Some people say Black folks are too forgiving.
We forgive pastors. We forgive celebrities. We forgive people who’ve let us down. But here’s why I don’t begrudge anyone’s forgiveness: because I believe we are not the sum of our worst mistakes.
That doesn’t mean accountability goes out the window. It doesn’t mean we turn a blind eye to harm. But I also don’t believe anyone should be written off forever. Whether you choose to support a leader who has fallen—that’s your personal choice. But we should all remember that, pastors included, we are fallible humans, granted grace every single day.
Forgiveness has always been one of our greatest strengths as a people. From the church pews to our family tables, Black folks have leaned on grace as a survival strategy. We forgive because we have to. We forgive to move forward. We forgive because bitterness and anger can eat us alive.
Let me be clear: forgiveness is not weakness. It is one of the most powerful tools we have. Our faith teaches us to turn the other cheek. Our resilience as a community has depended on extending grace in the face of injustice. Without forgiveness, we wouldn’t have survived centuries of harm.
But here’s the tension: when forgiveness comes without accountability, are we really forgiving—or are we enabling? We don’t need to rush to absolve, but it is okay to forgive, as long as we truly believe in redemption. True growth requires more than grace. It requires repair.
Forgiveness should allow people to rebuild, yes—but only after they’ve done the hard work of restitution. Forgiveness that says, “We still love you, but we won’t let you harm us again.”
And there’s another layer to this: forgiveness is good for us. Studies have shown that harboring anger and hostility is linked to higher risks of heart disease and other health issues. “Anger is a form of stress, and so when we hold on to anger it is as though we are turning on the body’s stress response, or fight-or-flight response, chronically,” Neda Gould, an assistant professor of psychiatry at Johns Hopkins University, told CNN. “When we engage in the act of forgiveness, we can begin to turn off the stress response and the physiological changes that accompany it.”
In other words, forgiveness doesn’t just free the other person—it frees us. It protects our health, our spirits, and our peace of mind.
Black people, after generations of trauma, have been conditioned to offer forgiveness reflexively. Sometimes that has been necessary for survival. But I’m going to be real: when it comes to the mistreatment of Black people in white America, that forgiveness takes on a whole different story.
Black people, after generations of trauma, have been conditioned to reflexively offer forgiveness. Sometimes that has been necessary for survival. But I’m going to be real: when it comes to the mistreatment of Black people in white America, that forgiveness takes on a whole different story.
We’ve been asked to forgive slavery. To forgive lynchings. To forgive Jim Crow. To forgive police brutality. To forgive the casual and constant indignities of racism in schools, workplaces, hospitals, and courtrooms. Over and over, America has harmed us and then rushed to demand our forgiveness—without ever fully acknowledging the harm or repairing the damage.
That’s where I draw the line. Forgiveness without accountability is not reconciliation—it’s erasure. It silences pain, lets systems off the hook, and puts the burden of healing on the people who have been harmed.
So no, I don’t believe Black folks are “too forgiving.” I believe we know the power of forgiveness better than anyone. But forgiveness, to mean anything, has to be rooted in truth and justice. Otherwise, it’s just another way of telling us to swallow our pain and keep moving.
Our grace has kept us alive, but our demand for accountability will be what finally makes us free.
