Photo by Liz Sanchez-Vegas on Unsplash

For nothing is hidden that will not be disclosed, nor is anything secret that will not become known and come to light. For there is nothing hidden that will not be disclosed, and nothing concealed that will not be known or brought out into the open. Therefore consider carefully how you listen.

(Luke 8:17-18)

In this season of Advent combined with post-election reflection, our eyes are invited to see with clarity what has been hidden in plain view. In order for us to activate prophetic imagination, one must see clearly the world for what it is. It is only when our eyes see the fullness of suffering and sin do we see the ways in which God moves on our behalf. 

In Luke’s gospel reading, we are reminded, through an earlier metaphor of a candle, of the importance of lifting the veil on the hidden world to bring it out into the open. Often, economic systems of injustice are hidden from view, normalized in practice, and at their worst, have different versions of morality tied to their practice.

In Walter Brueggemann’s recent article, Seasons of Bells and Chains, he writes, “In my own town, the economic arrangement between the ownership class (of which I am a part) and the working class is such that working class wage earners are unable to afford property or housing.” These boundaries and barriers are often associated with redlining. Redlining itself refers to the intentional practice begun in the Great Depression era of the 1930s when government policy intentionally segregated housing stock, creating access to homes for white middle and working class families while largely pushing Black people and people of color into urban housing projects. Using red ink, lenders outlined on paper maps the parts of a city that were considered at high risk of default, as well as more desirable neighborhoods for approving a loan. Neighborhoods considered risky were predominantly Black and Latinx (Crisis and Care: Meditations on Faith and Philanthropy, “Working twice as hard for half as much”).

Black families lost out on at least $212,000 in personal wealth over the last 40 years because their homes were redlined (Brooks, “Redlining’s legacy: maps are gone, but the problem hasn't disappeared.” para 4-5). However, the impact of redlining goes beyond the individual families who were denied loans based on the racial composition of their neighborhoods. Many neighborhoods that were labeled “Yellow” or “Red” by the Home Owners Loan Corporation back in the 1930s are still underdeveloped and underserved compared to nearby “Green” and “Blue” neighborhoods with largely white populations. Blocks in these neighborhoods tend to be empty or lined with vacant buildings. They often lack basic services, like banking or healthcare, and have fewer job opportunities and transportation options (Lockwood, “The History of Redlining.” para 2-8).

In short, redlining is economically-sanctioned and enforced segregation (Stone, “A Hard Look at Philanthropic Redlining.” para 2-3). While initially this phrase was located in conversations around real estate, redlining occurs across institutions and has taken several forms with the resulting impact continuing to be the hoarding of resources by those in power. 

Recently, in conversation with John Williams, Executive Director of the Center for Restorative Justice in Pasadena, we discussed the predatory practices in estate planning. In his previous work as lawyer, he described how family homes were left to children after the death of a parent. Here a predatory lender would intervene and, charging up to ⅓ the cost of the home, offer to act on the children’s behalf in probate if they were willing to turn over the estate. The house and property, in turn, are sold to developers or at a mark up to wealthier households. This practice takes place in economically disadvantaged neighborhoods. Thus generational wealth and real estate is not passed down in families.

Another form of systematic injustice is thinly-veiled. While the practice has been in play for generations, it has only been within the past few years that the term “philanthropic redlining” has been widely utilized when talking about the difficulties Black people and people of color encounter when either leading or fundraising for nonprofits, churches, and academic institutions. This term, characterized by how systems of power and wealth distribute resources disproportionately, developed and deepened as stories of systematic racism within granting and fundraising have been shared and examined.

In the past few years, as the term philanthropic redlining became more readily known, studies have examined how money has been distributed and to what end. Not surprisingly, in addition to receiving less, groups led by Black people and people of color are asked to perform significantly and measurably more in order to receive funding. For nonprofits that focus on some similar issues, the gaps were even larger. Among groups focused on improving life outcomes of black men, revenue at organizations with Black leaders is 45% lower than groups led by people who are white. 

Our systems are developed and maintained in ways that continue to mean Black people and people of color and economically disadvantaged work twice as hard for less resources than their counterparts.

And so we are met with the question, now that these practices are unveiled, how are we called to point to different ways of being in the world. How are we, human agents of God’s movements in the world, called to faithfulness of things now fully seen and known?