Sacred and Secular
Wrestling with belief, identity, and democracy in America
I don’t often write about faith.
The word too often becomes shorthand for religion, and that alone can trigger immediate discomfort. But faith and religion are not the same. Faith is deeply personal, while religion is the institutional framework built around it. One can live with profound faith and reject organized religion, fully embrace a religious tradition, and still wrestle with faith.
With the passing of Pope Francis and a global landscape increasingly marked by division and disillusionment, it feels like the right time to lean into an uncomfortable conversation: the intersection of religion, faith, and politics in America.
Faith, Religion, and the Constitution
For many, the intersection of faith and politics is profoundly personal—and highly contentious. Some believe that religion should not play a role in political life, while others view their political convictions as inseparable from their religious beliefs. At the heart of this tension lies the First Amendment—our supposed commitment to the separation of Church and State.
In theory, religious freedom means each person may practice any faith or none at all. Religious adherence is not a prerequisite for citizenship, dignity, or full participation in public life.
And yet, religion has always shaped our laws and our culture.
We talk about equity and pluralism, but how do we truly create an equitable society when we can’t seem to agree on that foundational principle?
No Single Faith, Even Within Faith
The heart of the issue is this: we do not all view faith in the same way.
Even among Christians, beliefs and practices differ vastly. According to the National Catholic Register, there are more than 200 Christian denominations in the United States alone—and tens of thousands globally. No two are exactly alike.
I learned just how different those views could be when I began studying ministry.
I was raised Roman Catholic. And if you asked me today about my religious affiliation, I would still call myself Catholic.
After a series of personal losses and upheavals, I felt a deep call to help others—not through medicine or law, but by reaching people where they were, especially those most vulnerable and overlooked. Initially, I envisioned working in pastoral care within the prison system.
But the Catholic Church offered no path forward for someone like me.
So, I joined an ELCA (Evangelical Lutheran Church in America) congregation, converted to Lutheranism, and enrolled in ministry studies at Indiana Wesleyan University. At the same time, I accepted a management position at a United Church of Christ (UCC) congregation.
Indiana Wesleyan is a conservative college. While I could thrive academically, I couldn’t live authentically.
No one in my program knew I was a lesbian, which was a deliberate choice.
I recognized that pursuing ministry as an openly queer woman would likely bring resistance, and it did—from the moment I began.
I encountered pushback as a woman, as a progressive, and, perhaps most surprisingly, as a Catholic.
My classmates were all men from extremely conservative Christian traditions.
Most of my professors came from the Wesleyan Methodist tradition, with many affiliated with the Church of the Nazarene. I often found myself ideologically closer to my professors than to my peers—but I still felt like an outsider.
Discernment Over Blind Adherence
Despite those challenges, I never fell into self-loathing.
Instead, I discovered something unexpected: a period of profound growth.
My professors helped me explore the concept of discernment—something that continues to shape my thinking to this day. Being immersed in such a wide spectrum of Christian thought was intellectually and spiritually eye-opening.
But there was one thread that ran through nearly every conversation—whether with professors, pastors, or church leaders—that cut deep:
A persistent undercurrent of anti-Catholic sentiment.
It surprised me just how much it hurt.
In some ways, those criticisms affected me more than the commentary about sexuality or gender.
That reaction taught me something vital: religion isn’t just a belief system; it’s part of identity. It’s stitched into how we see ourselves and the world.
And identity, as we all know, is one of the most contentious battlegrounds in modern politics.
Where Faith Meets Politics
How do we allow our identity to inform our politics without enabling it to disenfranchise others?
There is no simple answer.
This is where I share my faith and how it informs my politics:
The most vital part of living a faithful life is constant discernment.
Why do I feel the way I do about an issue?
How will my actions and words affect others?
For me, discernment is the central tenet of all leadership.
It’s the guiding principle to living a whole and faithful life.
Some may find this ironic, but my faith has led me to disengage from organized religion.
Anything can become a religion.
What concerns me most about religiosity is blind adherence.
Devotion should never negate discernment.
I find enormous value in the teachings from my Catholic youth, just as I am thankful for the lessons imparted to me by my professors and the pastors I have worked with. That does not prevent me from questioning doctrine—or advocating for reform.
All organizations and societies impose limits. Governments require laws to ensure the welfare of the people.
But my faith tells me that we place too much emphasis on punitive measures—both in religion and in politics—and not enough on the need for activism.
Faith without deeds is as empty as any unkept promise.
A Distorted Gospel
Our politics have adopted a theology of righteous reward, given for blind adherence.
We are considered less American, less godly, and less worthy if we dare to question authority—or open our minds and hearts to discernment.
I cannot speak to politics through the lens of Islam, Judaism, Buddhism, Hinduism, or any faith other than mine.
But it continues to sadden, frustrate, and infuriate me how Christianity is used as a political cudgel.
There is a distinct brand of American Christianity that, from my perspective, contradicts everything Jesus taught.
Jesus was a Jew who loved his faith yet challenged the religious leaders of his time.
He sought fellowship with outcasts, focused on mercy, and preached radical compassion.
He fed the hungry, clothed the poor, healed the sick, and visited the imprisoned.
He never built a temple to honor himself.
He didn’t ask for riches.
He did not advocate for weapons or call for executions.
He didn’t tell followers to give money to him in exchange for blessings.
He told them to give to the poor.
The espousals of the American Christian Right contradict everything Christ lived and died for.
Christ wasn’t a figure of dominance.
He was a figure of service.
Living Faithfully
Living a Christ-like existence is far more challenging than adhering to dogma.
Christ called us to show mercy and grace even to those who challenge and wound us the most.
I fail a dozen times at being Christ-like before I make it downstairs in the morning.
But if I could aspire to be like anyone, it would be Jesus.
To live my faith, I must question authority.
Jesus did.
He experienced fear, anger, and questions, but he did not let them deter him from his path.
The reward for living a Christ-like life isn’t measured in wealth or accolades.
It is found in gratitude, giving, and humility.
Final Reflections
Striving to live a faithful existence has taught me two important lessons:
I am perfectly imperfect—just as prone to desire, anger, frustration, and judgment as anyone is.
The most enduring hope and satisfaction arise from giving.
That is the true gift.
I share my faith journey with you because it influences every part of my life.
The face of God exists in every person—regardless of race, nationality, gender, faith, or life circumstances.
He is present in the immigrant and the LGBTQ+ person.
He is present in the Muslim, the Jew, the Hindu, the Buddhist, and the Atheist.
He is present in the doctor, the homeless man, the elder, the pastor, the police officer, and yes, even in the criminal.
If we adhered to that principle, we would require fewer prisons, fewer shelters, and fewer weapons.
I believe in the separation of church and state. I also understand that religion will continue to shape our politics—whether we want it to or not.
The open question is whether we will grow more Christ-like in the process.
I recall a conversation in my Old Testament class when a fellow student proclaimed that Muslims were the enemies of Christians.
It angered me.
I responded that God is the father of all; that’s why Jesus ministered to both Jews and Gentiles.
He had some colorful words for me.
My professor, a Nazarene pastor, stepped in and said quietly:
“God teaches us all wherever we live. If you had been born in Palestine, you would be a Muslim. God would still be your father.”
I think about those words often.
God is always speaking.
The question isn’t where we seek the lesson.
The question is whether we are listening.
I hope America finds its way back to compassion and empathy.
That journey begins not in slogans or grandstanding, but in recognizing the worth of every human being.
To those who have been given much, much is expected.
Jesus understood that.
When will America?
Powerful and thought-provoking, thank you. I too have a Catholic background but am not a practicing one. However, I feel Pope Francis has shown the way of compassion and love as best he could and I am hoping the new Pope will continue on his path and not be a reactive one who takes the Catholic Church back to the ‘bad’ old days - as has happened in the political world. Keep writing. Keep inspiring.