This Lent, I embarked on a personal journey by giving up alcohol, a commitment that, unfortunately, lasted less than two weeks. Despite my early failure, I approached this season with earnest intentions. This was the first time I aimed to observe Lent in a serious mannerperhaps even a Christian manner, if you will. Over the past year and a half, Ive been intermittently attending a liberal Anglican church located in north London, having previously engaged with a Quaker Meeting House.

As I listened to sermons in the lead-up to Lent this year, I began to cultivate my own interpretation of the significance of the 40 days that Jesus spent fasting in the wilderness following his baptism. This period mirrors the 40 days that Moses spent on Mount Sinai, where he fasted and prayed, ultimately receiving the Ten Commandments. It dawned on me that my life had taken on a chaotic rhythm, with days blurring together in a way that made it hard to discern any meaningful pattern. I felt as though I was hurtling through time, unable to root my actions in anything significant. In this light, the season of Lent became for me an opportunity to carve out some desert-timea space to reflect on what the world truly demands of me.

While I didnt advance very far in my introspective work this Lent, I recall five years ago when the idea of church rituals appeared inconceivable as a remedy for my dissatisfaction with how I was engaging with the world. As a young leftist with a simplistic view of many issues, I held a certain skepticismbordering on hostilitytoward Christianity, which I associated with intolerant stances, especially regarding sexuality. Politicians like Nigel Farage have often appropriated Christian rhetoric, lamenting a perceived loss of 'Judeo-Christian culture' as a means to address their grievances with contemporary society. However, that was not the lens through which I viewed the world.

In 2021, I began to attend church alongside young people across Britain for a book I was writing on the topic. It was during this time that I learned, through anecdotal evidence, that more individuals in their twentieslike myselfwere exploring their faith within church walls. A recent survey commissioned by the Bible Society and executed by YouGov revealed that 16 percent of individuals aged 18 to 24 in England and Wales attend church at least once a month, a striking increase from just 4 percent in 2018.

The reasons behind this tentative resurgence among the youth are as diverse as the young people themselves. For some, it stemmed from a profound sense of loneliness exacerbated by the pandemic. Others expressed a desire for spiritual meaning that transcends the often hollow pursuits dictated by capitalism and consumerism. The expressions of their newfound faith varied significantly: some individuals exited their jobs or relationships immediately after converting, while others found that their faith barely disrupted their daily routinesaside from the hour spent in church every Sunday, which fostered a burgeoning belief that the world might hold greater mysteries than they had previously considered.

During my exploration, I encountered young converts to Christianity spanning the entire political spectrum. My interest lay more in understanding how their beliefs shifted or evolved post-conversion than in hearing public figures weaponize Christian tenets in cultural disputes. The narratives I encounteredwhere faith served both to sharpen and deepen their engagement with radical politicsfuels my ongoing attendance at church, well beyond my research period.

This March, I participated in two significant actions organized by Christian groups on the streets of London. The first was a prayer vigil outside the Home Office, dedicated to the Victims of Global Borders, orchestrated by the London Catholic Worker, a movement rooted in radical pacifism. The second event was a Quaker Meeting for Worship outside New Scotland Yard, responding to a police raid on the Quaker Meeting House in Westminster that resulted in the arrest of six young women at a welcome meeting for the group Youth Demand. Notably, many familiar faces appeared at both events.

Reflecting on my early twenties, I often noted the presence of various Christian factions among protest crowds. At that time, my understanding of Christianity was limited; I presumed that their activism was at odds with their faith's core tenets, which I mistakenly believed compelled them to reject beliefs outside their religious framework. I thought that adherence to Christian teachings would lead to disregard for marginalized sexualities and indifference to pressing issues like the climate crisis, as Christianity supposedly promised a perfected existence beyond our current reality.

Before gathering for the vigil outside the Home Office, a participant shared with me that the previous morning, their priest emphasized the moral duty to care for one another and bear witness to societal failings. This inspired her attendance. At 12:30 PM, we formed an oval circle to recite prayers of repentance and intercession, including a poignant letter from Walid, whose brother had tragically lost his life attempting to cross the Channel at the end of 2024. We sang hymns a cappella, and speakers took turns reading names of individuals who had died seeking sanctuary in Europe or the UK since the previous March. As this somber roll call unfolded, a passerby shouted, Why dont you pay for them, then?

Two weeks later, I visited the Catholic Worker house in Harringay, a sanctuary that has welcomed asylum seekers and refugees since the dawn of the new millennium. Here, guests are provided shelter for as long as they need, alongside a community of dedicated volunteers. I met Francisco, a young man in his late twenties who has been a live-in volunteer for six months. Previously, he spent two and a half years at a Catholic Worker farm in Hertfordshire, which offers temporary lodging to female asylum seekers and their children who lack access to public resources. The volunteers do not receive wages but rely on generous donations to sustain their efforts.

From the exterior, the house appears to be a typical residential structure. However, within its walls, Francisco pointed out that nearly every available space has been converted into a bedroom for those seeking refuge while they await the necessary paperwork to remain in the UK. In the kitchen, other young Catholic Workers were busily preparing a large pot of soup. Francisco led me through an alleyway connecting the house to a neighboring church, which had transitioned from a Baptist church to a Catholic one before being taken over by the London Catholic Worker when the congregation dwindled. In this space, even the confessional had been repurposed to provide a place for someone to sleep, the red and green lights signaling its former use long extinguished.

The Catholic Worker movement was founded in 1933 by Dorothy Day, a Catholic convert who spent her youth engaged in radical political activism, alongside Peter Maurin, a Catholic migrant from Europe. Their initial goal was to distribute a monthly newspaper that integrated their political beliefs with their faith, addressing issues like pacifism and poverty in the context of Catholic social teachings as fascism rose across Europe and the Great Depression gripped America. In the debut edition, Day posed a profound question: Is it not possible to be radical and not atheist? This inquiry continues to resonate, as the movement has evolved into a global network of nearly 200 hospitality houses.

In 1934, they established the first Catholic Worker House of Hospitality in New York, offering refuge to those experiencing homelessness or poverty. Dorothy Day was motivated by the Catholic teaching known as the Corporal Works of Mercy, derived from a parable in which Jesus implores his followers to feed the hungry and shelter the homeless. The London Catholic Worker was formed in 2000 as a continuation of disarmament activism, specifically the Trident Ploughshares movement, during which Catholic activists disarmed a vehicle intended to transport nuclear warheads to submarines. Their actions echoed a prophetic vision from the Book of Isaiah: They shall beat their swords into plowshares, advocating for peace over conflict.

Francisco and I engaged in a deep conversation in the church's red-carpeted sanctuary, which also served as a storage areacomplete with a mattress leaning against the organ and bicycles parked in the nave. The altar featured a striking painting of Christ behind barbed wire, a familiar sight from the vigil, alongside several small icon-like portraits of Dorothy Day.

Francisco shared that he became a practicing Catholic after undergoing a radical transformation at 22. Originally from Lisbon, he came from a sheltered background and was on a career path that promised comfort and complacency. Following his spiritual awakening, he realized he could no longer view himself as the focal point of his existence. When you put yourself in front of God, you are nothing in front of God, he remarked quietly. On returning to Portugal, he found the institutionalized church he had engaged with as a child to be utterly repulsive, viewing it as a bastion of entrenched power held by elite families. While witnessing peers converting to Catholicism, he noted that many linked their transformations to a reactionary identity tied to a nostalgic longing for a glorified past.

Seeking alternative expressions of his faith, Francisco discovered the Catholic Worker through Dorothy Days autobiography, The Long Loneliness. In it, she proclaimed: Communitythat was the social answer to the long loneliness. This notion extended beyond merely familial bonds; it encompassed a communal fabric where both private and shared resources are valued. He interprets Christs message as a call to disrupt existing systems of kinship. When told that his family wished to speak with him, Jesus responded, Who is my mother, and who are my brothers? while gesturing to his disciples, stating, Here are my mother and my brothers. This radical message has always posed a challenge to me, yet for Francisco, it provided the profound impetus that ultimately led him to the Catholic Worker.

Francisco finds it tough to separate his political awakening from his spiritual one, yet many young Christians I met were already deeply involved in social justice before their conversions. Theo and Laura, for instance, live in a communal arrangement with several other Christians in London. (Ive changed their names at their request.) Theo, who identifies as non-binary and uses they/them pronouns, converted to Catholicism in their late twenties. Laura began attending an Anglican church following her conversion. As a PhD student and Marxist, she initially grappled with reconciling her political beliefs with the call she felt toward church. Like many seekers who find their way to St. Jamess Piccadilly, she discovered the church after searching for a progressive church in London online.

The sermons she attended often drew from liberation theologya late-20th-century movement advocating for the churchs active role in political justice for the marginalized. They openly critiqued British colonialism and embraced a trans-inclusive stance. This resonated with Laura, prompting her to return time and again.

Laura articulated that at its best, progressive politics strives to enhance human dignity, while faith contextualizes that dignity within the beauty of creation. However, she emphasized that neither her faith nor her political views are stagnant; they are constantly evolving.

Theo noted that becoming a Christian not only solidified their political convictions but also necessitated an ongoing reevaluation of those beliefs. After a conversion, you essentially have two frames for viewing the world, they explained. You have the secular perspective before your conversion, and then your new religious framework. This duality enables one to scrutinize political commitments from a fresh vantage point. I was compelled to examine my beliefs rather than accept them unconditionally," Theo reflected. They view doubt as a crucial component of their political engagement, suggesting that attending Mass with individuals who may hold differing viewpoints creates a space to explore the potential fallibility of ones own beliefs.

The journalist Casey Cep recounted how Marxists in Dorothy Days circle struggled to comprehend her dichotomous agenda after her conversion, as she took prophetic stands against racial segregation and nuclear armamentfrequently landing herself in legal trouble for her nonviolent protestswhile simultaneously opposing abortion and welfare reforms.

In 1966, theologian Charles Davis publicly severed ties with the Catholic Church, claiming it had grown too large, impersonal, and compromised as an authoritative institution. In response, Herbert McCabea Catholic and socialist theologian and priestremarked that their faith persists in the institutional church despite its flaws because it connects them to profound truths that extend beyond individual experiences. You dont become a Christian due to the institutions political alignment, Theo reasoned. Their stances on issues concerning women and LGBTQ+ individuals clearly misalign with my views. For Theo, the impetus for their conversion lay in their belief in God.

Returning to the Catholic Worker church in Harringay, as daylight faded, Francisco remarked, If the next Pope turns out to be a terrible person, I wont stop being Catholic. His steadfast participation in the Catholic faith allows the Catholic Worker community to challenge the institutional Churchs failure to uphold the principles of mercy and equality as taught by Jesus.

Similar to Laura, I actively seek out Anglican churches that resonate with my non-negotiable political beliefs. This pursuit reinforces the understanding that faith can be expressed in manifold ways. While some individuals require churches that explicitly embrace their identities, others may find value in grappling with diverse political perspectives within their congregations or feel that the political views of others hold little relevance to their spiritual experiences.

As my conversation with Francisco concluded, the dinner bell rang. In the kitchen, volunteers and guests gathered around two wooden tables pressed together, sharing a meal of soup as we chatted about football, our favorite Premier League teams, and national squads, with voices chiming in from various corners of the globe.

Later, I inquired how his role within the Catholic Worker had transformed him. Its about living simply and standing in solidarity with those who endure the worlds violence, he replied. Given the escalating climate crisis and its wide-reaching repercussions, he felt there is a growing sense that no significant political alternatives exist to confront the harsh realities we face. What can we do? the Catholic Worker movements answer, he concluded, is to provide hospitality.

After dinner, we returned to the church for evening prayers. The young Catholic Workers lit the altar candles, playfully warning me that the sole skilled singer was absent that evening. Francisco had earlier conveyed that the rituals of Catholicism offer a gift that transcends personal revelations, creating a collective revelatory experience. Religious rituals are not stagnant; they should evolvereminding us that faith must actively permeate every aspect of our lives.

Another young Christian had expressed that both Christianity and the social justice movements with which they engage require participants to dream beyond our current imagination. Eugene McCarraher, in a piece discussing McCabes revolutionary faith, suggested that Christian sacraments like Communion serve as foretastes of a banquet at which everyone is welcome. In the simple yet radical act of hospitality I witnessed that evening at the London Catholic Worker house, I felt a glimpse of that profound truth.

Lamorna Ash is the author of Dont Forget Were Here Forever, set to be published by Bloomsbury in May.

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