Beyond the Red Shield: Diluting DEI, Humanitarian Work and the Army of Salvation

Beyond the Red Shield: Diluting DEI, Humanitarian Work and the Army of Salvation | Research Square window.SnipcartSettings = { analytics: { enabled: false } }; (function() { var accessVector = localStorage.getItem('access_vector') || ''; window.dataLayer = window.dataLayer || []; if (accessVector) { window.dataLayer.push({ user: { profile: { profileInfo: { snid: accessVector } } } }); } })(); (function(w,d,s,l,i){w[l]=w[l]||[];w[l].push({'gtm.start':new Date().getTime(),event:'gtm.js'});var f=d.getElementsByTagName(s)[0],j=d.createElement(s),dl=l!='dataLayer'?'&l='+l:'';j.async=true;j.src='https://www.googletagmanager.com/gtm.js?id='+i+dl;f.parentNode.insertBefore(j,f);})(window,document,'script','dataLayer','GTM-K279D39R'); Browse Preprints In Review Journals COVID-19 Preprints AJE Video Bytes Research Tools Research Promotion AJE Professional Editing AJE Rubriq About Preprint Platform In Review Editorial Policies Our Team Advisory Board Help Center Sign In Submit a Preprint Cite Share Download PDF Article Beyond the Red Shield: Diluting DEI, Humanitarian Work and the Army of Salvation Suzanne Boersma, ioana vrabiescu This is a preprint; it has not been peer reviewed by a journal. https://doi.org/ 10.21203/rs.3.rs-7784641/v1 This work is licensed under a CC BY 4.0 License Status: Under Review Version 1 posted 6 You are reading this latest preprint version Abstract Despite the Netherlands' secular reputation, from de-pillarization to the drop in church attendance in the 70s-80s, Christian FBOs’ humanitarian work has direct consequences on the gender and intersectional inequalities in society. This article examines SA in the Netherlands to show how its double identity as both a religious and humanitarian organization sustains patriarchal structures while escaping critical (political) scrutiny. Drawing on ethnographic fieldwork, including interviews, observations, and organizational documents, we highlight how symbols such as blood, the red shield, and the flag operate as boundary markers of belonging and exclusion. These symbolic repertoires embed heteronormative family values into organizational culture, ultimately reinforcing patriarchal structures and legitimizing inequalities under the guise of humanitarian care. While SA presents itself as an identity-neutral provider of aid, its practices are shaped by masculinist norms, colonial legacies, and Christian ideals that privilege male leadership and undervalue women’s labor. Official commitments to DEI remain limited, as religious identity is used to justify exemptions and avoid accountability. This analysis advances an anti-humanitarian perspective, showing how humanitarianism—far from dismantling structural inequalities—can reproduce them through religious symbolism, moral authority, and selective care. Humanities/Cultural and media studies Social science/Cultural and media studies Humanities/Religion Social science/Sociology Faith-Based Organizations humanitarian work Salvation Army gendered institutions The Netherlands Figures Figure 1 Figure 2 Figure 3 Introduction In the intricate landscape of the Dutch welfare state, faith-based organisations (FBOs) such as Salvation Army (SA) play a vital role in replacing previously government-held social services. Grounded in religious beliefs, they frame their mission around poverty alleviation and support for marginalized communities. Yet, the integration of faith into humanitarian practice is neither neutral nor uniform: it actively shapes organizational culture, hierarchies, and ethical frameworks—influencing not only those who work within them but also the communities they serve and the society at large (Beaumont & Cloke, 2012 ; Ferris, 2005 ; Noor & Nawi, 2021 ; Rommelspacher, 2017). This double identity—as both a religious and humanitarian organization—creates tensions that extend far beyond internal organizational culture. Critics have long argued that religious imperatives can undermine humanitarian neutrality, producing exclusionary practices under the guise of humanitarian care (Ferris, 2005 ). As Moore ( 2019 , 67) argues, FBOs’ embeddedness in both religious and welfare domains allows them to operate in hybrid political spaces where neither state oversight nor public accountability is fully effective. This “accountability gap” enables faith-based agendas to shape service provision in ways that can perpetuate existing inequalities (Thaut, 2009 ), particularly when religious doctrine conflicts with diversity, equality, and inclusion (DEI) principles (Acker, 1990 ). In its ideal form, humanitarianism aims to meet human needs without discrimination. Religious humanitarianism, however, entwines material aid to moral and spiritual obligations. Within SA, acts of support are therefore also acts of religious solidarity, strengthening bonds among believers and affirming their shared faith identity (Khafagy, 2020 ). In the case of SA, this religious–humanitarian identity is not simply a matter of ideology but is materially and symbolically embedded in everyday organizational life. “Blood” emerges here as a key metaphor and lived reality, signifying familial networks, loyalty, and inherited belonging. For employees raised within SA families, this identity is inherited “in the blood”. This is mirrored in SA’s iconic red shield and flag, where the color red functions as both a sacred emblem of sacrifice and a boundary marker of inclusion and exclusion. The red shield therefore serves a dual function: as a symbol of sacrifice rooted in Christian theology and as an emblem of belonging, while simultaneously shielding the organization from certain forms of accountability (see Figs. 1 & 2 ). These dynamics are amplified by the gendered legacies of Christian humanitarianism. Historically shaped by masculinist values, colonial legacies, and white male privilege (Barth & Hobson, 2020 ; Möller et al., 2020 ), FBOs have maintained leadership structures dominated by men while relegating women to undervalued caregiving roles. These are not mere residues of the past; they persist in contemporary organizational practice, often naturalized through theological justifications of “proper” gender order (Edgardh, 2011 ; Noor & Nawi, 2021 ). Despite the rise of EU DEI frameworks, our research shows that SA—and similar Christian FBOs—avoid these requirements by invoking their religious identity as protection against external scrutiny. In doing so, they reproduce heteronormative family ideals and gendered divisions of care (Möller et al., 2020 , pp. 285–286), thereby reinforcing the very inequalities they claim to address (Noor & Nawi, 2021 ). In practice, DEI is diluted, selectively applied, or sidelined, revealing how religious authority can be mobilized to resist accountability while projecting a humanitarian image. This article takes SA in the Netherlands as a case study to interrogate how the organization’s double identity shapes the intersection of religion, gender, and humanitarian practice. Building on Ferris’s ( 2005 ) critique of faith-based humanitarianism and Moore’s ( 2019 ) work on the political space of FBOs, we advance an (anti-)humanitarian analysis: showing how symbolic and organizational boundaries—materialized in blood, flag, and shield—structure inclusion and exclusion. Together, these insights highlight how FBOs’ double identity not only creates tensions around inclusivity and neutrality but also produces an accountability gap that allows religious authority to legitimize exclusionary practices under the guise of humanitarian care (Ferris, 2005 ; Moore, 2019 ). SA illustrates this dynamic clearly. Over more than 150 years in the Netherlands, it has grown into one of the country’s largest welfare providers, employing over 7,000 professionals, with its Welfare and Healthcare Foundation (W&G) alone relying on more than 80% government funding. In 1990, to meet transparency requirements, SA formalized its dual structure: the church focusing on spiritual missions and the W&G addressing social services. Rather than resolving tensions, this move institutionalized the very boundary between religious principle and professional obligation, complicating both accountability and inclusion (James, 2009 ; Grey, 2011 ; Bollinger, 2013 ; Ophoff, 2017 ). We structure our argument in three steps. First, we examine how the contraction of the Dutch welfare state expanded FBO involvement in social services without corresponding increases in accountability for DEI implementation. Second, we analyse the organizational culture of SA to show how their symbolism—particularly the red shield, the flag, and the uniform—operates as a mechanism of belonging and exclusion. Third, we examine how religious symbolism around family, gender, and blood sustains intersectional inequalities within SA’s hierarchies and humanitarian practices. We conclude that SA’s double identity consolidates patriarchal and exclusionary structures while resisting the accountability measures designed to challenge them. Note on Methodology The article is based on ethnographic research, data analyses and writing time. Author 1 conducted three months of fieldwork, combining observation, interviews, and document analysis. Author 2 guided the research process and collaborated in data analysis and writing. Author 1 volunteered at the SA organization, using insider access to network and gaining confidence of the interviewees, while balancing both insider and outsider perspectives to ensure ethical integrity. The fieldwork involved observing and interviewing staff at SA to explore how its double identity of religious and humanitarian mission influences perceptions on gender and belonging. Research took place across humanitarian and religious sites in Amsterdam where SA operates, with 13 interviews involving 14 participants, from top managers to frontline staff. Participants were interviewed in their workplaces to enhance authenticity, with pseudonyms used to protect anonymity. Access to internal reports on SA’s identity and structure allowed for comparison with field observations and ensure a comprehensive perspective. Fieldnotes were transcribed during research, with interviews transcribed and coded afterward. Data were analysed using Atlas.Ti to identify patterns and themes related to the intersection of religious believes, gender, and humanitarian work. 1. From Pillarization to Welfare and Humanitarianism in the Netherlands: SA’s Uprise Christian FBOs in the Netherlands cannot be understood outside the country’s history of verzuiling (pillarization), a system that structured society along religious, political, and ideological “pillars.” From the late nineteenth to the mid-twentieth century, Dutch life was organized into Catholic, Protestant, Socialist, and Liberal blocs, each with its own schools, unions, newspapers, hospitals, and welfare institutions (Heslam, 2002; Beaumont & Dias, 2008 ). This system fostered cohesion within pillars but entrenched segregation, limiting cross-pillar inclusion and reinforcing exclusivity (Rogier, 1956 ). The 1960s brought ontzuiling (de-pillarization), marked by secularization, declining church attendance, and the rise of allegedly “neutral” institutions (Dias, 2013 ). Yet rather than disappearing, Christian organizations adapted by emphasizing ethics, care, and community engagement in local settings, sustaining influence at the periphery of public life (Kennedy, 2005 ). Even as multiculturalism and secular institutions expanded, Christianity continued to shape identity, belonging, and morality across institutional and organizational contexts. The Dutch welfare state that consolidated in the 1960s and 1970s was itself built on a Christian heteronormative family model. Men were imagined as breadwinners and women as caregivers, reinforcing patriarchal dependencies and limiting women’s (economic) autonomy (Davelaar et al., 2011 ; Kersbergen, 2009 ). Catholic and Social Democratic parties alike upheld the family as the cornerstone of social order, naturalizing gendered divisions of labor (Schama, 1988 ). Although feminist movements of the 1970s challenged these norms and family control, many caregiving responsibilities were effectively outsourced to church-affiliated organizations. In practice, women moved from unpaid domestic work into professionalized caregiving roles, but still within religious and patriarchal structures (Hien, 2017 ; Watling, 2002 ). Neoliberal reforms of the 1980s further transformed the welfare landscape, deepening this gendered division. With the state retreating, responsibility for welfare provision shifted to individuals, families, and private actors. FBOs like SA seized this opportunity to expand their activities beyond charity into essential welfare services, including poverty relief, addiction treatment, and reintegration programs (Beaumont & Dias, 2008 ; Muhammed, 2014 ). While this expansion solidified their political and social influence, it also embedded Christian moral frameworks—including heteronormative family ideals and gendered divisions of labor—into welfare provision. Building on this expanded role, SA in the Netherlands formalized its organizational structure to consolidate both religious and welfare activities. Today, it operates through multiple foundations, most notably its church denomination and its W&G branch—a division that reflects not only the opportunities opened by neoliberal reforms but also the enduring tensions between faith and professionalized welfare. At the top of this structure sits the Territorial Headquarters (THQ) in Almere, overseeing both spiritual and social service activities. While officially framed as a guarantee of transparency, this dual identity in practice perpetuates the very frictions it claims to resolve, as religious imperatives continue to clash with professional obligations (Ophoff, 2017 ; Bollinger, 2013 ). As Merel, a unit manager within W&G, observed: “I would place The SA as a Christian organization on the more conservative side of the Christian world because many things are established. Many things are framed. Many things are hierarchical. It’s an army. You can see it reflected in how the army works, including W&G, the healthcare branch. So, everything that is conceived is very much top-down. So, in Almere, they come up with an idea and then things are implemented through various channels. It’s very much commanded […] .” (Merel, Amsterdam, May 2023) Merel’s reflection reveals how SA’s military-inspired structure reinforces rigid hierarchy, concentrating authority at the top while limiting bottom-up participation. This organizational model mirrors its symbolic identity as an “army,” highlighting how command and obedience shape its humanitarian and welfare practices. The Dutch government has, at times, questioned the added value of explicit Christian identity in FBOs’ work (James, 2009 ). Yet, SA maintains that their religious identity is integral to their operations: “The social part […] For Salvation Army would not exist without the understanding that this is what God wants us to do. So social work is an outworking of our faith. And our relationship with God.” (Angelique, Almere, April 2023). This conviction informs not only SA’s policies and procedures but also its interactions with clients, partners, and society as a whole (Leger des Heils, 2016 ). Legal changes have reinforced this separation. In 1990, under pressure from tax authorities, SA formally split its religious and social branches into distinct foundations. Officially, this restructuring ensured financial transparency. But substantively, it reinforced a duality: religious exemption for the church, and state funding—covering up to 80% of activities—for W&G (Ophoff, 2017 ; Bollinger, 2013 ; Beaumont & Dias, 2008 ). This arrangement enables SA to straddle both religious and secular spheres, expanding its role in welfare provision while avoiding full accountability to DEI frameworks. It is precisely within this tension between secular accountability and religious exemption that wider societal perceptions emerge: while religious practices are often seen as confining women to traditional roles, modern secular values are cast as advocates for DEI (Ferris, 2011). Such contrasts reinforce the belief that FBOs like SA lack the same accountability as public organizations. Yet the reality is more complex. While secular organizations often view FBOs as restrictive in terms of gender and LGBTQI + inclusion, many FBOs are motivated by faith to combat injustice, including against LGBTQI + communities. This produces a spectrum: some FBOs hinder inclusion, others actively promote it, and many occupy a middle ground (Moore, 2019 ; Magner et al., 2020). For example, some oppose same-sex marriage but still ensure equal access to services for queer individuals, prioritizing religious beliefs over other DEI concerns (Goris, Lacey & Kapazoglou, 2020). By positioning themselves in this ‘middle ground,’ FBOs evade accountability and mask structural inequalities behind claims of tolerance, enabling exclusionary practices to persist under the guise of religious inclusivity (Moore, 2019 ). Such tensions between religious identity and inclusivity are visible in SA’s limited DEI reforms. The organization issued a public apology to the LGBTQ + community in 2021. Annick, a director involved in DEI initiatives, described this step as a milestone, but acknowledged its limitations: “Two years ago, there was a significant acceleration in these efforts and last year, SA issued a statement to the Netherlands declaring that we are inclusive, that every individual belongs, and apologising to the LGBTQ + community for the pain we have caused as a church.” (Annick, Almere, March 2023). While the apology marks an important step for the organisation, especially in the Dutch context, it remains largely symbolic. In practice staff reports that very little changed in the organizational culture of SA. Merel, a unit manager within W&G, reflected on the lack of visible structures to embed DEI principles: “I don't think [SA has] a diversity or inclusion coordinator or anything like that. Most large organisations now have someone with that role, but it's not immediately visible on the work floor in SA. I'm pretty well-informed about what's happening within the organisation. I know a lot of people, both locally in Amsterdam and nationally. Still, I do not know evflerything that is happening in these areas [DEI].” (Merel, Amsterdam, May 2023). The gap between official statements and daily organizational life reveals how religious identity can be mobilized as a shield, allowing SA to symbolically endorse DEI while structurally resisting it. Structural inequalities, such as unequal representation in leadership roles, and symbolic imbalances (e.g. emphasising gender roles) persist throughout the organization. Moreover, resistance to DEI emerges from tensions between religious values and ideals of inclusion. Examining how DEI principles are described, implemented, and met with resistance within SA shows how the organisation's in-capacity to bridge the gap between its faith-based identity and the increasingly diverse realities it serves. Such dynamic creates a broader “us vs. them” divide between secular organizations and FBOs. Secular actors often disengage from partnerships if they fear theological views will shape outcomes, while FBOs perceive secular organizations as imposing Western values without acknowledging diverse cultural and religious contexts (Goris et al., 2020). These tensions highlight a critical point: religion can legitimize patriarchal hierarchies in FBOs (Tadros, 2010 ), but secular humanitarianism is not immune to patriarchal structures and imperialist biases either. Liberal and socialist traditions have also historically upheld heteronormative and patriarchal norms (Bishop, 2010), and secular organizations continue to reproduce power imbalances by marginalizing local identities and practices (Coles et al., 2015 ). Thus, inequality persist across both religious and secular humanitarian sectors. FBOs’ reliance on religious values and family structures sustains exclusionary practices, while secular organizations may reinforce Western-centric norms that marginalize non-Christian, non-heteronormative, and non-white perspectives (Fiddian-Qasmiyeh, 2015 ; Tadros, 2010 ). Both contexts reveal how humanitarian structures often reproduce, rather than dismantle, patriarchal and colonial legacies. This duality underscores the central argument of this article: the contraction of the welfare state enabled FBOs like SA to expand their role in welfare provision without corresponding increases in accountability. 2. Two Faces of Compassion: Unpacking the Double Identity of SA SA embodies what scholars describe as the “double identity” of FBOs: simultaneously claiming legitimacy as a church rooted in Christian morality and as a humanitarian provider of social services (Ferris, 2005 ; Moore, 2019 ; Thaut, 2009 ). These two logics are not simply parallel; they intersect in ways that shape organizational culture, hiring practices, and symbolic boundaries of belonging. The result is an institution that secures public trust and government funding, while using its religious identity to limit accountability to state frameworks on DEI. This dual identity is experienced in everyday life by employees. Annick, a SA soldier within the church branch described SA as “a spiritual home […] where I find my friends, who believe in the same things as I do” (Annick, Almere, March 2023). Belonging, in her account, is tied to faith and shared values, implying that certain expectations define who is considered a legitimate member while others may be marginalized. This boundary-making extends into hiring practices. New employees are expected to sign a declaration affirming their Christian faith, a practice that functions both legally and symbolically. Despite this, SA assists clients regardless of their religious beliefs (Ophoff, 2017 ), highlighting the complex relationship between the organisation's humanitarian mission and its religious mission. As Peter, a HR advisor explained, this requirement provides a defensive mechanism against accusations of discrimination: “The signing of the declaration of objectives primarily has legal status […] If you say, I’m a Muslim, and I accept another faith, then you’re in the wrong place here. You must have something with that Christian faith. That’s why you have to be able to reject people as employees.” (Peter, Amsterdam, March 2023). For many, however, this expectation of faith-based conformity raises questions about DEI. Leonie, a W&G employee, noted how excluding qualified non-Christian applicants undermines inclusivity and limits the organization’s ability to reflect the diversity of its clients: “If you come from an Islamic background, have a good education, and also share our norms and values, we still won’t hire you. I find that very difficult. And especially considering our target group, who are not all Christians.” (Leonie, Amsterdam, April 2023). Her reflection highlights the tension between SA’s religious exclusivity and its humanitarian mission, revealing how religious identity is prioritized over DEI goals, drawing boundaries around who belongs within its workforce. These tensions extend beyond hiring to broader organizational culture. Robin, a care coordinator and chaplain, described the ongoing struggle between SA’s dual identities: “ On the one hand, it is humanitarian; on the other hand, it is religious. So, there is friction here because SA wants to convey something… to express the Christian faith, as SA is a church association. At the same time, SA is a care institution. These two [organisations] clash with each other, as [SA leadership] wants to have Christians working in the care institution [W&G]. Well, that's a huge area of tension. Whether that is even allowed, especially when it comes to diversity” (Robin, Amsterdam, April 2023). Robin’s reflection underscores how religious authority frequently overshadows humanitarian inclusivity, reinforcing boundaries of belonging while humanitarian work itself is taken for granted and rarely politicized. SA has sought to maintain harmony between these two, arguing that both are integral to its mission. As Angelique put it: “ From my point of view, it is not a double mission [religious and humanitarian mission]. It is one mission.” (Angelique, Almere HD, April 2023). Milan, a spiritual care provider and Identity Strategy Coordinator, elaborated on this point: “ How do these two relate to one another [religious mission and humanitarian mission]? Well, you cannot fly with one wing, so both belong together.” (Milan, Almere HD, March 2023). Yet, the prioritisation of Christian values within SA humanitarian work shapes the organisation's approach to societal challenges, embedding its religious identity into communal behaviours and decision-making (Lenski, 1961; Sieben & Helman, 2014). SA’s guiding principles both define its work and potentially restrict its ability to fully integrate alternative approaches or diverse worldviews. Mentioned intertwining of religion and humanitarianism, that reinforces this double identity, is also visible in SA’s symbolic repertoire. The shield, flag, and uniforms are not incidental emblems but institutionally codified sacraments. Kenneth (1996) explains how the red of the flag represents Christ’s blood, the yellow star the fire of the Holy Spirit, and the blue border purity—summarized in the motto “Blood and Fire.” The shield, designed as a heraldic coat of arms, fuses military imagery with theological meaning, embedding spiritual warfare into SA’s identity (Kenneth, 1996, pp. 30–33). Uniforms, too, operate as visible sacraments—“like baptism”—signalling belonging and affirming loyalty to both “the Army” and to God (Kenneth, 1996). Middleton ( 2009 ) shows how these symbols are strategically managed to strengthen public reputation: the “Red Shield” projects protection, sacrifice, and trust. Employees describe these symbols as central to their sense of safety and legitimacy, “The history of uniform. Is about visibility. And testimony. Telling about who we are. And what we believe” , Angelique explained (see Fig. 3 ). For her, the uniform and red shield carried practical and spiritual weight: “It has become a part of [our/SA] culture and identity.[…] For me it is a tool of trade. It is a weakness. But it basically. As soon as somebody sees me. And sees the red shield. They can come up. And they can share the most deep thing. Even if they do not know me. Because they trust this. I used to do some work in the prison. This protected me. Because the inmates Respected the Salvation Army. It was my safety barrier.” (Angelique, Almere HD, April 2023). SA itself reinforces these meanings: on its Dutch website, the organization traces the shield’s adoption to the First World War, when it marked Salvationist soldiers’ quarters. What they describe as the “blood-red background” symbolized Christ’s sacrifice, while the shield’s prominence in military camps made it internationally recognized as a sign of protection for “people in need” (Leger des Heils, 2025). Taken together, these interpretations show how SA’s symbols project neutrality and humanitarian care outwardly while inwardly encoding sacrifice, loyalty, and religious belonging. They are boundary-markers that sustain the organization’s authority in welfare provision while legitimizing exclusion. These symbolic and cultural dynamics intersect with financial and legal structures that reinforce SA’s dual identity. Under pressure from tax authorities in 1990, SA formally split its religious denomination and welfare branch into separate foundations. Officially, this ensured financial transparency; substantively, it institutionalized a duality: religious exemption for the church and state funding—covering up to 80% of activities—for W&G (Ophoff, 2017 ; Bollinger, 2013 ; Beaumont & Dias, 2008 ). As Peter noted, this restructuring was as much about safeguarding religious integrity as it was for their humanitarian efforts: “If you receive government funding, you must account for it in the healthcare sector. We receive much government funding, currently more than 500 million per year. […] The Tax Authority did not like that [religious and welfare branches were mixed]. They said it had to be split.” (Peter, Amsterdam, March 2023). However, this split between the church from the W&G was not just a technical, financial decision; it symbolised the broader conflict between religious purity and the need for transparency and compliance within secular frameworks. The organizational restructuring deepened divisions between church and W&G but also enabled SA to adapt to further changes, such as the 2015 decentralization of social services. Forced to partner with 388 municipalities, SA secured its role in local welfare provision but did so on its own terms—balancing religious identity with the secular demands of government contracts (Ophoff, 2017 ; Bollinger, 2013 ). This dual position allows SA to secure public trust and substantial government funding while avoiding full accountability to DEI frameworks. Rather than being a neutral balancing act, the “double identity” operates as a strategy of boundary-making. Religious authority shields the organization from scrutiny, while exemptions justified in the name of faith allow inequalities to persist. In this way, SA embodies the broader tensions of Dutch welfare and humanitarianism: filling critical gaps in social services while simultaneously reinforcing patriarchal structures and obstructing genuine inclusion. Far from neutral, SA functions as a gendered and moralizing institution, sustaining inequality under the banner of compassion. 3. The Gendered Logics of Humanitarian Organizations Humanitarian work has never been gender-neutral (Fiddian-Qasmiyeh, 2015 ). It is embedded in patriarchal and racialized structures, shaped by masculinist values, colonial legacies, and Christian ideologies (Möller et al., 2020 ; Tadros, 2010 ). Within Christian FBOs such as SA, humanitarian practice cannot be separated from these legacies. From its origins in civilizing missions, SA naturalized caregiving as women’s work while reserving leadership and decision-making for men. These hierarchies are not incidental but institutionalized through doctrine, organizational structures, and symbolic practices that define belonging and exclusion. Women make up a significant portion of SA’s workforce, particularly in care-focused and floor-level positions such as healthcare workers, support staff, and program coordinators. Men representation disproportionately increases as roles progress to higher levels in the hierarchy, such as regional service managers, directors, and decision-makers in W&G. The top of SA’s structure is the Territorial Headquarters (THQ) located in Almere, which oversees national strategies, policy development, and governance for both branches. The THQ ensures alignment with international objectives while addressing local needs through resource allocation and strategic planning. Key roles at the THQ include the Territorial Commander, responsible for overall leadership, and department heads managing areas such as finance, human resources, and communication (Leger des Heils Kerkgenootschap, 2023). Beneath the THQ, the country is divided into several regions, each managed by a Divisional Headquarters (DHQ) led by a Divisional Commander. Divisional officers provide support to local branches, facilitating communication and operational consistency across divisions. These divisions translate national policies into regional strategies and monitor service delivery within their jurisdictions to ensure that W&G and church activities meet local humanitarian needs. W&G units are managed regionally but coordinated with divisional leaders to ensure alignment with national strategies. They are staffed by service unit managers, healthcare professionals, support workers, and volunteers (Leger des Heils Kerkgenootschap, 2023). Senior positions, including those at the DHQ and THQ, remain predominantly occupied by men. Such disparity is often justified through narratives emphasising individual qualifications or organisational traditions, downplaying systemic barriers women face in advancing to senior roles. At the same time, the rigid hierarchy limits bottom-up contributions and reinforces gender roles, often sidelining women and other marginalized groups from leadership. Leonie, a floor-level worker within W&G, drew a sharp contrast between official rhetoric and everyday realities—and explicitly tied the gap to biblical interpretation. Showing how this dynamic plays out in practice: “[The role of women in organizations] has changed a bit over the years, but I still don’t think it’s equal. You know, if you look here in Amsterdam, you hardly see any women in power. Yeah, at the top [layer of the organization], there are mostly a lot of men. And whether that has something to do with the bible [and how it’s interpreted in Christianity] could be? Men, you know, are supposed to work and women should stay at home. That old say. And you also see a lot of older men who are high up in SA. No, no, so it’s still not equal .” (Leonie, Amsterdam, April 2023) Her observation underscores how biblical interpretation and organizational form reinforce one another, moreover how these hierarchies are rationalized: “Well, what is also stated in the bible is that everyone is equal in the sense of being before God. There is no boss or anything like that; [but] sometimes that’s not real. It just does not correspond, you know. [The church says], there should be a distinction between women and men, as it is in the bible: women [raise] children, for the future generations. Men, of course, have to work.” (Leonie, Amsterdam, April 2023). The claim that “all are equal before God” thus coexists with an institutional reality of inequality. Religion provides the symbolic legitimacy for hierarchy, while the organizational structure makes this hierarchy durable. The ideal of the nuclear family—a father, mother, and children—remains central in this worldview, with caregiving feminized and leadership masculinized (Hien, 2017 ; Kenny, 2007). In FBOs, this “family model” becomes an organizational template: gender roles are framed as natural, God-given, and morally necessary (Edgell & Docka, 2007 ; Rodriguez & Guenther, 2022). This interplay extends beyond spaces like households and churches, influencing individual and collective experiences (Thornton, 1985 ; Friedman, 1985 ; Sharma, 2012 ). Social identity theory helps explain how these dynamics persist: conformity to group norms fosters loyalty and in-group belonging, while out-groups are excluded (Tajfel & Turner, 1979; Harwood, 2020 ). In practice, this makes gendered hierarchies appear less like organizational choices and more like moral imperatives. Within SA, these hierarchies are sustained not only through doctrine but also through family networks that bind organizational culture. Employees spoke of “having SA in my DNA” or being “born under the flag,” metaphors that naturalize belonging while drawing symbolic lines of exclusion. “My parents worked there, as did my uncles, aunts, and cousins. Everyone was involved in SA,” Annick recalled (Annick, Almere, March 2023). For Peter, this intertwining of work and family was striking: “So, you have family circles. They look like a whole organisation. [For example] one person marries the daughter of another, [making] these families connected with each other. That is indeed a world of its own [..] [for] people who are part of the church congregation. Moreover, for people who work for W&G, working life coincides with church life in one person. [Y]our personal life [becomes theirs] because you are family to them. […] Fortunately, it is not sectarianism.” (Peter, Amsterdam, March 2023) Such familial structures reinforce loyalty, blur boundaries between personal and professional life, and perpetuate inherited gender norms: “My parents are officers at SA [the church]. I have attended the SA church for most of my life. I was born under the flag, as they call it. [In my childhood] I hung out with one of my parents' colleagues and their children. I did my studies there, went to Sunday school.” (Damian, Amsterdam, April 2023) The symbolism of “blood” is especially telling. It invokes Christ’s sacrificial blood while also signifying familial inheritance— “My family also worked at Salvation Army, so it was basically spoon-fed to me from an early age. So, well, as people say: it’s in your blood.” as Leonie described (Leonie, Amsterdam, April 2023). This symbolism binds individuals across generations, but it is deeply gendered. Men’s blood, associated with sacrifice and heroism, is valorized, while women’s blood—linked to menstruation and childbirth—is stigmatized as impure (Jansen & Dresen, 2012 ; Meyer, 2014 ). Even in caregiving professions such as nursing, where women encounter blood daily, their embodied contributions are undervalued compared to the symbolic elevation of male sacrifice. SA’s red shield and flag crystallize these meanings, visually fusing family and care. These symbolic dynamics map directly onto organizational hierarchies and structure. Leadership roles are disproportionately male, while caregiving and support work are feminized. Women form the majority of volunteers and frontline staff, yet their labor is undervalued and rarely rewarded with upward mobility (Edgardh, 2011 ; Noor & Nawi, 2021 ). As Angelique observed: “[Being] an extrovert and confident [are] characteristics assimilated with men because men have been raised that way. […] Women are enculturated into serving, caring, and nurturing, taking the second place” (Angelique, Almere, April 2023). Competence and merit are framed as neutral but coded in masculine terms, masking structural barriers (Kelan, 2009 ; Meyerson & Fletcher, 2000 ). Some respondents recognized this contradiction, describing SA as both “revolutionary” in its commitment to social needs and “conservative” in its hierarchical, army-like structure: “I would place SA on the more conservative side of the Christian world because many things are hierarchical. It’s an army” (Merel, Amsterdam, May 2023). Mike, reflecting on managerial roles, noted: “Everyone seems to think it’s perfectly normal for another man to fill those roles. […] For instance, a branch manager could be a woman, but a regional manager? Those are always men—men of a certain age” (Mike, Amsterdam, April 2023). These observations highlight how militarized metaphors of discipline and hierarchy overlap with patriarchal traditions, reinforcing male authority at the top. Narratives of “competence” and “merit” are frequently invoked to justify this imbalance, masking structural inequality under the guise of gender neutrality (Kelan, 2009 ; Meyerson & Fletcher, 2000 ). At the same time, the organization presents itself as gender-inclusive, drawing on its history of women officers in early leadership roles. Some respondents framed SA as having “always been equal”: “ And within the Salvation Army, from the beginning, women have been fully equal to men, ever since 1887.” (Annick, Almere, March 2023). Such narratives of equality obscure ongoing inequalities, relying on gender blindness—the claim that “competence alone determines leadership.” In practice, this reinforces masculine-coded norms of authority while sidelining caregiving and collaboration (Kelan, 2009 ). By downplaying the persistence of gendered barriers, SA frames as the issue as “resolved”: “As a care organisation, there are relatively more women than men [in SA]. But if you talk about quotas [about women in leadership roles], you don't need to come to the SA for that. […] You have to be good at your job, and then [SA]'ll hire you.” (Annick, Almere, March 2023). Annick’s quote reflects this broader discourse of gender blindness within FBOs, where symbolic equality in theology (“all equal before God”) obscures material inequalities in practice. By presenting gender as irrelevant, structural barriers and inequalities are obscured. Women may be visible in mid-level management, particularly in caregiving sectors, yet the top strategic positions remain reserved for men. From a critical perspective, such blindness reinforces rather than challenges masculine norms, ensuring that traits coded as assertive and authoritative (and often male) are rewarded, while caregiving, empathy, and collaboration are sidelined (Kelan, 2009 ). In this sense, humanitarianism in SA is not only gendered but symbolically coded: authority and sacrifice are masculine, service and caregiving are feminine. Both are necessary to the organization, but only one is valued as leadership. These contradictions also extend to how SA approaches DEI. Officially, SA promotes inclusion, but religious values are invoked to justify exemptions. As Annick described, debates around same-sex marriage remain deeply contested: “ There are also SA soldiers who find [homosexuality] problematic because they read in the bible that a homosexual is punished. […] Not all priests within the SA will marry a lesbian couple. Yes, some will, so we call them. That way everyone’s beliefs can remain valued” (Annick, Amsterdam, March 2023). While framed as tolerance, this practice results in uneven DEI implementation—respecting conservative theological positions while leaving LGBTQI + members with limited protection. In reality, this creates uneven DEI implementation. Organizational policies emphasize respect for diversity, yet exemptions rooted in religious identity allow discriminatory norms to persist. For LGBTQI + members, women aspiring to leadership, or employees challenging gendered norms, the organization provides limited avenues for redress. Such practices reinforce SA’s “double identity”: as a humanitarian actor aligned with state welfare but also as a religious institution able to claim exemptions from accountability (Ferris, 2005 ; Moore, 2019 ). Its humanitarian work projects an image of neutrality and universal care, yet this masks the reproduction of patriarchal and exclusionary norms. Gender blindness appeals to “tradition,” and religious exemptions collectively sustain inequalities, reflecting a broader pattern in humanitarianism where aid is framed as apolitical and benevolent but is in fact structured by power relations and moral authority (Kelan, 2009 ; Ferris, 2011; Moore, 2019 ). From an anti-humanitarian perspective, these dynamics show that gender hierarchies are not accidents of tradition but active reproductions of organizational identity, encoded in both doctrine and symbol. SA’s humanitarianism depends on these hierarchies: women’s caregiving sustains its social services, while men’s leadership preserves its legitimacy. By framing this division as natural, biblical, or neutral, SA reinforces patriarchal power structures under the moral authority of humanitarian aid. Conclusion The case of SA shows how FBOs operate through a double identity that fuses religious values with humanitarian obligations. This duality allows them to expand into welfare provision as the state retreats, while simultaneously avoiding the accountability standards expected of secular providers. What emerges is a paradox: the SA presents itself as a humanitarian organization offering care to all, yet its organizational culture and symbolic framework reproduce exclusions along the lines of gender, family, and faith. Central to this paradox is the symbolism of blood and the red shield. These symbols are not merely historical artefacts but institutionally codified tools of reputation management. They project humanitarian neutrality and trustworthiness to the outside world, while internally reinforcing religious belonging. To be “born under the flag” or to have SA “in your blood” signifies inherited loyalty and moral obligation, but also conditional belonging. The shield promises protection, yet at the same time it draws boundaries between insiders who embody Christian family values and outsiders who do not—All while shielding the organization itself from certain forms of accountability. Our analysis of SA’s work shows that humanitarianism is never neutral. Aid is delivered through frameworks that reinforce patriarchal authority, heteronormative family ideals, and religiously sanctioned hierarchies. The failures of DEI within SA exemplify this contradiction: while the organization formally commits to inclusion, in practice religious exemptions and cultural traditions legitimize persistent gendered and intersectional inequalities. Women’s caregiving labour sustains SA’s welfare services, but their leadership remains limited; LGBTQI + staff encounter uneven inclusion; and non-Christian applicants are routinely excluded from employment. What SA demonstrates is how symbols, doctrines, and everyday practices converge to sustain exclusion under the guise of care. Blood, both as a metaphor and as a theological reference, binds members together, but in ways that reinforce patriarchal and exclusionary structures. By unpacking these dynamics, our article contributes to debates on the politics of humanitarianism and the role of (Christian) FBOs in welfare. SA is not an anomaly but an example of how humanitarianism, when entwined with religious identity, can reproduce structural inequalities rather than dismantle them. Recognizing this requires a shift: from viewing humanitarianism as benevolent charity to interrogating it as a practice that simultaneously cares and excludes, empowers and disciplines. The task, then, is not simply to critique SA but to question broader assumptions about humanitarianism itself. Who is included in the promise of protection, and who is excluded? What inequalities are reinforced in the name of faith, family, and care? And how might accountability mechanisms — especially around gender and DEI — challenge the legitimacy of humanitarian actors who continue to operate within patriarchal and exclusionary logics? The symbolism of blood, flag, and shield reveals that belonging within the SA is not universal but conditional. Studying these conditionalities demonstrate the hidden politics of humanitarianism: a field where care is never neutral, and where exclusion is often written in red. Abbreviations DEI: Diversity, Equality, and Inclusion FBO: Faith-Based Organization SA: Salvation Army THQ: Territorial Headquarters DHQ: Divisional Headquarters W&G: Welfare and Healthcare Foundation Declarations Data Availability This study is based on qualitative interview transcripts and fieldnotes that contain potentially identifying information. In line with our ethics approval and participant consent, the raw data cannot be shared publicly. De-identified excerpts relevant to the study are included in the article. De-identified materials (e.g., codebook and aggregated themes) may be made available upon reasonable request to the corresponding author and subject to a data-sharing agreement and institutional ethics approval. Ethical approval This study was conducted within the Department of Organization Sciences, Faculty of Social Sciences, at Vrije Universiteit Amsterdam (VU). Prior to data collection, the researcher completed the Research Ethics Review Committee (RERC) self-check procedure (Self-check No. 2023-1-31-818, completed 31 January 2023), which confirmed that the research met the ethical standards for minimal-risk research involving human participants and therefore did not require full ethics review. All research was carried out in accordance with the VU Research Code of Conduct, the Netherlands Code of Conduct for Research Integrity (2018), and the General Data Protection Regulation (GDPR/AVG). Informed concent Informed consent was obtained orally from all participants prior to participation. Oral consent was chosen because the study involved non-interventional qualitative interviews focusing on participants’ professional experiences within organizations, and no sensitive personal or medical data were collected. The oral consent process was recorded at the start of each interview and followed a standard verbal consent script (included as supplementary material in this submission). Consent was obtained by the researcher from adult participants between [March–June, 2023]. All participants were informed about: the purpose and procedures of the study;the voluntary nature of their participation; their right to withdraw at any time without consequence; the assurance of confidentiality and anonymity; how their data would be used, stored securely, and reported in anonymized form. Participants explicitly consented to: (a) take part in the study, (b) have their interviews audio-recorded, (c) allow the researcher to store and analyse the data securely, and (d) the use of anonymized quotations in research publications and presentations. No minors or vulnerable individuals were involved in this study. Author Contribution Dear editors, The authors signed the CRediT author statement. We can send it to you if necessary. The paper includes ethics approval and consent to participate in research.Consent for publication - N/AFunding - N/AWe included a list of abbreviations used in the manuscript and their meanings after the Conclusions section. We provided figure/table legends under a separate heading of 'Figure Legends and 'Table Legends' after the References. Figure/Table Legends are within the main text of the manuscript. References Acker, J. (1990). Hierarchies, jobs, bodies: A theory of gendered organizations. Gender & Society, 4 (2), 139–158. Barth, F., & Hobson, B. (2020). Gendered citizenship in humanitarian settings. Journal of Refugee Studies, 33 (3), 485–503. Beaumont, J., & Cloke, P. (2012). Faith-based organisations and exclusion in European cities . Policy Press. Beaumont, J., & Dias, C. (2008). Faith-based organizations and urban social justice in the Netherlands. Tijdschrift voor Economische en Sociale Geografie, 99 (4), 382–392. Bollinger, L. (2013). Negotiating faith and professionalism in FBOs. Nonprofit Management & Leadership, 24 (2), 177–194. Coles, A., Gray, L., & Momsen, J . (Eds.). (2015). The Routledge handbook of gender and development . Routledge. Davelaar, M., van den Toorn, J., de Witte, N., Beaumont, J., & Kuiper, C . (2011). Faith-based organisations and social exclusion in the Netherlands . WRR. Dias, C. (2013). Adaptations to the neoliberal city: A comparative investigation of faith-based organizations in Rotterdam and Philadelphia (Doctoral dissertation, University of Groningen). https://pure.rug.nl/ws/portalfiles/portal/14422323/volledigedissertatie.pdf Edgardh, N. (2011). A gendered perspective on welfare and religion in Europe. In A. Bäckström, G. Davie, N. Edgardh, & P. Pettersson (Eds.), Welfare and religion in 21st century Europe (Vol. 2, pp. 61–106). Ashgate. Edgell, P., & Docka , D. (2007). Beyond the nuclear family? Familism and gender ideology in diverse religious communities. Sociological Forum, 22 (1), 25–50. Ferris, E . (2005). Faith-based and secular humanitarian organizations. International Review of the Red Cross, 87 (858), 311–325. Fiddian-Qasmiyeh, E. (2015). Engendering understandings of faith-based organisations: Intersections between religion and gender. In A. Coles, L. Gray, & J. Momsen (Eds.), The Routledge handbook of gender and development (pp. 560–570). Routledge. 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Religion and the welfare state in the Netherlands. In K. van Kersbergen & P. Manow (Eds.), Religion, class coalitions, and welfare states (pp. 119–145). Cambridge University Press. Khafagy, R. A. (2020). Faith-based organizations: humanitarian mission or religious missionary. Journal of International Humanitarian Action , 5(1), 13. Kennedy, J. C. (2005). Recent Dutch religious history and the limits. The Dutch and their Gods: Secularization and Transformation of Religion in the Netherlands since 1950 , 3 , 27. Leger des Heils. (2016) Door christus aangeraakt om mensen bewogen. Unpublished internal company document. Leger des Heils. (2023). Jaarverslag 2023 [PDF]. Leger des Heils. https://www.legerdesheils.nl/files/Jaarverslag2023LegerdesHeilsWEB.pdf Meyer, M. (2014). Thicker than water: The origins of blood as symbol and ritual . Routledge. Middleton, S. (2009). Reputation management in the Salvation Army: A narrative study. Journal of Management Inquiry, 18 (2), 145–157. Meyerson, D. E., & Fletcher, J. K. (2000). A modest manifesto for shattering the glass ceiling. Harvard Business Review, 78 (1), 126–136. Möller, E., Paulmann, J., & Stornig, K . (2020). Gender histories of humanitarianism: Concepts and perspectives. In Gendering Global Humanitarianism in the Twentieth Century (pp. 281–301). Palgrave Macmillan. Moore, D. (2019). Humanitarianism, accountability, and faith. Journal of International Development, 31 (7), 1–15. Muhammed, M. M . (2014). Faith in development: A double-edged sword. Developing Country Studies, 25 (4), 61–67. Noor, N. M., & Nawi, N. H. M . (2021). Faith-based organisations and their role in humanitarian assistance. Journal of International Humanitarian Action, 6 (1). Ophoff, A. (2017). Religious identity in welfare organisations. Diaconia, 8 (1), 23–44. Rogier, L. J. (1956). Katholieke herleving: Geschiedenis van Katholiek Nederland sinds 1853 . Pax. Schama, S . (1988). The embarrassment of riches: An interpretation of Dutch culture in the Golden Age . University of California Press. Sharma, S. (2012). ‘The church is… my family’: Exploring the interrelationship between familial and religious practices and spaces. Environment and Planning A, 44 (4), 816–831. Sieben, I., & Halman, L. (2014). Religion and parental values in a secularized country: Evidence from the Netherlands. Social Compass, 61 (1), 121–140. Tadros, M . (2010). Faith-based organizations and service delivery: Some gender conundrums . UNRISD. Thaut, L. C. (2009). The role of faith in Christian faith-based humanitarian agencies: Constructing the taxonomy. Voluntas, 20 (4), 319–350. Thornton, A. (1985). Changing attitudes toward separation and divorce: Causes and consequences. American Journal of Sociology, 90 (4), 856–872. Turner, J. C., Brown, R. J., & Tajfel, H. (1979). Social comparison and group interest in ingroup favouritism. European Journal of Social Psychology, 9 (2), 187–204. Watling, T. (2002). ‘Leadership’ or ‘dialogue’? Women, authority and religious change in a Netherlands community. Sociology of Religion, 63 (4), 515–538. Additional Declarations No competing interests reported. Cite Share Download PDF Status: Under Review Version 1 posted Reviewers agreed at journal 06 Jan, 2026 Reviewers invited by journal 02 Jan, 2026 Editor assigned by journal 02 Jan, 2026 Editor invited by journal 24 Dec, 2025 Submission checks completed at journal 27 Nov, 2025 First submitted to journal 27 Nov, 2025 You are reading this latest preprint version Research Square lets you share your work early, gain feedback from the community, and start making changes to your manuscript prior to peer review in a journal. As a division of Research Square Company, we’re committed to making research communication faster, fairer, and more useful. We do this by developing innovative software and high quality services for the global research community. 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10:27:20","extension":"html","order_by":8,"title":"","display":"","copyAsset":false,"role":"acdc-reference","size":106339,"visible":true,"origin":"","legend":"","description":"","filename":"earlyproof.html","url":"https://assets-eu.researchsquare.com/files/rs-7784641/v1/86225d688d863436ab9c8f85.html"},{"id":99517590,"identity":"49c63920-98e3-48d1-8f30-b4baf5c86dee","added_by":"auto","created_at":"2026-01-05 10:27:20","extension":"png","order_by":1,"title":"Figure 1","display":"","copyAsset":false,"role":"figure","size":319778,"visible":true,"origin":"","legend":"\u003cp\u003ePlaque with red shield at a homeless shelter (Photograph by the author; Amsterdam, 2025).\u003c/p\u003e","description":"","filename":"1.png","url":"https://assets-eu.researchsquare.com/files/rs-7784641/v1/ae194639fa09f9304f03177b.png"},{"id":99792042,"identity":"57cf75a3-406f-44fa-8538-69f34b5a45f0","added_by":"auto","created_at":"2026-01-08 13:12:54","extension":"png","order_by":2,"title":"Figure 2","display":"","copyAsset":false,"role":"figure","size":245651,"visible":true,"origin":"","legend":"\u003cp\u003eWindow with red shields at a community living room (Photograph by the author; Amsterdam, 2025).\u003c/p\u003e","description":"","filename":"2.png","url":"https://assets-eu.researchsquare.com/files/rs-7784641/v1/2139e20eaf2f492c693681c9.png"},{"id":99517594,"identity":"67ba49e8-39a0-4abf-bcfd-a367e31686a0","added_by":"auto","created_at":"2026-01-05 10:27:20","extension":"png","order_by":3,"title":"Figure 3","display":"","copyAsset":false,"role":"figure","size":276976,"visible":true,"origin":"","legend":"\u003cp\u003eBranded coffee cups and uniform at meeting table (Photograph by the author; Amsterdam, 2025).\u003c/p\u003e","description":"","filename":"3.png","url":"https://assets-eu.researchsquare.com/files/rs-7784641/v1/8bf2169ef622f35b31da5707.png"},{"id":99803757,"identity":"d911fe52-0fd7-4b00-a4cc-b44e991904c5","added_by":"auto","created_at":"2026-01-08 14:10:57","extension":"pdf","order_by":0,"title":"","display":"","copyAsset":false,"role":"manuscript-pdf","size":1665917,"visible":true,"origin":"","legend":"","description":"","filename":"manuscript.pdf","url":"https://assets-eu.researchsquare.com/files/rs-7784641/v1/7cfaee9d-ace1-443a-bb48-7b49f222100a.pdf"}],"financialInterests":"No competing interests reported.","formattedTitle":"Beyond the Red Shield: Diluting DEI, Humanitarian Work and the Army of Salvation","fulltext":[{"header":"Introduction","content":"\u003cp\u003eIn the intricate landscape of the Dutch welfare state, faith-based organisations (FBOs) such as Salvation Army (SA) play a vital role in replacing previously government-held social services. Grounded in religious beliefs, they frame their mission around poverty alleviation and support for marginalized communities. Yet, the integration of faith into humanitarian practice is neither neutral nor uniform: it actively shapes organizational culture, hierarchies, and ethical frameworks\u0026mdash;influencing not only those who work within them but also the communities they serve and the society at large (Beaumont \u0026amp; Cloke, \u003cspan citationid=\"CR3\" class=\"CitationRef\"\u003e2012\u003c/span\u003e; Ferris, \u003cspan citationid=\"CR11\" class=\"CitationRef\"\u003e2005\u003c/span\u003e; Noor \u0026amp; Nawi, \u003cspan citationid=\"CR32\" class=\"CitationRef\"\u003e2021\u003c/span\u003e; Rommelspacher, 2017).\u003c/p\u003e \u003cp\u003eThis double identity\u0026mdash;as both a religious and humanitarian organization\u0026mdash;creates tensions that extend far beyond internal organizational culture. Critics have long argued that religious imperatives can undermine humanitarian neutrality, producing exclusionary practices under the guise of humanitarian care (Ferris, \u003cspan citationid=\"CR11\" class=\"CitationRef\"\u003e2005\u003c/span\u003e). As Moore (\u003cspan citationid=\"CR30\" class=\"CitationRef\"\u003e2019\u003c/span\u003e, 67) argues, FBOs\u0026rsquo; embeddedness in both religious and welfare domains allows them to operate in hybrid political spaces where neither state oversight nor public accountability is fully effective. This \u0026ldquo;accountability gap\u0026rdquo; enables faith-based agendas to shape service provision in ways that can perpetuate existing inequalities (Thaut, \u003cspan citationid=\"CR39\" class=\"CitationRef\"\u003e2009\u003c/span\u003e), particularly when religious doctrine conflicts with diversity, equality, and inclusion (DEI) principles (Acker, \u003cspan citationid=\"CR1\" class=\"CitationRef\"\u003e1990\u003c/span\u003e).\u003c/p\u003e \u003cp\u003eIn its ideal form, humanitarianism aims to meet human needs without discrimination. Religious humanitarianism, however, entwines material aid to moral and spiritual obligations. Within SA, acts of support are therefore also acts of religious solidarity, strengthening bonds among believers and affirming their shared faith identity (Khafagy, \u003cspan citationid=\"CR22\" class=\"CitationRef\"\u003e2020\u003c/span\u003e).\u003c/p\u003e \u003cp\u003e \u003c/p\u003e \u003cp\u003eIn the case of SA, this religious\u0026ndash;humanitarian identity is not simply a matter of ideology but is materially and symbolically embedded in everyday organizational life. \u0026ldquo;Blood\u0026rdquo; emerges here as a key metaphor and lived reality, signifying familial networks, loyalty, and inherited belonging. For employees raised within SA families, this identity is inherited \u0026ldquo;in the blood\u0026rdquo;. This is mirrored in SA\u0026rsquo;s iconic red shield and flag, where the color red functions as both a sacred emblem of sacrifice and a boundary marker of inclusion and exclusion. The red shield therefore serves a dual function: as a symbol of sacrifice rooted in Christian theology and as an emblem of belonging, while simultaneously shielding the organization from certain forms of accountability (see Figs.\u0026nbsp;\u003cspan refid=\"Fig2\" class=\"InternalRef\"\u003e1\u003c/span\u003e \u0026amp; \u003cspan refid=\"Fig3\" class=\"InternalRef\"\u003e2\u003c/span\u003e).\u003c/p\u003e \u003cp\u003e \u003c/p\u003e \u003cp\u003e \u003c/p\u003e \u003cp\u003eThese dynamics are amplified by the gendered legacies of Christian humanitarianism. Historically shaped by masculinist values, colonial legacies, and white male privilege (Barth \u0026amp; Hobson, \u003cspan citationid=\"CR2\" class=\"CitationRef\"\u003e2020\u003c/span\u003e; M\u0026ouml;ller et al., \u003cspan citationid=\"CR29\" class=\"CitationRef\"\u003e2020\u003c/span\u003e), FBOs have maintained leadership structures dominated by men while relegating women to undervalued caregiving roles. These are not mere residues of the past; they persist in contemporary organizational practice, often naturalized through theological justifications of \u0026ldquo;proper\u0026rdquo; gender order (Edgardh, \u003cspan citationid=\"CR9\" class=\"CitationRef\"\u003e2011\u003c/span\u003e; Noor \u0026amp; Nawi, \u003cspan citationid=\"CR32\" class=\"CitationRef\"\u003e2021\u003c/span\u003e).\u003c/p\u003e \u003cp\u003eDespite the rise of EU DEI frameworks, our research shows that SA\u0026mdash;and similar Christian FBOs\u0026mdash;avoid these requirements by invoking their religious identity as protection against external scrutiny. In doing so, they reproduce heteronormative family ideals and gendered divisions of care (M\u0026ouml;ller et al., \u003cspan citationid=\"CR29\" class=\"CitationRef\"\u003e2020\u003c/span\u003e, pp. 285\u0026ndash;286), thereby reinforcing the very inequalities they claim to address (Noor \u0026amp; Nawi, \u003cspan citationid=\"CR32\" class=\"CitationRef\"\u003e2021\u003c/span\u003e). In practice, DEI is diluted, selectively applied, or sidelined, revealing how religious authority can be mobilized to resist accountability while projecting a humanitarian image.\u003c/p\u003e \u003cp\u003eThis article takes SA in the Netherlands as a case study to interrogate how the organization\u0026rsquo;s double identity shapes the intersection of religion, gender, and humanitarian practice. Building on Ferris\u0026rsquo;s (\u003cspan citationid=\"CR11\" class=\"CitationRef\"\u003e2005\u003c/span\u003e) critique of faith-based humanitarianism and Moore\u0026rsquo;s (\u003cspan citationid=\"CR30\" class=\"CitationRef\"\u003e2019\u003c/span\u003e) work on the political space of FBOs, we advance an (anti-)humanitarian analysis: showing how symbolic and organizational boundaries\u0026mdash;materialized in blood, flag, and shield\u0026mdash;structure inclusion and exclusion. Together, these insights highlight how FBOs\u0026rsquo; double identity not only creates tensions around inclusivity and neutrality but also produces an accountability gap that allows religious authority to legitimize exclusionary practices under the guise of humanitarian care (Ferris, \u003cspan citationid=\"CR11\" class=\"CitationRef\"\u003e2005\u003c/span\u003e; Moore, \u003cspan citationid=\"CR30\" class=\"CitationRef\"\u003e2019\u003c/span\u003e).\u003c/p\u003e \u003cp\u003eSA illustrates this dynamic clearly. Over more than 150 years in the Netherlands, it has grown into one of the country\u0026rsquo;s largest welfare providers, employing over 7,000 professionals, with its Welfare and Healthcare Foundation (W\u0026amp;G) alone relying on more than 80% government funding. In 1990, to meet transparency requirements, SA formalized its dual structure: the church focusing on spiritual missions and the W\u0026amp;G addressing social services. Rather than resolving tensions, this move institutionalized the very boundary between religious principle and professional obligation, complicating both accountability and inclusion (James, \u003cspan citationid=\"CR18\" class=\"CitationRef\"\u003e2009\u003c/span\u003e; Grey, \u003cspan citationid=\"CR15\" class=\"CitationRef\"\u003e2011\u003c/span\u003e; Bollinger, \u003cspan citationid=\"CR5\" class=\"CitationRef\"\u003e2013\u003c/span\u003e; Ophoff, \u003cspan citationid=\"CR33\" class=\"CitationRef\"\u003e2017\u003c/span\u003e).\u003c/p\u003e \u003cp\u003eWe structure our argument in three steps. First, we examine how the contraction of the Dutch welfare state expanded FBO involvement in social services without corresponding increases in accountability for DEI implementation. Second, we analyse the organizational culture of SA to show how their symbolism\u0026mdash;particularly the red shield, the flag, and the uniform\u0026mdash;operates as a mechanism of belonging and exclusion. Third, we examine how religious symbolism around family, gender, and blood sustains intersectional inequalities within SA\u0026rsquo;s hierarchies and humanitarian practices. We conclude that SA\u0026rsquo;s double identity consolidates patriarchal and exclusionary structures while resisting the accountability measures designed to challenge them.\u003c/p\u003e"},{"header":"Note on Methodology","content":"\u003cp\u003eThe article is based on ethnographic research, data analyses and writing time. Author 1 conducted three months of fieldwork, combining observation, interviews, and document analysis. Author 2 guided the research process and collaborated in data analysis and writing. Author 1 volunteered at the SA organization, using insider access to network and gaining confidence of the interviewees, while balancing both insider and outsider perspectives to ensure ethical integrity. The fieldwork involved observing and interviewing staff at SA to explore how its double identity of religious and humanitarian mission influences perceptions on gender and belonging. Research took place across humanitarian and religious sites in Amsterdam where SA operates, with 13 interviews involving 14 participants, from top managers to frontline staff. Participants were interviewed in their workplaces to enhance authenticity, with pseudonyms used to protect anonymity. Access to internal reports on SA\u0026rsquo;s identity and structure allowed for comparison with field observations and ensure a comprehensive perspective. Fieldnotes were transcribed during research, with interviews transcribed and coded afterward. Data were analysed using Atlas.Ti to identify patterns and themes related to the intersection of religious believes, gender, and humanitarian work.\u003c/p\u003e \u003cp\u003e \u003cb\u003e1. From Pillarization to Welfare and Humanitarianism in the Netherlands: SA\u0026rsquo;s Uprise\u003c/b\u003e \u003c/p\u003e \u003cp\u003eChristian FBOs in the Netherlands cannot be understood outside the country\u0026rsquo;s history of \u003cem\u003everzuiling\u003c/em\u003e (pillarization), a system that structured society along religious, political, and ideological \u0026ldquo;pillars.\u0026rdquo; From the late nineteenth to the mid-twentieth century, Dutch life was organized into Catholic, Protestant, Socialist, and Liberal blocs, each with its own schools, unions, newspapers, hospitals, and welfare institutions (Heslam, 2002; Beaumont \u0026amp; Dias, \u003cspan citationid=\"CR4\" class=\"CitationRef\"\u003e2008\u003c/span\u003e). This system fostered cohesion within pillars but entrenched segregation, limiting cross-pillar inclusion and reinforcing exclusivity (Rogier, \u003cspan citationid=\"CR34\" class=\"CitationRef\"\u003e1956\u003c/span\u003e).\u003c/p\u003e \u003cp\u003eThe 1960s brought \u003cem\u003eontzuiling\u003c/em\u003e (de-pillarization), marked by secularization, declining church attendance, and the rise of allegedly \u0026ldquo;neutral\u0026rdquo; institutions (Dias, \u003cspan citationid=\"CR8\" class=\"CitationRef\"\u003e2013\u003c/span\u003e). Yet rather than disappearing, Christian organizations adapted by emphasizing ethics, care, and community engagement in local settings, sustaining influence at the periphery of public life (Kennedy, \u003cspan citationid=\"CR23\" class=\"CitationRef\"\u003e2005\u003c/span\u003e). Even as multiculturalism and secular institutions expanded, Christianity continued to shape identity, belonging, and morality across institutional and organizational contexts.\u003c/p\u003e \u003cp\u003eThe Dutch welfare state that consolidated in the 1960s and 1970s was itself built on a Christian heteronormative family model. Men were imagined as breadwinners and women as caregivers, reinforcing patriarchal dependencies and limiting women\u0026rsquo;s (economic) autonomy (Davelaar et al., \u003cspan citationid=\"CR7\" class=\"CitationRef\"\u003e2011\u003c/span\u003e; Kersbergen, \u003cspan citationid=\"CR21\" class=\"CitationRef\"\u003e2009\u003c/span\u003e). Catholic and Social Democratic parties alike upheld the family as the cornerstone of social order, naturalizing gendered divisions of labor (Schama, \u003cspan citationid=\"CR35\" class=\"CitationRef\"\u003e1988\u003c/span\u003e). Although feminist movements of the 1970s challenged these norms and family control, many caregiving responsibilities were effectively outsourced to church-affiliated organizations. In practice, women moved from unpaid domestic work into professionalized caregiving roles, but still within religious and patriarchal structures (Hien, \u003cspan citationid=\"CR17\" class=\"CitationRef\"\u003e2017\u003c/span\u003e; Watling, \u003cspan citationid=\"CR42\" class=\"CitationRef\"\u003e2002\u003c/span\u003e).\u003c/p\u003e \u003cp\u003eNeoliberal reforms of the 1980s further transformed the welfare landscape, deepening this gendered division. With the state retreating, responsibility for welfare provision shifted to individuals, families, and private actors. FBOs like SA seized this opportunity to expand their activities beyond charity into essential welfare services, including poverty relief, addiction treatment, and reintegration programs (Beaumont \u0026amp; Dias, \u003cspan citationid=\"CR4\" class=\"CitationRef\"\u003e2008\u003c/span\u003e; Muhammed, \u003cspan citationid=\"CR31\" class=\"CitationRef\"\u003e2014\u003c/span\u003e). While this expansion solidified their political and social influence, it also embedded Christian moral frameworks\u0026mdash;including heteronormative family ideals and gendered divisions of labor\u0026mdash;into welfare provision.\u003c/p\u003e \u003cp\u003eBuilding on this expanded role, SA in the Netherlands formalized its organizational structure to consolidate both religious and welfare activities. Today, it operates through multiple foundations, most notably its church denomination and its W\u0026amp;G branch\u0026mdash;a division that reflects not only the opportunities opened by neoliberal reforms but also the enduring tensions between faith and professionalized welfare. At the top of this structure sits the Territorial Headquarters (THQ) in Almere, overseeing both spiritual and social service activities. While officially framed as a guarantee of transparency, this dual identity in practice perpetuates the very frictions it claims to resolve, as religious imperatives continue to clash with professional obligations (Ophoff, \u003cspan citationid=\"CR33\" class=\"CitationRef\"\u003e2017\u003c/span\u003e; Bollinger, \u003cspan citationid=\"CR5\" class=\"CitationRef\"\u003e2013\u003c/span\u003e). As Merel, a unit manager within W\u0026amp;G, observed:\u003cdiv class=\"BlockQuote\"\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cem\u003e\u0026ldquo;I would place The SA as a Christian organization on the more conservative side of the Christian world because many things are established. Many things are framed. Many things are hierarchical. It\u0026rsquo;s an army. You can see it reflected in how the army works, including W\u0026amp;G, the healthcare branch. So, everything that is conceived is very much top-down. So, in Almere, they come up with an idea and then things are implemented through various channels. It\u0026rsquo;s very much commanded [\u0026hellip;] .\u0026rdquo; (Merel, Amsterdam, May 2023)\u003c/em\u003e \u003c/p\u003e\u003c/div\u003e\u003c/p\u003e \u003cp\u003eMerel\u0026rsquo;s reflection reveals how SA\u0026rsquo;s military-inspired structure reinforces rigid hierarchy, concentrating authority at the top while limiting bottom-up participation. This organizational model mirrors its symbolic identity as an \u0026ldquo;army,\u0026rdquo; highlighting how command and obedience shape its humanitarian and welfare practices.\u003c/p\u003e \u003cp\u003eThe Dutch government has, at times, questioned the added value of explicit Christian identity in FBOs\u0026rsquo; work (James, \u003cspan citationid=\"CR18\" class=\"CitationRef\"\u003e2009\u003c/span\u003e). Yet, SA maintains that their religious identity is integral to their operations: \u003cem\u003e\u0026ldquo;The social part [\u0026hellip;] For Salvation Army would not exist without the understanding that this is what God wants us to do. So social work is an outworking of our faith. And our relationship with God.\u0026rdquo;\u003c/em\u003e (Angelique, Almere, April 2023). This conviction informs not only SA\u0026rsquo;s policies and procedures but also its interactions with clients, partners, and society as a whole (Leger des Heils, \u003cspan citationid=\"CR24\" class=\"CitationRef\"\u003e2016\u003c/span\u003e).\u003c/p\u003e \u003cp\u003eLegal changes have reinforced this separation. In 1990, under pressure from tax authorities, SA formally split its religious and social branches into distinct foundations. Officially, this restructuring ensured financial transparency. But substantively, it reinforced a duality: religious exemption for the church, and state funding\u0026mdash;covering up to 80% of activities\u0026mdash;for W\u0026amp;G (Ophoff, \u003cspan citationid=\"CR33\" class=\"CitationRef\"\u003e2017\u003c/span\u003e; Bollinger, \u003cspan citationid=\"CR5\" class=\"CitationRef\"\u003e2013\u003c/span\u003e; Beaumont \u0026amp; Dias, \u003cspan citationid=\"CR4\" class=\"CitationRef\"\u003e2008\u003c/span\u003e). This arrangement enables SA to straddle both religious and secular spheres, expanding its role in welfare provision while avoiding full accountability to DEI frameworks.\u003c/p\u003e \u003cp\u003eIt is precisely within this tension between secular accountability and religious exemption that wider societal perceptions emerge: while religious practices are often seen as confining women to traditional roles, modern secular values are cast as advocates for DEI (Ferris, 2011). Such contrasts reinforce the belief that FBOs like SA lack the same accountability as public organizations. Yet the reality is more complex. While secular organizations often view FBOs as restrictive in terms of gender and LGBTQI\u0026thinsp;+\u0026thinsp;inclusion, many FBOs are motivated by faith to combat injustice, including against LGBTQI\u0026thinsp;+\u0026thinsp;communities. This produces a spectrum: some FBOs hinder inclusion, others actively promote it, and many occupy a middle ground (Moore, \u003cspan citationid=\"CR30\" class=\"CitationRef\"\u003e2019\u003c/span\u003e; Magner et al., 2020). For example, some oppose same-sex marriage but still ensure equal access to services for queer individuals, prioritizing religious beliefs over other DEI concerns (Goris, Lacey \u0026amp; Kapazoglou, 2020). By positioning themselves in this \u0026lsquo;middle ground,\u0026rsquo; FBOs evade accountability and mask structural inequalities behind claims of tolerance, enabling exclusionary practices to persist under the guise of religious inclusivity (Moore, \u003cspan citationid=\"CR30\" class=\"CitationRef\"\u003e2019\u003c/span\u003e).\u003c/p\u003e \u003cp\u003eSuch tensions between religious identity and inclusivity are visible in SA\u0026rsquo;s limited DEI reforms. The organization issued a public apology to the LGBTQ\u0026thinsp;+\u0026thinsp;community in 2021. Annick, a director involved in DEI initiatives, described this step as a milestone, but acknowledged its limitations:\u003cdiv class=\"BlockQuote\"\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cem\u003e\u0026ldquo;Two years ago, there was a significant acceleration in these efforts and last year, SA issued a statement to the Netherlands declaring that we are inclusive, that every individual belongs, and apologising to the LGBTQ\u0026thinsp;+\u0026thinsp;community for the pain we have caused as a church.\u0026rdquo;\u003c/em\u003e (Annick, Almere, March 2023).\u003c/p\u003e\u003c/div\u003e\u003c/p\u003e \u003cp\u003eWhile the apology marks an important step for the organisation, especially in the Dutch context, it remains largely symbolic. In practice staff reports that very little changed in the organizational culture of SA. Merel, a unit manager within W\u0026amp;G, reflected on the lack of visible structures to embed DEI principles:\u003cdiv class=\"BlockQuote\"\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cem\u003e\u0026ldquo;I don't think [SA has] a diversity or inclusion coordinator or anything like that. Most large organisations now have someone with that role, but it's not immediately visible on the work floor in SA. I'm pretty well-informed about what's happening within the organisation. I know a lot of people, both locally in Amsterdam and nationally. Still, I do not know evflerything that is happening in these areas [DEI].\u0026rdquo;\u003c/em\u003e (Merel, Amsterdam, May 2023).\u003c/p\u003e\u003c/div\u003e\u003c/p\u003e \u003cp\u003eThe gap between official statements and daily organizational life reveals how religious identity can be mobilized as a shield, allowing SA to symbolically endorse DEI while structurally resisting it. Structural inequalities, such as unequal representation in leadership roles, and symbolic imbalances (e.g. emphasising gender roles) persist throughout the organization. Moreover, resistance to DEI emerges from tensions between religious values and ideals of inclusion. Examining how DEI principles are described, implemented, and met with resistance within SA shows how the organisation's in-capacity to bridge the gap between its faith-based identity and the increasingly diverse realities it serves.\u003c/p\u003e \u003cp\u003eSuch dynamic creates a broader \u0026ldquo;us vs. them\u0026rdquo; divide between secular organizations and FBOs. Secular actors often disengage from partnerships if they fear theological views will shape outcomes, while FBOs perceive secular organizations as imposing Western values without acknowledging diverse cultural and religious contexts (Goris et al., 2020). These tensions highlight a critical point: religion can legitimize patriarchal hierarchies in FBOs (Tadros, \u003cspan citationid=\"CR38\" class=\"CitationRef\"\u003e2010\u003c/span\u003e), but secular humanitarianism is not immune to patriarchal structures and imperialist biases either. Liberal and socialist traditions have also historically upheld heteronormative and patriarchal norms (Bishop, 2010), and secular organizations continue to reproduce power imbalances by marginalizing local identities and practices (Coles et al., \u003cspan citationid=\"CR6\" class=\"CitationRef\"\u003e2015\u003c/span\u003e).\u003c/p\u003e \u003cp\u003eThus, inequality persist across both religious and secular humanitarian sectors. FBOs\u0026rsquo; reliance on religious values and family structures sustains exclusionary practices, while secular organizations may reinforce Western-centric norms that marginalize non-Christian, non-heteronormative, and non-white perspectives (Fiddian-Qasmiyeh, \u003cspan citationid=\"CR12\" class=\"CitationRef\"\u003e2015\u003c/span\u003e; Tadros, \u003cspan citationid=\"CR38\" class=\"CitationRef\"\u003e2010\u003c/span\u003e). Both contexts reveal how humanitarian structures often reproduce, rather than dismantle, patriarchal and colonial legacies. This duality underscores the central argument of this article: the contraction of the welfare state enabled FBOs like SA to expand their role in welfare provision without corresponding increases in accountability.\u003c/p\u003e \u003cp\u003e \u003cb\u003e2. Two Faces of Compassion: Unpacking the Double Identity of SA\u003c/b\u003e \u003c/p\u003e \u003cp\u003eSA embodies what scholars describe as the \u0026ldquo;double identity\u0026rdquo; of FBOs: simultaneously claiming legitimacy as a church rooted in Christian morality and as a humanitarian provider of social services (Ferris, \u003cspan citationid=\"CR11\" class=\"CitationRef\"\u003e2005\u003c/span\u003e; Moore, \u003cspan citationid=\"CR30\" class=\"CitationRef\"\u003e2019\u003c/span\u003e; Thaut, \u003cspan citationid=\"CR39\" class=\"CitationRef\"\u003e2009\u003c/span\u003e). These two logics are not simply parallel; they intersect in ways that shape organizational culture, hiring practices, and symbolic boundaries of belonging. The result is an institution that secures public trust and government funding, while using its religious identity to limit accountability to state frameworks on DEI.\u003c/p\u003e \u003cp\u003eThis dual identity is experienced in everyday life by employees. Annick, a SA soldier within the church branch described SA as \u003cem\u003e\u0026ldquo;a spiritual home [\u0026hellip;] where I find my friends, who believe in the same things as I do\u0026rdquo;\u003c/em\u003e (Annick, Almere, March 2023). Belonging, in her account, is tied to faith and shared values, implying that certain expectations define who is considered a legitimate member while others may be marginalized. This boundary-making extends into hiring practices. New employees are expected to sign a declaration affirming their Christian faith, a practice that functions both legally and symbolically. Despite this, SA assists clients regardless of their religious beliefs (Ophoff, \u003cspan citationid=\"CR33\" class=\"CitationRef\"\u003e2017\u003c/span\u003e), highlighting the complex relationship between the organisation's humanitarian mission and its religious mission. As Peter, a HR advisor explained, this requirement provides a defensive mechanism against accusations of discrimination: \u003cem\u003e\u0026ldquo;The signing of the declaration of objectives primarily has legal status [\u0026hellip;] If you say, I\u0026rsquo;m a Muslim, and I accept another faith, then you\u0026rsquo;re in the wrong place here. You must have something with that Christian faith. That\u0026rsquo;s why you have to be able to reject people as employees.\u0026rdquo;\u003c/em\u003e (Peter, Amsterdam, March 2023).\u003c/p\u003e \u003cp\u003eFor many, however, this expectation of faith-based conformity raises questions about DEI. Leonie, a W\u0026amp;G employee, noted how excluding qualified non-Christian applicants undermines inclusivity and limits the organization\u0026rsquo;s ability to reflect the diversity of its clients: \u003cem\u003e\u0026ldquo;If you come from an Islamic background, have a good education, and also share our norms and values, we still won\u0026rsquo;t hire you. I find that very difficult. And especially considering our target group, who are not all Christians.\u0026rdquo;\u003c/em\u003e (Leonie, Amsterdam, April 2023). Her reflection highlights the tension between SA\u0026rsquo;s religious exclusivity and its humanitarian mission, revealing how religious identity is prioritized over DEI goals, drawing boundaries around who belongs within its workforce.\u003c/p\u003e \u003cp\u003eThese tensions extend beyond hiring to broader organizational culture. Robin, a care coordinator and chaplain, described the ongoing struggle between SA\u0026rsquo;s dual identities:\u003cdiv class=\"BlockQuote\"\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u0026ldquo;\u003cem\u003eOn the one hand, it is humanitarian; on the other hand, it is religious. So, there is friction here because SA wants to convey something\u0026hellip; to express the Christian faith, as SA is a church association. At the same time, SA is a care institution. These two [organisations] clash with each other, as [SA leadership] wants to have Christians working in the care institution [W\u0026amp;G]. Well, that's a huge area of tension. Whether that is even allowed, especially when it comes to diversity\u0026rdquo;\u003c/em\u003e (Robin, Amsterdam, April 2023).\u003c/p\u003e\u003c/div\u003e\u003c/p\u003e \u003cp\u003eRobin\u0026rsquo;s reflection underscores how religious authority frequently overshadows humanitarian inclusivity, reinforcing boundaries of belonging while humanitarian work itself is taken for granted and rarely politicized.\u003c/p\u003e \u003cp\u003eSA has sought to maintain harmony between these two, arguing that both are integral to its mission. As Angelique put it: \u0026ldquo;\u003cem\u003eFrom my point of view, it is not a double mission [religious and humanitarian mission]. It is one mission.\u0026rdquo;\u003c/em\u003e (Angelique, Almere HD, April 2023). Milan, a spiritual care provider and Identity Strategy Coordinator, elaborated on this point: \u0026ldquo;\u003cem\u003eHow do these two relate to one another [religious mission and humanitarian mission]? Well, you cannot fly with one wing, so both belong together.\u0026rdquo;\u003c/em\u003e (Milan, Almere HD, March 2023).\u003c/p\u003e \u003cp\u003eYet, the prioritisation of Christian values within SA humanitarian work shapes the organisation's approach to societal challenges, embedding its religious identity into communal behaviours and decision-making (Lenski, 1961; Sieben \u0026amp; Helman, 2014). SA\u0026rsquo;s guiding principles both define its work and potentially restrict its ability to fully integrate alternative approaches or diverse worldviews.\u003c/p\u003e \u003cp\u003eMentioned intertwining of religion and humanitarianism, that reinforces this double identity, is also visible in SA\u0026rsquo;s symbolic repertoire. The shield, flag, and uniforms are not incidental emblems but institutionally codified sacraments. Kenneth (1996) explains how the red of the flag represents Christ\u0026rsquo;s blood, the yellow star the fire of the Holy Spirit, and the blue border purity\u0026mdash;summarized in the motto \u0026ldquo;Blood and Fire.\u0026rdquo; The shield, designed as a heraldic coat of arms, fuses military imagery with theological meaning, embedding spiritual warfare into SA\u0026rsquo;s identity (Kenneth, 1996, pp. 30\u0026ndash;33). Uniforms, too, operate as visible sacraments\u0026mdash;\u0026ldquo;like baptism\u0026rdquo;\u0026mdash;signalling belonging and affirming loyalty to both \u0026ldquo;the Army\u0026rdquo; and to God (Kenneth, 1996). Middleton (\u003cspan citationid=\"CR27\" class=\"CitationRef\"\u003e2009\u003c/span\u003e) shows how these symbols are strategically managed to strengthen public reputation: the \u0026ldquo;Red Shield\u0026rdquo; projects protection, sacrifice, and trust.\u003c/p\u003e \u003cp\u003eEmployees describe these symbols as central to their sense of safety and legitimacy, \u003cem\u003e\u0026ldquo;The history of uniform. Is about visibility. And testimony. Telling about who we are. And what we believe\u0026rdquo;\u003c/em\u003e, Angelique explained (see Fig.\u0026nbsp;\u003cspan refid=\"Fig4\" class=\"InternalRef\"\u003e3\u003c/span\u003e). For her, the uniform and red shield carried practical and spiritual weight:\u003cdiv class=\"BlockQuote\"\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cem\u003e\u0026ldquo;It has become a part of [our/SA] culture and identity.[\u0026hellip;] For me it is a tool of trade. It is a weakness. But it basically. As soon as somebody sees me. And sees the red shield. They can come up. And they can share the most deep thing. Even if they do not know me. Because they trust this. I used to do some work in the prison. This protected me. Because the inmates Respected the Salvation Army. It was my safety barrier.\u0026rdquo;\u003c/em\u003e (Angelique, Almere HD, April 2023).\u003c/p\u003e\u003c/div\u003e\u003c/p\u003e \u003cp\u003eSA itself reinforces these meanings: on its Dutch website, the organization traces the shield\u0026rsquo;s adoption to the First World War, when it marked Salvationist soldiers\u0026rsquo; quarters. What they describe as the \u0026ldquo;blood-red background\u0026rdquo; symbolized Christ\u0026rsquo;s sacrifice, while the shield\u0026rsquo;s prominence in military camps made it internationally recognized as a sign of protection for \u0026ldquo;people in need\u0026rdquo; (Leger des Heils, 2025).\u003c/p\u003e \u003cp\u003e \u003c/p\u003e \u003cp\u003eTaken together, these interpretations show how SA\u0026rsquo;s symbols project neutrality and humanitarian care outwardly while inwardly encoding sacrifice, loyalty, and religious belonging. They are boundary-markers that sustain the organization\u0026rsquo;s authority in welfare provision while legitimizing exclusion.\u003c/p\u003e \u003cp\u003eThese symbolic and cultural dynamics intersect with financial and legal structures that reinforce SA\u0026rsquo;s dual identity. Under pressure from tax authorities in 1990, SA formally split its religious denomination and welfare branch into separate foundations. Officially, this ensured financial transparency; substantively, it institutionalized a duality: religious exemption for the church and state funding\u0026mdash;covering up to 80% of activities\u0026mdash;for W\u0026amp;G (Ophoff, \u003cspan citationid=\"CR33\" class=\"CitationRef\"\u003e2017\u003c/span\u003e; Bollinger, \u003cspan citationid=\"CR5\" class=\"CitationRef\"\u003e2013\u003c/span\u003e; Beaumont \u0026amp; Dias, \u003cspan citationid=\"CR4\" class=\"CitationRef\"\u003e2008\u003c/span\u003e). As Peter noted, this restructuring was as much about safeguarding religious integrity as it was for their humanitarian efforts:\u003cdiv class=\"BlockQuote\"\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cem\u003e\u0026ldquo;If you receive government funding, you must account for it in the healthcare sector. We receive much government funding, currently more than 500\u0026nbsp;million per year. [\u0026hellip;] The Tax Authority did not like that [religious and welfare branches were mixed]. They said it had to be split.\u0026rdquo;\u003c/em\u003e (Peter, Amsterdam, March 2023).\u003c/p\u003e\u003c/div\u003e\u003c/p\u003e \u003cp\u003eHowever, this split between the church from the W\u0026amp;G was not just a technical, financial decision; it symbolised the broader conflict between religious purity and the need for transparency and compliance within secular frameworks.\u003c/p\u003e \u003cp\u003eThe organizational restructuring deepened divisions between church and W\u0026amp;G but also enabled SA to adapt to further changes, such as the 2015 decentralization of social services. Forced to partner with 388 municipalities, SA secured its role in local welfare provision but did so on its own terms\u0026mdash;balancing religious identity with the secular demands of government contracts (Ophoff, \u003cspan citationid=\"CR33\" class=\"CitationRef\"\u003e2017\u003c/span\u003e; Bollinger, \u003cspan citationid=\"CR5\" class=\"CitationRef\"\u003e2013\u003c/span\u003e).\u003c/p\u003e \u003cp\u003eThis dual position allows SA to secure public trust and substantial government funding while avoiding full accountability to DEI frameworks. Rather than being a neutral balancing act, the \u0026ldquo;double identity\u0026rdquo; operates as a strategy of boundary-making. Religious authority shields the organization from scrutiny, while exemptions justified in the name of faith allow inequalities to persist. In this way, SA embodies the broader tensions of Dutch welfare and humanitarianism: filling critical gaps in social services while simultaneously reinforcing patriarchal structures and obstructing genuine inclusion. Far from neutral, SA functions as a gendered and moralizing institution, sustaining inequality under the banner of compassion.\u003c/p\u003e \u003cp\u003e \u003cb\u003e3. The Gendered Logics of Humanitarian Organizations\u003c/b\u003e \u003c/p\u003e \u003cp\u003eHumanitarian work has never been gender-neutral (Fiddian-Qasmiyeh, \u003cspan citationid=\"CR12\" class=\"CitationRef\"\u003e2015\u003c/span\u003e). It is embedded in patriarchal and racialized structures, shaped by masculinist values, colonial legacies, and Christian ideologies (M\u0026ouml;ller et al., \u003cspan citationid=\"CR29\" class=\"CitationRef\"\u003e2020\u003c/span\u003e; Tadros, \u003cspan citationid=\"CR38\" class=\"CitationRef\"\u003e2010\u003c/span\u003e). Within Christian FBOs such as SA, humanitarian practice cannot be separated from these legacies. From its origins in civilizing missions, SA naturalized caregiving as women\u0026rsquo;s work while reserving leadership and decision-making for men. These hierarchies are not incidental but institutionalized through doctrine, organizational structures, and symbolic practices that define belonging and exclusion.\u003c/p\u003e \u003cp\u003eWomen make up a significant portion of SA\u0026rsquo;s workforce, particularly in care-focused and floor-level positions such as healthcare workers, support staff, and program coordinators. Men representation disproportionately increases as roles progress to higher levels in the hierarchy, such as regional service managers, directors, and decision-makers in W\u0026amp;G.\u003c/p\u003e \u003cp\u003eThe top of SA\u0026rsquo;s structure is the Territorial Headquarters (THQ) located in Almere, which oversees national strategies, policy development, and governance for both branches. The THQ ensures alignment with international objectives while addressing local needs through resource allocation and strategic planning. Key roles at the THQ include the Territorial Commander, responsible for overall leadership, and department heads managing areas such as finance, human resources, and communication (Leger des Heils Kerkgenootschap, 2023).\u003c/p\u003e \u003cp\u003eBeneath the THQ, the country is divided into several regions, each managed by a Divisional Headquarters (DHQ) led by a Divisional Commander. Divisional officers provide support to local branches, facilitating communication and operational consistency across divisions. These divisions translate national policies into regional strategies and monitor service delivery within their jurisdictions to ensure that W\u0026amp;G and church activities meet local humanitarian needs. W\u0026amp;G units are managed regionally but coordinated with divisional leaders to ensure alignment with national strategies. They are staffed by service unit managers, healthcare professionals, support workers, and volunteers (Leger des Heils Kerkgenootschap, 2023).\u003c/p\u003e \u003cp\u003eSenior positions, including those at the DHQ and THQ, remain predominantly occupied by men. Such disparity is often justified through narratives emphasising individual qualifications or organisational traditions, downplaying systemic barriers women face in advancing to senior roles. At the same time, the rigid hierarchy limits bottom-up contributions and reinforces gender roles, often sidelining women and other marginalized groups from leadership. Leonie, a floor-level worker within W\u0026amp;G, drew a sharp contrast between official rhetoric and everyday realities\u0026mdash;and explicitly tied the gap to biblical interpretation. Showing how this dynamic plays out in practice:\u003cdiv class=\"BlockQuote\"\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cem\u003e\u0026ldquo;[The role of women in organizations] has changed a bit over the years, but I still don\u0026rsquo;t think it\u0026rsquo;s equal. You know, if you look here in Amsterdam, you hardly see any women in power. Yeah, at the top [layer of the organization], there are mostly a lot of men. And whether that has something to do with the bible [and how it\u0026rsquo;s interpreted in Christianity] could be? Men, you know, are supposed to work and women should stay at home. That old say. And you also see a lot of older men who are high up in SA. No, no, so it\u0026rsquo;s still not equal\u003c/em\u003e.\u0026rdquo; (Leonie, Amsterdam, April 2023)\u003c/p\u003e\u003c/div\u003e\u003c/p\u003e \u003cp\u003eHer observation underscores how biblical interpretation and organizational form reinforce one another, moreover how these hierarchies are rationalized:\u003cdiv class=\"BlockQuote\"\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cem\u003e\u0026ldquo;Well, what is also stated in the bible is that everyone is equal in the sense of being before God. There is no boss or anything like that; [but] sometimes that\u0026rsquo;s not real. It just does not correspond, you know. [The church says], there should be a distinction between women and men, as it is in the bible: women [raise] children, for the future generations. Men, of course, have to work.\u0026rdquo;\u003c/em\u003e (Leonie, Amsterdam, April 2023).\u003c/p\u003e\u003c/div\u003e\u003c/p\u003e \u003cp\u003eThe claim that \u0026ldquo;all are equal before God\u0026rdquo; thus coexists with an institutional reality of inequality. Religion provides the symbolic legitimacy for hierarchy, while the organizational structure makes this hierarchy durable.\u003c/p\u003e \u003cp\u003eThe ideal of the nuclear family\u0026mdash;a father, mother, and children\u0026mdash;remains central in this worldview, with caregiving feminized and leadership masculinized (Hien, \u003cspan citationid=\"CR17\" class=\"CitationRef\"\u003e2017\u003c/span\u003e; Kenny, 2007). In FBOs, this \u0026ldquo;family model\u0026rdquo; becomes an organizational template: gender roles are framed as natural, God-given, and morally necessary (Edgell \u0026amp; Docka, \u003cspan citationid=\"CR10\" class=\"CitationRef\"\u003e2007\u003c/span\u003e; Rodriguez \u0026amp; Guenther, 2022). This interplay extends beyond spaces like households and churches, influencing individual and collective experiences (Thornton, \u003cspan citationid=\"CR40\" class=\"CitationRef\"\u003e1985\u003c/span\u003e; Friedman, \u003cspan citationid=\"CR13\" class=\"CitationRef\"\u003e1985\u003c/span\u003e; Sharma, \u003cspan citationid=\"CR36\" class=\"CitationRef\"\u003e2012\u003c/span\u003e).\u003c/p\u003e \u003cp\u003eSocial identity theory helps explain how these dynamics persist: conformity to group norms fosters loyalty and in-group belonging, while out-groups are excluded (Tajfel \u0026amp; Turner, 1979; Harwood, \u003cspan citationid=\"CR16\" class=\"CitationRef\"\u003e2020\u003c/span\u003e). In practice, this makes gendered hierarchies appear less like organizational choices and more like moral imperatives.\u003c/p\u003e \u003cp\u003eWithin SA, these hierarchies are sustained not only through doctrine but also through family networks that bind organizational culture. Employees spoke of \u003cem\u003e\u0026ldquo;having SA in my DNA\u0026rdquo;\u003c/em\u003e or being \u003cem\u003e\u0026ldquo;born under the flag,\u0026rdquo;\u003c/em\u003e metaphors that naturalize belonging while drawing symbolic lines of exclusion. \u003cem\u003e \u0026ldquo;My parents worked there, as did my uncles, aunts, and cousins. Everyone was involved in SA,\u0026rdquo;\u003c/em\u003e Annick recalled (Annick, Almere, March 2023). For Peter, this intertwining of work and family was striking:\u003cdiv class=\"BlockQuote\"\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003cem\u003e\u0026ldquo;So, you have family circles. They look like a whole organisation. [For example] one person marries the daughter of another, [making] these families connected with each other. That is indeed a world of its own [..] [for] people who are part of the church congregation. Moreover, for people who work for W\u0026amp;G, working life coincides with church life in one person. [Y]our personal life [becomes theirs] because you are family to them. [\u0026hellip;] Fortunately, it is not sectarianism.\u0026rdquo;\u003c/em\u003e (Peter, Amsterdam, March 2023)\u003c/p\u003e\u003c/div\u003e\u003c/p\u003e \u003cp\u003eSuch familial structures reinforce loyalty, blur boundaries between personal and professional life, and perpetuate inherited gender norms:\u003cdiv class=\"BlockQuote\"\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cem\u003e\u0026ldquo;My parents are officers at SA [the church]. I have attended the SA church for most of my life. I was born under the flag, as they call it. [In my childhood] I hung out with one of my parents' colleagues and their children. I did my studies there, went to Sunday school.\u0026rdquo;\u003c/em\u003e (Damian, Amsterdam, April 2023)\u003c/p\u003e\u003c/div\u003e\u003c/p\u003e \u003cp\u003eThe symbolism of \u0026ldquo;blood\u0026rdquo; is especially telling. It invokes Christ\u0026rsquo;s sacrificial blood while also signifying familial inheritance\u0026mdash; \u003cem\u003e\u0026ldquo;My family also worked at Salvation Army, so it was basically spoon-fed to me from an early age. So, well, as people say: it\u0026rsquo;s in your blood.\u0026rdquo;\u003c/em\u003e as Leonie described (Leonie, Amsterdam, April 2023). This symbolism binds individuals across generations, but it is deeply gendered. Men\u0026rsquo;s blood, associated with sacrifice and heroism, is valorized, while women\u0026rsquo;s blood\u0026mdash;linked to menstruation and childbirth\u0026mdash;is stigmatized as impure (Jansen \u0026amp; Dresen, \u003cspan citationid=\"CR19\" class=\"CitationRef\"\u003e2012\u003c/span\u003e; Meyer, \u003cspan citationid=\"CR26\" class=\"CitationRef\"\u003e2014\u003c/span\u003e). Even in caregiving professions such as nursing, where women encounter blood daily, their embodied contributions are undervalued compared to the symbolic elevation of male sacrifice. SA\u0026rsquo;s red shield and flag crystallize these meanings, visually fusing family and care.\u003c/p\u003e \u003cp\u003eThese symbolic dynamics map directly onto organizational hierarchies and structure. Leadership roles are disproportionately male, while caregiving and support work are feminized. Women form the majority of volunteers and frontline staff, yet their labor is undervalued and rarely rewarded with upward mobility (Edgardh, \u003cspan citationid=\"CR9\" class=\"CitationRef\"\u003e2011\u003c/span\u003e; Noor \u0026amp; Nawi, \u003cspan citationid=\"CR32\" class=\"CitationRef\"\u003e2021\u003c/span\u003e). As Angelique observed: \u003cem\u003e\u0026ldquo;[Being] an extrovert and confident [are] characteristics assimilated with men because men have been raised that way. [\u0026hellip;] Women are enculturated into serving, caring, and nurturing, taking the second place\u0026rdquo;\u003c/em\u003e (Angelique, Almere, April 2023). Competence and merit are framed as neutral but coded in masculine terms, masking structural barriers (Kelan, \u003cspan citationid=\"CR20\" class=\"CitationRef\"\u003e2009\u003c/span\u003e; Meyerson \u0026amp; Fletcher, \u003cspan citationid=\"CR28\" class=\"CitationRef\"\u003e2000\u003c/span\u003e).\u003c/p\u003e \u003cp\u003eSome respondents recognized this contradiction, describing SA as both \u0026ldquo;revolutionary\u0026rdquo; in its commitment to social needs and \u0026ldquo;conservative\u0026rdquo; in its hierarchical, army-like structure: \u003cem\u003e\u0026ldquo;I would place SA on the more conservative side of the Christian world because many things are hierarchical. It\u0026rsquo;s an army\u0026rdquo;\u003c/em\u003e (Merel, Amsterdam, May 2023). Mike, reflecting on managerial roles, noted: \u003cem\u003e\u0026ldquo;Everyone seems to think it\u0026rsquo;s perfectly normal for another man to fill those roles. [\u0026hellip;] For instance, a branch manager could be a woman, but a regional manager? Those are always men\u0026mdash;men of a certain age\u0026rdquo;\u003c/em\u003e (Mike, Amsterdam, April 2023). These observations highlight how militarized metaphors of discipline and hierarchy overlap with patriarchal traditions, reinforcing male authority at the top.\u003c/p\u003e \u003cp\u003eNarratives of \u0026ldquo;competence\u0026rdquo; and \u0026ldquo;merit\u0026rdquo; are frequently invoked to justify this imbalance, masking structural inequality under the guise of gender neutrality (Kelan, \u003cspan citationid=\"CR20\" class=\"CitationRef\"\u003e2009\u003c/span\u003e; Meyerson \u0026amp; Fletcher, \u003cspan citationid=\"CR28\" class=\"CitationRef\"\u003e2000\u003c/span\u003e). At the same time, the organization presents itself as gender-inclusive, drawing on its history of women officers in early leadership roles. Some respondents framed SA as having \u0026ldquo;always been equal\u0026rdquo;: \u0026ldquo;\u003cem\u003eAnd within the Salvation Army, from the beginning, women have been fully equal to men, ever since 1887.\u0026rdquo;\u003c/em\u003e (Annick, Almere, March 2023). Such narratives of equality obscure ongoing inequalities, relying on gender blindness\u0026mdash;the claim that \u0026ldquo;competence alone determines leadership.\u0026rdquo; In practice, this reinforces masculine-coded norms of authority while sidelining caregiving and collaboration (Kelan, \u003cspan citationid=\"CR20\" class=\"CitationRef\"\u003e2009\u003c/span\u003e).\u003c/p\u003e \u003cp\u003eBy downplaying the persistence of gendered barriers, SA frames as the issue as \u0026ldquo;resolved\u0026rdquo;:\u003cdiv class=\"BlockQuote\"\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cem\u003e\u0026ldquo;As a care organisation, there are relatively more women than men [in SA]. But if you talk about quotas [about women in leadership roles], you don't need to come to the SA for that. [\u0026hellip;] You have to be good at your job, and then [SA]'ll hire you.\u0026rdquo;\u003c/em\u003e (Annick, Almere, March 2023).\u003c/p\u003e\u003c/div\u003e\u003c/p\u003e \u003cp\u003eAnnick\u0026rsquo;s quote reflects this broader discourse of gender blindness within FBOs, where symbolic equality in theology (\u0026ldquo;all equal before God\u0026rdquo;) obscures material inequalities in practice. By presenting gender as irrelevant, structural barriers and inequalities are obscured. Women may be visible in mid-level management, particularly in caregiving sectors, yet the top strategic positions remain reserved for men.\u003c/p\u003e \u003cp\u003eFrom a critical perspective, such blindness reinforces rather than challenges masculine norms, ensuring that traits coded as assertive and authoritative (and often male) are rewarded, while caregiving, empathy, and collaboration are sidelined (Kelan, \u003cspan citationid=\"CR20\" class=\"CitationRef\"\u003e2009\u003c/span\u003e). In this sense, humanitarianism in SA is not only gendered but symbolically coded: authority and sacrifice are masculine, service and caregiving are feminine. Both are necessary to the organization, but only one is valued as leadership.\u003c/p\u003e \u003cp\u003eThese contradictions also extend to how SA approaches DEI. Officially, SA promotes inclusion, but religious values are invoked to justify exemptions. As Annick described, debates around same-sex marriage remain deeply contested: \u0026ldquo;\u003cem\u003eThere are also SA soldiers who find [homosexuality] problematic because they read in the bible that a homosexual is punished. [\u0026hellip;] Not all priests within the SA will marry a lesbian couple. Yes, some will, so we call them. That way everyone\u0026rsquo;s beliefs can remain valued\u0026rdquo;\u003c/em\u003e (Annick, Amsterdam, March 2023). While framed as tolerance, this practice results in uneven DEI implementation\u0026mdash;respecting conservative theological positions while leaving LGBTQI\u0026thinsp;+\u0026thinsp;members with limited protection.\u003c/p\u003e \u003cp\u003eIn reality, this creates uneven DEI implementation. Organizational policies emphasize respect for diversity, yet exemptions rooted in religious identity allow discriminatory norms to persist. For LGBTQI\u0026thinsp;+\u0026thinsp;members, women aspiring to leadership, or employees challenging gendered norms, the organization provides limited avenues for redress. Such practices reinforce SA\u0026rsquo;s \u0026ldquo;double identity\u0026rdquo;: as a humanitarian actor aligned with state welfare but also as a religious institution able to claim exemptions from accountability (Ferris, \u003cspan citationid=\"CR11\" class=\"CitationRef\"\u003e2005\u003c/span\u003e; Moore, \u003cspan citationid=\"CR30\" class=\"CitationRef\"\u003e2019\u003c/span\u003e). Its humanitarian work projects an image of neutrality and universal care, yet this masks the reproduction of patriarchal and exclusionary norms. Gender blindness appeals to \u0026ldquo;tradition,\u0026rdquo; and religious exemptions collectively sustain inequalities, reflecting a broader pattern in humanitarianism where aid is framed as apolitical and benevolent but is in fact structured by power relations and moral authority (Kelan, \u003cspan citationid=\"CR20\" class=\"CitationRef\"\u003e2009\u003c/span\u003e; Ferris, 2011; Moore, \u003cspan citationid=\"CR30\" class=\"CitationRef\"\u003e2019\u003c/span\u003e).\u003c/p\u003e \u003cp\u003eFrom an anti-humanitarian perspective, these dynamics show that gender hierarchies are not accidents of tradition but active reproductions of organizational identity, encoded in both doctrine and symbol. SA\u0026rsquo;s humanitarianism depends on these hierarchies: women\u0026rsquo;s caregiving sustains its social services, while men\u0026rsquo;s leadership preserves its legitimacy. By framing this division as natural, biblical, or neutral, SA reinforces patriarchal power structures under the moral authority of humanitarian aid.\u003c/p\u003e"},{"header":"Conclusion","content":"\u003cp\u003eThe case of SA shows how FBOs operate through a double identity that fuses religious values with humanitarian obligations. This duality allows them to expand into welfare provision as the state retreats, while simultaneously avoiding the accountability standards expected of secular providers. What emerges is a paradox: the SA presents itself as a humanitarian organization offering care to all, yet its organizational culture and symbolic framework reproduce exclusions along the lines of gender, family, and faith.\u003c/p\u003e \u003cp\u003eCentral to this paradox is the symbolism of blood and the red shield. These symbols are not merely historical artefacts but institutionally codified tools of reputation management. They project humanitarian neutrality and trustworthiness to the outside world, while internally reinforcing religious belonging. To be \u0026ldquo;born under the flag\u0026rdquo; or to have SA \u0026ldquo;in your blood\u0026rdquo; signifies inherited loyalty and moral obligation, but also conditional belonging. The shield promises protection, yet at the same time it draws boundaries between insiders who embody Christian family values and outsiders who do not\u0026mdash;All while shielding the organization itself from certain forms of accountability.\u003c/p\u003e \u003cp\u003eOur analysis of SA\u0026rsquo;s work shows that humanitarianism is never neutral. Aid is delivered through frameworks that reinforce patriarchal authority, heteronormative family ideals, and religiously sanctioned hierarchies. The failures of DEI within SA exemplify this contradiction: while the organization formally commits to inclusion, in practice religious exemptions and cultural traditions legitimize persistent gendered and intersectional inequalities. Women\u0026rsquo;s caregiving labour sustains SA\u0026rsquo;s welfare services, but their leadership remains limited; LGBTQI\u0026thinsp;+\u0026thinsp;staff encounter uneven inclusion; and non-Christian applicants are routinely excluded from employment.\u003c/p\u003e \u003cp\u003eWhat SA demonstrates is how symbols, doctrines, and everyday practices converge to sustain exclusion under the guise of care. Blood, both as a metaphor and as a theological reference, binds members together, but in ways that reinforce patriarchal and exclusionary structures. By unpacking these dynamics, our article contributes to debates on the politics of humanitarianism and the role of (Christian) FBOs in welfare. SA is not an anomaly but an example of how humanitarianism, when entwined with religious identity, can reproduce structural inequalities rather than dismantle them. Recognizing this requires a shift: from viewing humanitarianism as benevolent charity to interrogating it as a practice that simultaneously cares and excludes, empowers and disciplines.\u003c/p\u003e \u003cp\u003eThe task, then, is not simply to critique SA but to question broader assumptions about humanitarianism itself. Who is included in the promise of protection, and who is excluded? What inequalities are reinforced in the name of faith, family, and care? And how might accountability mechanisms \u0026mdash; especially around gender and DEI \u0026mdash; challenge the legitimacy of humanitarian actors who continue to operate within patriarchal and exclusionary logics?\u003c/p\u003e \u003cp\u003eThe symbolism of blood, flag, and shield reveals that belonging within the SA is not universal but conditional. Studying these conditionalities demonstrate the hidden politics of humanitarianism: a field where care is never neutral, and where exclusion is often written in red.\u003c/p\u003e"},{"header":"Abbreviations","content":"\u003cp\u003eDEI: Diversity, Equality, and Inclusion\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eFBO: Faith-Based Organization\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eSA: Salvation Army\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eTHQ: Territorial Headquarters\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eDHQ: Divisional Headquarters\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eW\u0026amp;G: Welfare and Healthcare Foundation\u003c/p\u003e"},{"header":"Declarations","content":"\u003cp\u003e\u003cstrong\u003eData Availability\u003c/strong\u003e\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eThis study is based on qualitative interview transcripts and fieldnotes that contain potentially identifying information. In line with our ethics approval and participant consent, the raw data cannot be shared publicly. De-identified excerpts relevant to the study are included in the article. De-identified materials (e.g., codebook and aggregated themes) may be made available upon reasonable request to the corresponding author and subject to a data-sharing agreement and institutional ethics approval.\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\u003cstrong\u003eEthical approval\u003c/strong\u003e\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eThis study was conducted within the Department of Organization Sciences, Faculty of Social Sciences, at Vrije Universiteit Amsterdam (VU).\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003ePrior to data collection, the researcher completed the Research Ethics Review Committee (RERC) self-check procedure (Self-check No. 2023-1-31-818, completed 31 January 2023), which confirmed that the research met the ethical standards for minimal-risk research involving human participants and therefore did not require full ethics review.\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eAll research was carried out in accordance with the VU Research Code of Conduct, the Netherlands Code of Conduct for Research Integrity (2018), and the General Data Protection Regulation (GDPR/AVG).\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\u003cstrong\u003eInformed concent\u0026nbsp;\u003c/strong\u003e\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eInformed consent was obtained orally from all participants prior to participation. Oral consent was chosen because the study involved non-interventional qualitative interviews focusing on participants’ professional experiences within organizations, and no sensitive personal or medical data were collected. The oral consent process was recorded at the start of each interview and followed a standard verbal consent script (included as supplementary material in this submission).\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eConsent was obtained by the researcher from adult participants between [March–June, 2023]. All participants were informed about:\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cul\u003e\n \u003cli\u003ethe purpose and procedures of the study;the voluntary nature of their participation;\u003c/li\u003e\n \u003cli\u003etheir right to withdraw at any time without consequence;\u003c/li\u003e\n \u003cli\u003ethe assurance of confidentiality and anonymity;\u003c/li\u003e\n \u003cli\u003ehow their data would be used, stored securely, and reported in anonymized form.\u003c/li\u003e\n\u003c/ul\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eParticipants explicitly consented to:\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e(a) take part in the study,\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e(b) have their interviews audio-recorded,\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e(c) allow the researcher to store and analyse the data securely, and\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e(d) the use of anonymized quotations in research publications and presentations.\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eNo minors or vulnerable individuals were involved in this study.\u003c/p\u003e\u003ch2\u003eAuthor Contribution\u003c/h2\u003e\u003cp\u003eDear editors, The authors signed the CRediT author statement. We can send it to you if necessary. The paper includes ethics approval and consent to participate in research.Consent for publication - N/AFunding - N/AWe included a list of abbreviations used in the manuscript and their meanings after the Conclusions section. We provided figure/table legends under a separate heading of 'Figure Legends and 'Table Legends' after the References. Figure/Table Legends are within the main text of the manuscript.\u003c/p\u003e"},{"header":"References","content":"\u003col\u003e\n\u003cli\u003eAcker, J. (1990). Hierarchies, jobs, bodies: A theory of gendered organizations. \u003cem\u003eGender \u0026amp; Society, 4\u003c/em\u003e(2), 139\u0026ndash;158. \u003c/li\u003e\n\u003cli\u003eBarth, F., \u0026amp; Hobson, B. (2020). Gendered citizenship in humanitarian settings. \u003cem\u003eJournal of Refugee Studies, 33\u003c/em\u003e(3), 485\u0026ndash;503. \u003c/li\u003e\n\u003cli\u003eBeaumont, J., \u0026amp; Cloke, P. 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Women, authority and religious change in a Netherlands community. \u003cem\u003eSociology of Religion, 63\u003c/em\u003e(4), 515\u0026ndash;538.\u003c/li\u003e\n\u003c/ol\u003e"}],"fulltextSource":"","fullText":"","funders":[],"hasAdminPriorityOnWorkflow":false,"hasManuscriptDocX":true,"hasOptedInToPreprint":true,"hasPassedJournalQc":"","hasAnyPriority":false,"hideJournal":false,"highlight":"","institution":"","isAcceptedByJournal":false,"isAuthorSuppliedPdf":false,"isDeskRejected":"","isHiddenFromSearch":false,"isInQc":false,"isInWorkflow":false,"isPdf":false,"isPdfUpToDate":true,"isWithdrawnOrRetracted":false,"journal":{"display":true,"email":"[email protected]","identity":"humanities-and-social-sciences-communications","isNatureJournal":false,"hasQc":true,"allowDirectSubmit":false,"externalIdentity":"palcomms","sideBox":"Learn more about [Humanities \u0026 Social Sciences Communications](http://www.nature.com/palcomms/)","snPcode":"41599","submissionUrl":"https://submission.springernature.com/new-submission/41599/3","title":"Humanities and Social Sciences Communications","twitterHandle":"","acdcEnabled":true,"dfaEnabled":true,"editorialSystem":"stoa","reportingPortfolio":"Nature AJ","inReviewEnabled":true,"inReviewRevisionsEnabled":false},"keywords":"Faith-Based Organizations, humanitarian work, Salvation Army, gendered institutions, The Netherlands","lastPublishedDoi":"10.21203/rs.3.rs-7784641/v1","lastPublishedDoiUrl":"https://doi.org/10.21203/rs.3.rs-7784641/v1","license":{"name":"CC BY 4.0","url":"https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/4.0/"},"manuscriptAbstract":"\u003cp\u003eDespite the Netherlands' secular reputation, from de-pillarization to the drop in church attendance in the 70s-80s, Christian FBOs\u0026rsquo; humanitarian work has direct consequences on the gender and intersectional inequalities in society. This article examines SA in the Netherlands to show how its double identity as both a religious and humanitarian organization sustains patriarchal structures while escaping critical (political) scrutiny. Drawing on ethnographic fieldwork, including interviews, observations, and organizational documents, we highlight how symbols such as blood, the red shield, and the flag operate as boundary markers of belonging and exclusion. These symbolic repertoires embed heteronormative family values into organizational culture, ultimately reinforcing patriarchal structures and legitimizing inequalities under the guise of humanitarian care. While SA presents itself as an identity-neutral provider of aid, its practices are shaped by masculinist norms, colonial legacies, and Christian ideals that privilege male leadership and undervalue women\u0026rsquo;s labor. Official commitments to DEI remain limited, as religious identity is used to justify exemptions and avoid accountability. This analysis advances an anti-humanitarian perspective, showing how humanitarianism\u0026mdash;far from dismantling structural inequalities\u0026mdash;can reproduce them through religious symbolism, moral authority, and selective care.\u003c/p\u003e","manuscriptTitle":"Beyond the Red Shield: Diluting DEI, Humanitarian Work and the Army of Salvation","msid":"","msnumber":"","nonDraftVersions":[{"code":1,"date":"2026-01-05 10:27:11","doi":"10.21203/rs.3.rs-7784641/v1","editorialEvents":[{"type":"communityComments","content":0},{"type":"reviewerAgreed","content":"43042601400452425636361391599833502233","date":"2026-01-06T12:44:56+00:00","index":"hide","fulltext":""},{"type":"reviewersInvited","content":"","date":"2026-01-02T14:35:31+00:00","index":"","fulltext":""},{"type":"editorAssigned","content":"","date":"2026-01-02T10:26:52+00:00","index":"","fulltext":""},{"type":"editorInvited","content":"","date":"2025-12-24T06:35:47+00:00","index":"","fulltext":""},{"type":"checksComplete","content":"","date":"2025-11-27T06:44:46+00:00","index":"","fulltext":""},{"type":"submitted","content":"Humanities and Social Sciences Communications","date":"2025-11-27T06:36:10+00:00","index":"","fulltext":""}],"status":"published","journal":{"display":true,"email":"[email protected]","identity":"humanities-and-social-sciences-communications","isNatureJournal":false,"hasQc":true,"allowDirectSubmit":false,"externalIdentity":"palcomms","sideBox":"Learn more about [Humanities \u0026 Social Sciences Communications](http://www.nature.com/palcomms/)","snPcode":"41599","submissionUrl":"https://submission.springernature.com/new-submission/41599/3","title":"Humanities and Social Sciences Communications","twitterHandle":"","acdcEnabled":true,"dfaEnabled":true,"editorialSystem":"stoa","reportingPortfolio":"Nature AJ","inReviewEnabled":true,"inReviewRevisionsEnabled":false}}],"origin":"","ownerIdentity":"fe088b20-3b78-40bf-b90a-aa6aa66d7d11","owner":[],"postedDate":"January 5th, 2026","published":true,"recentEditorialEvents":[],"rejectedJournal":[],"revision":"","amendment":"","status":"under-review","subjectAreas":[{"id":60493263,"name":"Humanities/Cultural and media studies"},{"id":60493264,"name":"Social science/Cultural and media studies"},{"id":60493265,"name":"Humanities/Religion"},{"id":60493266,"name":"Social science/Sociology"}],"tags":[],"updatedAt":"2026-01-05T10:27:11+00:00","versionOfRecord":[],"versionCreatedAt":"2026-01-05 10:27:11","video":"","vorDoi":"","vorDoiUrl":"","workflowStages":[]},"version":"v1","identity":"rs-7784641","journalConfig":"researchsquare"},"__N_SSP":true},"page":"/article/[identity]/[[...version]]","query":{"redirect":"/article/rs-7784641","identity":"rs-7784641","version":["v1"]},"buildId":"XKTyCvWXoU3ODBz1xrDgd","isFallback":false,"isExperimentalCompile":false,"dynamicIds":[84888],"gssp":true,"scriptLoader":[]}