When Faith Becomes a Flag: The Peril of Christian Nationalism in America's Soul

By Pastor David Whitmore | Circus of Power | February 17, 2026

What does it profit a nation to gain the world and lose its soul? I've pondered that question these past days, echoing Jesus' words to a rich young ruler who clung to his wealth rather than following the call to radical generosity (Mark 10:21). Today, as the Public Religion Research Institute (PRRI) unveils a sobering report on Christian nationalism, that ancient query feels painfully relevant. Based on interviews with over 22,000 Americans in 2025, the study reveals that fully one-third—30%—of us believe the United States should be declared a "Christian nation," with laws explicitly reflecting Christian values. Among white evangelicals like many in my own congregation, that figure climbs to 60%. And among supporters of President Trump, it's a stark 68%. These aren't abstract numbers; they're a mirror held up to our divided hearts, asking whether we're building God's kingdom or merely draping it in the stars and stripes.

As a pastor in rural Tennessee, where church steeples dot the landscape like sentinels of simpler times, I've long wrestled with how faith intersects with politics. My grandfather, who stormed the beaches of Normandy in World War II, taught me that true patriotism flows from sacrifice, not slogans. He fought for a nation that welcomed the stranger, echoing Leviticus 19:34: "The foreigner residing among you must be treated as your native-born. Love them as yourself." Yet here we are, in an era where faith is increasingly weaponized as a political cudgel, turning the Gospel's universal embrace into a selective shield for one group's power. The PRRI report isn't just data; it's a diagnostic on the health of our communal soul, revealing fractures that threaten to undermine the very decency that makes America worth redeeming.

Let's be clear about what the report uncovers. Conducted amid the turbulence of President Trump's second term, it spotlights how Christian nationalism—a belief that fuses American identity with a particular brand of Christianity—has taken root, especially in the South and among Republicans. In states like Texas and Georgia, "sympathizers" are pushing policies from mandatory school prayer to "Bible literacy" mandates that blur the line between civic education and indoctrination. Nationally, 83% of those who embrace this view also back Trump, tying it inextricably to the MAGA movement. PRRI's CEO, Robert P. Jones, doesn't mince words: "This isn't Christianity; it's nationalism weaponizing Jesus." He's right. When faith becomes a litmus test for citizenship, we risk echoing the Pharisees of old, who prioritized ritual over righteousness and excluded the outcast in the name of purity.

I see this tension playing out in my own church, Grace Community, where 3,000 souls gather each Sunday. Many are good folks—farmers, teachers, factory workers—who voted Republican down-ballot because they cherish life, family, and religious liberty, values I hold dear. But a growing number wave flags alongside crosses, quoting verses out of context to justify policies that feel more vengeful than redemptive. Take the ongoing government shutdown over Department of Homeland Security funding, now in its second partial halt this year. Democrats demand oversight like body cameras for agents and raid restrictions in sensitive places—schools, hospitals, even churches—while the Trump administration decries it as sabotage. Deportations have surged past 675,000 in the president's first year back, straining families and communities. As a pro-life advocate, I grieve the hidden toll on pregnant refugees and children caught in the crossfire, reminding us of Matthew 25's judgment: "Whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers and sisters of mine, you did for me."

This isn't to pick sides in the partisan fray—both parties have their idols—but to mourn how Christian nationalism amplifies division. On X, where #ChristianNation trended with over 80,000 posts today, the debate rages. Proponents, including Trump spiritual advisor Paula White-Cain, celebrate: "Faith built America—time to reclaim it." Others, like evangelical leader Russell Moore in Christianity Today, warn of "idolatry masking as patriotism." Moore's voice resonates with me; he's a brother in Christ who's seen the church's witness corroded by proximity to power. When 55% of Republicans and 60% of white evangelicals buy into this fusion, it fosters an "us versus them" mentality that Galatians 3:28 dismantles: "There is neither Jew nor Gentile, neither slave nor free, nor is there male and female, for you are all one in Christ Jesus." The Kingdom Jesus proclaimed isn't confined to borders or ballots; it's a realm of humility and healing, not conquest.

And yet, the allure is understandable. In a world of eroding truths—witness Hillary Clinton's fresh accusations of an Epstein files cover-up by the Trump White House, reviving shadows of elite impunity—people crave certainty. Trump's Truth Social posts decry the shutdown as "fake news," while polls show 52% blaming Republicans for the impasse. Amid such chaos, Christian nationalism offers a tidy narrative: America as God's chosen, reclaimable through strength. But history whispers caution. My studies at Fuller Seminary delved into how empires have co-opted faith, from Constantine's Rome to modern theocracies. John 18:36 captures Jesus' rejection of such entanglements: "My kingdom is not of this world. If it were, my servants would fight." When we pledge allegiance to a flag-wrapped cross, we risk fighting the wrong battles, alienating seekers who see hypocrisy over hope.

The PRRI findings tie directly to broader currents, like the departure of DHS spokesperson Tricia McLaughlin, who defended mass deportations amid reports of "disgusting conditions" in detention camps. Conservatives hail her as a patriot; critics see cracks in a facade of cruelty. Even as Iranian nuclear talks stagnate today—enrichment at 90% weapons-grade, per IAEA reports—reminding us of Micah 4's plea to "beat swords into plowshares," domestic nationalism distracts from global compassion. Refugee flows from potential Middle East escalation could swell our borders, testing whether we'll welcome the stranger or fortify the walls.

This isn't a call to retreat from politics; God placed us here to be salt and light. But salt preserves; it doesn't dominate. As evangelicals, we've traded pulpits for rallies, prosperity gospels for power plays, forgetting that true revival starts in broken hearts, not ballot boxes. A Gallup poll shows 55% of Americans now view immigration policies as "too harsh," up from 42% last year—a sign that conscience stirs even in the weary. In my sermons, I urge congregants to reclaim the prophetic voice: Speak for the unborn, yes, but also for the detained families from Haiti whose TPS was terminated by the Trump administration. Champion religious liberty, but not at the expense of the Jewish critics mocked at White House hearings, as the Wall Street Journal reported this week.

Hope glimmers in the margins. The PRRI report notes only 18% of Democrats embrace this nationalism, but cross-aisle dialogues—like tonight's CNN special on "The Rise of Christian Nationalism"—could bridge divides. Evangelical voices like Tim Keller, whose writings continue to guide us posthumously, remind: "Nationalism corrupts the church's witness." Keller would point to the early church, persecuted yet peaceful, growing not by decree but by love. Imagine if we poured that energy into mentoring youth, feeding the hungry through faith-based aid (now at risk from shutdown delays), or simply listening across divides. Revival isn't a policy win; it's a return to Jesus' way—meek, merciful, making peace.

My friends, as we navigate this circus of power, let's choose the narrow path. Not because it's easy, but because it's eternal. In the quiet of prayer, ask: Is my faith shaping my politics, or is politics reshaping my faith? For the sake of our children's children, may we choose wisely, loving God and neighbor in a nation that desperately needs both.

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Pastor David Whitmore leads Grace Community Church in Tennessee and writes on faith, character, and the moral dimensions of public life.

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