Christianity and the Cult of Power
This is precisely the temptation Jesus faced in the wilderness.
In Luke 4, the devil shows Jesus “all the kingdoms of the world” and says, “To you I will give their glory and all this authority… if you, then, will worship me, it will all be yours.” This is not just a temptation toward personal ambition—it is a temptation toward control, toward domination, toward the ability to shape the world through power. And Jesus refuses it.
Can I repeat that? Jesus refuses control, glory, power, and dominion.
He refuses not because the kingdoms aren’t real, but because the means of gaining them—and the kind of rule they require—are incompatible with the reign of God.
What’s striking is how familiar this temptation feels. We are constantly told that if we can just win—win elections, win cultural battles, win influence, own the libs, or fight the fascists—then we can finally do good in the world. But in the process, we make compromises. We justify tactics. We align ourselves with forces that do not look like Christ. And all the while, we call it faithfulness. We justify backing immoral power brokers because we convince ourselves that in the battle for the culture, the ends will justify the means.
But Jesus never pursued victory in that way.
In fact, the entire arc of Jesus life moves in the opposite direction. “The Son of Man came not to be served but to serve, and to give his life as a ransom for many” (Mark 10:45). When the disciples argue about who is the greatest, Jesus responds by redefining greatness itself: “Whoever wants to be first must be last of all and servant of all” (Mark 9:35). This is not just a moral teaching—it is a complete inversion of the logic of power.
The cross is the ultimate expression of this inversion.
From the perspective of the world, the cross is an utter loss. It is defeat, humiliation, and the stripping away of all power. It would pose an existential crisis to many of us Christians in the American power cult. And yet, for Christians following in the way of Christ, the cross is the very place where God is most fully revealed. As the Apostle Paul writes, “God chose what is weak in the world to shame the strong… so that no one might boast in the presence of God” (1 Corinthians 1:27–29). The cross exposes the emptiness of power and reveals a different kind of victory—one that looks like self-giving love.
This is why it is so deeply ironic that Christianity has become entangled in the pursuit of political power in America. The lines between faith and partisan identity have blurred to the point where it can be difficult to tell where one ends and the other begins. In fact, religious affiliation has become largely determined by political leaning, rather than the other way around (see Ryan Burge's research in The Vanishing Church). But the more Christianity is co-opted into this power struggle, the less it resembles the way of Jesus.
Because Christianity, at its core, is not about winning.
If anything, it is a faith for losers—not in the sense of failure or worthlessness, but in the sense of solidarity with those who lose in the systems of this world. “Blessed are you who are poor… blessed are you who hunger now… blessed are you who weep now” (Luke 6:20–21). These are not abstract spiritual statements. They are concrete declarations about who God is and who God is for.
To follow Jesus is to locate ourselves among these people.
It means that whenever power is being exerted—especially when it is being justified in the name of Christianity—the Christian is called to stand with the one on the receiving end of that power. If “Christian” power is used to marginalize a Muslim, then the Christian stands with the Muslim. If it is used to exclude an immigrant, the Christian stands with the immigrant. If it is used to demean an atheist, the Christian stands with the atheist.
This should not surprise us. These were, after all, Jesus’ people.
He ate with tax collectors and sinners (Luke 5:29–32). He praised the faith of a Roman centurion (Luke 7:1–10). He told a parable in which the hero was a Samaritan—a religious and ethnic outsider (Luke 10:25–37). Again and again, Jesus aligned himself with those who were overlooked, excluded, or despised. Not because they were morally superior, but because they were the ones on whom power was being exercised.
This is what makes the idea of a “Christian nation” so oxymoronic.
If we take Jesus seriously, a truly Christian nation would not be one that wields power in his name (which is probably closer to what the third commandment meant than saying "Christ" when you stub your toe), but one that gives its power away. It would look less like dominance and more like service. Less like control and more like generosity. Less like homogeneity and more like diversity. It would prioritize the poor, the hungry, the stranger, the sick, the immigrant—not as a strategy, but as a way of life.
But that kind of nation would be almost unrecognizable by the standards we are used to, and quite untenable at that.
Christians are called to step out of the anxiety of winning and losing and into a different kind of faithfulness. “Do not worry about your life,” Jesus says (Matthew 6:25). This includes, perhaps especially, our collective life—our fears about what will happen if “our side” loses. In fact, we must always assume loss.
We are called to a steady, embodied solidarity.
To advocate for the weak and to feed the hungry (Matthew 25:35).
To welcome the stranger (Matthew 25:35).
To care for the sick (Matthew 25:36).
To share our resources so that it can be said of us: “there was not a needy person among them” (Acts 4:34).
This is where our energy belongs.
Not in endless outrage, not in partisan panic, but in the quiet, persistent work of love. In showing up for those who are hurting. In giving rather than accumulating. In building communities where people are seen, fed, and cared for regardless of their religious affiliation or legal status.
This is a message for every side of the political divide.
Because the temptation toward power is not limited to one party or ideology. It is a human temptation. And the call of Jesus cuts across all of it: to relinquish the need to win, and to embrace the way of the cross.
Christians must always see the losing side as their side.
Not because losing is inherently good, but because that is where Christ is found. “Whatever you did to one of the least of these… you did to me” (Matthew 25:40). If we want to know where to stand, the answer is always the same: stand where Jesus stands.
And more often than not, that will be with those who have lost.