On 2016.

How the church's desire to Make America Great Again affected my faith.

In 2016, I was processing the murders of Alton Sterling and Philando Castile and the brutality Black people in America face. My husband was an undocumented immigrant and DACA recipient awaiting residency.

And he worked at an evangelical megachurch.

This isn't a post where I'll air a list of grievances, though it could be. I've spent enough time in therapy to make peace with many of the things I've experienced. I struggle to articulate how we experienced the very best and worst of people at the same place. I met some of the kindest people I've ever known in our two years there. I also experienced more micro-aggressions than possible, leaving me unsure that Christianity was for me.

Back to 2016. Donald Trump was running for president, which felt like a long shot. I couldn't imagine anyone, let alone any Christian, voting for such a mean man. When the "grab them by the p***y" tape leaked the month before the election, I knew it was over for Trump.

We all know how the story ends. 81% of white evangelicals voted for Trump, a number that I didn't have to Google because it has stuck with me since I first read it. I vividly remember sitting on our apartment couch, quietly feeling dread.

I was worried about my queer and Muslim friends. I was scared for myself. And I was terrified for my husband, unsure whether he'd be at risk of deportation. I cried with coworkers when I went to work the day after the election. When I went to church, it was business as usual. Our church even invited Ben Carson to speak at a service before the election. (I shared my concerns online and was subsequently rebuked by a pastor, but that's a story for another day.)

It was the first time I faced the reality that the "worldly" people I'd been warned about were more inclusive than those I took communion with on Sundays. I'd always known it, but it wasn't until then that I reckoned with it. As a Black woman, I often felt safer with my friends who had no interest in God.

I've written about the nuances of faith elsewhere. I maintain that broadening my worldview and learning from queer, feminist, and Black theologians shifted my views toward a radically welcoming religion — the kind I desperately wanted back then.

I know I'm not alone in this. I've had conversations with countless friends who felt the same distaste seeing the American church choose "pro-life" virtues over the most vulnerable members of society.

Democrats don't have a perfect human rights track record, for what it's worth — but the cruelty that Trump espoused was nearly unbelievable.

The next presidential election is quickly approaching, but I obviously won't approach it with the optimism of 2016. I kept my faith in Jesus despite losing my faith in the church. That's okay for me.