THE HIDDEN SICKNESS OF SELECTIVE INCLUSION
Racism rarely announces itself with raised voices or clenched fists; more often, it hides behind polite smiles, curated moments, and carefully staged displays of “diversity.”
It is a quiet sickness—a distortion of vision—that convinces otherwise decent people that they are healthy simply because they have arranged one night, one speaker, or one token gesture to prove their innocence. This is what I call the hidden sickness of selective inclusion—a condition in which people believe they have transcended prejudice while still breathing its air, repeating its patterns, and defending its systems.
I once attended a Christian university that prided itself on its annual lectureship. For one night—one—a Black preacher was invited to speak. That same night, a Black song leader stood before the assembly, and the men offering prayer were also Black. It was presented as evidence that the school was open, accepting, and above any whisper of racism.
But everyone could see it, even if no one said it: this was “Black Night.”
One night out of many.
One window dressed up to give the illusion that every room was bright. And in that moment, their attempt to prove they were not racist revealed something deeper: they did not understand racism at all. They did not understand its psychology—or its quiet psychosis.
Racism is not merely hatred; it is hierarchy. It is not simply personal animosity; it is selective inclusion. It is the unspoken belief that whiteness is the default, the center, the norm—and that everyone else enters only by invitation. Racism thrives not only in who is excluded but in how someone is included.
When a person is invited to the table only on the night when “diversity” is on display, their presence is not fellowship; it is presentation. They become a symbol, not a brother; a tool, not a treasured member of the Body. And those who orchestrate such moments often congratulate themselves for doing what love would have done naturally, consistently, and without applause.
Jesus never used people as props. He never needed a “Samaritan Night” to prove He loved Samaritans. He never needed a “Gentile Night” to show that the gospel was for all. He simply walked with them, spoke with them, touched them, healed them, and honored them as image-bearers of God.
Racism cannot survive in a heart that sees every person through the eyes of Jesus; but selective inclusion thrives in a heart that sees diversity as a decoration rather than a conviction.
The hidden sickness of selective inclusion works like this: people who do not believe they are racist defend themselves by pointing to isolated exceptions rather than examining consistent patterns. “We had a Black speaker.” “We invited a Black song leader.” “We honored a minority brother last year.” “I have Black friends.”
These gestures become shields, preventing the honest self-examination that Jesus demands—an examination that asks: Do I see all people as truly equal? Do I give equal voice, equal honor, and equal presence not occasionally but continually? Do I choose inclusion because it reflects the character of Christ, or because it helps my image?
Racism is a broken lens; it distorts without the person realizing the distortion is there. And the tragedy is that those caught in it often believe themselves righteous because they can point to one moment where they got it right.
But love does not wait for a special night to appear; it flows through the ordinary, the weekly, the everyday rhythms of fellowship and leadership and worship.
When we choose selective inclusion, we do not heal racism—we hide it behind stained-glass windows. When we walk in the inclusive love of Christ, we expose racism for the sickness it is, and let His grace begin the cure.
May the Lord give us eyes to see as He sees, courage to repent where we’ve been blind, and hearts that welcome without calculation or pretense—until the church reflects not one-night diversity, but everlasting Kingdom unity.
BDD
