The Reckoning Awaiting American Evangelicalism

When the political fever breaks, what will remain of the Christian witness?

There's a passage in Jeremiah that has haunted me lately: "They dress the wound of my people as though it were not serious. 'Peace, peace,' they say, when there is no peace" (Jeremiah 6:14). I think about this verse when I consider what historians will someday call the Trump evangelical moment—a period when a significant portion of American Christianity bound itself so tightly to political power that it may have forfeited its moral authority for a generation.

We need to speak plainly about what is coming. At some point—whether in two years or six—this fever will break. There will be a sociopolitical shift, as there always is. Policies will be reversed, investigations will conclude, historians will render their verdicts. The damage will be assessed: families separated at borders, environmental protections dismantled, public institutions weakened, the social fabric strained to breaking. Americans in the very communities that voted most enthusiastically for this administration will tally the costs of tariffs that destroyed local industries, healthcare policies that left neighbors uninsured, and the normalization of cruelty as a governing principle. But the question that should keep thoughtful Christians awake at night is this: What will be left of evangelicalism?

I'm thinking specifically of what some are now calling "Trump Evangelicalism"—not merely Christians who voted Republican, but those who transformed support for a thrice-married casino magnate into a kind of religious devotion. This isn't about policy preferences or judicial appointments. It's about the faithful who defend the administration's treatment of asylum seekers, who justify the mockery of the disabled, who explain away the lies, who rationalize the vindictiveness. It's about Christians who have made MAGA rallies into worship services and political loyalty into a test of faith.

The numbers tell a sobering story. White evangelicals haven't just supported Trump; they've been his most reliable base, with approval ratings consistently above 75 percent. In counties across the Midwest and South where evangelical churches dominate the landscape, communities have been devastated by the very policies they voted for. Yet the defense continues, the justifications multiply, the witness grows dimmer.

How will Americans remember these Christians when the political moment passes? I suspect the answer is: as people who cared more about power than about the gospel they claimed to proclaim. As communities that prioritized their political tribe over "the least of these" that Jesus commanded them to serve (Matthew 25:40). As believers who somehow read the Sermon on the Mount—"Blessed are the merciful," "Blessed are the peacemakers," "Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness" (Matthew 5:7-9)—and concluded that the appropriate Christian response was to defend an administration characterized by retribution, division, and the systematic erosion of truth-telling in public life.

The damage to Christian witness is already profound. A generation of young people is walking away from churches that they see as hypocritical. When your grandparents' church defends putting children in cages while displaying "Jesus loves the little children" in the nursery, you notice the contradiction. When pastors who preached sexual purity for decades suddenly explain why character doesn't matter in leadership, you notice. When churches that claimed to care about honesty and integrity become factories for conspiracy theories, you notice.

This raises an uncomfortable question that I hear more frequently from younger evangelicals: Should Trump evangelicals even be considered Christian?

I don't ask this flippantly. The markers of Christian identity have historically been doctrinal—belief in the Trinity, the divinity of Christ, salvation through grace. But Jesus himself suggested that the true test might be different: "By their fruit you will recognize them" (Matthew 7:16). When the fruit is indifference to suffering, when it's the demonization of immigrants, when it's the celebration of strength over compassion, when it's the twisting of scripture to justify the unjustifiable—what are we to conclude?

Paul wrote to the church in Galatians about "the fruit of the Spirit: love, joy, peace, forbearance, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness and self-control." Then he added, pointedly, "Against such things there is no law" (Galatians 5:22-23). The implication is clear: these are the non-negotiable marks of authentic Christian faith. When a movement consistently produces the opposite fruits—anger, division, harshness, faithlessness, aggression—we should at minimum question whether it remains recognizably Christian.

The collateral damage extends beyond Trump evangelicalism itself. Thousands of churches across America have nothing to do with this political movement. They're quietly serving their communities—running food banks, mentoring troubled kids, visiting prisoners, caring for the sick. They're preaching a gospel that actually sounds like Jesus. They're trying to love their neighbors without asking about voter registration.

Yet these churches will bear the burden of the association. When evangelicalism becomes synonymous with Trump evangelicalism in the public mind, every church with "evangelical" in its tradition suffers the reputational cost. The Muslim community knows this dynamic well—how the actions of extremists taint the perception of an entire faith. Now Bible-believing Christians who have tried to maintain integrity will find themselves lumped together with those who traded the gospel for political influence.

The political implications are equally serious. For decades, evangelicals enjoyed outsize influence in American politics because they were perceived—rightly or wrongly—as representing a moral voice. Politicians courted their support because it came with an assumption of ethical seriousness. That credibility is evaporating. When the next generation of political leaders looks at evangelicalism, they won't see moral authority; they'll see a voting bloc that can be manipulated through fear and tribal loyalty. The prophetic voice will have been squandered. This is the bitter irony: In grasping for political power, Trump evangelicalism has hastened its own political marginalization. The movement that thought it was saving Christian America may have made Christian America impossible.

So what can be done? How do faithful Christians and denominations separate themselves from this political apostasy and preserve the witness of the gospel?

First, they must name the problem clearly. Too many evangelical leaders have remained silent or offered only tepid criticism, afraid of dividing their congregations or losing influence. But as Bonhoeffer reminded us, "Silence in the face of evil is itself evil." Churches and denominations must explicitly reject the conflation of Christianity with any political movement. They must state clearly that Christian nationalism is heresy, that the pursuit of political power at the expense of Christian virtue is idolatry. As the apostle John wrote, "Dear children, keep yourselves from idols" (1 John 5:21).

Second, they must return to scripture—not as a political weapon, but as a guide to faithful living. When Jesus says, "Whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers and sisters of mine, you did for me" (Matthew 25:40), that should shape immigration policy views more than partisan talking points. When the prophet Micah declares that God requires us "to act justly and to love mercy and to walk humbly with your God" (Micah 6:8), that should be the standard by which we evaluate all political engagement. When the writer of Hebrews commands us to "Keep on loving one another as brothers and sisters" and to "not forget to show hospitality to strangers" (Hebrews 13:1-2), we cannot defend policies that criminalize compassion.

Third, they must embrace costly discipleship. The church in America has grown comfortable, wealthy, and safe. We've forgotten that Jesus promised persecution, not prosperity. He called his followers to take up their crosses (Luke 9:23), not to seize political power. The path forward requires churches to choose faithfulness over influence, integrity over access, prophetic witness over partisan advantage. Paul reminded Timothy that "everyone who wants to live a godly life in Christ Jesus will be persecuted" (2 Timothy 3:12)—yet Trump evangelicalism seems determined to avoid any suffering that might come from standing against injustice.

Fourth, they must rebuild trust through years of consistent, humble service. The damage done in four or eight years won't be repaired quickly. Churches must show through decades of loving their neighbors—all their neighbors—that they serve a kingdom not of this world. They must demonstrate that the gospel truly is good news for the poor, the immigrant, the marginalized. James makes this plain: "Religion that God our Father accepts as pure and faultless is this: to look after orphans and widows in their distress and to keep oneself from being polluted by the world" (James 1:27).

Fifth, they must recover the practice of church discipline. Paul instructed the Corinthians to expel the immoral brother from their midst (1 Corinthians 5:13), not as punishment but to preserve the integrity of the community. Churches that have allowed political idolatry to flourish in their midst must be willing to say clearly: this is not consistent with Christian faith. That may mean losing members, money, or cultural influence. So be it. Better a smaller church that bears faithful witness than a full one that has lost its salt. Jesus warned, "You are the salt of the earth. But if the salt loses its saltiness, how can it be made salty again? It is no longer good for anything, except to be thrown out and trampled underfoot" (Matthew 5:13).

Sixth, they must prioritize truth-telling in an age of lies. The ninth commandment's prohibition against bearing false witness (Exodus 20:16) hasn't been repealed. When Christians defend obvious falsehoods or spread conspiracy theories, they violate this fundamental command. The psalms declare that "The Lord detests lying lips, but he delights in people who are trustworthy" (Proverbs 12:22). Churches must become sanctuaries of truth in a culture drowning in deception.

Finally, they must teach their members to hold political convictions with humility. Christians can and will disagree about tax policy, health care systems, and foreign relations. That's appropriate in a democracy. But we must stop baptizing our political preferences as divine mandates. We must recognize that people of genuine faith can reach different prudential judgments about how to pursue justice and mercy in a complex world. Paul's counsel to the Romans remains relevant: "Accept the one whose faith is weak, without quarreling over disputable matters" (Romans 14:1).

I think often of what Jesus said to the Pharisees—the religious leaders of his day who had accumulated political influence and cultural power: "You have neglected the more important matters of the law—justice, mercy and faithfulness" (Matthew 23:23). Trump evangelicalism has pursued power while neglecting justice, sacrificed mercy for political victories, and abandoned faithfulness for expedience.

The reckoning is coming. It always does. Political movements rise and fall. Administrations come and go. Policies are enacted and reversed. But the question of whether American evangelicalism will emerge with its witness intact—that remains to be seen.

What I know is this: The gospel doesn't need political power to advance. The early church conquered Rome not through political influence but through love, service, and willingness to suffer. The church has always been most faithful when it has been most powerless, most prophetic when it has been most marginal. Paul boasted not in strength but in weakness, declaring, "When I am weak, then I am strong" (2 Corinthians 12:10).

Perhaps this moment of crisis is an opportunity for renewal. Perhaps when evangelicalism loses its political influence, it might rediscover its gospel mission. Perhaps in the wilderness years to come, a remnant will emerge that has learned again what it means to follow Jesus rather than political leaders, to build the kingdom of God rather than partisan coalitions.

But that will require courage, repentance, and a willingness to walk a costly path. It will require Christians to remember that we are "foreigners and exiles" in this world (1 Peter 2:11), that our citizenship is in heaven (Philippians 3:20), that we serve a king whose kingdom operates by entirely different principles than the kingdoms of this world.

As Jesus reminded Pilate: "My kingdom is not of this world" (John 18:36). It's time American evangelicals started acting like they believe it.