Walking in Faith and Justice in a World That Wasn’t Made for You By Anu George Canjanathoppil

There are days I feel like an accidental intruder in spaces of power. On those days, I remind myself that I didn’t sneak in—I was sent.

But let’s not sugar-coat this: the world wasn’t exactly built with women in mind. Especially not women of faith; and certainly not women of colour, with names that autocorrect tries to colonize, who show up in saris and sandals and insist on talking about injustice at dinner parties.

This isn’t self-pity. It’s context. It’s truth.

And it’s why I’ve learned that if you want to lead in this world as a woman—especially a Christian one—you must be willing to look foolish. You must be willing to stand out. You must be willing to fail.

Because if you are willing to fail, you will never be defeated.

I Wasn’t Raised to Be Silent

I was born into a family where faith wasn’t a Sunday hobby. My father’s side descended from Lutheran missionaries. My mother’s side traced its Christianity back to the Apostle Thomas, who supposedly landed on the shores of South India with sandals full of dust and conviction. This is the same family where you could be publicly disowned for forgetting the correct order of the Nicene Creed or for adding water to the sambar.

I grew up with stories of ancestors who faced persecution but kept the faith. That legacy shaped me—but so did the strong women in my lineage. Not just the saintly ones with prayer-calloused knees, but the fierce ones who ran households, demanded justice, and raised children with nothing but hope and leftover rice.

That combination—faith and fire—lives in my bones.

I Learned Young That Justice Isn’t Neat

At thirteen, I walked into a local official’s office and told him he was breaking the law.

Why? Because in the middle of a brutal water shortage, his friends in the wealthier parts of town were receiving water every day, while we got water every third day—if we were lucky. I didn’t have a law degree. I barely understood bureaucracy. But I knew injustice when I saw it.

That was my first lesson in leadership: You don’t need permission to pursue justice. You need courage and a bit of holy stubbornness.

Soon, people in the community started coming to me to help navigate their own battles—land disputes, pension delays, domestic abuse complaints. My dining table turned into an unofficial complaints desk. I was still a child, but I was learning—fast—what broken systems looked like. And I was learning how to make noise inside them.

The Sari Was My First Suit of Armor

I started wearing saris in my teens, long before it was expected or even comfortable. Why? Because grown men in government offices stopped laughing when I walked in wrapped in six yards of seriousness. I called it my armor.

My friends wore jeans and cool indifference. I wore polished cotton and righteous fury.

The sari, in many ways, disguised my age—but it also revealed my intent. It told the room, “I came to be taken seriously. And I’m not leaving until I am.”

It still does. I wear it not because it’s traditional, but because it reminds me of who I am and who I stand with. Women who work in fields, carry burdens on their heads and backs, who raise nations while being invisible to their own. The sari is not delicate. It’s not dainty. It’s fierce. It’s flexible. It moves with you when you run, and it holds you when you collapse. It is womanhood, sewn into six yards.

“Madam” Is a Word That Cuts Both Ways

Over time, people began calling me “Sari Madam.” At first, I winced. That word—Madam—had weight. It was what traffickers were called. Women who sold other women. It had been corrupted.

But over the years, I came to understand that reclaiming language is part of our calling. They didn’t call me Madam because of my job title. They said it with a smile, with gratitude, with quiet trust. For them, I was the first woman in a position of power who hadn’t used it to hurt them.

Sometimes, being a Christian woman in leadership feels like reclaiming every word and space that was weaponized against women before you arrived.

If You’re Waiting for the World to Make Room, Don’t Hold Your Breath

Here’s the truth they don’t put on church pamphlets: The world still struggles to make room for a woman who is both holy and loud.

A woman who quotes Isaiah in a boardroom. A woman who says “God told me” and means it. A woman who cries during meetings because she feels the Spirit moving—and then wipes her eyes and closes a $5 million deal.

We’re taught that faithfulness is quiet, that strength is composed, that calling comes with a manual.

But my Bible says otherwise.

Deborah was a judge.

Esther broke protocol.

Ruth crossed borders.

Mary said yes without knowing the plan.

The Samaritan woman evangelized her whole village.

And not one of them waited for approval.

So why are we?

You Were Not Called to Blend In

Faith is not performance. Justice is not marketing. Leadership is not about being liked.

Some of the most faithful things I’ve done felt foolish. They were messy. They were misunderstood. They didn’t trend on Instagram. But they were mine. And they mattered.

Christian women: the world doesn’t need you smaller, softer, or more palatable.

It needs you faithful.

It needs you fearless.

It needs you willing to look ridiculous in pursuit of righteousness.

The enemy of justice is not failure. It’s inaction. It’s waiting for permission. It’s blending in until you disappear.

But if you’re willing to fail—spectacularly, clumsily, tearfully—you will never be defeated.

Your Faith Is Not a Flaw. It’s a Force.

I don’t show up in rooms because I’ve figured everything out. I show up because God hasn’t let me stop. Because the kingdom of God needs builders, not just believers. It needs women with calloused feet and prophetic hearts. Women who walk into unjust systems and say, “This ends here.”

I have never once felt fully ready. But I’ve always felt sent. And that is enough.

So here’s my benediction for you, sister:

Wear your sari—or your sweatshirt or your CEO badge—like holy armor.

Speak the truth, even if your voice cracks.

Laugh loudly. Fail loudly. Rise louder.

And never forget:

You don’t need to look like power to carry it.

You don’t need to be invited to the table to flip it over.

You were not created to survive this world.

You were called to transform it.

In Jesus’ name—and maybe with black-stained hands from a botched hair dye attempt—go and do just that.

Until all are free,

Anu

By Anu George Canjanathoppil, International Justice Mission