Religious Trauma and Race

The following transcript has been lightly edited for improved readability. You can access the full unedited video on our online course platform.

Suandria Hall: Anthony Pinn. Hello, sir.

Anthony Pinn: Hello, how are you?

Suandria Hall: I'm well, and I'm so excited to chat with you today!

First off, I want to say thank you. In my journey from belief to non belief, it was pretty lonely. Especially trying to find people of color, not even people, Black people that understood this walk, this journey. I bumped into a YouTube video about five years ago or so, it was “How a Good Methodist Became a Better Atheist.” And I said, “let me see what this guy's talking about, what is this?” And it was like this instant, “oh my gosh, he gets it, He gets it. He gets it!” And I just want to say thank you for that, for speaking, and sharing, and continuing to teach. You have just been a tremendous distant mentor to me, and this opportunity to chat with you today, I'm just so grateful.

Anthony Pinn: I'm delighted to hear that. Thank you.

Suandria Hall: Just a little bit about my story. I’m a preacher's kid from the south. I was born into a Pentecostal religious family. My dad pastored, my uncles pastored, and my brother is a minister to this day. And I mean, we were Holy Rollers — no pants, no earrings, no makeup, speaking in tongues, casting out devils, all that stuff.

And while that was what I was born into, I had a big gap in my life where I did not participate at all. And in my mid 20s I got “for real saved,” and that was a different experience for me. It was in a mega church in Atlanta — lights, camera, action. We are, you know, “blessed and highly favored.” It was just a different experience.

I always thought, and I was told, “you're a free moral agent, you get to believe or not believe, it's up to you.” Over a few years I slowly started to question and doubt, and allow those doubts to happen. I came to a conclusion that I don't think this is for me. And I thought, okay, I can just simply walk away. And in that walking away is when I was gripped with anxiety and fear and I don't even know what life is outside of this. While I may have been a social Christian, at some point in my life Christianity had been a part of me — my identity, everything.

And I didn't know where to go, or what to do. I didn't even know the term religious trauma, and what that even meant. But after getting help finding community, healing, growing, that's how this became a part of my practice. I am a clinician that specializes in trauma, specifically religious trauma. And so, it's a walk that I've taken for myself, and I'm helping clients to walk through that now.

Anthony Pinn: Excellent. Thanks for sharing that.

Suandria Hall: I would love for you to share a bit of your story, your introduction to religion and the exiting process. How was that for you?

Anthony Pinn: Well, I grew up in Buffalo, New York. My mother's side of the family, fairly religious. My grandfather was a deacon at a small Baptist Church in Lackawanna which is outside the city of Buffalo, New York. It was the location for Bethlehem Steel — a big steel industry town. And so we would pack up the car, and we went to church with my grandfather. It reached a stage though, where my mother decided it was not the environment for us, that she didn't want us to continue in an environment where the opportunities for women in the church were restricted by an artificial barrier. And so we started attending an independent church, five minutes from where we lived in Buffalo. We were involved, and church was a second family.

My Church wasn't just Sunday. It was during the week, it was most Saturdays, it was family. And it was in that church, this small church with a minister who was my Sunday school teacher within this setting when I first thought about ministry.

During a Sunday School session, we are sitting in a circle, and the minister asked what do you want to be when you grow up? As you go around the circle, you hear the normal responses, I want to be a lawyer, Doctor, I want to be president. And when he got to me, I said, I want to be a minister. Now, I'm not quite certain why I said that. There are lots of possibilities. Within my community, the position of significant standing, the person who was constantly recognized and celebrated was the minister.

It may have been me, voicing a desire to be appreciated, to be recognized, to be understood as important, and special within a larger social environment in which I was understood as the opposite of all that — a kind of a young person’s claiming of self. But whatever my motivation, I said it. The minister's response was, “Well, okay, we start next week.”

Childhood was over. I was sitting in the pulpit, I was lining the hymns, I was opening the doors of the church, I was saying the prayers, reading scripture. This church eventually became a part of the African Methodist Episcopal Church, and I started the formal process towards ministry. I knew that I had to get out of Buffalo, there just wasn't enough drive and enough ambition. I needed to get out.

It just so happened that the minister, my father in ministry, Fred Lucas, had been reassigned to a church in Brooklyn, and I got into Columbia and decided that was the place for me. I decided that's where the Lord wants me, this is the leading of the Lord. I was going to transform New York for Jesus. 

I got there, and I encountered people who did not believe what I believed in and weren't worried about it. I'd gone to a Southern Baptist high school where hell was real and heaven was real, and these were folks who did not believe in Jesus, we're not saved, sanctified, Holy-Ghost filled, and were not upset about it. And here's what really got me. So many of them treated me better than folks in my Christian family, talked about me less behind my back than some of the folks who were saved, and wished me well with more energy and passion than some of the folks who said Jesus is the way. 

But what really got me was, I was theologically ill-equipped to deal with circumstances. Now, this is New York during the rise of crack cocaine, and I'm seeing people in profound misery. I'm encountering kids who are having an easier time describing their eulogy than thinking about and expressing hope for a bright future. And I had nothing to offer.

It became extremely difficult for me to be in that pulpit, uncertain to what I was preaching. I was still interested in ministry, but I was rethinking my sense of ministry. My model for ministry was becoming Adam Clayton Powell Jr, for whom the church was an opportunity to do something meaningful in and for the world. I knew I needed to get out of New York after college because I needed to think and I needed to be in a place where Reverend Pinn didn’t have to have answers, it was okay to just have questions.

So I packed up and moved to Harvard, and over the course of time continued to have these questions concerning the usefulness of the Christian faith, and by extension, the usefulness of theism. It reached a point where I had to make a decision. I was going to stay and give my primary attention to safeguarding a tradition that I held as suspect, or I was going to leave and try to find a different way to be useful. And so I contacted the pastor of the church where I was working, and I contacted my bishop to surrender my ordination, and I left. And I wasn't just leaving the church, I was leaving theism. And it took some time for me to replace that label. I was no longer Christian, but what was I? It took some time, but I settled on this language of humanism. I wasn’t a Christian, I wasn't a theist, I was now a humanist.

Suandria Hall: You said you weren't just leaving, Christianity or religion, you were leaving theism. Did you know that pretty quickly, or did it happen in a kind of a process?

Anthony Pinn: Leaving theism took a little while. From my college years, this is beginning to ramp up. As a master of divinity student, this is beginning to ramp up. As I'm entering the PhD program, it's over. And it became increasingly hard for me over the course of those years to blame my theological understanding for this problem. It was larger than my theological understanding, it was theism. Much of this conversation for me, revolved around a central theological and philosophical concern, we call it theodicy in the trade. It's a simple question, “What can you say about God in light of human suffering in the world?” And it reached a point where my answer had to be, “nothing.” There is no God. There's no divine explanation for all this nastiness in the world. This is us being us. What can you say about God in light of human suffering in the world? Nothing. There is no God, just us.

Suandria Hall: As we talk about and discuss this in a framework of religious trauma related to the Black community, I think it's important to note that not everyone who experiences religion or leaves religion is traumatized. Some people leave and they're able to make that shift, maybe some adjustment issues and things like that, but not necessarily traumatized.

The Religious Trauma Institute, who has graciously given us this space to chat today, they've coined this phrase, “Adverse Religious Experiences: any experience of a religious belief, practice, or structure that undermines an individual's sense of safety, or autonomy, and/or negatively impacts their physical, social, emotional, relational, or psychological well-being” — the whole person is impacted.

Did you experience any of that for yourself, whether it was trauma or just an adverse religious experience as you started to transition?

Anthony Pinn: I'm not quite certain what term or phrase I would use to name it, but let me explain it this way. I had spent most of my life thinking about what to think and what to do, based upon a set of doctrines, and creeds that held me as a human, suspect. That understood me as a human, as prone to nastiness, prone to disregard, to disrespect, and that this was a part of my very DNA as a human.

That was a burden to bear — to constantly move through the world assuming that I'm getting it wrong, and that the way to get it right, isn't fully evident to me. There's a kind of mystery to getting things right, there's a kind of mystery to living righteously. That created a bit of dissonance for me.

Part of this dissonance involved moving from a position in which I understood myself as living out and working through divine will, divine mandates, and being part of a larger invisible battle, to full and sole accountability and responsibility for my movement through the world.

That took a little work to move away from the moral and ethical codes I inherited as a Christian, and the kind of animosity and suspicion towards the human animal. Moving away from that, to a full sense that I'm capable and responsible. That was a bit difficult.

Suandria Hall: That's a large part of this work with my religious trauma clients, “I've chosen freedom, I don't have to believe anymore,” but the weight of that freedom is so heavy, because I've always had somewhere to go. We were given all the answers. It's like, “sit down, take the steps, but here are the answers. This is what you do.” And especially for those of us that grew up in it, our development is hindered. Those things that are natural for a child to experience are cut off, are thwarted. “Here are the answers. You don't have to figure anything out.”

There's no discovery. It's handed to you. For a lot of my clients, it's a terrifying place to be in. They want it, they lean into it, but I'm definitely helping them walk through rebuilding confidence, values, what it means to rely on themselves, and to take risks for themselves, because there's no guide to provide that guidance.

Anthony Pinn: Yeah, it's tricky. I think this depends on the particular church and the particular denomination. I think it's more intense in some than in others. And I would argue it's more intense in evangelical settings than it is in some others. But there are ways in which Black Christians can be psychologically beaten down, we are trained to understand ourselves as less than and unimportant. Our value stems only from our ability to connect to this force that is larger than us. That we are beings that, by our very nature, are prone to nastiness, ill-equipped under formed. There's a kind of abuse that can take place psychologically. And that is tied to a deep suspicion and disregard for our physical form.

We Black Christians can be trained to hold suspect any of our natural yearnings and desires. For example, so many Black churches have a horrible perspective on human sexuality. That these are natural desires that we are taught have to be controlled, have to be disciplined. And there are ways in which this comes across in our imagery.

We have an image of Christ, and for a whole lot of Black folks, they made a radical move and they understand Christ as Black. But we don't understand Jesus as having a penis. And what did he do with this penis? This is some of the worst criticism I've received, making that sort of statement. But we don't have a sense, within that context of Black Christianity, of how to understand and appreciate our own bodies, and by extension, how to understand and appreciate the bodies of others because we have a model that is asexual.

Suandria Hall: This is also something that a lot of the women clients that I have, you're taught that you're the reason that men could fall and stumbled. To cover up. The messaging is the body is dangerous, is to be covered, hidden, kept at bay, don't feel anything, don't experience anything. I have clients who can't even go see the gynecologist without having these visceral responses because they've been shut down through this teaching this belief that they embodied at that point.

Anthony Pinn: And then there's often a flawed effort to make a direct translation from the biblical world to our contemporary moment. And we torture ourselves and we torture others in that context by trying to do that. We tell folks no premarital sex, no sex out of wedlock, wait till you get married. And they base this upon a biblical world in which marriage took place at a much younger age. And we say this in a context in which folks are waiting to get married.

And forget about how horrific Black church thinking and preaching can be, with respect to homosexuality and trans realities. They just don't have a way to discuss those issues and do it in a sense that is affirming and forward thinking. Here you have another example, in many Black church contexts, folks being trained to despise themselves and being spiritually rewarded for how well they do that.

Suandria Hall: Do you think, with that in mind, this belief system, this Christianity in this form that evangelicalism, that heavy dogma, are we as Black people more susceptible to that, especially with this introduction through slavery? Does that make it a little bit easier to take on? “I'm already wretched.” Does that resonate with us in a different way?

Anthony Pinn: That’s complicated. Black folks are in churches for a range of reasons, and some of those reasons involve things like social networking, cultural connection, economic opportunity. For folks who are in Black churches for those reasons, this theology is secondary — you stomach it in order to get the stuff you are really interested in.

I don't know that it would be fair for me to say that this is the case, that all Black folks are in church, for the same reason or are encountering church in the same way. I don't know that that's the case. Involvement in Black churches has always been complex.

I will say that for some Black folks in the context of a world that is death-dealing and hates them to the point of death, this kind of affirmation, even when it's spiritualize, the kind of affirmation they secure within Black churches, even if it's as simple as having a title, for them, this is a wonderful alternative to the nastiness of the world. And I think you get some Black folks who are in churches and maintain church membership for those sorts of reasons. It becomes a way of combating some dimensions of anti-Black racism, but at a cost.

Suandria Hall: I was thinking about how, in my childhood church... just a little background here. My parents got saved, they were 16 in an even smaller town in Alabama. This pastor came through and pitched a tent, you know those tent revivals? But they were amazing, this Black couple, they preached with confidence, they weren't afraid. And my parents grew up with colored water fountains, and you wait in the hallway to see the doctor after the white people in the front were seen first, if the doctor wanted to wait around to see you. You're just trying to be a human being that's cared for at this point.

So this Black couple comes to town confident, preaching the word, they had all the glitz and glam, especially related to this small town that they came to. As I research my family's history around this, it's no wonder that, “oh, this is the answer, here's my example.” And what they also did was help people get jobs, make sure these teenagers finished school, they were very involved. There were some other parts that seemed a little cultish as I discovered, but there were so much that that church offered. And I get that.

Now, moving into this mega church that I went to, with all the resources in the world, I saw less of that kind of involvement. We would go “soul winning” on Saturdays. They would bus us into these inner city neighborhoods to knock on people's doors to bring them to Jesus. I did that once. One time with them, because I felt like, number one, Black people know who Jesus is. We're not introducing anything new in this community. And then two, I just felt like it was such an arrogant approach. Maybe if we survey the area first and figure out what people actually need and meet those needs, but just knock on the door and say, “hey, let me tell you about Jesus.” It was just disturbing to me.

I was wondering, I know that your experience was with the AME church, was there much around social justice, community involvement, was that part of your experience?

Anthony Pinn: I think it was a kind of secondary benefit fit to AME theology at its best. But on the local level within my context, it was not a primary consideration. It was a kind of offshoot of the, “God made you, and God doesn't make junk. Get yourself right with God.” It was kind of an offshoot of that, “if God doesn't make junk and God made you by extension, X, Y, and Z.” But we spent more time trying to bring people to Jesus then trying to change anti-Black racist behavior within our city.

Suandria Hall: What would you say in light of adverse religious experiences, that would be the maybe the greatest impact on the Black community as relates to church involvement?

Anthony Pinn: Let me provide a positive example, and then a negative example. I'll provide the negative example first. Black churches, the theology at its worst, can result in a decreased sense of self that does us harm, that makes us ill-equipped to battle anti-Black racism. Such a low sense of our value, our worth our capacity, that we put up with nonsense.

And this is tied to the response to that question I mentioned, “what can you say about God, in light of human suffering the world?” So many Black Christians answer that question, by trying to find something redemptive in suffering, “no cross, no crown.” That sort of thinking, from my mind, prevents us from holding the system fully accountable. Because even in our misery, there is some good. How do we hold folks accountable for anti-Black racism, and do that in a sustained way, if we see something useful in the misery we encounter? It seems to me that one of the worst things Black churches have done to Black people, is hamper our ability to effectively address moral evil in the world, to effectively address anti-Black racism.

At their best, churches have provided a space with resources, education, educational opportunities, leadership, training, and communication networks. At their best, they have provided those sorts of things. At their worst, they have prevented us from developing mature ways of dealing with moral evil in the world, and have prevented us from developing mature ways of dealing with anti-Black racism in the world. Because we see some ultimate benefit in this stuff. Why? Because if God is real, and God is loving, kind, just, and compassionate, and God allows this in the world, it must have some benefit. And I don't know again, how we do sustained justice work with that reasoning in place.

Suandria Hall: It's almost like this is the work, like you said, this is my cross to bear. This is part of my calling. I have to take this.

Anthony Pinn: In the world, not of it.

Suandria Hall: Yes, and heaven is the goal. We can take this. We can suffer here, because heaven is the goal.

Anthony Pinn: Yes, “this is not always” and we kind of grit our teeth, hold our breath, move through it looking for heaven. That is horrendous.

Suandria Hall: It's awful. You said this is what the Black church has done. Is that the case, or is it part of white supremacy, this upholding whiteness? So this is where Black people are going to be in this church environment?

Anthony Pinn: I think there are ways in which Black church thinking has reinforced some dimensions of white supremacy and white privilege. One of the most obvious, is a kind of uninformed acceptance of negative color symbolism. Too many Black churches don't question the way in which blackness is associated with dirt, nastiness, evil. And whiteness is associated with promise and purity.

What does it mean for children to sit in a church and sing, “wash me white as snow,” to look at a stained-glass window, see Jesus Christ and see what we associate with what is best about the universe depicted as something other than them? That makes it really difficult, but there are subtle ways in which we embrace white privilege and white supremacy. And again, I'd argue this embrace of negative color symbolism is a glaring example.

Suandria Hall: Do we not know that?

Anthony Pinn: I don't know if it's something we don't know. Or if we have passively accepted it, because it is consistent with the larger social message. You don't have to go to a church and look at a stained-glass window to see a projection of whiteness as the primary and ultimate sign of beauty. Just open a magazine or watch a movie — this message in church is partnered with this social message. Christianity has always served this social function, it has always been in line with the thinking of those in power.

Suandria Hall: It seems like this is a great time in our country to wake up so much of this. I kind of stay tuned in a little bit to some church folks, and I'm hearing some of the arguments that are happening where ministers are saying to these predominantly white churches, or predominantly white-LED churches, that it's Black people filling your pews, and you're not saying anything about what's going on. I feel like maybe there's some conversations happening now, but what I still wonder about is, why do we stay committed? Even when we see the harm, we see that we're not being spoken up for, spoken about, things are not being addressed — why do we stay committed?

Anthony Pinn: On one level, because it is the normative stance, that is so for Black folks in the United States. Black men already have a strike against them — they're Black in a country that hates blackness. Black women have at least two strikes against them — they are women in a country that is suspicious of women, violent towards women, and they are Black in a country that hates blackness. Then just add the class dynamic. You've got all of this playing out and there are ways in which, for some folks, church provides some breathing room, and they desperately grasp that.

It seems to me there's another element. That if you are those, if you are already despised within this country, why would you add another source of disregard? In this country, we tend to think if you don't believe in God, you cannot be moral and ethical. And so, what we're asking Black folks to do then is to further marginalize themselves.

I think some of the problem isn't simply the result of churches, it's the failure of humanists and atheists organizations to provide a compelling alternative. Too often, I hear, “why aren't Black people leaving churches? Why are Black people still in churches?” The better question for humanists and atheists is why aren't our organizations compelling?

Some Black folks who don't necessarily buy the theology of the church, remain, because there are some other benefits, and they don't have to further marginalize themselves. If we want them to leave, we've got to provide them with a soft place to land. Organizations that simply critique churches without providing for the needs of Black folks are not doing much work.

It also seems to me for that sustained change within these religious organizations requires a different type of move, because the theological arguments shift and change. Theology shifts and changes, but to have a more substantial impact, to have a more substantial change, requires taking from churches, whether they be black or white, two things without which they are in trouble. If they don't have these two things they are in trouble — labor and money.

If we want them to change, refuse to provide them with labor, and refuse to provide them with resources, and there will be a different revelation and a different way of behaving. They can withstand theological argument, The Black church is built on theological disagreement, they can weather that storm. The storm they can not weather is a refusal to provide them with labor and money. If folks stop tithing, folks stop showing up on Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday and Saturday to do work for the church, churches will have to rethink their stance on a variety of issues.

Suandria Hall: I would imagine that would shift the church, but it would also shift the communities. Would we kind of take a hit for a moment there while we reestablish and build. Because the church has been, even if it's not completely so, but some sort of support and place of stability?

Anthony Pinn: Yeah, I don't know how substantial that is. It seems to me, if churches, black or white, really want to do something for their local communities. They might say this, “we understand our tax structure is different, we understand that we've not been exposed to property taxes, but out of a deep and abiding concern for our communities, that money we should be paying in taxes, we're gonna give to this community.” That makes a change. But a housing development here, a food pantry there, that's a band aid. If they really want to do something, pony up and use that money that should be paid in property taxes, put that in the community. That's how you get better housing. That's how you get grocery stores. But to build some housing, hop in your car and drive away, that's not very substantive.

Suandria Hall: That was like us, knock on the door, let me introduce you to Jesus, but bye, we don't have anything else to offer you. How can we reduce these adverse religious experiences? Do you see that as part of that answer, offering real help and support in those communities?

Anthony Pinn: I think so. And also fostering opportunities for questions. It seems to me it's also a matter of encouraging folks to ask questions, and that to ask questions that center their well-being. And there are ways to ask church folks to do this in a way that is consistent with their own understanding. The Bible says to ask questions, to question, to probe. God can stand up to this. Well, use this as an opportunity to ask those questions, encourage those questions. And we can do that inside and outside of these churches. Encourage folks to ask questions that center their well-being.

Suandria Hall: Where do we learn, “Don't question God?”

Anthony Pinn: Where does this come from? From lazy ministers. Because the Bible says, “try me and know that I am God.” And God says, “okay, pose your questions. Come at me.” And a faith that cannot withstand that sort of questioning isn't worth having. It's a matter of encouraging and nurturing opportunities for questioning. And I think for those of us outside of the church, it has to be done in a way that is generous. That we can, in essence, say, “you people are stupid,” and then ask them to be in conversation.

It requires folks like us reflecting on why we were involved when we were involved. By kind of understanding, and appreciating that these folks have reasons for being there, respecting that, and encouraging conversation and encouraging questioning that that respects the fact that they have their reasons for being there.

Suandria Hall: I will admit throughout my journey of exiting, I went through this angry phase — all my time, all my money, what have I been doing? I've just been missing out on so many things. And I did have that, “church people are stupid” mentality. In my quest to learn more about the Black experience, I just started to read and to soak up books. Because before that, all my books were Bible related, written by authors that focused on the Bible, everything was Bible. So I felt really behind in a lot of things — philosophy and thought, things like that.

But Zora Neale Hurston, her videos of just life, I could just sit and watch those. And something about that just opened up my heart, and I was able to circle back and see things differently. Like you said, I can't see people like their stupid, there was a purpose in their behavior. And that helped me ask more questions and wonder about my parents and say, “oh, this makes sense. This was a place of support to help you feel strong, it was community.”

They were experiencing integration in their schools and fighting, physically fighting every day. So of course, having this safe place where Black people were praising God, and celebrating, and eating, and doing life together, it made so much sense. It helped me to approach therapy differently. In fact, I did a bit of my internship at a church on purpose, because I wanted to work all that stuff out. I didn't want to approach any human being with all of these nasty judgments, and that helped me do that.

What do you think? I know you've landed in humanism. What does humanism offer the Black community? 

Anthony Pinn: Well, let me say one other thing before getting there. It seems to me that those of us outside of these churches have to be generous and recognize that all of us are prone to faith — what shifts is the target of that faith.

Folks in churches have faith in Jesus, that Jesus is going to transform circumstances, they walk by faith, not by sight. But the rest of us Black folks live in a country that for centuries has shown us nothing but disregard, has shown us nothing but violence, and hatred. But we continue to hold on to the idea of this democratic experiment. Could someone say, that's just foolish, all of the evidence points against this, but we hold on to it? We have some sense of how this works.

And again, we need to be generous in those conversations. I think one of the things that humanism does for Black folks, humanism at its best provides a way of advancing a sense of accountability and responsibility. It provides a way of developing a deep appreciation for how we move through the world. It allows us to do what my grandmother told me was so very important, “move through the world, knowing your footsteps matter.” It gives us a way of understanding and appreciating our importance for appreciating and acting out our accountability and responsibility.

Suandria Hall: Was that an easy shift for you? And I asked that because I have yet to attach to anything. If I’m being honest, a lot of my life does resemble a humanistic approach. But I haven't accepted the label of anything currently. Maybe because that label was very dangerous in the past, and I'm just like, “oh, let me float around and just whatever works for me today, works for me today.”

Was that an easy shift for you to say, “this is where I land.” Were there others that you consider?

Anthony Pinn: It was easy for me because some of the people I was most interested in, who I found most inspiring, understood and appreciated this label. People like Richard Wright, one of my favorite writers, this sort of label made sense. I was able to point out folks within the history of African American communities who lived out these principles. I had models and those models made sense to me, so claiming this was easy.

Suandria Hall: Do we disregard them? Meaning, because for Black folks, if it ain't Jesus, I don't know how much I’m even going to hear you.

Anthony Pinn: We've allowed theists to hijack these figures, and we fail to even recognize that they were humanists, free thinkers, and atheists. We read Zora Neale Hurston, and we ignore the fact that she says prayer is for the weak-minded. We read Frederick Douglass and fail to account for his understanding and appreciation for prayer only when he used his legs. Frederick Douglass talks in terms of not a reliance on a supernatural force, but a deep desire to do for ourselves. That's when he understood the power of prayer, when he prayed with his legs. When he got up and moved.

We assumed that W.E.B. Du Bois was a believer because he wrote about the church, but he wasn't. Nella Larsen, we forget about that wonderful, novel Quicksand, and the kind of profound questions that are raised concerning theism. We forget about these figures, and theists co-opt them, “anyone who mentions church must believe it.” We've allowed others to take from us our ancestors who mark out this path.

Suandria Hall: It sounds like we're taking the same approach to this literature that we've taken to the Bible literature. Meaning that the leaders know the truth, and we're just going to listen, we don't have to dig deep into what the Bible says, we don't have to dig deep into what Nella Larsen says. It seems that we're surface, we're good.

Anthony Pinn: And we look at the impact. I think, on some level, we just don't read them. Because it doesn't take you don't have to read Alice Walker too deeply, to get a sense of her orientation. Alice Walker accepts the Humanist of Year Award from the American Humanist Association. Her vantage point is at least sympathetic to humanist principles, because she accepted this award. I would not accept Christian of the Year from the Church of God and Christ, it would not fit. She accepted this, so on some level, it must fit.

It doesn't seem to me that it really takes a lot of heavy lifting and deep probing to get a sense of this long-standing tradition of humanism, free thought, atheism within Black communities. We've worked with this rather bizarre assumption that all Black people believe and have always. That has never been the case. And I'm not quite convinced that even now we have an accurate sense of how many Black folks are theist, in part because it seems to me that Black life in the United States requires a certain level of suspicion. And you get folks coming in asking questions, what kind of information are you going to give them?

I'm not quite convinced that we have an accurate sense based upon surveys of what Black folks actually believe about theism. We know what they tell people who ask them questions, but we don't really know what they believe. Think about it. Somebody comes to your door or calls you on the phone, asking you questions. You don't know this person, what kind of information do you provide? You’re probably not going to tell them all your business, particularly on such a charged topic. So again, I don't know that we have an accurate sense of how many Black folks actually believe it over against how many Black folks understand the social value of not saying they don't believe.

Suandria Hall: How does that play a part in the political climate right now? Are people voting for self, for community, for God, what God wants? I remember losing identity and melding into this, “we're all children of God,” so, being Black was lost. Anything that me and my community needed was lost because we're children of God. I'm wondering, how we're going to show up?

Anthony Pinn: I think for some folks, particularly conservative evangelicals, they may be voting based upon what they understand as the anointing of God that God has selected a particular figure and in and and with their reasoning that doesn't. That I have questions concerning that doesn't really hold for me, you get some of these folks who say they will vote for Trump because God has selected Trump. I would think a whole lot of folks are voting in this election, this rather special election, to get someone out of office, to get someone out of office, who is not aligned with their moral and ethical sensibilities, who has made it evident over and over again, that he holds, he does not hold racial minorities in high regard.

I don't know. If we think in terms of Black folks, I don't know that a whole lot of Black folks are voting their religious inclinations, their theological points of view, as opposed to voting to get someone out of office they know is intending to do them harm.

Suandria Hall: It’s definitely my hope now that we see that. I've listened to a few of your talks online around this too. How does the humanist community respond to what's going on politically?

Anthony Pinn: I would argue that not all but the vast majority of humanists are liberal in their political thinking, and are opposed to the presidency of Donald Trump, and are committed to getting him out of office. Now, that doesn't mean that they think the world of Joe Biden, they may have been interested in one of the other possibilities, but he is the one. And so it may not be a vote that is energetically for Biden, but rather a vote that is energetically opposed to Trump.

I think humanists make up a smaller percentage of the Republican Party, but I think there's recent studies that suggest where humanists can have the most significant impact, because of their numbers, is within the Democratic Party. And again, I would think a lot of humanists are voting to get Trump out of office.

Suandria Hall: I haven't completely accepted the title of humanist, but I would agree it’s important for humanists to work with Black churches, religious organizations. Are we invited, are we welcome?

Anthony Pinn: Well, I think we have to. First I'd say yes, if we are going to struggle against injustice in a way that has the potential to be impactful, it requires partnering with folks with whom we don't necessarily agree theologically. I think that is necessary. Now, there's some animosity coming from churches, but we non-theists have done enough work to produce some of that. We have not been graceful, and generous, and then we turn around and wonder why they don't want to deal with us. We call them stupid and delusional, and then we wonder why they don't want to be bothered.

It seems to me, we have no choice but to partner, and doing that effectively will require us recasting our conversation. It will require non theists being much more graceful and generous in the conversation, it will require us pointing out the sources of commonality and bracketing the points of disagreement. It doesn't mean we have to agree theologically, we never will, but we have a shared concern, and we ought to be able to work and partner based upon that shared concern, whether you are a Black humanist, atheist, free thinker, or sure-enough Christian, we are impacted by anti-Black racism, and we ought to be able to work together to try to dismantle that.

Suandria Hall: That seems the most logical standpoint, in my opinion, for sure.

Anthony Pinn: Yeah, we can't do it alone.

Suandria Hall: No, we can't. That's what the numbers are.

Do you have any final thoughts or points of reflection and wisdom that you'd like to leave today?

Anthony Pinn: I would just say that the work is hard, but it's worth it. We need to use this as an opportunity to change our conversation, to change our language, to change our posture, to work across these lines of theological disagreement, and be committed to the doing of justice.

Suandria Hall: Yeah, I don't think there's an alternative choice. Or if there is, it's not helpful.

Anthony Pinn: The alternative is just more of the same.

Suandria Hall: Oh, Anthony, thank you so much. Thank you for this conversation today. Like I said, you’re a mentor from a distance. And I appreciate your time. I appreciate your work..

Anthony Pinn: Oh, my pleasure, be in touch anytime. Thank you.

Brian Peck: I really appreciate this conversation. Some of the things that stood out to me was reclaiming some of the words that religion has taken from us. Faith, you know, faith in each other, faith in humanity. There's just something about that, that's really powerful. And I think it really speaks to humanistic values and it's something that we can share with religious folks in a way that we can partner around what needs to be done. The work.

Anthony Pinn: I think we've been too willing to let go of this really useful vocabulary and grammar. Humanists and atheists are often suspicious of any talk about ritual or wonder. And it just seems to me that’s a mistake. We have a difficult time forging connection and community within nontheists populations, because we have a difficult time with ritual. 

Anthony Pinn: And it’s a mistake because even those who are diametrically opposed to this conversation are involved in ritual. They go to the American Atheist meeting every year. They engage in a certain type of conversation. Each session is mapped out and is conducted in a particular way. And there's a speaker, and they are involved in ritual. If you think about ritual as “repeated activity and founded space,” they are involved in ritual. But, they don't want to talk about ritual, because not only does that language make them uncomfortable, the very idea that we are creatures who seek meaning troubles them.

They're like, “no, only the religious people want meaning, only the religious people talking about God or gods want meaning. No, we all are wrestling with those fundamental questions. Who are we? What are we? When are we? Why are we?

Brian Peck: Something I've noticed in the work that I do with religious trauma, as well is in the secular communities. It's like we're living in our heads. Logic and reason are predominant. And I think in a lot of religious communities, that's also the case. It's the beliefs, it's the ideas, and so we're living inside these narratives, these constructs, and we fail to remember that we're mammals. That kind of physical, visceral, “what do I need to do in the service of survival?”

Another thing I jotted down, when you were talking, is that embodied sense of asking questions that centers our well-being. We can debate all day long about who's right and who's wrong, and how much evidence you have for your beliefs. But if that doesn't impact our sense of well-being in the world, why are we even having this conversation?

Anthony Pinn: It's tricky, right? I'm not in the church, I won't be in the church, but I have no interest in closing them down. The Constitution guarantees the right to do what you want with your Friday, your Saturday, your Sunday, and I want to respect that. The question becomes, “how do we develop ways within this democratic experiment of communicating critique?” How do we rigorously engage folks in a way that is thoughtful and respectful? We've always had a hard time with that in this country, and over the course of the past four years, it has become almost impossible.

We non theists often overestimate what reason accomplishes for us. We tend to think that reason is a safeguard against stupidity, and it really isn't. We hold theists accountable for the ways in which their beliefs embrace and advance the worst of our social world, but fail to recognize how we do that.

I was having a conversation with some folks who were all about reason, and science, and “race isn't real,” we don't need to be bothered with that, and we just need a scientific approach. But they can't explain to a Black man, Tuskegee, the Tuskegee experiment. I mean, you just can't explain it to me that way. Even scientists are bound to cultural worlds, influenced and informed by them. I think we humanists and atheists often think too highly of ourselves.

Brian Peck: It seems like this functions as a way of avoiding doing what's what needs to be done. If I have the right beliefs, the right ideas, if it's based in science, or logic, or reason, then I can wash my hands of the lived reality of folks. It’s a huge detriment.

Anthony Pinn: And it’s a rather toxic attitude. I've been told more than once, “if Black people want to hold on to the church, they deserve whatever they get. If Black people are going to continue to be Christian, they deserve whatever they get.” Where's the humanity in that kind of statement? 

Suandria Hall: And that's a large part of what keeps them there. Like you said, humanists need to be more generous. Part of the pain is, “where am I going to go?” 

Anthony Pinn: Yeah, you need a church for that?!

Suandria Hall: Yes, where's the warmth? Your science isn’t warm.

Brian Peck: Another thing that happens frequently, when folks leave religion, is they assume that because now they believe the correct things, they're no longer “delusional” that somehow life will be better. And they land inside of secular communities who have the same anti-Black racist tendencies, they have the same structural issues that oppress other humans. And they're like, “were not delusional, we don't believe in this deity in the sky, and so we don't have to take responsibility for how our behaviors are actually impacting others.” I think it's important to point out the failures within secular communities with the same level of clarity that we're pointing out the shortcomings of religion.

I really appreciate your defense of humanism as an alternative, but also your very strong critique of it as well. It's important for us to be asking the same kinds of questions, demanding the same kinds of responsibility, regardless of what community we find ourselves in.

Anthony Pinn: Yeah, it seems to me we have an obligation to decrease the harm that theists do in the world and decrease the harm that non theists do in the world. Humanists and atheist communities often forget about that second component. Thinking that religion is the problem. If we get rid of religion, we get rid of all of our issues. No, not so.

Suandria Hall: You still have people.

Anthony Pinn: Yes, that’s it, that is the bottom line.

Brian Peck: If there was one thing that kind of sums this all up, it feels like it was a statement that you made earlier about centering our well-being. If that comes with religious beliefs, if that comes with a spiritual practice, if that comes with logical and reason — however you move towards human well-being. If we're judging our behavior, what we're doing in the world, based on, “does this serve human well-being” that begins to give us a path forward, as opposed to “I'm believing the correct things, or I'm not believing the incorrect things.” I don't really care what you believe, I want to know, are you a decent human.

Anthony Pinn: Right, and I want to say that in a way that pushes against radical individualism. Or that pushes against the assumption that it's all about us as the human animal. Our well-being is intimately connected to the well-being of all life. That the obligation is much larger than we tend to want to believe.

Brian Peck: There's so much here. Thinking about how religion disconnects us from our body, and how logic and reason disconnects us from our body, there are many ways to be disconnected from ourselves, which then leads us to these false dichotomies, where we're not responsible to each other, to environment to other animals that we share this planet with. I think that's probably as insidious within secular communities as religious communities. It’s just easier to point out the failures and other communities than to look inward.

Thank you so much. It's just so generous of you to offer us this time. These ideas, especially in this kind of cultural moment that we're in where it's so polarized, it's really great to hear the willingness to work across communities, build bridges, and really center the human experience as opposed to ideologies. 

Anthony Pinn: Life depends on it. 

Suandria Hall: Thank you, sir.

Anthony Pinn: My pleasure. My pleasure.