Ash Wednesday's Ashes: When Faith Becomes a Weapon in the Hands of Power

By Pastor David Whitmore | Circus of Power | February 18, 2026

As the smudges of ash settle on foreheads across the country today, marking the start of Lent, I find myself reflecting on a question that weighs heavily on my heart: What does it mean to bear the cross of Christ in a nation where faith is increasingly wielded as a shield for political ambition rather than a call to humble service? Ash Wednesday invites us to confront our mortality and sin, to turn from the idols we chase—power, security, victory—and return to the Lord with all our heart, as the prophet Joel urged: "Rend your hearts and not your garments" (Joel 2:13). Yet, in this season of introspection, a chorus of voices from within the church is rising, not in triumphant anthems, but in a somber plea for resistance against what they see as the distortion of the Gospel itself.

This morning, as I sipped coffee in my study overlooking the rolling hills of rural Tennessee, news of a remarkable statement broke through the usual clamor of headlines. More than 400 Christian leaders—denominational heads, seminary presidents, pastors from evangelical, mainline, and Catholic traditions—have signed an open letter on this very day, Ash Wednesday, urging believers to resist the "cruel and oppressive" policies of the current administration. Reported by Religion News Service, the declaration isn't a partisan screed but a moral cry, rooted in the spirit of Lent's call to repentance and justice. "The administration's policies are cruel," it reads, "and we urge resistance in the spirit of Ash Wednesday." These aren't fringe activists; they include respected figures like Bishop William Barber, whose work on poverty and racial justice echoes the prophets, and leaders from seminaries that have shaped generations of ministers.

What grieves me most is how this moment lays bare the growing rift in American Christianity, particularly the rise of what pollsters call Christian nationalism—a fusion of faith and patriotism that often prioritizes cultural dominance over the selfless love of neighbor commanded by Jesus. A recent 50-state survey by the Public Religion Research Institute (PRRI) reveals stark numbers: 56% of Republicans qualify as adherents to Christian nationalism, with three in ten Americans overall sympathizing with the idea that the U.S. was founded as a Christian nation and that its laws should reflect that heritage. In my own congregation of 3,000 souls here in Tennessee, where Sunday services swell with hardworking families who vote Republican down the ballot as I do, these findings hit close to home. Many of my congregants nod along to hymns of American exceptionalism, seeing in them a bulwark against a secular world. But as the PRRI data underscores, this sympathy doubles among Trump backers, turning faith into a tribal marker rather than a universal witness.

I remember my grandfather, a quiet farmer who served in World War II, coming home not with tales of glory but with stories of the mud and the mercy he showed to captured enemies. "Son," he'd say, quoting Micah 6:8, "what does the Lord require of you but to do justice, love kindness, and walk humbly with your God?" He voted conservatively his whole life, believing in limited government and the sanctity of life, but he never confused the flag with the cross. Today, as Christian nationalism gains ground—framed by some as a defense of religious liberty—it risks inverting that humility into a quest for control. The U.S. Conference of Catholic Bishops (USCCB) highlighted this in their recent religious liberty report, outlining six critical concerns under the current administration: restrictive federal grants that punish faith-based organizations for not aligning with certain policies, barriers to sacraments for ICE detainees, and immigration injustices that treat the stranger with suspicion rather than the compassion Leviticus 19:34 demands: "The foreigner residing among you must be treated as your native-born. Love them as yourself."

Consider the lawsuit filed by Americans United for Separation of Church and State against the administration's newly minted Religious Liberty Commission. Critics argue it's biased, favoring evangelical priorities while sidelining pluralism and the religious freedoms of other groups—Muslims, Jews, even dissenting Christians. This isn't abstract; it's a direct threat to the religious liberty we conservatives have long championed. In my PhD work at Fuller Seminary, I studied how early church fathers like Augustine warned against conflating the City of God with any earthly empire. When faith leaders like those 400 signers call for resistance, they're echoing that wisdom, not out of hatred for America, but love for the church's true mission. As Sojourners magazine reflected in a timely Ash Wednesday piece, Lent asks us to rethink our allegiances to figures like Donald Trump, not to shame supporters—many of whom are dear friends and flock members—but to reclaim the Gospel from the grip of power.

This isn't mere theological nitpicking; it has real-world consequences that touch the lives of those I pastor. In a state like Tennessee, where evangelicalism thrives amid barbecue joints and bluegrass festivals, the politicization of faith has led to a heartbreaking exodus. Younger believers, weary of what they see as hypocrisy—cheering tax cuts while ignoring the widow and orphan (James 1:27)—are drifting away. The PRRI survey notes that Christian nationalism correlates with support for policies that, while aimed at protecting traditional values like pro-life stances and marriage, often come at the expense of decency. Take immigration: the administration's crackdowns, including proposals to block federal funds to states aiding migrants, clash with the biblical imperative to welcome the sojourner. Pro-life leaders have even raised alarms about pregnant women detained by ICE, arguing that "unborn children are dying" in such conditions, as reported by the Catholic Review. How can we proclaim the sanctity of life from the womb while turning a blind eye to the vulnerable at our borders?

And yet, amid this sorrow, there's a glimmer of hope that feels almost Lenten in its quiet resolve. The 400 leaders' statement isn't a call to arms but to non-violent opposition, inspired by Jesus' own resistance to empire through truth and sacrifice. On X, the hashtag #ChristianResistance is gaining traction—over 2,000 mentions today—with posts mixing encouragement ("Finally, a voice for the prophetic church!") and pushback ("Deep state infiltrating the pulpit!"). But even the backlash reveals a hunger for authenticity. In my sermons this Lenten season, I'll be drawing from these voices, urging my congregation to examine not just personal sins but our collective complicity in a system that idolizes strongmen over the Suffering Servant.

America doesn't need more policy wins or cultural wars; it needs revival—a turning of hearts toward the eternal values that outlast any administration. As the ashes remind us, we're dust, and to dust we shall return, but in Christ, we're called to rise in humility and justice. To my fellow believers, especially those wrestling with loyalty to party and faith: Let's heed Joel's call this Lent. Rend your hearts. Resist what distorts the Gospel. And in doing so, perhaps we can reclaim a witness that draws the world not to Washington, but to Calvary.

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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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