"They score, they each say their respective prayers, and then they're hugging each other." That line from Eboo Patel, president of Interfaith America, captures something the World Cup keeps delivering that domestic politics almost never does — people from genuinely different worlds working toward the same thing.
Across Western Europe especially, national teams now reflect a diversity that their own societies are still figuring out how to handle. England, France, Spain, Sweden — countries where immigration and religion have become flashpoints — are fielding squads with Christian and Muslim players who are openly, actively faithful. And not just tolerating each other. Building something together.
The players making it visible
Mohamed Salah is the most recognizable face of this. The Egyptian forward prostrates himself after goals, practices his Sunni faith without apology, and apparently makes his city measurably better — researchers found anti-Muslim tweets from Liverpool fans dropped by 50% after he joined the club. That's not symbolism. That's documented social impact from a footballer.
Spain's Lamine Yamal is 18 years old and already carrying weight beyond football. A practicing Muslim with Moroccan heritage, he waved a Palestinian flag during Barcelona's title celebrations in May — and ended up in a war of words involving Israel's defense minister. At 18. That's the environment these players are navigating.
Croatia's Luka Modrić, 40, turning out for his fifth World Cup, wears shin guards depicting Jesus and the Virgin Mary and celebrated Mass with teammates before the tournament. England's Marc Guéhi — son of a Christian minister — wrote religious messages on his shirt during a Premier League LGBTQ+ inclusion campaign, drawing FA scrutiny. Djed Spence, his England teammate, is identified as the first Muslim to play for the senior national side. "Hopefully inspire young kids," he said simply.
Then there's Iraq — a team that includes Kurds, Sunni Muslims, Shia Muslims, and Christians, at a time when Iraq's Christian population has collapsed from 1.5 million in 2003 to roughly 150,000 today. Midfielder Aimar Sher has been posting photos in an "I Belong to Jesus" T-shirt. The fact that he's on that squad at all is a story in itself.
What this actually means
Patel's framing is worth sitting with: "It's not a contrived television ad or a condescending afterschool special. It's the way you build an excellent soccer team." He's right that there's nothing manufactured here. These players aren't diversity hires. Salah is one of the best forwards on the planet. Yamal is arguably Spain's most exciting talent in a generation. Modrić is a living legend. The faith is incidental to the football — and that's precisely the point.
The question of whether World Cup squads can send a "helpful message" to divided societies is genuinely hard to answer. Football has a long history of being held up as a mirror to something better, and a long history of that hope not quite translating. But the images are real: Christian players crossing themselves, Muslim players cupping their hands in prayer, and then both groups piling on top of each other in celebration.
"My identity really matters to me and it makes me a better soccer player," is how Patel summarized the implicit message. Whether it travels beyond the stadium is another matter entirely.
