From isolation to inclusion
Putting Interfaith Inclusivity to the Test
by Miranda Hovemeyer
I’ll be honest. I haven’t felt at home in the field of interfaith work for quite a while. During one of the last interfaith conferences I spoke at, I was asked by an older white gentleman why I was there, then insisting that my identity meant I shouldn’t be in attendance at all. As he walked away, I began to wonder when microaggressions had become plain old aggressions.
A switch in my brain went off one day when a lady in the parking lot of Trader Joe’s spit on me. She was asking for change, which she often does, and I happened to have a dollar in my pocket. I handed it to her and she said, “Thank you, god bless you, I’ll pray for you.” I should have known better at this point, but sometimes you just get to a place where you’re so comfortable with who you are that you forget that not everyone else is. Before I could think better of it, I said to her “No need, I’m an atheist, but thanks anyway.”
She immediately began screaming at me, saying no atheist would come near her and that she would not be tricked into taking money from an atheist, a representation of the devil. Not wanting to engage and further incite her anger, I started walking toward my car. She came after me, demanding I take my dollar back. I said I didn’t want it as I tried to get into my car, but she wouldn’t take no for an answer.
As I put my groceries in the trunk and opened the driver’s door, she began spitting on me, yelling that I was an atheist, and acting as if the dollar I gave her was hot to the touch. She wouldn’t come near me to try to put the dollar into my hand, but instead put it under the windshield wiper, acting as if even holding the dollar was causing her fingers visceral pain. I finally made it into my car and decided the dollar wasn’t worth it, waiting until she was out of the way to drive off, the dollar flying off the windshield. It felt like part of me flew with it.
Of course, it was hard being assaulted (which I later learned from a lawyer friend that spitting amounts to) by a stranger, but what was worse was that while there were many people in the parking lot watching the ordeal, nobody stepped in to help. I understand that they were probably afraid for their own safety, but nobody even gave me a look to say “Hey are you okay?” As I drove into my driveway, I was exhausted. Maybe I needed a break and should stop coming out as an atheist for a while… but doing so also feels like I’m denying a part of who I am, and what kind of life is that?
Fighting Isolation
I feel like the same thing happens to me and other atheists in the field of interfaith work. It’s hard to find people from other religious traditions who will stand up for atheists, our right to be at interfaith events, and our right to want to help out. Ultimately, whatever our reasons may be, that’s what we’re there for, to help one another. We all know that our world needs help, that we are isolated, and need each other now more than ever.
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In May of 2023, Surgeon General Vivek Murthy raised the alarm about what he calls the “Epidemic of Loneliness and Isolation” that is devastating the United States. Part of this loneliness is caused by the inherent attitude of American capitalism that idolizes rugged individualism, part of it is due to the trauma of a post-pandemic society where we were more socially isolated than we’ve ever been. But a larger part is due to the fact that we no longer seek out religious institutions as places for community and civic engagement. We have nowhere to go for the community we need.
Maybe this is because you were turned away from a religious institution for being gay, or for marrying outside our faith tradition, or because of the rampant clergy abuse and spiritual hypocrisy that we constantly see playing out like a broken record. Whatever the reason, we are lonely, but we also refuse to compromise. We are looking for a new place that is truly inclusive to call home.
The interfaith movement loves to talk about religious pluralism, inclusivity, and welcoming all people, regardless of belief. But I think those of us who are part of this movement need to ask ourselves how inclusive it really is. We need to be attentive to how inclusivity shows up (or is lacking) in the interfaith spaces we engage in. And when exclusivity presents itself, what will we do?
I’m so grateful for the brave friends in the field who have stood up for me when I’ve been asked to justify my participation in interfaith spaces. But it also gets exhausting, and I’ve found that some religious people really struggle with having a person of no faith tradition (a “none”) in the space because it makes them grapple with their own beliefs.
One of the last times I was invited to speak at a Catholic university on an interfaith panel, a student was offended by my presence and asked us why he should have to hear the perspective of an atheist if he was at a Catholic institution. I told him if his faith was so threatened by listening to perspectives other than his own, it must not have been a very strong faith in the first place, a response he clearly did not appreciate. He became even more upset when the priest on the panel told him that he should listen closely to what the atheist in the room had just told him.
Shifting Faith
I understand the fear that some religious people have about the United States becoming a less religious country. According to research by PRRI, only 16% of Americans say that religion is the most important thing in their lives. Things are changing, that is clear. But what are they actually afraid of?
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A lot of my closest friends in the field of interfaith work, especially the Christian ones, see this trend and aren’t afraid of it. They’re also unhappy with the “church” as it presently stands, and are working to dismantle and rebuild it as something that truly responds to the need for authentic connection that people have today, a new kind of community. I see them working toward a community that is centered more around radical inclusivity and love than doctrine and division.
It’s a community that is very vocal and clear about social justice – one that speaks out boldly on important topics like human rights instead of standing silently on the sidelines just so it doesn’t offend someone. A community that shows up. It’s a community that is long overdue, a community which Washington Post opinion writer Perry Bacon Jr. yearns for in his piece “I used to be a Christian. Now I miss Chuch.” This is the community that I believe atheists and agnostics and the rest of the nones and SBNRs also want, one we can all build together. It’s the same kind of community that Rachel Martin explores in her interview with Bacon entitled “The search for a church that isn’t a church.”
A Place to Belong
This is the kind of community I have been crafting for years with friends from countless other traditions and backgrounds. Most of them are younger than the people we see in places of power and whose identities have led them to be told they “don’t belong.” They are women, people of color, LGBTQ+ people, people with multiple religious belonging, people in interfaith relationships, people with disabilities and even people who are atheists. They know that this end of a white, Christian religious hegemony was coming, this end of the “church” as it currently stands, and frankly they’re ready for it.
Although I only get to see these friends a few times a year for dinner gatherings, we keep in touch daily on a text message thread. We share about the important work we are doing and how we are building our own communities outside of normal spaces, outside of the “church.” I’ve never felt more accepted as an atheist in interfaith spaces as I have felt with this group of other people on the outskirts of religious spaces. I truly believe they would stand up for me if I needed them, as I would in return.
This group of friends and I are building something new. We know that the future is coming, whether the church is ready or not. We know that the future of religion in America looks more different than it ever has before, and that in order to build this community, we are going to have to think outside the box.
As I reflect on my experiences in interfaith work and the changing landscape of belief in America, I challenge all of us to ask ourselves: What does true inclusivity mean to us, and are we ready to embrace it, even if it challenges our own beliefs? In a world where loneliness and isolation are rampant, can we build communities based on radical inclusivity and love, transcending doctrinal divisions? The future of religion in America is evolving, and it's up to us to shape it. So, how will you contribute to a more inclusive and connected world?
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