How American Christianity Sold Its Soul for Power

There was a time when the phrase “what would Jesus do?” invited pause — a moral check, a reminder that creed demanded compassion before conquest. Today, in many corners of the United States, that question has been swapped for a simpler creed: “Who’s on my team?” The consequence is not merely sloppy theology; it’s policy. Churches and congregations that should be the country’s conscience are instead doubling down on cultural grievance, bolstering politicians who weaponize fear, and defending laws that hurt the vulnerable — all while calling it Christianity.

This isn’t a theological spat between liberals and conservatives. It’s a cartel of identity: a fusion of nostalgia, fear, and political power that recasts Christianity as a tribal badge rather than a radical ethic of care. Surveys show a clear political tilt among regular worshippers: most Americans who frequently attend services voted for Donald Trump in 2020 — a sign that religious attendance now correlates strongly with partisan alignment.

A more specific map of the problem appears under the label “Christian nationalism.” Polling and academic work show a robust minority of Americans who blend Christian identity and state power into an ideology that prizes cultural dominance over Christian charity. PRRI’s recent measures place the population into categories — adherents, sympathizers, skeptics, and rejecters — and find that a meaningful slice of the public either embraces or flirts with Christian-nationalist ideas. That framework helps explain why some Christians feel not merely threatened but entitled to political retribution against perceived cultural change.

When sacred rhetoric fuses with political grievance, the results can be dangerous. Researchers have linked Christian nationalism to increased tolerance for political violence and to support for the rhetoric that fueled the January 6 insurrection. Where a theology of victimhood takes hold—and is amplified by white identity politics and conspiratorial movements—support for punitive, exclusionary policies grows. This has real costs: laws that cut help to marginalized people, rhetoric that dehumanizes immigrants and LGBTQ+ neighbors, and politicians who trade moral language for material control.

History matters here. American Christianity has a long, ugly record of lending theology to oppressive systems — from slavery to Jim Crow and beyond. Churches did not simply exist inside those injustices; many of them justified and sustained them. That inheritance didn’t vanish overnight. It metastasized into institutions and habits of mind that make it easier for contemporary leaders to argue that cruelty is order and exclusion is defense. Political operatives learned to exploit that history: promise to “protect” a threatened moral order and you’ll secure votes—even when protection means trampling the poor.

But let’s be clear: this is not all of Christianity. It’s not even most. There are countless congregations and clergy who resist the cultural turn toward cruelty — pastors who organize food drives, churches that shelter immigrants, communities that treat healthcare and housing as sacred duties. They are the majority in practice, even if they are quieter in the headlines. The public face we see more often is what loud few have bought and paid to amplify. That imbalance has political consequences: the loudness of the tribal Christians drowns out the steady moral work of the compassionate ones.

So how did loving your neighbor become political malpractice? A few mechanics are worth naming. Fear is a potent motivator: economic anxiety, demographic change, and a sense of cultural displacement make people susceptible to simple narratives that place blame on easily demonized groups. Religious leaders who see politics as the fastest route to policy wins can justify unsavory alliances in the name of short-term victories. Media ecosystems reward outrage — moral outrage travels farther and faster than moral complexity. And when congregations stop reading the gospel as a text of liberation and instead read it as validation of their political contentment, the switch is complete.

If reclaiming Christianity from tribalism is possible, it will require courage and creativity. Pastors and lay leaders must stop treating power as a theological aim; preaching should return to the Sermon on the Mount—not as a quaint aside, but as urgent political theology. Congregations can practice what they preach: refuse to elevate leaders who weaponize faith, protect the dignity of immigrants and queer people in policy fights, and use church resources to defend the most vulnerable rather than to build political platforms. Voters can also be clearer: insist that faith leaders be accountable for how they use Scripture in politics.

Practical, local steps matter. Support clergy who do justice work. Build interfaith coalitions that protect immigrants, the poor, and reproductive freedom. Flood school boards and legislatures with testimony from real congregations doing real charity. When voters see that the church’s authority comes from love, not from announcing enemies, they’ll begin to look elsewhere for political answers.

We should not be naive about the scale of the task. Political machines are skilled at turning fear into turnout. But the Christian tradition — at its best — is uniquely well equipped to heal this rupture. The Jesus who washed feet and welcome strangers offers an ethic that undermines the very premise of Christian nationalism: that religion exists to justify domination. The choice before American Christians is stark. Keep the tribe, keep the power—and keep the policies that harm millions—or reclaim a faith that has always disrupted power on behalf of the powerless.

The work of reclamation isn’t sentimental. It’s organizing, it’s neighbor-care, it’s moral courage at the ballot box and the soup kitchen. If Christians want to call themselves followers of Jesus, they must stop letting politics hijack their language of love. If they choose otherwise, they should at least be honest about the cost.