The Kingdom, the Power, and the Glory: American Evangelicals in an Age of Extremism

by Tim Alberta

Winans was quick to clarify something. “I have affection for America. I’m glad I live here. But my citizenship is not here. It cannot be here,” he said. “We’re clinging to something in America that is a sad parody of what Jesus has already won. We have a kingdom awaiting us, but we’re trying to appropriate a part of this world and call it a kingdom.”

The implications, political and spiritual, were profound. Whereas Falwell had once treated theology as the imperative—prioritizing saving the individual soul, believing that America’s redemption was downstream from mass conversion—he was now operating in reverse, setting aside religious differences and working with non-Christians toward a supposed national salvation.

But Moore was just getting started. He couldn’t fathom how evangelicals—especially Southern Baptists—were making peace with Trump’s candidacy. It was the SBC that in 1998 responded to Bill Clinton’s affair with White House intern Monica Lewinsky by passing a resolution that famously stated: “Tolerance of serious wrong by leaders sears the conscience of the culture, spawns unrestrained immorality and lawlessness in the society, and surely results in God’s judgment.”

It makes for an unflattering comparison, he told me, with the attitude of the American Church. Much of what drives evangelicals here is “fear that we’re losing our country, fear that we’re losing our power,” Dickson said. “And it’s so unhealthy. We should think of ourselves as eager dinner guests at someone else’s banquet. We are happy to be there, happy to share our perspective. But we are always respectful, always humble, because this isn’t our home.”

“The Bible definitely portrays a spiritual battle that’s ongoing. The problem is, a lot of Christians believe they’re engaging in that battle by promoting a political platform, and they treat that political battle as if the kingdom of God is at stake,” Winans told me. “But the kingdom of God isn’t at stake. The Bible clearly tells us that our struggle is not against flesh and blood. What Christ accomplished on the cross is not threatened by Donald Trump losing an election.”

The way for Christianity to permeate the culture, he insisted, was by tackling these great debates of our time: abortion, homosexuality, transgenderism. I didn’t bother questioning why Connelly always listed the same narrow set of topics; the answer was apparent. Talking about other clear-cut biblical issues—such as caring for the poor and welcoming the refugee and refusing the temptation of wealth—did not animate the conservative base ahead of an election. (Or, relatedly, manifest as moral imperatives nearly as often on Fox News.)

It all just felt so trivial. If we believe that Jesus has defeated death, why are we consumed with winning a political campaign? Why should we care that we’re losing power on this earth when God has the power to forgive sins and save souls? And why should we obsess over America when Jesus has gifted us citizenship in heaven?

If Jesus warned us that what comes out of our mouths reveals what resides in our hearts, how can we shrug off lies and hate speech as mere political rhetoric? If Christians are called to reflect the awesome power of a God who renews minds and transforms hearts—who dwells within us, seeking our complete devotion to Him, commanding us to lead lives of truth and love that might shine His light in a darkened world—how can there be a special exemption for politics?

Thomas had no issue lauding Trump one day and lashing him the next; taking Republicans to task for falling short of certain moral standards and praising Democrats for meeting others. His organizing principle was not a party platform, but the Sermon on the Mount. Instead of considering his faith in the context of his politics, Thomas considered his politics in the context of his faith.

“A Christian witness is always best when not from a position of power as defined by the outside world,” Moore said. He quoted the essayist Wendell Berry: “If change is to come, it will have to come from the margins.”

“When you ask the average person, what do you think it means to be a Christian? They’ll say, pro-Trump, Republican, right-wing, anti-abortion, don’t like gays. They’ll go down the list,” Thomas told me. “Well, why would they say that? Because that’s what we’re modeling before the world. Those are our public priorities—not these other things, which get so little attention from man but all the attention from God.”

The notion that God was “calling” on Christians to “take back” their country—especially by force—is laughably incompatible with the teachings of Christ. It was Jesus who subverted the authorities with teachings of obedience and edicts of nonviolence; it was Jesus who mocked His captors for brandishing weapons as they arrested Him. “Am I leading a rebellion, that you have come out with swords and clubs to capture me?” He asked.

It turns out, when a pastor decides that churches should do more than just worship God, congregants decide that their pastor should do more than just preach.

Jesus’s words to Pilate echo throughout all of scripture. True power is not reflected in kingdoms, administrations, or campaigns, because these things are counterfeits of God’s original, supreme authority. The power to raise taxes is not the power to raise Jesus from the dead; the power to seat senators is not the power to seat Jesus at the right hand of the Father. Every biblical reference to power—every prayer, every reflection, every instruction—affirms that God is all-powerful, and that to the extent He vests that power in man, it is to proclaim God’s kingdom, God’s power, and God’s glory.

“Put on the full armor of God,” DeSantis would say, “and take a stand against the left’s schemes.” In substituting “the left” for “the devil,” DeSantis wasn’t just counting on the biblical illiteracy of his listeners. He was banking on a nationalist fervor that rendered scriptural restraint irrelevant. He was confident that evangelicals in the audience would agree that he knew better than Paul; that the real enemy is the left; that the real struggle is against flesh and blood; that the real power belongs to a politician who can ignore Anthony Fauci’s coronavirus protocols and eliminate Disney World’s tax exemptions.

Zahnd’s tone became more direct. “The writer of Hebrews understands that the glory of the latter temple is not a nation of this world, but the unshakable kingdom of Christ,” he told us. “If you place your hope in the politics of this world, you will be greatly shaken.”

“I have so little faith in America. But fortunately, I’m sustained by a faith placed elsewhere,” Zahnd said. “It doesn’t mean I don’t care about America; it just means I place my faith elsewhere. I place it in a kingdom that cannot be shaken, and that is the kingdom of Christ, and that is the glory of the latter temple that is greater than anything that has ever been or ever will be. Amen and amen.” “Amen,” nodded the people around me.

“Christianity is inherently countercultural. That’s how it thrives. When it tries to become a dominant culture, it becomes corrupted. That’s been the case from the very beginning,” Zahnd said. “This is one major difference between Islam and Christianity. Islam has designs on running the world; it’s a system of government. Christianity is nothing like that. The gospels and the epistles have no vision of Christianity being a dominant religion or culture.”

I countered by telling Zahnd what these pastors would say about him—that he’s woke, that he’s lukewarm, that he’s a coward for not taking a stand and fighting to advance biblical principles in a broken world. “Taking a stand,” Zahnd scoffed. “There’s this false assumption of action we’re called to take. The task of the Church is simply to be the Church. All of this high-blown rhetoric about changing the world—we don’t need to change the world. We’re not called to change the world. We’re called to be the world already changed by Christ. That’s how we’re salt; that’s how we’re light.” He looked incredulous. “I talk about Jesus all the time. I talk about Jesus constantly. But I talk about Jesus in the context of His kingdom,” Zahnd said. “The idea that Jesus is some mascot for the donkeys or the elephants—it’s a catastrophe for the gospel.” The pastor told me he was offended—not upset, or hurt, or angry, but offended—by what the American Church had become. God does not tolerate idols competing for His glory, Zahnd said, and neither should anyone who claims to worship Him. “You can take up the sword of Caesar or you can take up the cross of Jesus,” Zahnd told me. “You have to choose.”

Although their politics were quite divergent—Chang a moderate pro-life Democrat, French an archconservative who’d abandoned the Republican Party—they shared religious convictions to which everything else was subordinate. Both men had witnessed the unraveling of the evangelical movement. Both men had watched bad actors strong-arm the Church in pursuit of a partisan agenda. Both men agreed that something needed to be done about it.

“The thing is, Christianity is exploding across the globe—in China, in Iran, all over Africa. But we’re struggling in America. If we don’t humble ourselves, if we don’t start treating people in a way that glorifies God, we’re going to squander what’s left of our credibility here,” Darling said. “I think we’d all do well to remember: God’s plan for the ages has nothing to do with America. We need Him. He doesn’t need us.”

“Our disease in America is the same as anywhere else: sin. But in America, we’ve used our prosperity to hide it. I think we’ve grown accustomed to worshipping the blessings of God instead of the blesser,” he said. “Those blessings have become our god. That’s why you see Christians gripping on to the things of this world with sweaty palms. We’re too busy trying to stay on top, trying to be in charge of things, instead of being misfits who are saved by grace.”