Sanctuary

The young Romani mother was running through the street, holding her little baby closely. She was being chased by those who thought she was not worthy to be alive. She ran to the church and gave her baby to the church, hoping that at least his life could be saved. Just in time, the baby was given sanctuary by Judge Claude Frollo, keeper of the building. Sadly her life was lost forever.

The baby was severely deformed, and even Judge Frollo found him grotesque. Yet, bound by his duty to give sanctuary to those who came into the church, he preserved the child’s life. He did not love the child. He did not nurture him or show that he cared. Still, he gave him sanctuary. He believed himself to be a holy man, but he did not truly reflect what the church was meant to be. Instead, he used the church as a sanctuary to protect his own pride and the darkness within his heart. He could not allow this child of the Romani people taint his clean hands. He could not let the ugliness of the child’s deformity overshadow his own pious, handsome image.

He gave the child sanctuary—but he did not give him love.

I have felt like Quasimodo throughout my life. I have found sanctuary in the church in a world that often does not align with God. Growing up in Christian schools was a sanctuary for me because I was from a strict Christian family, and in school, I found a haven from a world that did not always agree with what my parents were teaching me.

Yet, as I sought to thrive in Evangelical schools and organizations, I was often treated like Quasimodo. They knew that the Christian space was supposed to welcome all people in, so they did—but there was a begrudging way they went about it. My brown skin had been cursed by God through the sin of Ham (or so their theology taught), but God had chosen them to be our savior and sanctuary, even though we were so defiled, Black, and cursed. So they let me and others like me in, but they kept their distance. They silenced our voices. They pushed us into the hidden and dark spaces to be unseen by others.

I remember when I tried out for a play in school and the only part I was given was the part of the slave. I chose not to participate in the play instead. One wrong move or one mistake, and we could be expelled or removed. Like the priest would threaten Quasimodo if he disobeyed even a little bit, and then, in a narcissistic way, make him feel guilty for not staying in his place—because look at how much he had done for him. The charity of letting Black people into the sanctuary of the Evangelical space is something we were expected to be grateful for, because we were just blessed that our cursed selves were let into the sanctuary.

I felt like Quasimodo in these spaces. My hair was made fun of, or I was told to straighten it. My music was rejected as sinful because the rhythm of my ancestors that flowed through it was deemed ungodly by a racist theologian (not the Bible, because Psalm 150 tells me to praise Him with all the rhythm I can find, and David danced before the LORD!). My worship was considered out of order because another racist theologian said that to openly shout and worship is ungodly, even though Psalm 98:4 says, “Shout to the LORD, all the earth; break out in praise and sing for joy.” Oftentimes the fathers of Evangelicalism were slave owners or supporters of White supremacy themselves and it is from this heart that American Christianity was birthed.

Through my life experiences—and the experiences of many other Black people within the Evangelical community—we have become the Quasimodos of America’s Evangelical church. There are other groups who carry this same story. And yet, when I look at the life of Christ, I see something entirely different. Jesus welcomed ALL people—the outcast, the crippled, the leper, the adulterer, the tax collector, the Jew, the Gentile, the Pharisee. Every Quasimodo was welcomed to follow Christ, because in one way or another, we are ALL Quasimodo. God even chose a North African—who just happened to be there at that moment—to carry His cross. Simon of Cyrene later became a member of the early church, along with his sons. There is nothing about the life of Christ that reflects how America’s churches have treated marginalized people and others who have been made to feel like the Quasimodos of the world. If I hadn’t read the Bible for myself, I would have rejected the church. But instead of rejecting it, the Bible has given me a guide to know where the true sanctuaries are.

I thank God for the sanctuary my father created for me to grow in my faith and walk with God when he and my mom founded the Washington Christian Center (and now Encounter Life Church, pastored by my brother since Daddy retired). It was a place where we learned our history, worshipped openly, and celebrated our chocolate skin and tightly curled hair. It was also where I went to Camp Kush to learn about all of the African people in the Bible and the Black people who helped to build and shape this country. It was a place where I was not Quasimodo, but a daughter of the King and Creator of this world.

I thank God for Campus Crusade for Christ and its partnership with the IMPACT Movement, where, as a college student at Howard University, under the leadership of Charles and Rebecca Gilmer and James and Cynthia White, I learned to carry on the work of Christ in drawing ALL men to Himself.

I thank God for McLean Bible Fellowship, which has given me a sanctuary where every Sunday we are reminded that the early church was a diverse place where all ethnicities should be able to worship together on this side of heaven, so that we may reflect that great day when we are all gathered around the throne worshiping God, undivided by the color line.

Through all of these experiences, I have learned through Scripture how to recognize true sanctuaries—not the ones that feign a welcoming space while begrudgingly letting my Black body reside there, but not thrive there. There are many more sanctuaries I have experienced, but to write them all would make this post too long. Still, I must talk about my most recent sanctuary at Catholic University.

Even though there are some differences in our theology, the foundation is the same. It is a space that shares my love for Jesus Christ and my belief that He is God—Father, Son, and Holy Spirit—born of a virgin who loved God with her whole heart and life. Sometimes churches lose sight of the core beliefs for all the other extraneous spiritual matters, and those with some differences may be treated like a Quasimodo. I have seen that in Evangelical spaces, where Catholics are treated as such. America—and even groups like the KKK, many acting in the name of Christ—have a history of treating Blacks, Catholics, and Jews like Quasimodos.

Since I began this work of showing how classical education can bring us together in racial healing, the rejection from Evangelical spaces has only grown. As I was pushed farther from that sanctuary, it was smaller independent Protestant communities—and most powerfully, the Catholic community—that opened their doors to my work and to me.

As I was leaving a university that shared my passion for weaving classical education into K–12 public schooling, but did not quite provide a sanctuary for my Black body, Catholic University—demonstrating its belief in the Imago Dei of every human—offered me a sanctuary. It is a blessing to be in this space, where it feels like we are striving to be one in Christ, and where I can boldly use my scholarship to do God’s work.

I have found a sanctuary here. It is marked by kindness, grace, and inclusivity—a space where people are willing to share life with those who may be different. There is a genuine openness to hearing diverse voices and perspectives, along with a commitment to engaging in hard conversations when necessary—especially when the sanctuary is entered by those who may not yet understand what it means to honor human dignity. Yet, it is precisely because of this commitment to being a true sanctuary that transformation happens. Newcomers—or those unaccustomed to this kind of community—begin to learn what it means to be part of one. I have seen leaders and professors facilitate these challenging conversations with care and wisdom, and rather than dividing the community, they draw it closer together.

A sanctuary is not about everyone being the same or thinking the same way. In many ways, it reflects the unlikely community formed by Quasimodo, Esmeralda, and Phoebus—a Romani, an outcast, and a soldier once tasked with removing her people. And yet, together, they created a kind of sanctuary. Through dwelling in that space, Phoebus’s worldview began to change; he moved from enforcing division to offering protection. Their sanctuary ultimately exposed those who did not truly understand what sanctuary meant. Even in the midst of his pain, Quasimodo recognized where true sanctuary should be. When he rescued Esmeralda from the fire, he ran back to the church with her in his arms, crying out, “Sanctuary! Sanctuary!” When Jesus left this earth, He entrusted the church with that same calling—to be a sanctuary in a dark world, so we too can run to it declaring “Sanctuary! Sanctuary! Sanctuary!” And yet, so many churches have forgotten this original call.

Creating a sanctuary is not easy. Our human nature often resists the work required to sustain a sacred space where people—diverse in thought, being, soul, and body—can truly thrive. But in the sanctuary of Catholic University, I have found a willingness to do that work. And that, in itself, is half the battle. Sometimes culture makes us think that we have to remain in sanctuaries that are actually prisons. But like Quasimodo, may we all break free from those spaces and find our own true sanctuaries where we can thrive and be all that God has called us to be. One in Christ. One in Faith. One body called to do the work of our Savior who came because he “…so loved the WORLD.”

In these trying times, as the Pope and other Catholics are crying out the words of Scripture, I am reminded that all followers of Christ are called to be a sanctuary for all people. Because of this, I feel even more deeply that I am in a sanctuary for such a time as this. Here, I feel no fear in being my Black, classics-reading, Jesus-loving self. Here, I am not a Quasimodo—I am a child of God, resting in this sanctuary. And I pray that every person who longs for such a place will find one too.