Ending Oppression Isn’t a Priority for White Jesus.

I grew up in a white evangelical church in the U.S. — the kind where everything we believed, everything we practiced, even the way we pictured Jesus, was white.

Photo by Javy Luzania on Unsplash

Our white Jesus had lots of rules but not much to say about injustice — unless it was about Christians being “persecuted.” We were taught to see ourselves, especially fellow white Christians, as the ones being treated unfairly.

And we didn’t question him. We didn’t question the pastors or leaders who spoke in his name. We trusted that if we prayed hard enough, stayed away from “sin,” and followed the rules, everything would work out. Not just in heaven, but here on earth, too — especially if you were white, straight, and male.

As a white girl in that world, I learned early how to be “good.” Quiet. Polite. Pure. I learned how to nod along when men preached from the pulpit. I learned to swallow my discomfort when questions about poverty or racism or sexism got brushed aside in favor of sermons about obedience and eternity.

Or when ‘love’ for LGBTQ+ people came wrapped in debates about a so-called sinful ‘lifestyle,’ with the familiar line, ‘love the sinner, hate the sin.’ Or when wealth and success were celebrated as signs of God’s favor, leaving little room to question what that meant for people who weren’t thriving.

No one said it directly, but the message was clear — the men in charge had the power. Power wasn’t something to question. It was something you submitted to — or, if you were lucky, something you received.

And Jesus? In the version I was handed, he wasn’t there to challenge unjust human systems — or to reveal how whiteness and power shaped our faith. No, the Jesus I grew up with was cast more like a conqueror. He was reimagined as someone who would secure victory for us — white American Christians. White Jesus and his people weren’t here to unsettle the system but to take it over — everyone would follow, or be left behind.

It took me years — and a lot of unlearning — to recognize how much that version of faith was shaped by whiteness. How it trained me to care more about being “right” than being loving. How it made it easy to ignore people who were suffering, or to quietly blame them for their pain. How it taught me to look up for salvation while ignoring the hell so many people were living through right here and now.

Looking back, I can see it more clearly — that “white Jesus” was never meant to free anyone. He was about protecting the powerful. And today, that same version — sometimes more polished, sometimes crueler — still shows up across the U.S.

We see it when white Christians cling to control, telling stories about “family values” or “religious freedom” that really just preserve their own comfort. We see it in laws written to exclude, in policies that punish the vulnerable, in churches and public life that care more about protecting power than loving neighbors.

But the Jesus I know now? He looks nothing like that.

He doesn’t stay bound by the systems people build. He unsettles them. He cracks them open. He makes space where people have been boxed in. He creates room for dignity, for healing, for freedom.

He’s not a CEO or a gatekeeper. He’s not impressed by church attendance or bank accounts. He doesn’t ignore people who are hurting. He doesn’t shame people for asking hard questions. And he certainly doesn’t align himself with empire — or with whiteness.

This Jesus — born brown, poor, and powerless — cares about the very people so many churches push aside. He flips tables. He moves toward those society forgets. He calls us to love, not to control.

That’s the faith I’m holding onto now. A faith rooted in justice. In equity. In mutual care and liberation.

And honestly? It means letting go of much of the faith I grew up with. Because a faith that centers whiteness, silences women, protects the powerful, and looks away from injustice — that’s not a faith I can call home anymore.

I still believe in community. In spirituality. In Jesus and God. But the God I trust now is bigger than any one group or perspective—far beyond what our human imagination can box in. A faith that makes room for everyone — and for all of life’s complexity.

I’m choosing love. Even if it means saying goodbye to the spiritual home I once knew.