They Did This to Christianity — Now They're Doing It to America

This autumn produced some of the most revealing episodes of Trumpism: not necessarily its cruellest or most dangerous acts, but the moments that lay bare its character. In a matter of weeks the president unveiled plans for a gilded ballroom far larger than what the White House has traditionally used and then began moving forward with unilateral changes to the East Wing. After nationwide protests, he posted an AI-generated video of himself wearing a crown and piloting a jet labeled “King Trump,” in which simulated attacks and grotesque imagery were directed at American cities and citizens.

Those spectacles are shocking, but they sit beside even graver harms. Critics point to estimates that attribute hundreds of thousands of deaths to recent cuts in foreign aid and to studies projecting well over a million avoidable deaths from climate and fossil-fuel policies. Yet the cultural and symbolic affronts matter too: few prior presidents would have imagined or publicly celebrated a Versailles-scale redecoration of the White House or embraced imagery that presents the American public as the object of contempt. Crucially, these actions come with the active consent of a major political party.

The religious parallel

For many Americans who were raised in mainline Protestant churches, the broader cultural transformation is painfully familiar. Over decades, a rising strain of rightwing evangelicalism has recast the figure of Jesus — once widely imagined as a champion of the poor, an advocate of radical mercy, and a subversive ethic of generosity — into a muscular, nationalist icon who can be invoked to justify policies of exclusion and toughness. Where earlier generations heard “the meek shall inherit the earth,” some communities now treat meekness as a liability to be punished rather than a virtue to be protected.

This shift did not happen overnight. In 1958, when Dwight Eisenhower laid the cornerstone for the National Council of Churches, roughly half the country identified with mainline denominations (Methodists, Lutherans, Presbyterians, Congregationalists, Episcopalians and similar bodies). Those churches were often civic-minded and, in many cases, allied with progressive causes such as civil rights. Over the subsequent six decades mainline membership declined sharply; megachurches, televangelists, and politically aligned ministries filled the vacuum with a different theology — one more comfortable with wealth, power, and national assertiveness.

What changed

Two dynamics help explain the change. First, selective interpretation of scripture — prooftexting — has enabled leaders to cite isolated biblical passages to defend contemporary political positions, while sidelining much of the moral teaching at the heart of the Gospels. For example, citing Nehemiah’s rebuilding of Jerusalem’s walls as scriptural validation for strict modern immigration policies ignores Jesus’ repeated injunctions to welcome the stranger and the parable of the good Samaritan.

Second, organizational decline and strategic missteps left mainline denominations ill-equipped to contest the new narrative. A scattering of shrinking, theologically similar bodies failed to consolidate influence or offer a unified moral alternative. Many leaders assumed the public would eventually reject the more militaristic, triumphalist Christianity; that assumption proved too optimistic.

Faces of the shift

The change shows up in concrete ways. Some religious figures now close to political power have promoted ideas that would have been unthinkable in many mainline pulpits: calls for “angelic” interventions in elections, muscular rhetoric about gender roles, and emphases on national strength and security that crowd out attention to poverty and vulnerability. Prominent conservative commentators and influencers explicitly argue that policies such as strong border enforcement are consistent with biblical wisdom.

That emphasis on borders and cultural purity often displaces the Gospels’ central concern for the poor and marginalized. The story of the rich young ruler — whom Jesus urged to sell his possessions and give to the poor — is a recurring rebuke to any faith that places wealth or power at its center.

Signs of resistance

There are, however, hopeful countercurrents. Grassroots movements, street protests, and civic organizing have mobilized broad swaths of the public, including many older Americans who retain the civic sensibilities of the mid-20th century. Elected figures and candidates like James Talarico in Texas have explicitly rejected Christian nationalism and reclaimed a vision of Christianity grounded in compassion, not domination.

Institutional religion has not been uniformly passive either. Pope Francis’s focus on the poor and on environmental stewardship has shifted parts of Catholicism’s public posture; some Catholic and mainline Protestant leaders have publicly criticized harsh immigration enforcement and called for humane treatment of migrants. These examples show that older Christian moral language — humility, care for the vulnerable, and a preference for the poor — remains available and politically relevant.

Lessons for defending democracy

The central strategic lesson is clear: surrendering a moral or cultural field without an organized, persuasive response invites replacement. Mainline Protestantism’s failure to defend its distinctive ethical language against newer, harsher interpretations allowed those interpretations to gain cultural purchase. The civic fight for democracy should avoid repeating that error. Defending democratic norms will require the same combination of clarity, moral courage, and public organizing that could have preserved a more compassionate religious witness.

In short, the contest is as much about symbols and stories as it is about legislation and policy. If a compassionate, generous Christianity can be reclaimed in public life, it will strengthen broader efforts to protect democratic institutions and the common good.

Bill McKibben is the author of Here Comes the Sun (2025) and the founder of Third Act.