What about the popes? Did they provide a better view as the years went by? Apparently not. Pope Gregory IX (1145–1241 CE) decreed:
Slavery, in which a man serves his master as his slave, is altogether lawful. This is proved from Holy Scripture. It is also proved from reason; for it is not unreasonable that just as things which are captured in a just war pass into the power and ownership of the victors, so persons captured in war pass into the ownership of the captors. All theologians are unanimous on this.6
His last phrase echoed in my head. “Unanimous.” I could imagine people back then saying, “But we’ve always done it like this . . .”
What about more recently? In 1866, Pope Pius IX stated: “Slavery itself is not contrary to natural and divine law. There can be several just titles of slavery, and these are referred to by approved theologians and commentators of the sacred canons.”7 It amazed me that these views were held by Christians only a hundred years before I was born.
A set of notes from an 1861 Presbyterian gathering in Georgia reported: “The Presbyterian Church in the United States has been enabled by Divine Grace to pursue a . . . thoroughly scriptural policy in relation to this delicate question [slavery]. It has planted itself upon the word of God and utterly refused to make slaveholding a sin.”8
They argued that the church should not interfere with the state on the topic of slavery, as “God has not entrusted to the Church” the ability to change the “construction of government” or the “allotment of individuals to their various stations.”9 Instead, they were to focus on “the real tyrants which oppress the soul—sin and Satan.”10 Washing their hands of any moral judgment on the matter, they said: “We are neither the friends nor the foes of slavery . . . we have no commission either to propagate or to abolish it” and “we have no right, as the church, to condemn it as a sin.”11
As I read about this, it seemed like a classic case of the church sticking its head in the sand. Faced with a divisive political matter that ignited arguments among its members, they absented themselves from any responsibility and just sat on the fence. It was astounding to me that they could claim, in good conscience, that slavery was a governmental issue with no relevance to the spiritual well-being of humans. Rather than speaking up for the freedom and human rights of the enslaved, the church claimed it only dealt with so-called spiritual matters, turning a blind eye to what was going on and the obvious suffering and degradation that slavery caused. Their silence, and their refusal to stand up for truth and justice, only perpetuated the existence of the slave trade.
So what finally happened to shake things up and set things right? Enter William Wilberforce (1759–1833), an English Christian and Member of Parliament who argued that God valued all humans equally and people should not be bought and sold as property. As he raised these radical views, he had to contend with Christians who waved Bibles in the air, saying that anyone who took the Bible seriously knew slavery was “clearly” endorsed by scripture.
Eventually the tide began to turn, as people realized the truth of Wilberforce’s interpretation of the Bible and sympathized with his passion for equality. He was instrumental in that shift, but it came at great personal cost: his health began to fail. He died three days after hearing that legal changes would take place and that his work had finally succeeded. One month later, the Slavery Abolition Act, which declared all slaves in the British Empire free, became law.
As I continued to study all of this, sitting on the riverbank that warm afternoon, one thing became undeniably clear to me: Christian interpretations of the Bible do shift over time. The adage “We’ve always done it this way” was neither true nor a good moral compass. With regard to slavery, God seemed to have been at work in the trajectory of positive change, helping the church develop a more compassionate and intelligent perspective.
Later, I walked back along the river and into the grounds of Magdalen College, watching the deer playfully chase each other around the meadow as the liquid-orange sun got lower and lower in the evening sky. I thought about C. S. Lewis watching them out of his window, all those years ago. He’d had some of his own powerful spiritual moments on Addison’s Walk and in the adjoining college. I knew his conversion story almost word for word, as I’d read it so many times over the years:
You must picture me alone in that room in Magdalen [College, Oxford], night after night, feeling, whenever my mind lifted even for a second from my work, the steady, unrelenting approach of Him whom I so earnestly desired not to meet. . . . In . . . 1929 I gave in, and admitted that God was God, and knelt and prayed: perhaps, that night, the most . . . reluctant convert in all England.12
That feeling of being a “reluctant convert” resonated with me. Not with regard to faith itself, but to new ways of seeing the Bible. I was slowly realizing my part of the church had got things very wrong in the past and it was hard to come to terms with. I’d never heard a sermon about this in any evangelical meeting; it seemed to have been swept under the carpet. We considered ourselves the ones who accurately interpreted scripture and led the social justice movement within Christianity, but we definitely had a checkered past. My studies were opening my eyes—and once you see something, you can never unsee it.
10
The cobbled streets were lit with twinkly lights, and festive trees covered in tinsel stood on every college green. Invitations for the Oxford Christmas Ball were pinned on notice boards across campus, and I was awkwardly declining invitations from male friends who hoped we could attend together and move our relationship from platonic to romantic.
It was lovely to walk down St. Giles Street, past The Eagle and Child pub, accompanied by a soundtrack of carol singers on the corner. I was on my way to return a couple of books to a friend named Mike at a nearby college. Visiting other halls of residence was always a pleasure, as they seemed so different, and I was curious to experience what Oxford life was like for other undergraduates, away from the priests and seminarians of Wycliffe Hall.
Entering through the wooden doors of Mike’s college, I crossed the immaculate lawn, or “quad.” Its statues and fountain gleamed in the fading evening light. Winding up an old stone staircase, I found my way to his hallway. Turning a corner, I saw an unexpected sight. Two people were standing outside a dormitory door, locked in a tight embrace. In the low-lit corridor they hadn’t seen me, so I paused in the shadows. My heart missed a beat as I realized something—they were both women.
They laughed quietly under their breath, sharing a joke. Then one of the girls touched the other’s face with infinite tenderness and, leaning toward her, softly kissed her. I blushed, aware I was watching someone else’s intimate moment. I’d never seen two people of the same gender expressing any kind of romantic affection before.
The love between them was tangible, and they stood there for what seemed like an eternity whispering, laughing, kissing, and running their fingers through each other’s hair. Eventually, their silhouettes parted, they said good night, and one of them left down the opposite stairway. The girl who remained in the hallway turned around.
Realizing she’d seen me, I began walking toward her, so I could get to Mike’s room. Awkwardly, it turned out they were only a few doors apart. As I knocked and waited for Mike to answer, I stood a short distance away from the girl as she fumbled in her backpack for her keys.
He opened his door, and light spilled out into the dark corridor. Looking back at the girl in the hallway, I caught my breath. Now I could see her. She had long, curly red hair and a very familiar face. It was the girl who’d stood on the conference stage years earlier and shared her testimony about being set free from homosexuality. She was here at Oxford University, and just moments ago she’d been kissing another woman. My brain and heart tried to take it all in.
The sound of her door closing jolted me out of my thoughts. She’d found her keys and disappeared into her room. Now that I could see the outside of her door clearly, I noticed it had a sign on it: “I am the College LGBT Represe
ntative: Knock if you’d like to chat about anything related to gender or sexuality. I’m always here to listen.”
It was a lot to process. She was the only example I’d ever seen of a person who’d been “set free” from homosexuality. Now I knew it was not true after all. Here she was, openly gay and an LGBTQ+ college representative, giving advice and support to other students.
Hearing her speak from that conference stage, when I was in my teens, had made a huge impact on me. Knowing that God had, apparently, turned her from gay to straight had left me believing I could expect the same transformation. I’d been hanging on to it all these years; she was the only tangible form of proof I had.
I felt so disoriented as I tried to take it all on board, and my mind spun with questions about her: I wondered how she’d found the courage to step away from the traditional beliefs we all held. I felt a mix of shock and devastation, but also admiration.
I felt like Truman from The Truman Show. I’d glimpsed a huge crack in the “set” that was the backdrop of my life. Everything wasn’t as secure or stable as I’d thought. The red-haired girl’s experience of “healing” hadn’t worked. God hadn’t changed her sexual orientation. Instead, she’d chosen to follow her heart and be in a relationship with a woman—and tonight she’d looked a hundred times happier and healthier than she had on that conference stage.
11
Intrigued by all I’d learned about the church and slavery, I moved on in my studies to explore another topic: Christianity and women’s equality. Inside the Radcliffe Camera, a huge dome-shaped stone library, I sat in the shadowy lamplight and read. I hoped Christians in years gone by had behaved better on this issue, as I was still staggered by all I’d learned about their endorsement of the slave trade. Unfortunately, as the days passed and I did my research, I found it had been a bleak and disappointing battle.
Women had mostly subservient roles in the Old Testament, and the Ten Commandments seemed to categorize women as property: “You shall not covet your neighbor’s wife, or male or female slave, or ox, or donkey . . .” (Exod. 20:17). But it was St. Paul’s teachings that were most often quoted when Christians argued against women’s voting rights or suitability for the priesthood.
In 1 Timothy 2:12, he writes: “I permit no woman to teach or to have authority over a man; she is to keep silent.” In the nineteenth century, that verse was used by Christians as key evidence, as were Ephesians 5:22 and 1 Corinthians 11:3.
Their point seemed unchallengeable back then, and yet today, few evangelicals would command women to “keep silent” in church. Our understanding of how St. Paul’s teachings should be interpreted has clearly changed, based on context, culture, and consideration of the broader witness of scripture.
Huge animosity existed toward those who wanted equality. The nineteenth-century priest Justin Fulton said, “Who demand the ballot for woman? They are not the lovers of God, nor are they the believers in Christ. . . . Those who contend for the ballot for woman cut loose from the legislation of Heaven . . . and drift to infidelity and ruin.”1
Those arguing that women should be subordinate appealed to God’s “design” or “order” within creation, as many had done in the slavery debate. God had made things a certain way, and that order should not be messed with. As one campaigner said in 1911, women should remain “in their places . . . attending to those duties that God Almighty intended for them. . . . Woman is woman. . . . Let her be content with her lot and perform those high duties intended for her by the Great Creator.”2
This was disheartening reading, and, after days of research, I found myself staring at the ceiling of the Radcliffe Camera library, desperately wishing church history were different. Surely it was just male Christians arguing this way, I thought. But I was wrong. In 1870, Susan Fenimore Cooper wrote an influential piece titled “Female Suffrage.” Her views made for difficult reading: “Christianity confirms the subordinate position of woman . . . the submission of the wife to the husband, and allots a subordinate position to the whole [female] sex while here on earth.”3
What did she think of those who joined the suffragettes? “We have arrived at the days foretold by the Prophet, when ‘knowledge shall be increased, and many shall run to and fro.’ . . . We dare not blindly follow that cry [of ‘Progress!’] . . . The tyranny of the present day . . . is the tyranny of novelty.”4 Those words seem eerily similar to what had been said in the slavery debate and then seemed to be said every time the church faced a new issue of social justice: “It’s a tyranny,” “It’s about novelty,” “It’s a sign of the end times,” “We’ve always done it this way.”
So what happened to bring change? A few men and women rose up, fighting long and hard to shift those views. Suffragette Emily Wilding Davison was among those who died for the cause, knocked down by King George V’s horse when she staged a protest at the Epsom Derby in 1913. She was a passionate Christian and did her utmost to challenge the status quo of the church and nation, believing that the biblical texts about women had been misinterpreted over the centuries and did not prohibit a right to vote and have a voice in society.
The Church League for Women’s Suffrage was a powerful voice for change, founded by an Anglican priest. Similar groups existed among Catholics and free churches too. Those campaigning groups helped new ways of understanding the Bible to break into public consciousness. Eventually, centuries of quoting St. Paul as evidence to keep women in their place made way for a more compassionate and nuanced interpretation of scripture. As with slavery, victory came slowly, and at great cost. But it did finally arrive.
I ended my research feeling frustrated and disappointed at the ways the church had held back such crucial progress for women, and the way they’d used the Bible to back up their arguments. Yes, eventually, things had improved, but so many had paid for it in heartache and suffering—for some it had even cost them their lives.
The Radcliffe Camera library was now my favorite study haunt. It wasn’t the best place to be in December, though—the ancient library heating system was faulty at best, so during the winter I often sat in there wearing a woolly hat, a thick scarf, and fingerless gloves to avoid freezing to the bone. It felt ridiculous, but many students were doing the same. We exchanged empathetic smiles, adding layer on top of layer, until we gradually resembled academic versions of the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man from the movie Ghostbusters.
Looking at the way the church had changed its mind on slavery and then on women’s rights had gotten my brain spinning. I was curious about similar issues; had this happened on other topics too?
One afternoon, I pulled a book from a high dusty shelf. It was about the Italian physicist and mathematician Galileo (1564–1642 CE). I discovered that in the seventeenth century a heated debate had taken place over whether the sun revolved around the earth or vice versa. Galileo believed the earth moved around the sun. The church, however, argued that the sun must revolve around the earth, as that’s what scripture said.
Christians quoted Psalm 104:5: “[The Lord] set the earth on its foundations; it can never be moved” (NIV). Ecclesiastes 1:5 was also used: “The sun rises and the sun goes down, and hastens to the place where it rises” (RSV). The book of Joshua was another key piece of evidence, as Joshua had prayed for the sun to “stand still,” and it “stopped in the middle of the sky and delayed going down” (10:13, NIV). In the seventeenth century, to take the Bible seriously meant to believe this as literal truth.
Galileo’s ideas were considered dangerous. The church said his theory was absurd and heretical, because it explicitly contradicted, in many places, “the clear meaning of Holy Scripture.” He argued that the Bible could be interpreted in a way that fitted comfortably with a heliocentric view of the universe, but his theology was rejected. The Catholic Church placed Galileo under house arrest and threatened him with torture in an attempt to break him. He remained in his home for the next nine years until he died of heart failure at age seventy-seven.
Of course, in
time everyone realized the earth did indeed revolve around the sun. Galileo was just too early. It cost him his place in the church, caused him a huge amount of trauma, and finally led to his death. I was seeing a pattern emerge from history: those who saw a new paradigm were treated appallingly by fellow Christians and then finally accepted as correct, but far too late, after the damage had been done. The church learned, but it seemed to learn painfully slowly.
In the lamplight of the Radcliffe Camera library, I discovered books on the civil rights movement too, in which developments followed very similar patterns.
In 1954, the US Supreme Court declared that racial segregation in schools was unconstitutional. Responding to this, a popular Southern Baptist pastor preached against it from his pulpit in 1958. He argued that if the government “had known God’s word and had desired to do the Lord’s will,” the attempts to integrate people of different races “would never have been made.” He warned: “When God has drawn a line of distinction, we should not attempt to cross that line.”5
Thankfully, the American Baptist minister Martin Luther King Jr. (1929–68) showed up and fought for justice. He interpreted the Bible differently and gave his life to challenge the status quo. King was seen as a heretic by many Christians who saw civil rights like interracial marriage as sinful and unsuitable for followers of Jesus.
The popular Southern Baptist pastor emphasized this in his sermon, saying: “A friend of mine tells me that a couple of opposite race live next door to his church as man and wife. This will destroy our race eventually.”6
King finally won, but not without pushback from those who quoted the Bible against him.
All my research was proving to be enlightening and frustrating in equal measure. Why did the church keep getting things so wrong, over and over, constantly finding itself on the wrong side of justice? It had been wrong about the solar system, slavery, women, interracial marriage, and other civil rights.
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