Matt Seidel
Two years ago, Dr. Kanika Turner reached out with some trepidation to leaders in the Black church. Her aim: teach the African-American community how to revive people overdosing on heroin or fentanyl, two kinds of opioids. Turner, a clinical instructor in the Saint Louis University School of Medicine and an associate medical director of the Family Care Health Center in South City, had even secured public funds to launch her education tour. But she feared area ministers would refuse.
“There’s always been that stigma with drug use in the Black community, that it’s frowned on, it’s hush-hush,” she says. “It’s a grimy topic, and people want to hear about good things in church.” When Turner approached clergy members, however, she was shocked: Every single one agreed to participate. “I guess I was judging them myself,” she says.
Since then, Turner says, she’s educated leaders of more than 70 Black churches, visiting dozens in person. She passes out kits with nasal spray devices containing Narcan, a brand of naloxone—the medication that reverses opioids’ effects and can quickly help someone who has overdosed breathe normally again. She also coaches her audiences to use words that carry a minimum of judgment—for example, “active user of drugs” instead of “addict.”
“My biggest goal,” says Turner, “is for them to see this as a disease and not as a moral failure.”
The public health problem itself is undeniable. Whether one’s addiction arises through use of prescription pain meds such as oxycodone (brand name OxyContin) or through experimentation with street drugs, opioids have ravaged urban and rural America alike in recent years. In absolute terms, white males accounted for the largest number of opioid deaths in Missouri 2014–2018, according to state statistics, but Black males had the highest rate of opioid deaths by far: nearly 60 per 100,000.
Matt Seidel
Rodrick K. Burton, pastor of New Northside Missionary Baptist Church in Jennings, says it’s not uncommon to see someone in the surrounding neighborhood slumped over in a car or lying on the sidewalk after taking too much of an opioid. It’s been a problem for years, he observes.
“One of the ironies pointed out,” says Burton, “is that once white America started dying of opioids, then it became a crisis, and there’s truth to that. But that should not prevent us from availing ourselves now of the resources available and partnering with people who might not have been partners before.”
“PEOPLE ARE DYING, SO IF WE CAN SAVE A LIFE, THAT’S WORTH MORE THAN CONDEMNATION.”
Dr. Turner was able to leverage State Opioid Response Grant funds to launch her initiative. Her philosophy is one of harm reduction—the idea that certain individuals will engage in harmful behaviors no matter what intervention you try, so you might as well seek to minimize the damage and maximize safety. Burton says not every Black church in St. Louis is ready to adopt this mindset, but most are on board.
Bishop Larry Wooten, longtime pastor of Williams Temple in Kingsway West and president of the local chapter of the Ecumenical Leadership Council of Missouri, certainly is. “We don’t condone any use of drugs,” he says. “The Bible tells us that our bodies are the temple of the Holy Spirit. That’s why we should keep them clean. But we have a drug epidemic and people are dying, so if we can save a life, that’s worth more than condemnation.”
It’s difficult to gauge how common this stance is among religious leaders in general. The training of local Catholic priests, for example, does not include lessons on how to administer naloxone, according to Maria Lemakis, a spokeswoman for the Archdiocese of St. Louis; if a priest sees someone overdosing, she adds, his first call will be to 911.
In a sense, Burton points out, it’s not surprising that Black ministers were particularly receptive to Turner’s initiative: During centuries of being largely shut out of the corridors of power, African-Americans often turned to church for certain civic services. “For practical survival reasons,” says Burton, “we have had to work in ways that are different from majority culture.”
Not that Burton is averse to calling first responders. When a man recently passed out in his church office’s parking lot, Burton called an ambulance, which arrived before he needed to use the Narcan spray he keeps at the ready in his vehicle.
Over the past two years, Turner has broadened her opioid education outreach to barber shops and beauty salons, though her main focus remains the churches. Last winter, she gave a presentation at one church’s fellowship hall. Rushing out to her car afterward to escape the cold, she heard a man calling out to her. He approached and thanked her for the presentation she’d given there the week before. He had listened to her advice and accepted a box of Narcan.
Days later, he said, he used it to save his brother’s life.
“I got a little teary-eyed as he was telling me his story,” she recalls. “What do you do with that?”
She reached into her car and handed him three more boxes.
