Once something is brought to the light, you can't push it back into the darkness.
In the long arc of institutional memory, the Church of England now confronts a reckoning centuries in the making: its 18th-century investments in the South Sea Company, which trafficked tens of thousands of enslaved Africans, generated wealth still embedded in its endowment today. In the years following George Floyd's murder, the Church committed £100 million through Project Spire to reparative justice — a gesture of moral accountability that has since collided with legal challenges, political opposition, and the fading momentum of a cultural moment. What hangs in the balance is not merely a funding decision, but the question of whether institutions can truly reckon with inherited harm, or whether the window for such reckoning closes before the work begins.
- The Church of England's own financial records reveal it poured nearly all its 18th-century investment capital into a company that enslaved and trafficked 34,000 Africans — profits worth £1.4 billion today still flow through its endowment.
- Project Spire, the £100 million reparative fund announced with moral urgency in 2023, has stalled under a coordinated campaign of legal, political, and academic opposition that frames the initiative as divisive overreach.
- Conservative MPs, a former Oxford ethics professor, and a banking historian are each attacking the project from different angles — questioning the legality of redirecting parish funds, the moral logic of inherited guilt, and the accuracy of the historical audit itself.
- Supporters within the Church — including a bishop descended from enslaved Africans and a south London rector whose congregation lives the legacy of that history — warn that the window for action is narrowing and may not reopen.
- While the larger initiative gridlocks, smaller reparative efforts move forward independently, including a £7 million project on the very Barbadian plantation where enslaved people were once branded with the word 'society.'
Beneath the worn stone floors of Rochester Cathedral lies a financial secret that took centuries to surface. The cathedral's dean points to the Georgian houses nearby — staff quarters, the organist's residence — and suggests all of it was built on profits extracted from human suffering. His institution, he now knows, invested heavily in the South Sea Company, which trafficked enslaved Africans across the Atlantic at a return of roughly 400 percent.
In 2023, the Church of England disclosed that between 1723 and 1777 it had channelled nearly all of its investment capital into that company, which worked alongside the Royal African Company to force approximately 34,000 enslaved people onto ships bound for the Caribbean and Spanish colonies. Between 10 and 15 percent died in transit. The profits — worth an estimated £1.4 billion today — were absorbed into the Church's endowment, now worth many billions of pounds.
The disclosure followed George Floyd's murder in 2020, a moment that prompted institutions across Britain and America to examine their own complicity in historical injustice. Archbishop Justin Welby apologised for the Church's 'shameful past' and announced Project Spire: a £100 million fund to support black-led enterprises in the UK as a form of reparative justice. For Bishop Rosemarie Mallett, a descendant of enslaved Africans who would chair the project's oversight committee, it felt like a watershed. For Father Andrew Mumby, rector of a south London parish where 31 percent of children live in poverty and most parishioners descend from West African and Caribbean ancestors, the commitment was not abstract — it was essential.
But the political ground shifted. By 2025, opposition had hardened. Conservative MP Katie Lam and 26 colleagues argued that legally restricted parish donations could not be redirected to reparations. Lord Nigel Biggar, an ordained priest and former Oxford ethics professor, published a book framing the Church's response as capitulation to moral panic, arguing that slavery should be judged by 18th-century standards and that Britain's role in abolition should offset its guilt. A banking historian separately challenged the audit's methodology, claiming the Church had invested in government bonds rather than the slave trade directly — a distinction the original researchers firmly rejected.
The Church Commissioners proposed housing Project Spire within a separate charity to address legal concerns, and announced a parallel £1.6 billion commitment for parish support. But the project remains gridlocked. Bishop Mallett acknowledged the narrowing window: 'I pray, I hope. I think the window is still there, but I think it has narrowed.'
Elsewhere, reparative work continues on a smaller scale. The Church's missionary wing, which once ran the Codrington estate in Barbados — a sugar plantation where enslaved people were branded with the word 'society' — is now funding a £7 million reparative justice project on that same land, including financial literacy courses, small business grants, and the search for ancestral graves. For those involved, the argument that the Church earned moral credit by supporting abolition in 1807 misses the point entirely. The question now is whether the larger commitment will survive the closing window of political will, or whether the moment of reckoning that seemed inevitable in 2020 will quietly slip away.
In the quire of Rochester Cathedral, where the choir sits above worn stone floors, lies a financial secret that took centuries to surface. Beneath those paving stones—relaid in the early 1700s—is evidence of how the cathedral's leadership invested directly in a company that trafficked enslaved people across the Atlantic, turning a profit of roughly 400 percent. The Very Reverend Philip Hesketh, the cathedral's dean, points to the Georgian houses built nearby, the staff quarters, the organist's residence. All of it, he suggests, was paid for by money extracted from human suffering.
What happened at Rochester was not unique. In 2023, the Church of England disclosed that between 1723 and 1777, it had poured nearly all of its investment capital into the South Sea Company, a London-based enterprise that worked with the Royal African Company to force enslaved Africans onto ships bound for the Caribbean and Spanish colonies. An economic historian brought in to audit the Church's 18th-century ledgers estimated the company trafficked around 34,000 enslaved people under conditions so brutal that between 10 and 15 percent died during the crossing. The profits from those investments—worth roughly £1.4 billion in today's money—were absorbed into the Church's modern endowment fund, now worth many billions of pounds.
The disclosure came in the wake of George Floyd's murder in Minneapolis in May 2020, a moment that prompted institutions across Britain and America to reckon with their own complicity in historical injustice. Universities launched investigations. Museums reassessed their collections. The Church of England, which had already been reflecting on its role in slavery, accelerated its examination. When the Church Commissioners published their findings in 2023, Archbishop Justin Welby apologized for the institution's "shameful past" and announced Project Spire, a £100 million fund intended primarily to support black-led enterprises in the UK as a form of reparative justice.
For some within the Church, the moment felt transformative. Bishop Rosemarie Mallett, a descendant of enslaved Africans who would chair Project Spire's oversight committee, called it a watershed. "Once something is brought to the light, you can't push it back into the darkness," she said. Father Andrew Mumby, rector of a south London parish where 31 percent of children live in poverty and most parishioners are black Christians descended from West African and Caribbean ancestors, saw the commitment as essential. The legacy of the transatlantic slave trade, he argued, was not an abstract historical debate but a visible, structural force shaping the lives of his congregation today.
But the political ground shifted. By 2025, opposition to Project Spire had hardened into what some call a culture war. Conservative MP Katie Lam and 26 other MPs and peers wrote to the Church arguing that restricted donations meant for parish work could not legally be redirected to reparations. Lord Nigel Biggar, an ordained priest and former Oxford ethics professor, published a book titled "Reparations: Slavery and the Tyranny of Imaginary Guilt," framing the Church's response not as repentance but as capitulation to what he called a "moral panic" following George Floyd's death. He argued that slavery must be judged by 18th-century moral standards, not 21st-century ones, and that Britain's role in abolishing the trade should offset any guilt about participating in it.
Others challenged the historical findings themselves. Richard Dale, an emeritus professor of international banking, argued that the Church had invested primarily in government bonds tied to the South Sea Company, not directly in its slave-trading operations—a distinction he said made the entire audit fundamentally flawed. Economists and historians who conducted the original research pushed back, insisting the bonds could not be decoupled from the company's core business of trafficking human beings.
Meanwhile, the Church Commissioners announced a separate £1.6 billion commitment over three years for parish support, saying reparatory justice would sit alongside, not replace, existing work. They proposed creating a separate charity to house Project Spire, a move intended to address legal concerns. But the project remains gridlocked, caught between what supporters regard as Christian justice and the realities of modern politics. Bishop Mallett acknowledged the narrowing window. "I pray, I hope," she said. "I think the window is still there, but I think it has narrowed."
Elsewhere, reparative work proceeds independently. The United Society for the Propagation of the Gospel, the Church's missionary wing that once ran the Codrington estate in Barbados—a sugar plantation worked by around 300 enslaved people branded with the word "society" on their chests—is now funding a £7 million reparative justice project directly on that land. The work includes financial literacy courses, small business grants, and the difficult process of locating ancestral graves. For Kevin Farmer, executive secretary of the Codrington Trust, the argument that the Church absolved itself by supporting abolition in 1807 misses the point: "There would have been no need to pat yourself on the back in 1807 if you had not engaged in enslaving people from the early 16th Century." The question now is whether the Church's larger commitment will survive the closing window of political will, or whether the moment of reckoning that seemed inevitable in 2020 will slip away.
Citas Notables
There would have been no need to pat yourself on the back in 1807 if you had not engaged in enslaving people from the early 16th Century.— Kevin Farmer, executive secretary of the Codrington Trust in Barbados
If you don't address injustices, historic or otherwise, that in itself creates and perpetuates division. In this parish, 31% of children are living in poverty.— Father Andrew Mumby, Rector of St Peter's Church Walworth in south London
La Conversación del Hearth Otra perspectiva de la historia
Why did it take until 2023 for the Church to fully acknowledge what it had done?
The forensic audit was already underway before George Floyd's murder, but that moment in 2020 gave the Church permission to accelerate and actually publish findings it might otherwise have buried. The pressure was suddenly real.
And the money—£100 million—where was it supposed to come from?
From the Church's modern investment fund, which itself contains the accumulated profits from those 18th-century slave investments. They weren't asking donors for new money. They were saying: this fund was built on slavery profits, so some of it should go back to address that legacy.
That seems straightforward. Why the legal pushback?
Because the Church's endowment is restricted by centuries of donor intent. People gave money to support parish churches and clergy wages, not reparations. The law says that money has to be used for what donors specified. It's not a value judgment—it's a constraint.
But couldn't they argue the restriction is superseded by a greater moral claim?
That's the theological argument some bishops are making. But in a polarized moment, that argument doesn't land. The critics—including some within the Church—see it as the institution capitulating to modern politics rather than thinking clearly about its actual obligations.
What about the people who were actually harmed? Do they have a voice in this?
Some do. Father Andrew Mumby speaks from his congregation's experience—intergenerational poverty, structural disadvantage. But the loudest voices in the debate are academics and politicians arguing about whether the historical case is even proven. The people living with the consequences are often drowned out.
Is there any chance Project Spire actually happens?
Bishop Mallett still hopes so, but she's honest about it: the window has narrowed. The moment of 2020 when institutions felt compelled to act has passed. Now it's just gridlock and culture war.