A Leap into Faith

In 1951, while studying for a Greek exam at Fuller Seminary, William R. Bright had a revelation. He felt called to create a new ministry outside the traditional institution of the church, concerned with spreading the gospel to college students, and then the world.

With the help of his wife Vonette Z. Bright, William Bright conceived of Campus Crusade for Christ — now known as Cru in the United States — at the University of California, Los Angeles. Cru’s primarily evangelical purpose would be “winning people to faith in Jesus Christ, building them in their faith and sending them to win and build others.”

The ministry grew rapidly. Today, it is one of the most widely known “parachurches” — a typically evangelical ministry that operates outside the institutional bounds of a single church — in the United States.

A spotlight illuminates part of the church’s stage as the hymn slowly fades. An individual emerges and places a sheet of paper on a music stand. They test the microphone.

“A few years ago…” they begin.

What follows is a “personal testimony,” a staple in the Christian faith, especially in evangelicalism.

There is a simple version of this piece, where I explain what Memorial Church looks like, and I argue that it unequivocally embodies the rhetoric of Christian nationalism. Golden cross, golden eagle, the sturdy wooden pews, the stone-engraved wall commemorating the fallen patriots — the space merges Christian and American identities. A critical eye dissects it quickly and leaves through the side doors.

A few years ago, that is the piece I would have written. Part of me still wants to write it now. It is deliciously straightforward, a puzzle piece snuggling cozily alongside the legion of headlines regarding the anti-democratic nature of the ideology that asserts the United States is, and should be, a Christian nation.

But the more I dig into Memorial Church as a space, the more conflicted I become. Campus discourse regarding the church seems to be more about the structure as a reminder of which religious spaces are not included on campus, rather than about the potentially problematic nature of honoring patriots within an explicitly religious building.

Space, as a concept, is religious in nature.

Space and architecture adhere to and reflect cosmic law. Grand architecture emphasizes the splendor of something unexplainable.

This manifests in two ways: the physical — the concrete-and-brick structures religion is housed within — and the non-physical — conversational crevices religion is permitted to fill. These contrasting spaces form a dialectic: Physical spaces guide our academic conversations and our spiritual sense of belonging; at the same time, we use that guidance to admire or demand changes to our spaces.

A few weeks ago, I joined a sizable group in a Freedom Liturgy organized by Restoring Justice, a nonprofit I’ve been a part of for over four years. Starting at their office in downtown Houston, we walked about ten minutes to the Harris County Jail, a stout brick building perched on the edge of the White Oak Bayou, with narrow, dark windows staring out from its facade. Outside the steps of the jail, a chorus of prayer, song, and spoken word demanded the release of those incarcerated not twenty feet away, all in the name of God.

It may feel strange to use Biblical language and prayer to advocate for the abolition of prisons, especially given media narratives surrounding Christianity and politics. But listening to the prayers of people moved by tenants of faith to fight for restorative justice reformed my own understanding of religion. Religious belief does not forecast one specific action; rather, religious tenets create a framework for understanding the world, a moral worldview which varies person to person, generating a range of diverse reactions.

Throughout my own life, my faith has oscillated between a dependable lifeline and something as thin and imperceptible as a strand of hair. When meeting people for the first time, I often joke that there are only three things you need to know about my childhood: My dad was a pastor, my mom a therapist, and I lived in Texas.