For over a century, Catholic priests in Maryland held Black people in bondage, making them some of the largest slaveholders in the state. Shockingly, they even prayed for the souls of those they held captive while continuing to enslave and sell their bodies. The aftermath of the Civil War presented emancipated Black families, who had been torn apart by these clergymen, with a difficult decision. Should they continue to be part of a church that had betrayed them?
Over the past seven years, as a professor and journalist specializing in slavery and its enduring impact, I have unraveled the disturbing origins of the American Catholic Church. The church relied on slave labor and the sale of slaves to sustain itself and fund its expansion. As a Black woman and practicing Catholic, I have grappled with the implications of this history for my faith and my place in the church.
In 2016, I came across a tip about prominent Jesuit priests who had sold 272 people to raise funds for what is now known as Georgetown University, the nation’s first Catholic institution of higher learning. Witness accounts depicted the horrors of enslavement: children forcibly separated from their parents, siblings torn apart, and desperate individuals forced onto slave ships bound for Louisiana. This was one of the largest documented slave sales of the time, and it shattered countless families.
This revelation left me astounded. How did I, as a practicing Catholic, not know that Catholic priests had bought and sold human beings? The history of Catholic slaveholding had been explored by scholars of slavery, but it had been conveniently overlooked in the narrative surrounding the emergence of Catholicism in the United States. Delving into archives, I discovered records of pregnant women being whipped, children sold without their parents, and girls exchanged for horses. Priests from the 1820s openly acknowledged the deplorable living conditions that families endured.
Amidst reading such distressing accounts, I found myself attending Mass at my beloved church on weekends, struggling to reconcile what I was uncovering with the rituals I held dear. Growing up on Staten Island, my family had connections to the Catholic Worker movement and figures like Dorothy Day, who touched our lives profoundly. Yet, it was only during my time as a New York Times correspondent and a mother that I began to learn about the submerged role Black people had played in the Catholic Church.
It wasn’t just Georgetown that benefited from Catholic priests who relied on slavery. They were instrumental in the establishment of the nation’s first Catholic college, archdiocese, cathedral, and even played a role in the early Catholic monasteries. The very clergymen who laid the foundation for the first Catholic seminary relied on the labor of enslaved individuals. While praying for the souls of those held captive, these leaders turned a blind eye to the inherent contradictions of their actions.
Although some priests voiced dissent, such as Patrick Smyth and Joseph Carbery, most powerful leaders within the Catholic Church staunchly supported slavery until the Union victory in the Civil War made its demise inevitable. Fast forward to 1865, when some priests recognized the significance of the moment and called for the establishment of positions focused on Black Catholics post-emancipation. Despite this, their fellow bishops dismissed the idea and revealed their racial prejudices, expressing doubt about the wisdom of “sudden liberation” for the newly emancipated population.
This racial bias extended down to parish level, where Black and white children were often segregated during religious education, Holy Communion, and other church events. The consequences of this racism were severe, with approximately 20,000 African Americans leaving the Catholic Church in New Orleans alone.
Yet, many of the families I have studied chose to remain in the church. For them, the church represented something greater than the sinful white men who governed it. These priests may have had the power to enslave people, but they did not control God, Jesus, or the Holy Spirit. The true, universal church depicted in Scripture did not belong to these men. It belonged to everyone, including newly emancipated Black Catholics, for whom Catholicism provided solace, community, and a connection to their ancestral African religious traditions.
Families like the Mahoneys, torn apart in the 1838 sale, passed down their devotion through generations. They became active members of the church, baptizing their children, assuming leadership roles, and reshaping the church’s institutions to be more inclusive and responsive to Black Catholics. Some family members even became nuns, running schools for Black children well into the 20th century. Many of their descendants continue to practice Catholicism today. United with other descendants, they have pushed Georgetown University and the Jesuits to confront their past and take responsibility through reparations and reconciliation efforts.
When people inquire about whether my research has shaken my faith, I respond with a resounding no. Instead, I am deeply inspired by the families who challenged the church to live up to its teachings. Their stories embody resilience, resistance, and a profound connection to faith and family. Unraveling this history has strengthened my bond with Catholicism and transformed my understanding of my own church.
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