Dolly Parton Remembered as ‘Advocate for Inclusion, Women’s Rights, Children’s Literacy, and More’

“She was not only a talented musician and songwriter, but a lifelong philanthropist and advocate for literacy, education, LGBTQ+ rights, healthcare, and disaster relief. Her music and humanity touched millions.”


Dolly Parton died August 25, 2026 at the age of 80.
(Photo by Dolly Parton/Facebook)

Jessica Corbett
Aug 25, 2026
COMMON DREAMS

Dolly Parton died Tuesday in Nashville, Tennessee at the age of 80, and was fondly remembered by people around the world for not only her decades in the entertainment industry but also her philanthropy and promotion of the belief that “everybody should be treated with respect.”

Parton’s nephew and head of security, Bryan Seaver, confirmed the country music icon’s passing in a video message shared on her social media accounts. As Rolling Stone reported, she “was born January 19, 1946, the fourth of Robert Lee and Avie Lee Owens Parton’s 12 children, in a one-room cabin on the banks of the Little Pigeon River,” and “grew up in rural poverty,” lacking plumbing and electricity.

The obituary shared on Parton’s platforms notes that she was preceded in death by her parents, as well as “her beloved husband of 59 years, Carl Thomas Dean,” who died last year, and that “the family asks for donations to be made to Dolly Parton’s Imagination Library,” which was inspired by her father’s inability to read and write, and has gifted more than 300 million books to children over the past three decades.

“Dolly Parton could have retired long ago having achieved greatness,” Congressman Ro Khanna (D-Calif.) said of the singer and actress who won multiple Grammy and Emmy awards, among numerous others, and whose songs include “Coat of Many Colors,” “I Will Always Love You,” and “Jolene.”

Rather than retiring from the spotlight, Khanna noted, “she chose to continue her life pursuing the arts, and pushing boundaries to advocate for inclusion, women’s rights, children’s literacy, and more. Dolly touched countless hearts and will forever be remembered.”

US Sen. Bernie Sanders (I-Vt.) wrote on social media that “Dolly Parton was one of the great entertainers of our era. She was not only a talented musician and songwriter, but a lifelong philanthropist and advocate for literacy, education, LGBTQ+ rights, healthcare, and disaster relief. Her music and humanity touched millions. She will be sorely missed.”


Sen. Elizabeth Warren (D-Mass.) said that “Dolly Parton gifted the world with her talent and heart. From supporting children, donating to science, investing in Tennessee, and giving us songs to sing our hearts out to (looking at you, ‘9 to 5’), she made the world a better place. Thank you, Dolly, for leading with love.”



Democratic North Carolina Gov. Josh Stein said that “Dolly Parton was so special, so universally loved. The first word that came to my mind just now was ‘authentic,’ which is funny since she is well known for her big wigs and extravagant gowns. But she was always herself. Her music was powerful and moving... But her impact on the world was much greater—from providing kids free books to funding vaccine research and promoting tolerance. America lost one of our best today.”

Similarly saying that “Dolly Parton represented the very best in America,” former Labor Secretary Robert Reich wrote at his blog that “I think what I admired most was her empathy (the sentiment disparaged by Elon Musk. In fact, to my mind she was the human that embodied the exact opposite of Musk.) She felt the pain of those in poverty. She felt for women subordinated to patriarchy... She felt for working women.”



Other key Democrats who posted remembrances included Kentucky Gov. Andy Beshear, Senate Minority Leader Chuck Schumer (NY), and former House Speaker Nancy Pelosi (Calif.), who called Parton “a singular American icon whose extraordinary voice, joyful spirit, and generous heart brought light to millions and made America kinder and more hopeful.”



Parton took stances on topics that have become divisive in US politics—such as supporting LGBTQ+ rights and vaccine research—but she openly avoided wading into political races, and was also honored on Tuesday by various right-wing politicians and other figures, from Cabinet members, federal lawmakers, and governors to Republican President Donald Trump, who announced on Truth Social that “I am lowering the American flag throughout the United States for a one week period.”

Meanwhile, as elected Republicans ban books and cut programs for the working class while giving more tax breaks to the ultrarich, Melanie D’Arrigo, executive director of the Campaign for New York Health, said that “Dolly Parton spent her life helping kids, marginalized communities, and people in need, while entertaining millions. She never had to, she chose to. In a world full of wannabe Donald Trumps, choose to be a Dolly Parton.”

'I am a person of faith': How Christianity shaped Dolly Parton's music and spirit

(RNS) — Country music icon Dolly Parton, who died Tuesday, credited her faith for her career, which crossed religions, races and politics — and the philanthropy that followed.

Dolly Parton performs in Overland Park, Kan., on Aug. 14, 2023. (AP Photo/Charlie Riedel, File)

Adelle M. Banks

August 25, 2026 

RNS

(RNS) — Dolly Parton, the country music icon who sang and spoke frequently of her Christian faith, died at age 80 on Tuesday (Aug. 25), her family announced.

“Sadness lies with us, not with Dolly,” said Bryan Seaver, Parton’s nephew and head of security, in a video released by the family.

“Dolly has lived in the light and is in the arms of Jesus, surely met by Carl (her husband), her parents and countless others who have watched her and longed for her to meet them in the heavens.”

The winner of 11 Grammy Awards, Parton was one of those unusual performers with broad, enduring appeal, crossing religions, races and political parties, over seven decades, and she spoke of how faith grounded her and her family. 

“We all believe in God, and we’re very close,” she told KCRA, a Sacramento station. “We have a good communication with God, and I think that’s a positive attitude. That’s one of the reasons that we stay sane, and a lot of people in the business seem to be crazy.”

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RELATED: Chicago church preaches ‘The Gospel according to Dolly Parton’ 

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Born in the Smoky Mountains of Tennessee, she was one of 12 children. Her grandfather was a Pentecostal preacher, and Parton sang from a young age with her family. She wrote her first song at age 5 and by 13 had made her debut at the Grand Ole Opry, introduced by another country icon, Johnny Cash.   

Dolly Parton performs in concert in Tokyo, July 30, 1979. (AP Photo/Tsugufumi Matsumoto, File)

She became a recording artist in the 1960s. Her song “I Will Always Love You” — written as she ended her singing partnership with Porter Wagoner — reached No. 1 on the country charts in 1974 and 1982 before becoming a global hit when Whitney Houston’s version of the ballad was released in 1992 on “The Bodyguard” soundtrack.

After global tours in the 1970s, Parton became a movie star, acting in “9 to 5” with Jane Fonda and Lily Tomlin — a film whose theme song became an anthem for working women. In the 1980s, she recorded “Islands in the Stream” with Kenny Rogers and opened Dollywood, a theme park in Pigeon Forge, Tennessee.

Even amid her mainstream hits, Parton kept gospel music in rotation, with her 1971 gospel album “The Golden Streets of Glory” and the 2019 song “God Only Knows” with Christian musical duo For King & Country, and a hand-clapping medley on her 2022 NBC special, “Dolly Parton’s Mountain Magic Christmas.”

Parton was inducted into the Country Music Hall of Fame in 1999, the Gospel Music Association’s Gospel Hall of Fame in 2009, and the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame in 2022.

She also was a famous philanthropist. In the 1990s, Parton created a program to give free books to children as a tribute to her father, who was unable to read or write. Her Imagination Library has donated more than 300 million books across the globe. In a 2018 interview, she also cited the Bible as inspiration for this program. “In the Bible, where it talks about honor your father and mother, … I think means to bring honor to their name.” In more recent years, she gave a $1 million donation for COVID-19 research that was partly used to fund the Moderna vaccine and announced a similar donation to help victims of Hurricane Helene, which affected Tennessee, her home state, and six others in 2024, People magazine reported.

Dolly Parton reads her book “Coat of Many Colors,” at the Library of Congress in Washington on Feb. 27, 2018. (AP Photo/Andrew Harnik, File)

Her fans included clergy. The Church of the Three Crosses in Chicago made Parton the subject of a five-part sermon series in 2022, Religion News Service reported. “We’ve been using Dolly as a way to talk about story and our larger story of faith and that all of our stories matter and that God’s story is continuing on in us,” the Rev. Britt Cox told the congregation at the time as she concluded the series titled, “The Gospel According to Dolly.”

The sermon series featured Parton’s songs, including “Jolene,” “My Tennessee Mountain Home” and “I Will Always Love You.”

Parton, who performed in sold-out concerts even in the last years of her life, drew a firm line between admiration and worship. “I don’t want to be worshiped, because there’s a scripture in my Bible that talks about idol worship,” she told People in 2021. “And I see that happening all the time with movie stars and these celebrities. People literally worship them more than they worship God. And I just — I cringe at it sometimes.”

After the death of her husband of more than 60 years, Carl Dean, last year, Parton spoke to The Associated Press about how her faith was a comfort.

“I am a person of faith, and I truly believe that I’m going to see him again someday,” she said in the May 2025 interview. “And I see him every day in my memories and in my heart, and in all the things that we used to do and all the things that we’ve built together.”

After the announcement of her death, a wide array of politicians and religious leaders lauded Parton for her accomplishments. President Trump announced that he would order the lowering of the American flag in Parton’s honor for a week. “Very sad to report that Dolly Parton, one of the greatest Country singers, and far beyond, EVER, has just passed away,” he added. “This is a true loss for millions of people. There has never been anyone like her, and never will.”

In a post on X, U.S. Sen. Bernie Sanders, the Vermont Independent, called Parton “one of the great entertainers of our era. She was not only a talented musician & songwriter, but a lifelong philanthropist and advocate for literacy, education, LGBTQ+ rights, healthcare and disaster relief. Her music and humanity touched millions. She will be sorely missed.”

On Bluesky, New York Mayor Zohran Mamdani praised Parton as an “irreplaceable champion of the working class.”  

“Dolly invited us all — poets and historians and tired moms alike — to a ‘glammed up’ life of song,” wrote theologian Diana Butler Bass in her newsletter.

“Thank you, Dolly Parton. For the high heels and the music. For dressing up our days. And for your smarts and courage and honesty and generosity of spirit. We will always love you.”

The Rev. Bernice King, CEO of the Martin Luther King Jr. Center for Nonviolent Social Change, posted on X: “I am deeply saddened by the passing of Dolly Parton. Her extraordinary voice entertained and brought joy to generations, and she used her influence beyond music to affirm human dignity, inclusion, and the importance of treating people with love and respect.”

Aleja Hertzler-McCain contributed to this report.

How a trans activist and a priest are creating inclusion in India's Catholic Church

CHENNAI, India (RNS) — Earlier this year, the archbishop of the Archdiocese of Madras-Mylapore launched the first sustained initiative by India’s Catholic Church to minister to and engage with transgender people.

Members of the transgender community take part in a prayer service at a trans chapel in the suburbs of Chennai, India, June 12, 2026. (Photo by Priyadarshini Sen)

Priyadarshini Sen

August 17, 2026 

RNS

CHENNAI, India (RNS) — Twenty years ago, Inba Ignatius felt she didn’t belong in her Catholic church in suburban South India.

Ignatius, who is now 48 and a transgender activist, recalled that during a Christmas midnight Mass, a priest at her asbestos-covered church refused to administer Communion to her and three of her transgender friends until they “repented.”

But more than a decade later, Ignatius, a fiery and outspoken advocate who has for years been helping trans people find shelter and jobs in Chennai, feels the first stirrings of a new home in Catholicism. That’s in part because, in February, the archbishop of the Archdiocese of Madras-Mylapore, the Rev. George Antonysamy, launched the first sustained initiative by India’s Catholic Church to minister to and engage with transgender people.

Known as the pastoral care desk, the program is spearheaded by parish priest Father Leo Joseph, along with Ignatius. The group meets monthly, and its stakeholders are Joseph, three nuns from the diocese, four other priests, four members of the transgender community and Ignatius, the coordinator.

The group meets for prayers, yet the primary role of the ministry is pastoral. It aims to provide educational and employment support, health care access, security and pastoral accompaniment, and more broadly, to help transgender people live with dignity and hope. And, its leaders say they want their model to be replicated in other dioceses, helping to end societal and religious institutions’ misconceptions about trans people.

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“We now have a way to connect directly with the church and the parish community,” Ignatius told RNS.

Inba Ignatius, center, a transgender community leader, laughs with Father Leo Joseph and Sister Sagayam at the trans shelter home in the suburbs of Chennai, India, June 12, 2026. (Photo by Priyadarshini Sen)

Transgender people in India continue to face significant social stigma, often involving rejection from their families. They also experience high levels of unemployment, poverty and violence. Systemic challenges drive many into sex work and begging on the streets. Legal rulings have affirmed their rights, but a recently passed bill rolled back some of those rights.

Ignatius said she felt shunned by mainstream society since she was 8 years old. Living in a remote village in Southern Tamil Nadu, a few hours from Chennai, she started thinking she was different from others. She was also sexually abused by her neighbor at that age, she said.

When she started working, she faced workplace harassment and said her family took her to hospitals and psychiatrists for treatment. When she was 23, a doctor told her family she was trans, and her brother urged her parents not to force her to get married.

“I don’t want others to face what I’ve endured since my childhood,” she said. “The pain of feeling you don’t belong anywhere is unparalleled.”

She left her family home to rebuild her life in the Chennai suburbs in 2007. “I didn’t want my parents and siblings to face humiliation because of me,” she said.

Members of the transgender community participate in a prayer service at a trans chapel in the suburbs of Chennai, India, June 12, 2026. (Photo by Priyadarshini Sen)

Her family helped her build a small house in a neighborhood populated by daily wage earners and migrant workers whose homes were pressed into dense and narrow lanes. A relatively large population of transgender people also live in the area, though exact numbers are hard to pin down, as they often move to flee persecution or conceal their identities. Despite Hindus, Muslims and Christians living together there in relative harmony, transphobia was rampant, and Ignatius wanted to confront it head-on.

In 2015, she started inviting 40 to 50 trans people to her home to pray with one another and for emotional and social support. She then expanded her house into a shelter and safe space for trans and HIV-positive people. 

“(Ignatius) is a pillar of support for us,” said Kaushika, a transgender woman from the nearby city of Vellore, who asked to be identified by her first name only for her safety. “She’s been sensitizing people about our community through flash plays, cultural programs and worship rituals.”  

Eventually, Ignatius opened a small chapel on the second floor for people of different faiths to pray together.

Isaac Raja, a pastor from a nearby Pentecostal church, has been leading Friday afternoon services at Ignatius’ chapel for more than five years.

Members of the transgender community participate in a prayer service at a trans chapel in the suburbs of Chennai, India, June 12, 2026. (Photo by Priyadarshini Sen)

“Our work is to soothe their inner brokenness and offer spiritual support regardless of their faith background,” he said. 

During Friday prayers, Raja said members of the community sing devotional songs in the local Tamil language, read from religious texts and share their personal faith stories.

“This isn’t just a church for us,” said Akshaya Shajagan, a Muslim transgender woman who lives in the neighborhood. “It’s a safe space where we share our joys, sorrows and pain.”

Also in 2015, Ignatius met Joseph, a Catholic priest who was assigned to lead the Catholic church in her neighborhood.

“I had all these stereotypes about transgender people,” Joseph said. “But Inba started sowing seeds of love in my heart from the day I met her.”

A priest with a “subaltern consciousness,” he said, Joseph felt a strong urge to minister to those on the fringes of society — a path he thought would bring him closer to his spiritual purpose. He wanted his work to touch more lives and spark collective commitment.

Around 23 million Catholics live in India, according to the Vatican, making up roughly 1.6% of the population. Catholicism is the largest Christian denomination in India.

As his church was renovated from a tin shed covered by thin asbestos sheets into a sparkling white edifice, Joseph began pivoting his focus to transgender people. And in 2016, he began inviting transgender women to lead Scripture readings on Sundays. During retreats with children and youth groups, they were asked to impart lessons on gender diversity. 

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On Maundy Thursday in 2022, a Holy Week feast that commemorates the Last Supper of Jesus with his Apostles, the priest initiated a new ritual: He washed the feet of seven transgender women to emphasize his care and love for them. 

Their work got another boost when Ignatius and a few of her friends met with Antonysamy at St. Thomas Cathedral Basilica in Chennai two years ago. “Father Joseph opened the doors of the Catholic Church to us,” Ignatius said. “Starting with the archbishop, we started getting to know other priests, nuns and religious leaders.”

Inba Ignatius attends a service at the trans chapel she helped start for members of the community in the suburbs of Chennai, India, June 12, 2026. (Photo by Priyadarshini Sen)

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Joseph said his inspiration for helping create better inclusion for trans people was Pope Francis. During World Youth Day in Lisbon 2023, the pope asserted the Catholic Church was a place for everyone by repeating the phrase “todos, todos, todos” (everyone). In October 2024, Antonysamy attended the last major Vatican synod gathering of bishops with Pope Francis.

“Pope Francis was a big catalyst for our work,” said Antonysamy, who stood by Joseph as he made plans for holistic care and social integration of trans people. “Most important is to eradicate social stigmas, and we’ll deal with pushbacks as they come.”

The long-term plan, the archbishop said, is to involve more parish priests, bishops and religious congregations in uplifting the transgender community and to elevate the pastoral desk to a functioning commission. But for now, its strategy revolves around economic empowerment and building inclusive faith communities that provide care, acceptance and support.

“Despite pushbacks from some Orthodox people,” Joseph said, “my work has helped in my own formation as a person and has doubled my commitment to those on the peripheries.”  

This story was produced with funding from the Templeton Religion Trust.

SOCIAL GOSPEL VS EVANGELICALS

'They're not real pastors': As clergy run as Democrats, Republicans question their faith

(RNS) — 'It's a sign that they are really scared they're gonna lose this seat,' the Rev. Sarah Trone Garriott, a Lutheran pastor running for Congress in Iowa, said. She is part of a wave of religious figures running as Democrats for congressional seats.

Iowa Democratic congressional candidate the Rev. Sarah Trone Garriott speaks during a primary election night watch party for Iowa state Rep. Josh Turek, a Democratic candidate for U.S. Senate, Tuesday, June 2, 2026, in Des Moines, Iowa. (AP Photo/Bryon Houlgrave)

Jack Jenkins
August 4, 2026 

RNS


(RNS) — At last month’s Family Leadership Summit in Des Moines, Iowa, Joe Mitchell, a Republican running for U.S. Congress in the state’s second congressional district, jabbed at his Democratic opponent, state representative the Rev. Lindsay James, saying she “calls herself a pastor.” He then turned to the crowd of conservative evangelical pastors and coined a term he said applies to James, a Presbyterian minister, and other faith-forward Democratic candidates — namely, Lutheran minister the Rev. Sarah Trone Garriott, an Iowa state senator also running for another seat in Congress, and James Talarico, a state senator and Presbyterian seminarian running for U.S. Senate in Texas.

“I call them PINOS,” he said, explaining the term is an acronym for “Pastors in Name Only.”

“Because they’re not real pastors, right? They don’t profess the true gospel of Jesus Christ,” added Mitchell, who has attended an evangelical church in the past.

It’s the latest in a series of faith-focused attacks that have intensified amid an election cycle featuring a striking number of clergy campaigning as Democrats — and, in recent months, besting their challengers. At least 12 pastors, seminarians and former clergy have run for federal office as Democrats this year, and seven have already become the Democratic nominees as of Wednesday (Aug 6). Some are even competing against each other: In Iowa, James, who is ordained within the Presbyterian Church (USA), had to beat out another pastor, United Methodist minister the Rev. Clint Twedt-Ball, to win her primary.

At least seven current and former pastors, all evangelicals, have also launched campaigns for Congress as Republicans this year, but with less success. Of those seven, only three — Pastor Mark Harris, an incumbent in North Carolina’s 8th district; Pastor John Elleson, who is running in Illinois’ deep-blue 9th district; and Tim Walberg, an incumbent and former pastor in Michigan’s 5th district — ultimately became nominees.

Tensions are high in competitive races with clergy candidates, with Republican opponents sometimes even turning to allegations of blasphemy as they hope to capitalize on longstanding divisions within Christianity to eke out victories. That includes Garriott, whose race is rated by The Cook Political Report as one of only 18 “toss-up” House elections in the country; in addition to Mitchell’s “PINO” remarks, Republican officials have referred to Garriott as the “Wicked Witch of Woke.” House Speaker Mike Johnson has also joined other Republicans in accusing her of having “officiated a Satanist wedding,” even though the allegation appears dubious: while Garriott has spoken publicly about participating in a wedding for people who self-identified as Satanists in meetings with pastors, she could not have officiated the wedding, as she was a pastoral intern at the time, and the service itself was conducted using Christian Scripture and liturgy.

Texas state Rep. James Talarico speaks during a rally to protest against redistricting hearings at the Texas Capitol, July 24, 2025, in Austin, Texas. (AP Photo/Eric Gay)

Republicans in Texas have also spent months railing against the religious beliefs of James Talarico, who has made faith a centerpiece of a U.S. Senate campaign under the slogan “Let’s flip some tables.” Texas Lt. Gov. Dan Patrick has said he has “never seen anyone commit so much blasphemy against the word of God and the Bible” as Talarico, and insisted he believes the seminarian may end up “going to Hell.” Similarly, Ken Paxton, an evangelical Christian and Talarico’s opponent, has called Talarico’s views “antithetical to historical Christian views,” arguing they were “adopted from liberal theology” and are “literally the opposite of Christianity.”

Both Lindsay James and Garriott told RNS the attacks on their faith and ordination status are “disappointing” and doubled as an indictment of their broader faith communities.

James, who is seeking to lead a district that leans Republican but is seen as competitive this year, noted she worked as a chaplain on college campuses ministering to students and doing what she called “incredibly beautiful work.” The suggestion that she is somehow not a pastor, James said, is “not just disappointing for me” but also “disappointing for all pastors and Christians across the state.”

“These kinds of attacks speak more about who my opponent is, than who I am,” she said.

Garriott argued similarly. She said her background as a parish minister and hospital chaplain are important to her personally and inform her work as a lawmaker.

“I was walking into the worst moments of people’s lives multiple times through a shift,” Garriott said, referring to her time as a chaplain. “That’s helped me develop a courage to show up for folks, no matter who they are, no matter what they’re experiencing.”


(Photo by Kelly Sikkema/Unsplash/Creative Commons)

Garriott added that, if elected, she hopes to preach regularly, as she has while serving as a state senator and on the campaign trail. Despite her grueling schedule, she has even maintained an atypically time-consuming aspect of her sermon-writing: memorizing the Bible passage she plans to preach on verbatim, then reciting it from memory before launching into her sermon.

“These attacks really are, again, not just against me as a faith leader, but me as a Lutheran minister and the churches that I’ve served,” Garriott said. “People find it really offensive — it makes them upset.”
RELATED: Iowa pastor says running for office is a test of faith

She also argued that the line of attack suggests her opponents are desperate.


“It’s a sign that they are really scared they’re gonna lose this seat,” said Garriott, who, church leaders confirmed, remains a pastor in good standing within the ELCA’s Southeastern Iowa Synod.

Marie Griffith, a religion professor at Washington University in St. Louis and former director of the school’s John C. Danforth Center on Religion and Politics, told RNS she sees the Republican strategy as partly an example of run-of-the-mill partisan politics applied to candidates who happen to be clergy. But the nature of the attacks, she said, also points to a more than century-old divide between evangelicals who tend to be Republicans and a coalition of liberal mainliners and Black Protestants who tend to vote Democratic.

What’s more, evangelicals, whose pastors do not always attend seminary, have long showcased a “suspicion of education” and the “educated elite,” Griffith said. That skepticism could extend to figures such as James, Garriott and Talarico — all of whom have earned or are pursuing a Master of Divinity, as typically required by their denominations for ordination.

Iowa Democratic congressional candidate the Rev. Lindsay James speaks during a campaign event. (Video screen grab)

“It is plausible to many conservative evangelicals in the pews to say, ‘Mike Johnson is just as much a theological expert as some dude with a Ph.D. from Harvard Divinity School, or some liberal Christian institution,’” Griffith said.

Mitchell and other conservatives have pointed to their opponents’ support for LGBTQ+ rights — particularly transgender rights and votes in favor of various forms of gender-affirming care — as evidence of their insufficient faith. But that framing exposes another theological rift: In recent decades, many mainline Christian denominations distanced themselves from evangelical views on gender and sexuality by formally ordaining LGBTQ+ people, officiating same-sex marriages and affirming LGBTQ+ identities.

And recent election cycles have seen attacks on the faith of liberal-leaning Democratic clergy fall flat. When the Rev. Raphael Warnock, head of Ebenezer Baptist Church in Atlanta, was running for U.S. Senate in Georgia in 2020, Republicans decried his claim of being a “pro-choice pastor,” with then-Rep. Doug Collins condemning the idea as a “lie from the bed of Hell.” But polls indicated that most Catholics in the state and slightly more than half of Georgia’s Protestants believed abortion should be legal in all or most cases, and Warnock ultimately won his Senate seat — a victory later touted by Democratic Party leaders as a model for securing more wins in the South.

Democrats, of course, have also challenged the faith of Republicans. Just last month, Warnock openly questioned the Christian beliefs of Mike Johnson, a Southern Baptist, spurring a brief meeting on Capitol Hill between the lawmakers where they discussed their different approaches to Christianity and the Bible.

Yet the intensity and frequency of Republican attacks on liberal pastors’ religious beliefs is unusual, and mirrors efforts to undermine the credibility of liberal-leaning clergy who have criticized President Donald Trump’s administration. When the Rt. Rev. Mariann Budde, the Episcopal Bishop of Washington, asked Trump during a sermon at the Washington National Cathedral on the president’s first full day in office to “have mercy” on immigrants and transgender people, he responded with a Truth Social post that referred to her as a “so-called Bishop.” The Department of Homeland Security has been similarly dismissive of clergy who have protested the president’s immigration policies, with agency officials once publicly mocking participants in an immigrant rights demonstration led by faith leaders as “imbecilic morons” who need to “get a job.”

Even so, another pastor is poised to attract more Republican attacks. On Tuesday, the Rev. Adam Hamilton, who leads the largest United Methodist church in the U.S., won the Democratic primary in his bid to become the next U.S. Senator from Kansas.

The Rev. Adam Hamilton, a Methodist mega-church pastor from Kansas, talks to voters as he wraps up a U.S. Senate listening tour on Saturday, April 18, 2026, at Limitless Brewing in Lenexa, Kansas. (AP Photo/Heather Hollingsworth)

Winning a statewide election as a Democrat in Kansas is an uphill battle, but Hamilton is already breaking fundraising records, won the endorsement of the Kansas City Star in the primary and has been drawing attention from conservatives. Last month, right wing outlet Breitbart News referred to Hamilton’s denomination as “radically leftist” and wrote critically of the pastor’s suggestion in a sermon that the Bible contains errors — an idea that, while rejected by many evangelicals, has been embraced by many mainline Christians for more than a century.

For Griffith, the attacks highlight a “core disagreement on what, fundamentally, Christianity stands for.” And if Democratic clergy and other other faith-forward candidates do well in November, she said, it could destabilize a religious coalition conservatives spent decades building into a political power bloc.

“Republicans feel that they have had the religious upper hand for so long, that it’s pretty threatening to see someone like Talarico or any of these figures (running for office),” Griffith said.

But a spiritual shift of sorts may already be at hand. The Rev. Frederick Haynes III, a prominent Baptist pastor in Texas, has already won the Democratic primary for Texas’ 30th deeply blue congressional district, making it highly likely that he will be sworn in as a member of Congress next year. He told RNS he sees the success of Democratic clergy at the polls this year as a testament to their “track record of community service” and “fighting for the people.”

“There is almost an appreciative wave for the service that has been rendered that causes the people to rise up and say, ‘We want you to serve as our representative because you have served us while not being a quote-unquote public servant or politician, but you’ve done the work of public service,’” Haynes said.

Adelle M. Banks contributed to this report.

This piece has been updated to note that additional pastors, including Rev. Adam Hamilton, became nominees after winning primaries held on Tuesday, Aug 5.

Booted from evangelicalism, a progressive, ‘post-evangelical’ church blooms in Texas

AUSTIN, Texas (RNS) — Led by Zach Lambert, Restore church is part of a small but growing countertrend.

Ushers Carla and Stuart Hays welcome attendees to Restore Austin in Austin, Texas, on Sunday, June 7, 2026. (RNS photo/Angela Wang)

Kathryn Post
July 28, 2026

RNS


AUSTIN, Texas (RNS) — When Mariah and Michaela Montgomery-Lindsay moved more than 150 miles from Houston to Austin with three cats and two dogs in tow, it wasn’t for a job or family, but for church.

“I was just aching for a community of people who understood this transitionary pain that I was experiencing in my life, and this deconstruction that I was going through,” Mariah said.

She and her now-wife, Michaela, had been watching Sunday services of the Austin church, Restore, on YouTube for years. After growing up in a charismatic church and suppressing her gay identity for most of her life, Restore Austin, which offers a rare blend of progressive theology and evangelical expression, was the first church Mariah encountered that understood her exit from evangelicalism and was LGBTQ-affirming. After learning about Restore’s LGBTQ social group, the couple wanted in.

In early 2024, they arrived in the parking lot of the middle school where Restore meets each Sunday. That first visit, Mariah recalled, was a “visceral experience.”

“I think I cried the first 30 minutes of that service,” Mariah said. “I felt so safe to be completely myself.”

That safety wasn’t signaled by pride flags or priests in rainbow vestments, but unquestioned acceptance. It’s a congregation that will cheer as gay couples share news of their engagements, and each Sunday, a message flashing across the screen declares, “WELCOME to a community that celebrates differences and diversity.”

“People greeted us like a normal couple,” Mariah said.

Lead pastor Zach Lambert invites attendees to share personal good news from the week on Sunday, June 7, 2026, at Restore Austin in Austin, Texas. (RNS photo/Angela Wang)

Many of Restore’s roughly 1,200 members are religious exiles who’ve left conservative evangelical churches — often citing an emphasis on Christian nationalism. They’ve come to Restore looking for a church that both worships Jesus as a savior and follows what they describe as his model of radical love. They’re hoping they don’t have to give up their jeans, church coffee and worship music to find it.

“I bet we’re still 90% people who have had bad church experiences,” said Zach Lambert, lead pastor and founder of Restore. “More and more people, I think, have seen a need for a church like ours to be an alternative to Christian nationalist, right-wing churches.”

More and more people, I think, have seen a need for a church like ours to be an alternative to Christian nationalist, right-wing churches.Zach Lambert

As Restore continues to grow, it’s become emblematic of a small but significant countertrend in America’s religious landscape. While white evangelicals remain among President Donald’s Trump’s most stalwart supporters, a recent poll found that nearly half of Gen Z agreed that Christians’ support of Trump has made them less likely to go to church. And young women and LGBTQ Americans are increasingly likely to claim no religious identity.

Restore, and other post-evangelical churches like it, have become a home for Christians who reject the MAGA movement while refusing to discard their faith. While politically and theologically more aligned with liberal mainline denominations, these churches retain the evangelical aesthetics so familiar and cherished by the exvangelicals in their pews — especially the music style — even as they insist racial justice, gender equality and LGBTQ inclusion are necessary outcomes of the gospel.

Lead pastor Zach Lambert leads the congregation in prayer during communion on Sunday, June 7, 2026, at Restore Austin in Austin, Texas. (RNS photo/Angela Wang)
Church origins

As a young person, Lambert’s faith was formed by two Southern Baptist megachurches; the one in Austin where he was raised, and later, Prestonwood Baptist Church, a 40,000-member Texas Southern Baptist congregation where he interned for two years. Both were the kind of church many of his now-congregants have fled.

At Prestonwood, he recalled, he was groomed to become a megachurch pastor. But his illusions about ministry quickly evaporated. He described leaders who demanded unquestioning loyalty, teachings that demeaned women and a church culture preoccupied with public image.

“By the end of it, I was really done,” Lambert said. “I quit, thinking I was probably never going to be in ministry again.”

Soon after, though, Lambert connected with evangelical churches that seemed more receptive to some of the progressive values he’d gradually embraced. In 2016, he and a launch team planted Restore. It was part of the Evangelical Free Church of America, but allowed women leaders, invited LGBTQ people to lead and marry, and was designed for people escaping negative church experiences yet yearning for a faith community. Austin, a longtime Democratic outpost in Texas, seemed like the ideal place.

But like many evangelical churches, most congregations in the Evangelical Free Church of America believe the Bible teaches that only men should be pastors and that marriage should be between a man and a woman. When Restore baptized a lesbian couple in its first year, Lambert said, local churches organized to remove Restore from the denomination. In 2019, they were successful.

“Our church was kicked out,” Lambert said. “I was put on trial and my ministry license was revoked.”

After being unaffiliated for several years, Restore last year joined the United Methodist Church, an LGBTQ-affirming mainline denomination on the other end of the religious spectrum.

Care pastor Mark Jordan greets congregants on Sunday, June 7, 2026, at Restore Austin in Austin, Texas. (RNS photo/Angela Wang)
The ‘magic combination’

In many ways, Restore’s backstory — formed in an evangelical context, then forced out of it — mirrors that of many attendees. And it’s what made it the perfect fit for Eric McDermid, a 43-year-old retired data scientist. After years at an Austin megachurch, McDermid left when he saw widespread support for Trump and what he viewed as selective application of Scripture.

The comfortable, contemporary, laid-back setting, but these kinds of beliefs … that was the magic combination for us.Eric McDermid

McDermid and his wife tried out some mainline churches, but they missed some aspects of the megachurch model — especially how it welcomes newcomers with clear signs, coffee and a simple worship format. At Restore, he found those elements, plus a progressive faith.

“The comfortable, contemporary, laid-back setting, but these kinds of beliefs … that was the magic combination for us,” said McDermid, who now serves on Restore’s leadership team.

The church’s history has also made it more attuned to members’ religious baggage. Mark Jordan, Restore’s care pastor, is a veteran and trained hospital chaplain, and no stranger to trauma. He’s often the first to greet newcomers at the door, and, with kind eyes and a warm smile, he makes it his mission to exude a “non-anxious presence.”


“A lot of people, when they come in, especially those of the LGBTQ community, the question that they ask me is, ‘Is this a safe space?’” Jordan said. “What I look forward to is not only connecting with people, but being a part of a safe, inclusive community. That is the work of Jesus.”

Scripture has often been weaponized against church members, especially the roughly 33% who are LGBTQ, Lambert said. Because many members struggle with reading the Bible and don’t carry it to church, Bible passages are displayed on the screen. When they contain something potentially upsetting — such as portions commonly known as LGBTQ clobber passages — it’s normal for speakers to give a warning.

Sermons focus less on requiring certainty, and more on adding context and inviting reflection. Communion is open to everyone, including those with doubts.

“Come to this table, you who have much faith and you who would like to have more … you who have tried to follow Jesus and you who have failed,” Lambert says each week.

Miriam Ritchie and Nicolle Truett pray together during worship at Restore Austin in Austin, Texas, on Sunday, June 7, 2026. The newly engaged couple were introduced at church by Ritchie’s uncle, a fellow member of Restore. (Angela Wang)

For Nicolle Truett, it wasn’t easy to settle into Restore’s culture of unconditional welcome. Raised as a missionary kid in the Foursquare Church, she later left the Pentecostal denomination, saying she was removed from her job there soon after she reported abuse. Though her experience left her feeling “angry and cynical” when she first came to Restore, eventually, she said, the community compelled her to stay. She told RNS that people at Restore get what it’s like to be mistreated in a faith community they loved. But they’re also committed to avoiding the kind of us-vs-them, binary thinking they often found in those settings.

“There’s never an indication that we have what is right and everyone else has what is wrong,” she said. “Everybody here has a story of being excluded and abused and harmed, and still has a commitment to figure out how to do it better and how not to do this again to anybody else.”

Post-evangelical

By the time Restore was forced out of its first denomination in 2019, Lambert had gained a social media following for his online advocacy on topics like free lunch programs and LGBTQ rights.

“Bible verses condemning trans folks: 0; Bible verses about welcoming migrants: 33; Bible verses about advocating for peace: 429; Bible verses about loving God and others: 714; Bible verses about taking care of the poor: 2000+” Lambert wrote in one viral post.

Though his outspoken views have earned him many critics who accuse him of partisanship and heresy, his online reach is part of what connected him and Restore to a larger movement.

Lambert began to discover pastors with similar stories, including Mike Goldsworthy, who led a church in Long Beach, California. In October 2021, Goldsworthy convened roughly 100 likeminded pastors who led congregations with evangelical ties but who believed evangelicalism had been co-opted by the MAGA movement.

Attendees participate in worship service on Sunday, June 7, 2026, at Restore Austin in Austin, Texas. (RNS photo/Angela Wang)

Out of that initial convening, Lambert, Goldsworthy and Keri Ladouceur co-founded the Post-Evangelical Collective, now a network of over 150 churches connected by shared values, regional bodies and a national conference that, Ladouceur said, has grown roughly 25% each year.

“Many had been exiled from their previous denominational affiliation, many had been really lonely and kind of wondering, you know, ‘Am I the only one?’” said Ladouceur, who is based in Raleigh, North Carolina and serves as executive director of the collective. “There was such a sense of validation and permission and shared imagination to rethink, what does it mean to be the church in this time, beyond Christian nationalism?”

Christian ethicist David Gushee, who serves on the collective’s wisdom board, said while Lambert’s public platform has only grown since co-founding the collective — he has 56K X followers and is the bestselling author of “Better Ways to Read the Bible” — Lambert sees himself first as a local pastor. That, Gushee said, has helped kept the collective “church-oriented.”

Everybody here has a story of being excluded and abused and harmed, and still has a commitment to figure out how to do it better and how not to do this again to anybody else.Nicolle Truett

“There’s a way to be post-evangelical that is mainly about opposition to evangelicalism,” Gushee said. “Zach has had plenty of reasons to be angry and traumatized and against, but that’s not what he leads with. He leads with a constructive, winsome Christian vision that is focused on growing a church that can serve the legions of post-evangelicals who need community.”

Lately, Lambert and Restore’s leaders have been growing the church through their partnership with the United Methodist Church, a move that grants them more resources and support. It also merged with Memorial United Methodist Church, a 151-year-old congregation in East Austin, and is in the process of renovating and moving to Memorial’s 35,000-square-foot campus. The move will allow Restore to have a consistent worship space for the first time in its 10-year history, and will provide a central hub for Restore’s justice work.

Attendees participate in worship service on Sunday, June 7, 2026, at Restore Austin in Austin, Texas. (RNS photo/Angela Wang)
A wedding

In the two years that they’ve been at Restore, Mariah and Michaela Montgomery-Lindsay have been part of the church’s evolution. After joining Restore’s LGBTQ social group, they saw a need for an LGBTQ group more focused on Bible study — so they formed one.

In May, they gathered in the hills outside of Austin, and surrounded by the new friends they’d moved to Austin to meet, Lambert married them.

“Your marriage brings great joy to the heart of God,” Lambert declared, “just as it does to mine and to the hearts of everyone here today.”



Congregants turn to the communion table at the center of the gym at Restore Austin in Austin, Texas, on Sunday, June 7, 2026. (RNS photo/Angela Wang)

This story was produced with funding from the Templeton Religion Trust.