“…Like minister and entrepreneur Richard Henry Boyd, I think Christians should build the institutions they need to edify the communities they are in, while maintaining hearts full of hope and openness to all other Christian believers…”
Rachel Ferguson
Summary:
In this post, I explore the intersection of history, spirituality, and personal experience, drawing parallels between homiletics—the art of preaching—and the hush harbors where enslaved African Americans sought spiritual refuge. By weaving in my own story of navigating the complexities of preserving a historically Black church and reflecting on the deeper significance of community and belief, I invite readers to reconsider the institutions that shape us. Through a mix of historical insights, personal anecdotes, and thought-provoking questions, this piece challenges us to reflect on how much we truly know, what we choose to believe, and how our lived experiences define our reality.
NOTE: There are a total of 5 pages to this post. Pages 2, 3, 4. and 5 are quotes.
Jump To External Article Excerpts
I’ve always been fascinated by how we, as humans, often read something and turn it into truth without any further study, research, discussion, or comparison. We take the words we encounter and cement them into our beliefs, even when they deserve more exploration. The truth is often complicated, layered, and affected by people’s agendas and their own reasoning for division.
But here I am—a Sagittarius Stellium, increasing “…the hunger for knowledge and the need to put it to practical use.”
For as long as I can remember, I’ve operated with the mindset, “It’s not real to me unless I see or experience it.” It’s an approach that drives me to dig deep and question, even when the road isn’t straightforward.
Before I jump into the depths of this topic, let me reintroduce myself—my name is Courtney. I intended to write this post to share how one night, on the eve of an informational Zoom call, I stumbled upon a grant for preserving Black churches. It felt serendipitous. The next day, during the call, I felt this warm glow listening to people from all over the country check in, united in a shared mission. Watching the slides of old churches being preserved hit me deeply, making me emotional. It was like I could feel the souls of those spaces speaking through the images.
Then, I told the landlord of the church I’ve been leasing about the grant, as it was required for submitting a Letter of Intent. That’s where things took a turn. The landlord, completely separate from the community work I’ve been doing, decided to “take the lead” and submit the Letter of Intent (LOI) on their own. Myself, my advisor, and the AOW chair were livid. We came so close to losing our composure, but we caught ourselves. We knew this wasn’t just about us; it was about preserving the building’s legacy, honoring its history, and pushing back against the cycles that have played out far too many times before.
So, we circled back to negotiation. There are so many moving parts—city officials, insurance companies, and we are trying to juggle everything while keeping our heads on straight. We are not about to let history repeat itself, but it is hard not to feel like we were stepping into the same old “historical” dance.
Now, here I am trying to finish this blog post, days later than I planned. I woke up early this morning—around 1 a.m.—made some coffee, and told myself I’d get this done. But instead, I ended up talking with my housemate. Our conversation wandered through so many topics: churches, race, culture, geography, Christianity, Catholicism, colonization (not just in the Black/white context), stoicism, hooping, speaking in tongues, catching the holy ghost, and the cultural parallels between Appalachian and Southern folk. It was one of those talks where we uncovered surprising connections, realizing just how similar certain experiences can be despite our geographical or racial differences.
Keepsakes and Forts
After that, I came back to my desk with two themes in mind: Keepsake and Fort. Keepsakes are the remnants, the things we hold onto from the past—like the churches being preserved. A fort is a place of protection, a space where we feel safe and secure. Both feel deeply connected to the history of the Black church. I typed “history of Black churches” into Google and immediately fell into a rabbit hole, uncovering article after article, each one bringing new insights.
At this point, my original plan for this post took on a life of its own, spinning in a different direction. But that’s how these things go. Sometimes you start with one intention and end up somewhere entirely unexpected.
I’ve decided not to try and connect the dots for you. I’m just going to share excerpts from some of the articles that stood out to me, resonating deeply, yet standing on their own. There may not be dots to connect for you, or maybe there will be. But either way, I invite you to reflect.
Ask yourself:
- How much do you really know about the institutions you value?
- Why do you believe what you believe?
- Would you believe the same thing if you had been born into a different family or community?
- Is it real if you haven’t experienced it?
The Significance of Hush Harbors and the Black Church
“In many African American communities, the concept of “the Church” is often seen as synonymous with the congregation of people who gather to worship, rather than the physical building where the service is held. This distinction reflects a deep cultural emphasis on community and shared spiritual experience.[1] For African Americans, “the Church” is a dynamic, living body of believers whose collective faith and fellowship are central, regardless of the physical space.[2]
Black Chuch — Wikipedia
In contrast, in many other cultures, the term “the Church” may more commonly refer to the actual structure or building where religious services take place, emphasizing the sacredness of the physical space.[3] This difference highlights the unique cultural and historical significance that the African American community places on the act of gathering and the people themselves, rather than the location[4].”
This is something I’ve experienced firsthand. The Black church has always been more than a physical building—it’s the people, the spirit, the connection. Even now, in moments of tension and uncertainty, the importance of these spaces and communities can’t be overstated. For many of us, the church was—and still is—a refuge.
Hush harbors, those secret places where enslaved African Americans gathered to worship, were powerful symbols of both spiritual and physical freedom. They were places where Black people could carve out a sense of agency and community, even in the face of overwhelming oppression. I think about how, even now, the spirit of hush harbors lives on in the hidden, sacred spaces we create in our communities, whether physical or virtual.
Keepsakes of Legacy
Preserving these old churches feels like more than just saving buildings; it’s about holding onto something deeper—something intangible but powerful. These spaces are keepsakes, not just of religious faith, but of resistance, survival, and cultural memory. They carry with them the stories of those who came before us, the souls who prayed, sang, and found hope within those walls.
It reminds me of the power of oral tradition—how we pass down stories, knowledge, and beliefs. Even the act of “hooping” in Black preaching is tied to this tradition. It’s not just about the words being spoken but the emotion, the call-and-response, the catharsis of shared experience.
A Fort for the Future
In many ways, these sacred spaces, these churches, are also forts—strongholds that protect the community’s identity and future. They are places where we gather strength, not just from God but from one another. Whether it’s a hush harbor in the woods or a church in the heart of the city, these forts have always been about more than just survival—they are about thriving, about building something lasting.
So, I leave you with this: As we navigate the present, with its countless challenges and historical echoes, how can we preserve not just the physical spaces, but the spirit they hold? What will be our keepsakes and forts for future generations?
The Black church has always been more than a place—it’s a people, a community, a living, breathing legacy. Whether we find that in a hush harbor, on a Zoom call, or in the quiet moments of reflection, we are part of something much bigger than ourselves.
Feel free to download the compilation of articles I found during my deep dive, and take some time to reflect on these questions in your own life. The stories we carry forward matter, and the spaces we create today will shape the legacies we leave behind.
cc
Quotes
“This dates Registry from 1758 and briefly writes about the history of the Black Church in America. This institution was the first source of land ownership for black African slaves in America and is viewed as the reason and savior of oppressed African people in the United States.
The Black Church In America, a story
During the decades of southern slavery in America, slave associations were a constant source of concern to slave owners. For many members of white society, Black religious meetings symbolized the ultimate threat to white existence. Nevertheless, African slaves established and relied heavily on their churches. Religion offered a means of catharsis… Africans retained their faith in God and found refuge in their churches. However, white society was not always willing to accept the involvement of slaves in Christianity. As one slave recounted, “The white folks would come in when the colored people would have a prayer meeting and whip every one of them. Most of them thought that when colored people were praying, it was against them”.
“”The old folks used to say, ‘If you ain’t felt nothing, you ain’t got nothing,”’
Black preachers who ‘whoop’ — minstrels or ministers?