Beyond the Gate

What it means to be Christian during the resurgence of the religious right. 

By Althea Downing-Sherer

Illustration by Em Bennet

When people discover that my dad is a pastor, I feel compelled to assure them that I’m not that kind of Christian: “But don’t worry, he’s, like, a really woke pastor.” With a pride flag fluttering high above our church’s entrance to prevent local dissenters from stealing it and with church members prepping donations of school supplies, my church does not always fit the negative stereotypes. However, despite my church’s progressive politics, its radical vision for community, and confirmation curriculum that covers the politics of Christianity and vast diversity of the faith, at 13 I stood behind my church’s pulpit and declared that I did not wish to be confirmed. 

Confirmation is the process through which a young member of the church publicly proclaims their commitment to their faith, and I wanted nothing to do with such archaic rituals. My voice did not waver, for I held the blind confidence in my convictions only an eighth grader rebelling against the evils of organized religion could express. I rebuked Christianity for its homophobia and oppressive dogma. I proudly cited my limited knowledge of atheist philosophy, because hadn’t these ignorant fanatics considered the Epicurean Paradox? I wrapped up my condemnation by claiming the most radical label I could muster, the ultimate rejection of organized religion: “spiritual but not religious.” 

The label of “spiritual but not religious” offered me an individualistic sense of spirituality, entirely removed from any sense of history or community. It saved me from grappling with Christianity, a faith laden with historical baggage, familial significance, and the sense of mutual accountability that comes with practicing religion in community. I instead believed that worshiping a universe constantly conspiring in my individual interest made me morally superior to those who were naively “religious.” I had internalized the idea that Christianity—and organized religion more broadly—entailed manipulation and suppression. Yet, reality began to challenge my perception of the church. I realized I had allowed inaccurate assumptions about Christianity to dictate my personal perception of the faith.

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B paused for a moment before looking up from the page, an excerpt from Luke 16. Here, Jesus tells the parable of the rich man and Lazarus, a sick beggar who is just outside his gate. Both men die, yet suffer very different fates: Lazarus is carried away by angels while the rich man is sent to suffer in Hades, implying the impermanence and sin of worldly wealth. 

“Do we relate more to Lazarus or the rich man?” B asked the room. I was struck by the vulnerability of this question, the invitation to resist victimization and reflect on our complicity in others’ suffering. 

Every Monday night I joined Village Campus Ministry in a dimly lit room on the third floor of Broadway Presbyterian Church to interrogate these difficult parts of scripture, question the politics of Jesus, and apply these teachings to real life. I had only found Village because it had advertised itself as an explicitly “progressive” and “queer-affirming” campus ministry. I sometimes wondered why other groups did not have to advertise themselves as “conservative” campus ministries. Why did my Christianity demand these qualifiers? 

I don’t see my religion as aligned with a certain political agenda, but Christianity’s perception problem often necessitates constantly defining myself against more “conservative” forms of the faith. Yet when I read the Bible for what it is, in its historical context, I see a Christ who stood up for the weak, the poor, the sick, and was violently persecuted for it. I see a Gospel that teaches us to reject greed, to redistribute wealth, and to put the last before the first. Often, these Gospel values do carry certain political implications. The story of Lazarus and the rich man is no exception.

The parable had always made me uncomfortable, partly because the Christianity I was raised in embraced universalism. Despite his greed and refusal to acknowledge Lazarus, did this unnamed rich man really deserve eternal torment? Though perhaps I simply felt personally attacked. The room was filled with noise from the city below: the rivers of traffic, the oscillation of sirens, the distant thunder of planes landing. The awareness that we were all the rich man. Yet trying to, at the very least, look beyond the gate.

With the religious right appearing more politically empowered than ever, it is not surprising that media and academic narratives of American Christianity’s relationship with politics have disproportionately centered conservative evangelicals. We hear “Christianity” and “politics” and think of rioters storming the capitol wielding cartoonish crosses and paintings of Jesus, the senior advisor to the White House Faith Office declaring that “to say no to President Trump would be saying no to God,” and children whose first impression of Jesus is an airbrushed, AI-generated white man embracing Charlie Kirk. This tension is nothing new: Post-Constantinian Christianity has always teetered between existing as a religion of the oppressed and a tool of oppressors. Yet this focus on the conservative politics of much of American Christianity runs the risk of reinforcing claims that Christianity is inherently oppressive and overlooks the political contributions of religious progressives.

Morningside Heights itself has a long history of progressive religious activism: The steeple of Riverside Church soars over campus, known for hosting countless activists in its sanctuary, including Martin Luther King Jr., whose activism was also strongly rooted in his faith. The Interchurch Center—nicknamed the “Godbox”—looms behind Barnard, a building initially seeking to unify many Protestant denominations in their social outreach efforts. Union Theological Seminary is known as a center for progressive Christian scholarship including Black and womanist theology. 

Clearly, the problem is not that there is no religious left, but that the religious left has been unable to mobilize as a political force in the same way as the religious right. Accounts of progressive politics rooted in Christianity often leave out the “religious” part, while the “religious” side of conservative politics is frequently emphasized. Yet at a moment where Christianity is being used to justify oppression, it seems more important than ever that we highlight voices reminding us that Christianity can be more than this.

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At the end of Village meetings we often pass around a candle to pray over. The intention, I suppose, is to convey all of our collective prayers into the quivering flame. I clasped my hands and waited for my turn. For better or worse, recently I often feel more “religious” than “spiritual”: Even in prayer it is difficult for me to disregard my intellect and let something more transcendent wash over me. When my turn came, I cupped the candle in my palms, held my breath, and watched the wax tunnel. My prayers were always the same vague request: Show me how I am supposed to live. 

Every religious community I have been a part of has prioritized actionable rather than abstract faith, centering communal justice rather than individual salvation. Yet the heavy awareness of Christianity’s baggage always crept into my contemplation and I would find myself searching desperately for a sign that this was really the medium through which I was meant to help the Lazaruses of the world.

I often speak with other Christians about our desire to distinguish ourselves from groups we believe have exploited our faith and to restore Christianity to its origins as a religion of liberation. But I often find myself questioning the purpose and efficacy of making these arguments, as I am hesitant to associate Christianity with a pre-defined political agenda. Part of me recognizes that my instinct to defend my version of Christianity stems from feeling personally attacked when I hear political generalizations about my faith. Also, some of us may secretly hope that by making theological arguments for the correct reading of scripture that we might convince conservative Christians that Jesus really would have argued for redistribution of wealth or against Christian nationalism. Yet, whether you are preaching to secular liberals or evangelicals, misinterpretation feels inevitable. For those groups, the most I hope is that they begin to question the generalizations they instinctively make about any religion. 

Despite my doubt in “progressive” Christianity’s ability to effectively advocate for itself, I do believe that it can offer a powerful alternative to Christian nationalism and conservative forms of the faith. Its very existence delegitimizes the religious right’s argument that Christianity is inherently exclusionary and should be fused with American civic life. It reclaims Christ’s mission from institutions which have repeatedly misinterpreted and exploited it. It is a reminder that despite Christianity’s muddled history, the core message of the Gospels is not one of individual salvation, yet a demand for collective action: “Love your neighbor as yourself.”

Illustration by Em Bennet

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I spent last year’s Ash Wednesday in a sort of daze, the kind that comes with falling air pressure and clouds blanketing the body of the city. My father, an ex-Catholic, is skeptical of all the ritual surrounding the lead-up to Easter, but I have always indulged in it. I find it one of the most beautiful times of year, a chance to confront your mortality, repent, and reconnect with God. 

That same evening, I pressed my forehead against the Sulzberger lobby windows and watched a sea of NYPD uniforms line the ledges of Barnard Hall. Cops in heavy riot gear now blocked the windows where just that morning my friends had sat, chatting and furiously annotating readings. I watched officers drag protesters from the library and tighten zip ties over their wrists, all for the crime of acknowledging suffering. 

Selfishly, I had been looking forward to attending an Ash Wednesday service that evening. I couldn’t tell if it was now insensitive or more urgent to go. Despite our fears that we wouldn’t be allowed back on campus because of the police presence and campus shutdown, my roommate and I ventured across the street to the chapel. We huddled under my umbrella and stumbled over the uneven bricks lining the way to St. Paul’s. The pavement was flooded with rainwater and by the time we reached the chapel, our socks were drenched.

So many people came to the service that they ran out of bulletins. We read from Matthew 6, where Jesus reminds us to store up treasures in heaven rather than on earth, saying “For where your treasure is, there your heart will be also,” and “You cannot serve both God and money.” In other words, we are only guaranteed this life. We can prioritize greed or worldly desire. Or we can release ourselves from those drives and attempt to serve God: to attempt to care for or at least see others, to see Lazarus. 

I thought about the irony of so much violence being contrasted with such a fragile day, a day meant for repentance. At Barnard and Columbia, it is sometimes difficult to not feel hopelessly complacent in the administration’s suppression, the homelessness outside our gates, or rampant inequality within them. Similarly, taking on the label of “Christian” necessitates confronting the significant suffering certain strains of Christianity have caused and the reasons for the general public’s negative associations with the faith. But more importantly, it means fighting to reclaim our faith from those attempting to use it to justify hate and division. When Christian progressives speak up about their faith, it challenges the right’s vision of Christianity by offering a stark contrast to exclusionary or nationalistic conceptions of Christianity.

At the end of the service we waited in silence to receive ashes. Whispers of “remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return” echoed through the sanctuary. A moment of peace, before we passed through the campus gates and faced the rain outside.