“Okay, ladies, please raise your hand if you have three or more children,” the moderator chirped, surveying the room and nodding approvingly as hands went up. “Wonderful, thank you! You are truly an inspiration.”
“Now raise your hand if you’re still working on it!” She glanced around the room again with a coy smile. ”Don’t worry ladies, you’ve got time.”
It was Ukraine Week in Washington DC, and several dozen Ukrainian women had crammed into a hotel meeting room for a female leadership event. So far, though, leadership seemed to be measured in terms of fertility. Each speaker’s introduction included her number of offspring. More babies = louder claps.
I glanced covertly around the room. Was anyone else shocked? Did everyone here really believe that our worth as women and leaders has anything to do with our childbearing patterns? Hadn’t we, as a society, already realized that women’s ability to combine a career and a pack of kids is correlated directly with the availability of someone to raise those kids while we are at work? We were clapping for women lucky enough to have babusya helping at home or money to hire nannies and housekeepers. Or, in the worst cases, women who forced their older kids to raise the younger ones.
My silent indignation was interrupted by the next speech, a woman who had marshalled huge amounts of humanitarian aid to Ukraine. “Why do Americans care about Ukrainians?” she asked the audience. “Because they care about life from conception!”
What fresh hell is this? I thought.
“You cannot advocate for Ukraine without also advocating for the right to life for every Ukrainian from the moment of conception,” the speaker continued.
As someone who has been in the Ukraine advocacy space since February 2022, this was news to me. I’d followed and supported multiple large Ukrainian-American organizations - Razom for Ukraine, United Help Ukraine, Ukraine TrustChain. I’d attended multiple advocacy events on Capitol Hill. This was the first time I’d heard that our fight for democracy and freedom from russia was also a fight against women’s freedom over their own bodies.
Later that afternoon, I fell into conversation with another conference attendee. She shared her excitement about Donald Trump’s election. “America was founded on Christian values,” she told me. “Just look at the history. Abraham Lincoln was Christian, Martin Luther King was Christian. And now, we’ve drifted so far - it’s a disaster. Trump is going to bring us back to the right path.”
“But Trump isn’t really Christian, right? Like, the divorces and the adultery and his whole history of being a Democrat?”
“Probably true. But, as we say, when even a false believer proclaims Jesus’ name, we are pleased because Jesus is being praised. The source doesn’t matter.”
She went on to tell me about Trump’s speech at the National Prayer Breakfast that morning, where he had promised to combat anti-Christian discrimination.
“Where I live, it’s full of Indians. Totally out of control - they’re everywhere. Do you know we can’t say Merry Christmas anymore? It’s all Happy Holidays now. This is what Trump is fighting.”
I didn’t have a good response to that, but my skepticism must have been showing, because she asked, “But of course you don’t belong to a church?”
I do belong to a church, a small Ukrainian Catholic parish here in Maryland, and I told my new acquaintance as much. But her question stayed with me. Clearly my beliefs labeled me as a “fake Christian” to this crowd.
When I signed up to attend Ukraine Week, I knew it would be a Christian event, but I didn’t realize I’d feel like such an outsider. I believe in God. I go to church, though not as often as I’d like. (I also occasionally go to temple with my Jewish husband - not sure if that’s a plus or minus for my religious bona fides?)
For me, being a Christian means loving others and trying to be a good person. It means respect towards people of all colors and religions. It means not seeing “the Indians” or “the Mexicans” or “the Chinese” as some inferior or threatening other, but simply seeing them as people, just like me.
I believe God made all of us, and so I honor His creation by seeing one full spectrum of humanity - not “us” and “them”. I actively seek to meet people and make friends from all backgrounds. I honor God’s creation by voting for compassionate policies for all people - for immigrants and refugees, for people who are struggling financially, for victims of abuse.
I believe God loves all of us, even those who have just one or two children, or - gasp! - no children at all. I don’t think He gives bonus points for making more babies. I believe that celebrating women who have more kids as somehow better humans is deeply hurtful to those who cannot, for whatever reason, have a bigger family.
I believe that abortion is a painful choice and also a compassionate choice that, on the whole, reduces human suffering. That forcing unwanted embryos to grow into little humans and enter a world where they will be neglected, beaten, raped, or thrown away to die is not pro-life. That the best way to minimize abortions is to build a society with a robust social safety net to care for its weakest, most vulnerable members, not by controlling women’s bodies.
To me, my beliefs seem aligned with the Bible - and also much more aligned with progressive Democrat politics than the Republican Party. But, by and large, these beliefs placed me at odds with the prevailing vibe at Ukraine Week, which seemed premised on a different type of Christianity entirely.
As I listened to more speeches and met more people and prayed for Ukraine, I thought and thought about it, but still couldn’t figure it out: Who are the real Christians - me or them?
Author: Katerina Manoff