Photos by Shanet Navas
My Life as a Missionary to the White Church
As a third-generation Covenanter shaped by the vibrant, historic ministry of Oakdale Covenant Church in Chicago—one of our denomination’s largest African American congregations—I never imagined God would call me into a different cultural space. After I married my husband, Dr. X, we sensed God leading us into multiethnic ministry. Since then, our family has served four predominantly white congregations, and I have worked in three predominantly white Christian nonprofits. And I cannot forget the many years I spent as a student at the illustrious North Park Theological Seminary. These experiences have formed the lens through which I understand the complexities, challenges, and possibilities of serving the white church.
In my role as global personnel specialist for Serve Globally, I listen to the stories of our global personnel serving around the world and often find myself nodding in deep, knowing agreement. Their words about navigating a new culture, learning to communicate in unfamiliar ways, and constantly adjusting to fit within a context that wasn’t built with them in mind—it all sounds sooo familiar.
As an African American woman serving and leading in predominately white churches and ministry spaces, I too have lived the reality of cross-cultural ministry. I may not have had to cross an ocean, but every day I’ve had to cross cultural borders that are just as real, just as complex, and sometimes just as exhausting.
Cultural Adjustment
Missionaries often talk about culture shock, or the jolt of entering a world where the unspoken rules are different and the social cues are confusing. I’ve known that feeling, too, not in a foreign country, but in conference rooms, sanctuaries, and staff meetings where I’ve had to learn a new cultural rhythm.
The music of my upbringing was soulful, expressive, and deeply communal. The ministry that shaped me moved with a spirit that was embodied and participatory. Yet in predominately white spaces, the worship can sometimes feel restrained, intellectual, and carefully measured (make sure service only lasts fifty-nine minutes!) to me. I’ve had to learn a new choreography—when to speak, how much emotion to show, what kind of leadership is “acceptable” (and I definitely had to cut out actual choreography—the idea of dancing in one of those spaces just made me chuckle a little to myself!).
Like a missionary learning a new dialect, I’ve learned how to translate my own cultural experiences into forms that others can receive. Sometimes that’s a gift of bridge building. Other times it’s a quiet act of survival (code switching).
After being asked to share my gifts of leading worship and gospel choir with one congregation, I realized that my emotional expression, authentic music style, and even my expressions of lament were not welcome. Serving in predominately white church spaces while maintaining one’s cultural identity is both an act of resilience and a spiritual discipline. It means learning to move fluidly between cultures without shrinking parts of myself that reflect God’s image. It involves the daily work of discerning what to adjust for the sake of connection—and what to refuse to compromise for the sake of integrity. I have chosen to remain whole in environments that sometimes unconsciously ask me to fragment.
Language Barriers
Missionaries often describe the frustration of learning a new language—of having something to say but not quite finding the words that will land in another culture. I know that ache. In white ministry contexts I’ve found myself speaking fluent English but still not being fully understood. Words like “community,” “justice,” or even “worship” can carry different connotations depending on who’s hearing them. In other words, shared language doesn’t guarantee shared understanding. Our cultural backgrounds shape how we interpret spiritual and communal concepts.
I have learned to navigate not just linguistic translation, but emotional and cultural translation, seeking to make sure my words don’t trigger defensiveness or misunderstanding, while staying true to who I am and what I believe. It’s a delicate balance, this work of communication across cultures. And like our global personnel, I’ve learned that fluency comes not just from words, but from listening—listening long enough to understand what people fear, value, and hope for beneath their words.
Far from Home
For global personnel, one of the hardest things is the distance from family and home—the ache of missing familiar rhythms, familiar food, familiar love. In my own ministry journey, I’ve often felt that same distance even while being geographically close to home. There are times when I’ve longed for the familiarity of the Black church—the call and response of a congregation that knows how to talk back to the preacher, the harmonies that swell from people who have sung their faith through suffering, the sense of family that feels like breath.
Serving in predominately white spaces, I have sometimes felt the ache of cultural homesickness. I miss being in places where I don’t have to explain my joy, justify my tears, or translate my story. Places where no one turns around to see who is talking back to the preacher. Places where my expression of worship is accepted, understood, and shared. Yet I also know that my calling has led me into this cross-cultural terrain to be a bridge, to make space for others, and to remind me that the Church and the kingdom of God is beautifully and gloriously diverse.
Expectations
Missionaries often talk about the pressure of expectations—how both supporters back home and local partners project their hopes and ideals onto them. In predominately white ministry spaces, I’ve often carried the burden of representation—feeling the unspoken expectation to be the voice for all Black people, to educate others about diversity, or to embody “inclusion” in rooms where I’m the only one who looks like me. Tokenism!
There is a form of invisible labor that comes with this space—the constant self-awareness, the careful emotional regulation, the inner negotiation between authenticity and safety. It’s holy work, but it is also heavy work. I am tired.
The Cost of Presence
Living on support requires deep trust in God’s provision for global personnel. While my financial circumstances are different, there is still a cost to the kind of presence God has called me to.
There’s the cost of constantly navigating systems that weren’t designed for people like me. The cost of emotional labor—of working twice as hard to be seen as credible or competent, of using my gifts in spaces that may not fully value them. The cost of overexplaining decisions because trust isn’t automatically granted. The cost of absorbing microaggressions or coded feedback about being “too bold” or “too much.”
But I’ve learned that every missionary counts the cost. And every missionary also knows the joy of watching God provide—through unexpected friendships, through moments of breakthrough, through the quiet affirmation of the Holy Spirit whispering, “I see you.”
Emotional and Spiritual Fatigue
Missionaries often experience burnout from the constant demands of adapting, serving, and giving without always being poured into. There are days when being a Black woman in ministry feels like a marathon of endurance, of challenging assumptions and carrying the tension of both love and lament. It’s holy exhaustion—the kind that comes from caring deeply about a church that sometimes doesn’t fully see you.
But like missionaries who find renewal in small graces, I too have found rest in the rhythms of God’s presence—in a song that lifts my spirit, a friend who listens without fixing, a glimpse of fruit that reminds me that my labor is not in vain.
Living Between Worlds
Missionaries often describe returning home after years abroad and realizing that they no longer belong anywhere. I understand that in my bones. In many ways I’ve lived between worlds—too churchy for some, too Black for others, too progressive for a few, too “extra” for many. There’s a strange in-between space that comes with being both insider and outsider, loved but misunderstood, seen yet still unseen.
But it’s also in this in between that I’ve discovered something sacred: the heart of Christ is here too! Maybe that’s what this calling is all about—not comfort or belonging, but faithfulness in the spaces in between.
Being an African American woman in predominately white ministry contexts has been, for me, its own kind of missionary calling. It has required cultural humility, emotional resilience, and a conscious dependence on the Holy Spirit. It has stretched me, humbled me, pissed me off at times, and shaped me in ways I never expected.
But it has also given me a front row seat to the grace of God—the kind of grace that bridges divides, softens hearts, and weaves us together into something more beautiful than any of us could be on our own.
Cross-cultural ministry, wherever it happens, is sacred work. And though it is often hard, it is also holy. Because every time we choose to stay at the table, to listen, to love, and to lead with grace—we are participating in God’s reconciling mission in the world.
And that, I believe, is what the gospel has called us all to do.
