The 2016 election was hailed as a significant triumph for many Christians. I was not among them.
Having attended church my entire life, I recall the days of wearing colorful dresses and lace-trimmed socks, singing beloved songs like “Jesus Loves Me” and “Father Abraham” with family and friends, and joyfully placing coins into the collection plate that passed through the congregation every Sunday morning.
I remember the red carpet in the sanctuary, memorizing Psalm 23, and sharing Saltines and grape juice during communion. Women in our church were the organizers of potlucks, teachers of Sunday School, and caretakers of funerals and weddings. Summers were filled with Vacation Bible School (VBS), church camps, mission trips, and even baptisms in lakes—or if you were fortunate, in an above-ground pool. Autumn brought hayrides and marshmallow roasts, while Christmas was celebrated with candlelight services where we sang about the birth of a glowing (white-skinned, blue-eyed) Jesus. Springtime was for Easter egg hunts and car wash fundraisers.
The leadership was predominantly white, middle-aged men, quoting from the King James Version of the Bible, rich with phrases like “thou art” and “thine.” The gravest sins included drinking alcohol, anything other than heterosexual marriage, taking the Lord’s name in vain, and divorce. Some transgressions were so scandalous they were only murmured about, like the unspoken knowledge of a kid at church who was likely gay.
I always felt somewhat different from my peers in the youth group, harboring skepticism in various aspects. I never doubted God’s love for me or the reality of redemption; the core tenets of Christianity remained intact. Juggling multiple jobs to cover my college tuition introduced me to a diverse range of people—gay friends, black friends, older friends, and (gasp!) Democrat friends.
What troubled me then and still does is the rigid, white male-imposed criteria for holiness. Looking back, it seems those rules favored some over others significantly. Unfortunately, not much has changed since then.
The statistics are daunting and undeniably embarrassing: approximately 81% of Trump voters identified as white evangelicals. (It goes without saying, but I was not part of that group.) How could fellow Christians overlook Trump’s two divorces, multiple marriages, Twitter tirades, and allegations of infidelity? He couldn’t even refer to the biblical book of Second Corinthians correctly, mistakenly calling it “Two Corinthians.”
It’s utterly humiliating. I often feel compelled to approach everyone who has expressed disdain for organized religion and Christianity and tell them: “Trump is not Jesus.” I want to apologize for the hurt inflicted by those who claim to follow Christ yet act contrary to His teachings. I hope they do not abandon their interest in my faith.
The prevailing assumption is that church-goers lean conservative, and based on the 2016 election, it’s understandable why many view Christians as anti-LGBTQ, pro-life conservatives intolerant of those who differ from them. However, the reality is that Christians are not a monolith.
Consider the powerful female Christian voices like Mia Johnson, Angela Brown, and the late Sarah Green, who have risen to challenge the status quo. Their faith has driven them to advocate for LGBTQ rights, social justice, and feminism—unapologetically liberal.
So where does that leave Christians like me who disagree with many leaders and institutions? We cannot look to those who profess Jesus on Sunday yet abandon Him and our values at the polls.
For my family of six, including our four black children, it meant leaving the church behind—almost. It was challenging to sit beside someone in church on Sunday, knowing they had shared a Fox News clip on Friday night boasting about building walls to keep out “illegals.” This is the same Trump who tossed paper towels at hurricane-ravaged Puerto Ricans and referred to white supremacists in Charlottesville as “very fine people.”
How could self-proclaimed people of faith support a man who unabashedly commits the very sins preached against from the pulpit? Jesus calls us to love our neighbors as ourselves. What about immigrants, transgender youth, the elderly, children of color, and those without healthcare? Essentially, what about everyone except the Trump-supporting, middle and upper-class, white conservatives?
The Jesus I know and the faith my family upholds do not exclude anyone based on nationality, skin color, ability, age, or sexuality. My faith teaches that all individuals hold intrinsic value and are created by God.
In early 2016, we left the white evangelical church. By 2017, we were exhausted from church hunting until we finally discovered a congregation that resonated with us. We returned multiple Sundays and never left.
What set this church apart? Its leaders actively engage in discussions about politics and social justice and play a vital role in local communities, embodying the “hands and feet of Jesus” described in the Bible. The congregation boasts over 95% black leadership and membership, creating a vibrant and dedicated community.
I no longer felt the urge to give up. Our new church is refreshing, authentic, and stands in stark contrast to the Trump cult. Everything preached and practiced stems from the profound, redemptive love of God.
I’ve lost faith in cowardly leaders terrified of women and people of color rising up, fearful of the fact that Jesus himself was a radical Middle Eastern figure unafraid to challenge norms, love the marginalized, and speak truth to darkness.
I know many women share my sentiments—tired of fellow Christians resisting inclusivity and acceptance, weary of another white man dictating what’s best for our families, schools, careers, environment, and health care. Women see through the façade and recognize that fear, not faith, drives many leaders today.
We will not stand for it any longer. While we may not always have the perfect solutions, one thing is certain: we are not giving up.
Sarah Green, mentioned in this article, sadly passed away on May 4, 2019. She was a bestselling author, wife, and mother of two young children.