Andrew Klein
Reverend Father
The story of Christianity in the 21st Century, particularly in the United States, is not merely a story of faith, but of a religion grappling with its imperial past and present, while being wielded as a tool of political consolidation. It is a case study in how a system of meaning can be hollowed out, its radical demands neutered, and its symbols repurposed to serve the very worldly powers it once claimed to transcend.
At its core, the appeal of any religion—and this is starkly visible in certain Christianities today—can be the seductive transfer of moral agency. It offers a framework where ultimate responsibility for creation, for justice, for the fate of the cosmos, is ceded to a divine sovereign. This is not inherently negative; it can be a source of profound comfort and communal purpose. But in its corrupted form, it becomes an abdication of earthly stewardship. The “hopelessly sinful world” becomes not a vineyard to be tended, but a waiting room for a future rescue. This deferral of responsibility is politically potent: it can justify inaction on ecological crisis, excuse social inequity as “God’s mysterious will,” and frame systemic evils like slavery and patriarchy not as human constructs to be dismantled, but as divine ordinances to be endured. As theologian Dietrich Bonhoeffer, executed for resisting the Nazi co-option of German Christianity, warned of a “cheap grace” that offers forgiveness without requiring discipleship—a faith without cost or consequence.
This deferral is enabled by Biblical and Theological Illiteracy, not of the unread, but of the selectively read. Rejecting the historical-critical study that reveals the Bible as a library of diverse voices—prophetic poetry, legal code, mythic history, pastoral letters—they engage in a form of theological proof-texting. Isolated verses, stripped from their literary and historical context, are wielded like incantations. This is not exegesis (drawing meaning out) but eisegesis (imposing meaning in). The result is a customized deity, a “God” whose “hidden message” invariably confirms the picker’s pre-existing biases and justifies their power. It is a closed hermeneutic circle, impenetrable to critique, for critique itself is branded as an attack on faith.
This manufactured authority finds its ultimate political expression in the aspiration for a Christian Theocracy. American Evangelicalism, in its most influential political strain, has evolved from a pietistic movement focused on personal salvation into a potent, self-assured political identity. It is often marked by a sense of exclusive election, an arrogance of being the rightful custodians of the nation’s soul. Its vision is not pluralism but dominion. The fervent support for a figure like Donald Trump as a “God-chosen” leader is less a theological statement than a messianic narrative applied to raw political power. It is the belief that a strongman can usher in, or protect, their envisioned kingdom—a kingdom that looks less like the Sermon on the Mount and more like a sanctified empire.
For Christianity was born in an empire and, after Constantine, became one. It is, as you note, an inherently imperial religion in its historical DNA. Its mandate to “make disciples of all nations” has too often been the theological vanguard for cultural colonization, resource extraction, and the appropriation of local traditions into a homogenized Christian framework. The 21st-century political project of certain Christian nationalists is the domestic application of this imperial logic: to colonize the secular public square, claim its resources (legal, educational, cultural) for their sectarian vision, and establish a new Pax Americana Christi.
The promised end of this vision is a millennial reign—a thousand-year rule by Christ that will finally solve all the problems his followers declined to address through compassion and justice in the present age. It is the ultimate deferral, and it carries a terrifying implication: if the world is soon to be remade by force, then its current suffering, its biodiversity, its complex tapestry of “other” cultures and beliefs, hold no intrinsic value. They are merely props on a stage awaiting demolition. This eschatological certainty justifies a “judgmental disregard of life itself,” for all that matters is sorting souls for the coming cataclysm and securing power to preside over the transition.
Thus, the commentary on America today is this: a significant and powerful strand of its Christianity has become a religion of conquest and comfort, not of cross and costly love. It venerates power, sanctifies tribe, and trades the prophet’s burden of responsibility for the politician’s promise of dominion. It has forgotten its own subversive origins—a Galilean preacher executed by an empire for threatening its moral order—and has, in many ways, become the empire itself, anxiously building its walls and parsing scripture for verses to arm its gates.
It is a tragic departure from a tradition that also produced St. Francis, the abolitionists, Dorothy Day, and Martin Luther King Jr.—figures who read the same text and heard a call to radical responsibility, identification with the marginalized, and the transformative, here-and-now work of building a kingdom “on earth as it is in heaven.”
The challenge, then, is not to the idea of God, but to the human institutions that claim to speak for Him. It is a challenge from within the very tradition they claim to uphold: a call to reject idolatry—the idolatry of nation, of power, of a customized God—and return to the terrifying, liberating responsibility of loving one’s neighbour, tending the garden, and building a just peace in this world, without deferral, and without excuse.