuse of power throughout history. Culturally, I have inherited a Western awareness of guilt and a postcolonial sensitivity to historical injustice. My emotional response to these topics is one of tension: both lament for the pain caused and gratitude for the gospel’s ability to expose sin and offer redemption. I also find myself feeling frustrated at the oversimplification, reductionism, and polarization that accompany these topics. While I resist simplistic condemnations or romanticized narratives, I see colonialism and slavery as mirrors reflecting the corruption of the human heart. My beliefs are driven more by personal conviction than collective memory, yet they are continually refined by listening to diverse voices, such as those I encountered in South Africa, where the legacies of Dutch, British, imported slaves, and tribal histories intertwine in both pain and possibility.¹
The Global and Ongoing Reality of Slavery
Jeremy Black’s account of slavery expands moral awareness by revealing that slavery is not uniquely Western but universal. He reminds readers that servitude has existed across civilizations, including African and Islamic contexts, long before the Atlantic trade. Black observes, “Slavery is like war… with force and servitude being open to varying definitions.”² This breadth of history reframes moral judgment: it cautions against viewing Western colonialism as the sole expression of human evil. Instead, it invites us to confront the shared moral failure of humanity. During my time in Cape Town, I saw how selective memory distorts reality. Some emphasize colonial guilt while ignoring modern human trafficking and political exploitation. As one South African leader noted, the ANC now perpetuates its own racialized injustices. This reinforces the danger Black warns of, that confronting the past without moral consistency leads to hypocrisy. Christian theology insists on truth-telling rooted in universal sin and redemption. To overlook ongoing slavery is to deny both justice and grace. Leadership requires facing the whole truth, guided by compassion rather than blame.³
Religion, War, and Counterfactual History
Religion’s role in colonialism and conquest reveals both distortion and devotion. Throughout history, theological narratives have been wielded to justify imperial ambition. From Islamic caliphates to European Christendom, conquest was often baptized in divine language. Yet even within empire, faith produced prophetic dissent. Missionaries sometimes served as agents of both spiritual and moral confrontation. My experience in South Africa confirmed this complexity when I learned the Church became both the site of struggle and the source of reconciliation. Dr. Solomons emphasized that dismantling apartheid depended on a theology of atonement: without it, Christianity collapses into moralism. Biggar’s moral reasoning echoes this when he argues that the morality of policy depends on intent rather than mere consequence, noting that when good intentions fail, “the fitting response is not blame, but compassion.”⁴ This offers a model for Christian leadership: we engage history with humility, recognizing that moral complexity does not negate moral truth. Counterfactuals, such as what Europe or Christianity might have become under Islamic conquest, remind us that providence and freedom coexist. Leaders must read history neither as triumphalist myth nor cynical lament, but as a moral dialogue under grace.
The Costs and Benefits of Colonialism
Biggar resists simplistic narratives that depict British colonialism as driven purely by racism or greed. He argues, “There was no essential motive or set of motives that drove the British Empire,” but rather a range of intentions such as economic, political, missionary, and moral.⁵ This complexity allows for moral evaluation without moral collapse. While acknowledging the atrocities of exploitation, displacement, and enslavement, we can also recognize the enduring legacies of law, infrastructure, and education. My time in South Africa illuminated this paradox. Some see post-apartheid South Africa as a flourishing rainbow nation; others lament the persistence of inequality and mistrust. Christo van der Rheede identified five entrenched cultural pathologies—corruption, impunity, dependency, inequality, and division—which continue to plague progress. These problems are not remnants of empire alone but reflections of fallen humanity. Christian leadership in such contexts demands acknowledging the complexity of sin and grace in history without giving way to either nostalgia or nihilism. The leader’s task is moral discernment, judging the past with justice and compassion, seeking reconciliation, not retribution.
What You Believe Now and Why
After engaging Biggar, Black, and the South African context, I have grown more convinced that moral maturity requires both honesty and humility. Colonialism and slavery are not merely Western sins but human ones. They are the reflections of the same pride that alienated humanity from God. Yet within that darkness, I also see the redemptive potential of confession and reconciliation. I agree with Biggar that moral evaluation must consider intention as well as effect,⁶ and with Black that truth-telling about history must resist ideological simplification.⁷ I now believe that leadership grounded in the gospel must confront evil without erasing complexity. We should set aside binary thinking and embrace the complexity of the gray areas. The unresolved tension lies in balancing justice for victims with grace toward the repentant. In public discourse, the Christian leader’s posture must be cruciform—truthful, humble, and redemptive. As Mandela’s effort to unify a divided nation through shared identity showed (Go Springboks!), reconciliation is not denial but the hard work of building a moral future on the foundation of atonement. Biggar and Black harmonize with Frank Furedi’s insights and reinforce the importance of resisting historical oversimplification and maintaining a careful, morally grounded engagement with the past.⁸
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¹ Nigel Biggar, Colonialism: A Moral Reckoning, (London: William Collins, 2023), 12.
² Jeremy Black, A Brief History of Slavery, (London: Robinson, 2011), 2.
³ Jeremy Black, A Brief History of Slavery, 290.
⁴ Biggar, Colonialism, 12.
⁵ Biggar, Colonialism, 44.
⁶ Biggar, Colonialism, 65.
⁷ Black, A Brief History of Slavery, 290.
⁸ Frank Furedi, The War Against the Past: Why the West Must Fight for Its History, (Medford, MA: Polity Press, 2024).
About the Author
Chad Warren
A husband, father, pastor, teacher, and student seeking to help others flourish.8 responses to “A Bit of ‘Workin it Out”: Colonialism, Slavery, Religion, and Leadership”
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Rev. Dr. Warren,
This is a wonderful post—thank you. I really appreciated how you’re working out such a complex subject. Your line, “I feel morally compelled to name and lament it,” especially stood out to me. It takes courage to hold that kind of tension with honesty and humility.
I think it was Furedi who warned against the tendency toward self-flagellation when confronting difficult histories, and your reflection made me think about that balance. What does it look like for you to name and lament these wrongs faithfully, while still resisting the pull toward guilt or self-punishment?
Thank you for your kind words and thoughtful question. You’re right, Furedi does warn against the cultural tendency toward self-flagellation when confronting painful histories. I think that’s an important caution. Genuine lament isn’t about wallowing in guilt or performing remorse; it’s about truth-telling in the presence of God.
To name and lament faithfully, for me, means acknowledging sin and brokenness, whether personal, collective, or historical, without assuming the posture of savior or judge. It’s to grieve what grieves God, not to atone for it myself. Theologically, the difference is crucial: guilt looks inward, but lament looks upward. Lament invites dependence on God’s mercy and justice rather than human self-punishment or moral performance.
Chad, you are an intellectual force to be reckoned with. What a cogent analysis! I particularly appreciated how biblically-based the analysis is, such as this: “Dr. Solomons emphasized that dismantling apartheid depended on a theology of atonement: without it, Christianity collapses into moralism.”
What might be the biblical basis for countermanding any sort of institutional denigration of anyone at all, whether because of race, gender, religion, etc.?
Thank you, Debbie, for your thoughtful and encouraging comment. I wouldn’t consider myself much of an intellectual force, especially since I had to look up the word “countermanding”! Your question invited some deeper reflection, and if I understand it correctly, I think the biblical basis for rejecting any institutional denigration of people is rooted in the Imago Dei (Gen. 1:27), which affirms the equal dignity of all human beings. Scripture reveals God’s impartiality (Acts 10:34; Rom. 2:11) and Christ’s work in breaking down barriers between groups (Eph. 2:14; Gal. 3:28), calling believers to embody justice and love of neighbor. The prophets condemn unjust structures (Isa. 10:1–2), and in reading Francis Schaeffer’s “A Christian Manifesto” several years ago, I came to see more clearly how Christians may be called to principled civil disobedience when institutions contradict God’s moral order. Together, these have shaped my foundation and approach to challenging discriminatory systems of any kind.
Chad,
I loved this statement, “We should set aside binary thinking and embrace the complexity of the gray areas.”
Being in the complex gray areas can be challenging. It often feels isolating and lonely. After Kirk’s murder, I wrote something from the gray area and had both sides of people angry at me. It happens often. As a pastor, how do you find navigating the tension of the gray area?
Thank you for sharing that and for the courage it takes to live from the gray. You’re right—it can feel isolating and can make you feel like you belong nowhere.
Dr. Jason recently helped our cohort understand affective polarization—the tendency not just to disagree with those who see the world differently, but to distrust or dislike them because of it. That makes living in the gray so challenging. The pull toward ideological camps is strong, and both sides often reward loyalty while punishing thoughtful engagement.
As a pastor, I’ve found the only way to remain in that space faithfully is not alone. I need a few trusted companions committed to truth and grace who help me wrestle honestly without retreating into cynicism or tribalism. Being in the gray with others keeps me grounded; discernment is a communal practice, not a solitary one. We must remain committed to listening more than labeling and avoid the affective polarization that is so common and tempting.
Chad,
I spent a lot of time with your blog this morning and deeply appreciating your work and perspective. Your writing consistently contrasts, balances, and drives us toward the nuance necessary for reconciliation. You commit us to living in the tension of brokeness with the hope of redemption. How might “preach” this to lead your congregation to live in the tension rather than the edges? eg, are there particular passages, series, or other means you have employed?
Thank you for such kind and thoughtful engagement.
For me, it begins with the conviction that the gospel itself lives in that tension. The cross holds together judgment and mercy, justice and grace, death and resurrection. So rather than trying to resolve the tension, I try to help our church see Christ in it.
Just last Friday, I was meeting with a couple, and we spent time in 2 Corinthians 12, where Paul confesses that God’s power is made perfect in weakness. It’s such a powerful picture of grace meeting us, not in our strength or certainty, but in our limits. I often return to passages like that as well as Peter’s denial and restoration in John 21, or Jesus’ prayer in Gethsemane. I am reminded of the way that faith matures in those gray, in-between spaces where we lean not on our own understanding or assessment of motives or context, but on the Spirit for discernment.