The Urgency of Truth
Why Black Students Deserve Transparency in Ministry Support
The recent surge in racial violence and threats has forced an urgent question into the light for campus ministries everywhere: Who is funding the spaces that claim to offer safety and support for Black students? For those of us working in predominantly white ministry organizations, the responsibility has never been greater to be transparent with Black students—especially when they express fear or doubt about their place within these institutions. The stakes are too high, the trauma too real, for us to offer anything less than raw, unfiltered honesty. So, I will start with some of my own.
As a freshman, I stumbled into an InterVarsity Bible study after breaking my leg. That’s where I met Alex Kirk, the campus staff worker at my college. I tell the full story in Faith Unleavened, but for the purposes of this article, I’ll put it this way: in this predominantly white ministry, Alex saw something in me that I hadn’t fully recognized in myself. He identified my potential, encouraged me, and supported me in stepping into leadership. He advocated for me, using his influence to open doors I didn’t even know existed. His support empowered me in a way I hadn’t expected, giving me the confidence to grow in both faith and purpose. Alex is one of the reasons I refuse to make sweeping generalizations about white men; my experience with him refutes that.
The other is Nick Johnson, my supervisor in Atlanta, when I joined InterVarsity’s staff. He understood the deep pain I carried after leaving IHOP-KC, particularly in the wake of Trayvon Martin’s and Mike Brown’s deaths—a grief many around me couldn’t understand. Nick showed up for me in ways that resonate to this day. I was attending classes at Wheaton College—which, unbeknownst to me, had recently fired a Black woman for wearing a hijab in solidarity. I was one of maybe two Black people in my class, and when I walked in, there was Nick, standing in solidarity, wearing a Black Lives Matter shirt. This was back when such a statement wasn’t popular or safe; wearing it in our circles could easily draw side-eyes and questions. But Nick wore that shirt anyway, a small but powerful gesture, shifting the gaze from me onto himself, showing me without words that he saw my pain and would stand with me in it.
Both Alex and Nick exemplified what true allyship could look like, creating an impact on my life that remains as real and lasting today as it was then.
But for every Nick and Alex, there’s a deeper truth lurking within these spaces, one that cannot be ignored: while individuals like them bring genuine support, the very systems sustaining these ministries often tell a different story.
In the aftermath of the recent election, reports have surfaced of Black college students receiving text messages instructing them to report for cotton-picking duties. Additionally, fires have erupted on several Tennessee campuses. These incidents have ignited a profound sense of rage within me. As a former campus minister, I cannot help but reflect on how I would have responded if a student had approached me this week, expressing fear and uncertainty not only about their safety but also about their quality of life in college. I wonder if I would have had the courage to tell them the truth: that most white evangelical campus ministry organizations are financially backed by the very people who, with their votes, have repeatedly demonstrated indifference—or outright hostility—toward the interests of students of color. Evangelical campus ministries like Cru, InterVarsity Christian Fellowship, and the Fellowship of Christian Athletes are some of the most prominent voices on college campuses. They foster faith communities, support students in their spiritual journeys, and shape future leaders in powerful ways. Yet these organizations are supported by donors whose political choices contradict the inclusive messages they claim to spread. Cru, for instance, has a presence on over a thousand campuses, ministering to more than 70,000 students nationwide. InterVarsity Christian Fellowship, which reached $107 million in annual revenue as of 2018, receives over 70% of its funding from donations. These figures are more than just numbers; they represent a significant financial influence on the ideological leanings of the organization.
When the organizations that welcome students of color are quietly sustained by the very ideologies that threaten their dignity and well-being—are we actually offering them good news? These are the questions that linger, questions that make transparency and accountability not just ideals but essentials if ministries are to be safe for all students, especially those from marginalized communities. I had to ask myself these questions, and the answer led me to try something else—something that could form a robust, comprehensive web of support around students, free from the constraints of white dollars. It will never pull in as much money or have the same reach, but people underestimate the wealth of a clear conscience.
The recent surge of racial violence and threats has brought into sharp focus an essential question for ministries: who is funding the spaces that are supposed to be safe havens for students? For those working within predominantly white ministry organizations, the responsibility is greater than ever to be transparent with Black students, especially when they express fear or discomfort about their place within these institutions. The stakes are too high, the pain too real, for anything less than direct honesty. If a Black student reaches out, feeling unsafe amidst fires of racial tension and rising threats, we owe it to them to tell the whole story—not just about the ministry’s mission but about the people and funds that fuel its work. This moment in history demands transparency because, at its heart, ministry should always be about compassion, trust, and accountability. Evangelical ministries are often reluctant to address this connection, but evasion only deepens the chasm between the students who seek a place of refuge and the very institutions they have turned to in trust.
We don’t have to look far to see the dangers of being beholden to donors rather than to the people you claim to serve. This pattern repeats across our cultural landscape, whether it’s the sudden shock to Trump supporters who find they’re in the wrong tax bracket to rejoice in the victory or the Democratic Party courting donations while demonizing the “wokeness” that brought them support in the first place. At some point, there is always a choice: do we serve our stated mission, or do we appease those who fund us?
I remember seeing this choice up close within InterVarsity, as detailed in Faith Unleavened. I was at a conference where Michelle Higgins, a powerful and prophetic speaker and advocate, laid bare the need for authentic, justice-centered ministry. Not long after that, in what felt like a concession to donors, InterVarsity announced a purge of queer staff and allies who did not conform to Side B theology. They said it wasn’t new, but we knew. To me, this decision wasn’t about faith; it was about sending a message, about pleasing a base of supporters more interested in their maintenance of ideological purity than in embracing the fullness of God’s people. This wasn’t an isolated incident; it was one of many moments when these ministries reveal where their true priorities lie. Over and over again, we see institutions treating students of color as little more than marketing material—pictures on brochures, badges of honor—but are these students actually safe within these spaces? How can they be, when the people funding the ministry also support the political regimes making their lives so precarious?
And it isn’t just the students.
The staff of color in these ministries—the ones students often trust most, who are exceptional in every way—are still seen as disposable if they don’t toe the line. Ministries celebrate and extract the creative energy of staff who can “keep things the same” while giving an appearance of change, but when real issues of justice and transparency arise, loyalty to donors too often trumps the call to truth. The time has passed for “mincing words” or presenting a diluted truth. As ministers and mentors, our ultimate allegiance is to the students themselves. We have a duty to let Black students know if the ministries they look to for support and guidance are sustained by donations from those whose values may contradict their needs and right to safety and dignity.
This knowledge can be painful to share and painful to hear, but it is crucial. Black students deserve to know the full story about where they are placing their trust, especially when the trust they’re asked to extend could come at the cost of their own safety and peace. This moment in history calls for ministries to re-evaluate and be accountable for the financial and ideological sources that shape their mission. If the aim is truly to share the “good news,” then we must examine how and if that news is truly “good” for everyone involved. Only through radical honesty and compassion can we begin to build a ministry that is safe, transparent, and committed to the well-being of all students—especially Black students. They deserve nothing less.