When Pope Francis visited America last week, all anyone could talk about in the media was his progressivism—his views on climate change, poverty and immigration. As a Christian with deep Catholic roots, such a change in the discourse around Christianity was a welcome one.
Since starting Duke, I have had a crisis of faith.
Not for the conventional reason of freedom from familial constraints but instead for recognizing and coming to terms with the inherent lack of inclusivity and social justice built into the modern Christian complex in America. By the modern Christian complex in America, I refer to the mostly white, evangelical tradition that has become so embroiled in the dynamics of our national politics and more specifically in the Republican Party, though both parties are not exempt from this phenomenon.
A politician or pundit panders to this demographic by telling women what they can and can’t do with their bodies, affirming that All Lives (not Black Lives) Matter or reiterating that a Muslim cannot be president. In a sense, justifying the oppression of non-white, non-Christians through a feigned moral lens of superiority.
We used to do the same thing to justify slavery, imperialism and (still today) American exceptionalism. One would think that American Christians writ large could contemplate and understand the language of the oppressed since the Church and its language arose from such a context 2000 years ago. But the reality has been far different.
Our history has shown the Christian establishment’s propensity to be on the wrong side, and a select set of prophetic voices within the Church be on the right side of progressive movements against oppression in America. Save the black prophetic movement and forms of liberation theology among other examples of progressive leadership, the connection between state-sponsored oppression and moral justification through the Church is fairly clear.
As a person of faith, however, who believes that justice is what love looks like in public, to borrow from Cornel West, I cannot and simply will not identify with these strains of discourse that promote oppression, bigotry and hate. I’ve decided to reinforce my ally-ship for movements against oppression not in spite of, but because of, my faith.
Last week, a close friend told me, “I didn’t know you were Christian.” It troubled me because such statements highlight the extent to which state-sponsored, majority white Christianity has limited the purview of what it means to be Christian. If I’m pro-choice, support gay marriage and have a close group of interfaith friends, does that mean I am not Christian?
Christianity, feminism, ally-ship for the LGBTQ community, support for racial justice and interfaith engagement among other forms of ally-ship are not mutually exclusive. But they continue to be increasingly distant in American life.
I have been pondering this question the past couple of weeks. Why does it, or should it, matter that I am a Christian? In my columns, I have tried at times to broach topics that matter to me—what it means to be an ally for sexual assault survivors or for the Black Lives Matter movement for instance—but I have never approached those issues of justice through the frame that has been one of the most salient in my life, namely my faith.
Faith and justice are explicitly tied. Loving people for who they are is analogous to breaking systems and structures of oppression that communicate the exact opposite. If we want to change the discourse in the Church, we need more Christians to be allies of movements against oppression.
I know there are students at Duke and people around the country who share this common crisis of faith. The dichotomy between these movements and a broader Christian discourse that rests in opposition to these notions of freedom and justice is palpable and complicated to navigate. But we’ll never experience change in the politics of our nation and in the progression of the Church without voices demanding such change and supporting such voices in our communities as allies.
Prophetic witnesses like Dorothy Day and Martin Luther King have contributed to such shifts in the past, and perhaps Pope Francis will continue to contribute to changing notions about climate change and poverty. But we can only begin to achieve such change when Christians in our communities and elsewhere begin to take the risk of speaking in opposition to the masses of Americans who are Islamophobic, homophobic or believe climate change is a myth.
As I’ve become more active as an ally for the LGBTQ community and feminist movements, I have watched as peers in my religious community have found discomfort in broaching the subject with me. In most cases, the resolution is to agree to disagree or avoid the topic all together. Suffice to say, I am done avoiding the topic or failing to speak up.
It matters that I am a Christian, and it matters just as much that I am an ally for movements against oppression. We as Christians have to begin to understand the ways in which our version of the Golden Rule means loving everyone in policy and in practice no matter our differences. We should support oppressed movements rather than act as the oppressors, for that is truly who we were meant to be.
Tolerance and complicity are simply not enough. Let us have the courage to challenge ourselves to truly live out a calling of a deeply seeded love of justice borne of a love for others.
Jay Sullivan is a Trinity senior. His column runs on alternate Mondays.
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