Front Pew Rebellion: When Faith Became the Battleground for Belonging
by Dr. Paulette Bethel, PhD, MCC, CTRC-A
I was a young teen in the mid-1960s when I walked into that small-town Catholic church, a rural parish attended by part of my maternal family, but not the church I belonged to or was raised in. My Creole Catholic upbringing was rooted in a different parish. One that, while shaped by unspoken segregation, offered spiritual familiarity and a sense of safety among Creoles of color in my community. But in this church that I visited with family, the unspoken rules were different. What had once felt spiritually safe (or so I believed) was replaced by a quiet, coded enforcement of racial order. The message in this church community was clear: Black families sat in the back. Something in me stirred. I knew I couldn’t sit quietly in the back and pretend it was okay. But that day, I refused. I pulled my cousins with me. Though they were nervous and fearful of possible retaliation, I marched us to the front pew. With encouragement and handholding, we sat tall, refusing to move, even as church ushers and knowing glances tried to remind us of our “place.” It wasn’t my first encounter with this church’s racial order, but it would be the moment I refused to play along. By the time we returned to my great-grandmother’s house after church services, the news had already reached her. The news had traveled swiftly from the back pews to the wider community. I braced myself, certain I was about to be reprimanded. Instead , I was met with something unexpected: pride. My devoutly Baptist great-grandmother, who always made sure I attended Catholic Mass when visiting, along with others in the family who were Catholic, affirmed what we had done. Some even said they wished it hadn’t taken children to finally disrupt the practice.
That quiet act of teenage defiance became something larger - a ripple that stirred the pews, shifted the norm, and echoed through this Black Catholic community. That was the day everything changed. From that day forward, Black families never returned to the back of that church.
The story of my rebellion didn’t begin that day. It began in 1958, when I was a young child, visiting the same church with my beloved uncle and cousins - family members whose appearance, unlike mine, marked them as The story of my rebellion didn’t begin that day. I remember feeling special, dressed in my prettiest Sunday dress and a lace hat tied neatly under my chin. I was proud to be there, surrounded by family, mimicking the reverence of my great uncle, a World War II veteran, who lovingly corrected me when I removed my hat. He gently placed it back on my head and retied the ribbon beneath my chin.
Moments later, an older white woman approached and told me I was in the wrong part of the church and that I needed to come with her. The insidiousness of it all was that, while my handsome and stately uncle’s (and cousins) outer appearance reflected visible Black ancestry, my Uncle was, in fact, more genetically European than me. Their appearance, unlike mine, marked my family as Black in the eyes of the congregation. I still see him -- handsome, stately, and kneeling quietly in reverence, while my cousins uncomfortably giggled at what was happening. My Uncle knew. He didn’t move. He didn’t protest.
Only years later did I understand that his stillness wasn’t consent, it was survival. To resist might have made things worse. When this strange woman leaned past him to pull me away from where I was kneeling next to my uncle, I flinched. As she swiftly removed me from his care, I was sobbing - frightened and traumatized. She escorted me to a pew in the front of the church, but I couldn’t stay. Panic took hold, and I leapt up from that pew and ran all the way to the back seeking the only place that felt safe: the side of my stoically loving uncle. Her gesture wasn’t hospitality; it was segregation masked in sanctity. The message was searing: I belonged to a different racial class, and therefore a different spiritual seat. I was left alone in that front pew -- visible, misplaced, and emotionally untethered. I knew I wasn’t alone in the church, but the experience carved a deep internal solitude. I was disoriented, confused, and emotionally unmoored, without yet having the words to name the rupture that had just occurred.
What I didn’t know then but have come to name over a lifetime is that both of these “church” moments were soaked in what we now call religious trauma. But they were also racial trauma. And identity trauma. All braided into one lived experience. This article is the beginning of my unbraiding.
To understand the weight of that front pew moment, we have to understand what Catholicism meant, especially in the Creole South, where race, class, and faith have long been intertwined. Catholicism offered a structure for reverence, yes, but also for regulation. In Louisiana’s Creoles of Color communities, the Church served as both refuge and enforcer, often sanctifying racial hierarchies under the veil of ritual A space of both acknowledgment and rejection, simultaneously fostering inclusion and segregation. Reverence was always expected, but not always equally afforded. And colorism, sometimes subtle, sometimes codified, was part of the spiritual and social terrain I grew up navigating.
My identity as a Louisiana Creole, racially mixed and Black-identified, was never just about heritage. It was about survival, visibility, and the constant decoding of where I did and didn’t belong. That decoding didn’t stop at the church door. It intensified there! The sacred was never neutral. It often reflected back the very same societal fractures we hoped it would help us heal.
“Even today, many congregations across America remain divided, not just by denomination or neighborhood, but by race. Sometimes it’s subtle, justified by geography or tradition. Sometimes it’s blatant. The logic sounds familiar: We live in different areas. Our dollars built this church. We prefer to worship with “our own.” It’s a practice rooted less in faith and more in comfort, upholding a racialized theology that has long gone unchallenged. Historically, even when Black and white parishioners attended the same service, a literal rope divided them -- separate pews, same scriptures. That is racism, codified in worship. And while we like to believe such images are relics of the past, their spirit persists in how power, presence, and belonging are still negotiated in sacred spaces.” (Observation originally shared by my spouse, Ralph Bethel.)
As Christian nationalism continues to gain momentum in public and political spaces, the harm inflicted in the name of faith is not only ongoing -- it is being amplified. Religious institutions are being asked to choose: silence or stance. And while some churches replicate old harms under new banners, others are rising to meet the moment. I recently read about the American right expressing anger toward the Episcopal Church for refusing to participate in fast-tracking immigration of white Afrikaners from South Africa, while denying the same compassion to refugees from Sudan or Afghanistan. The Episcopal Church declined to cooperate. That act of resistance was a moral stance rooted in equity, not nationalism.
We need more of that. We need institutions willing to reflect, repent, and respond, not out of guilt, but from a place of collective healing. This is the foundation of trauma-informed faith. One that acknowledges the harm, centers the humanity, and recommits to the sacred through action, not just ritual.
And maybe that’s what I’ve been doing all along. Reclaiming. Reclaiming my story. Reclaiming my name. Reclaiming the right to belong to something sacred without having to shrink. This isn’t just about a church pew. It’s about choosing to sit, to stand, and to live in full view -- unmoved, unhidden, and unashamed.
This is where the Religious Trauma Network plays a vital role. RTN exists to hold space for these reckonings. To invite stories like mine—and yours—into the light. To remind us that while religion has often been used to wound, it can also be reclaimed to restore.
Dr. Paulette Bethel is a member of the Religious Trauma Network’s Advisory Panel.
Read more from Paulette at: www.paulettebethel.com
This article is not intended to treat or diagnose any condition. Paulette is not a licensed therapist or clinician. Any advice or opinions given on this site are strictly individual observation and insights based on personal experiences and study. It should in no way take the place of professional assistance.