Tag: christianity

Week 39: The Body of Christ Online

by Searching For Jesus in America

Who: Me, Myself, and I

Church: Red Bank and The Point Church

Lunch: Our Airbnb in Pikesville, Tennessee

Topic: Is “online church” an oxymoron?

Online churches surged in popularity during the pandemic. As in-person gatherings were restricted, many congregations transitioned to virtual services to maintain community and worship. As restrictions eased, in-person attendance began to rebound and by May 2023, 26% of U.S. adults attended religious services in person, while virtual attendance decreased to 5%.  This indicates a preference among many for the traditional, communal aspects of worship.*

While two-thirds of those who regularly attend virtually report being “extremely” or “very” satisfied with online services, only 28% feel a strong connection to fellow worshipers.* This underscores the tension many people experience and the frustration many others express:

What is the purpose of the Sunday morning service?

I think most of us will agree that church isn’t about a building; it’s about a community of people committed to following Jesus. I will go a step further and say that the gathering of the church is about creating space to be shaped—together—by worship, teaching, service, and authentic relationships. It’s where we’re reminded of who God is, who we are, and what it means to live out the way of Jesus in a world that often pushes against it. In theory, it’s not just about consuming content or checking a spiritual box—it’s about showing up for one another, being transformed in community, and carrying that transformation into our everyday lives.

There are a lot of strings I could pull here, and maybe I will pull on more of them over the next three months. (Today’s post means I’m 75% through this little experiment.) But, for now, I want to focus on the tension points:

  • Incarnation vs. Information: Jesus came in the flesh, so some argue that church should reflect that physical, embodied reality.
  • Accessibility vs. Accountability: Online formats increase access (for the sick, disabled, isolated), but can decrease spiritual accountability and depth of connection.
  • Community vs. Consumption: Are we participating in the life of a church, or consuming content like a podcast?

Incarnation vs. Information: Why Embodied Community Still Matters

At the heart of Christianity is the Incarnation— Jesus came in person, in the flesh, and dwelt among us. His ministry wasn’t abstract or theoretical—it was deeply personal, physical, and rooted in human experience. He touched the sick, shared meals with strangers, wept with friends, and walked miles alongside his disciples. That embodied presence was central to how he revealed God’s love.

So when we talk about what church is meant to be, many argue that it should reflect that same incarnational reality—not just transferring information about Jesus, but modeling his way of being with people.

This doesn’t mean digital resources, online sermons, or Zoom small groups are inherently bad or unspiritual. They can serve powerful purposes—especially for people who are homebound, marginalized, or living in spiritual deserts. But if we reduce church to just information we consume—one-way teaching, disembodied worship, a curated online experience—we risk missing something vital: presence. The awkward, beautiful, sometimes inconvenient realness of being with other people in a room. In an age of endless content and screens, maybe the most countercultural, Christlike thing we can do is to show up. Physically. Consistently. Incarnationally.

Accessibility vs. Accountability in Online Church

One of the greatest strengths of online church is accessibility. For people who are homebound due to illness, disability, caregiving responsibilities, or social anxiety, digital services offer a lifeline—an invitation to stay connected to a faith community when showing up in person simply isn’t possible. It can also serve as a bridge for those exploring faith or recovering from spiritual trauma, providing a lower-barrier entry point into communal worship. In this sense, online church reflects a deep compassion, extending the reach of the gospel in ways that were once unimaginable.

But with that accessibility comes a potential trade-off: accountability.

Church isn’t just about watching a sermon. At its core, it’s about being formed in community—practicing forgiveness, sharing burdens, and being sharpened through real relationships. These are hard to replicate when your primary connection to the body of Christ is a screen and a live chat.

I also think it’s important to note that attending an in-person “church” doesn’t inherently equate to these things. There’s a strong argument to be made this also doesn’t exist in many traditional church settings either.

Regardless, when church becomes something we consume rather than a community we participate in, spiritual depth can suffer. There’s no one to ask the hard questions, to notice when you’re drifting, or to challenge you when your life doesn’t reflect your faith. It becomes easier to hide, to disengage, or to simply watch passively without engaging in transformation.

So while online church meets a real need—and absolutely has a place in our modern expressions of faith—we must ask how we’re reinforcing connection and accountability in those digital spaces. Accessibility and accountability aren’t enemies, but holding both in tension is essential for a church that both reaches people and roots them.

Community vs. Consumption: Is Church Something We Join or Just Something We Watch?

We live in a culture built on consumption. Streaming platforms serve us curated content 24/7. Podcasts, audiobooks, newsletters, and even spiritual resources are on demand—tailored to our preferences, available at our convenience, and consumable in isolation. So it’s no surprise that this mentality has crept into how we approach church.

When we reduce church to something we watch—a sermon on YouTube, a worship set on Instagram, a Bible verse in our feed—we risk turning something meant to be participatory and communal into something passive and individualistic.

We consume rather than commune. We observe rather than engage.

But the church was never meant to function like a podcast or a weekly broadcast. It’s not a spiritual TED Talk. To participate in the life of a church means to show up and be known—to offer your gifts, your presence, your voice, your story. It means being a part of something that shapes you, even when it’s uncomfortable or costly.

So the real question isn’t “Did I enjoy that sermon?” or “Did the music move me?” The question is: Am I being formed by community, or just entertained by content?

Church was never meant to be consumed. It was always meant to be lived.

And the hard truth is very simple, attending an in-person service on Sunday mornings doesn’t mean we’re living it either. We can sit in a pew, sing the songs, nod along to a sermon—and still remain disconnected, guarded, unchanged.

Living as the church means engaging with others beyond the sanctuary walls. It means pursuing relationships that sharpen us, serving in ways that stretch us, and choosing presence even when it’s inconvenient. It means asking hard questions, embracing accountability, and walking with people through joy and grief—not just for an hour on Sunday, but in the everyday.

So yes, online church has its limitations. But so does in-person attendance when we treat it like just another task to check off.

Church is not a product we consume or a building we visit.
It’s a people we belong to, a mission we step into, and a way of life we embody—together.

Week 38: The Religious Elite Will Hate You

by Searching For Jesus in America

Who: Hope

Church: Resurrection Church

Lunch: Potluck at the church

Topic: Being Present and Being Persecuted

This has been a pretty wild week for me—but not in the typical, overbooked-calendar kind of way. It’s more about life nudging me in unexpected directions, like threads being pulled together for a reason I don’t fully understand yet.

There’s not a whole lot of “normal” in my life… whatever that even means. But, this past week I found myself face-to-face with reminders of why I do what I do. Conversations I didn’t expect. Opportunities I didn’t seek. People who, in big and small ways, made me stop and say, “Okay, God. I see what you’re doing.” It’s been humbling, a little exhausting, and oddly energizing all at once. So if I seem a little more reflective, that’s why.

Things are shifting—and I’m trying to pay attention.

This week, I attended Resurrection Church in downtown Chattanooga with my new friend Hope. She’s such a great example of someone trying to be fully present in her life, embracing the ups and down. Hope is a beautiful example of someone learning to live inside the messiness, embracing both the joy and the struggle with a kind of honesty that’s rare.

What stands out to me about Hope is how she’s not just adapting to life—she’s actively choosing to engage with it. Whether it’s wrestling with hard questions, grieving something deeply, or laughing until she cries over something simple, she shows up fully. Watching someone walk through life that way—open, vulnerable, and grounded—is a beautiful reminder of the kind of person Christ calls us to be.

Attending church with her this week didn’t just feel like checking off a box or doing something “spiritual.” It felt like a reminder: faith isn’t about performance, and presence isn’t about perfection. It’s about showing up—wherever we are, however we’re feeling—and trusting that God is there, too.

And it needs to be said that the community at Resurrection Church was, by far, the most welcoming I’ve experienced to date. So many people introduced themselves and took the time to not only say hello, but engage in more than a one minute conversation. This should be the normative behavior in every faith community—but sadly, it isn’t.

Too often, churches become places of polite greetings and surface-level interactions, where visitors can walk in and out without ever feeling truly seen. But this place was different. People weren’t just friendly—they asked thoughtful questions, remembered my name (not an easy task), and genuinely wanted to connect. It wasn’t performative hospitality; it was intentional community.

And honestly, that kind of warmth and openness makes a lasting impression. It breaks down walls and reminds people that they belong, even if they’re still figuring things out. We don’t need perfection in our churches—we need people who show up with open hearts, willing to make space for others. Resurrection Church lived that out on Sunday, and I’m still thinking about what it means to carry that same spirit into the spaces I lead.

But, I also want to spend some time talking about the sermon, because I think it’s important, especially now. Their pastor spent some time talking about persecution and the expectation we SHOULD have when it comes to being persecuted for our faith in Jesus. The church often misunderstands persecution—framing it as something inflicted by the “world,” when in truth, much of the resistance and harm comes from within the religious system itself.

When we look at the life of Jesus, it wasn’t the Roman government that plotted his death. It was the religious elite. The Pharisees and teachers of the law—the gatekeepers of moral authority—felt threatened by his challenge to their power, his inclusion of the marginalized, and his insistence on mercy over sacrifice. Jesus wasn’t killed for being “too worldly.” He was executed for disrupting religious systems that had become more about control than compassion.

And today, history repeats itself.

Many modern Christians equate pushback on Christian nationalism or calls for accountability in the church as “persecution.” But critique isn’t persecution—it’s often the prophetic voice trying to call the church back to the way of Jesus. When people raise questions about power, exclusion, or injustice in Christian spaces, they’re not enemies of the church—they’re trying to heal it.

True persecution happens when people lose jobs, homes, or lives because of their faith in Jesus. What often gets labeled as persecution in the West is actually discomfort in the face of necessary change. And instead of listening, many churches double down—silencing dissenters, ostracizing doubters, and branding reformers as rebels.

There’s a fascinating—and necessary—tension that exists when you encounter a church that is radically welcoming and yet courageously honest from the pulpit. It almost catches you off guard. One minute, you’re being embraced by a community that remembers your name, looks you in the eye, and asks how you’re really doing. The next, you’re listening to a sermon that doesn’t shy away from uncomfortable truths—about power, justice, repentance, or the state of the church itself.

At first, it can feel like whiplash. How can a space be so warm and yet so convicting? So safe and yet so unwilling to coddle?

But that tension? That’s the sweet spot. That’s the line all churches need to be walking right now.

Because a church that only welcomes without challenge can easily drift into comfort and complacency. And a church that only challenges without love creates fear and shame. But when a church commits to both—deep hospitality and holy truth-telling—it becomes a space where real transformation can happen.

We need churches that don’t just say “you belong,” but also say, “there’s more.” Churches that draw people in with compassion and then call them up with conviction. Spaces that make room for brokenness and beauty, for grace and growth.

That’s what Jesus did. He welcomed the outcast, ate with sinners, and extended belonging before behavior—but he also spoke truth with clarity and courage. And he called out systems that hurt the very people the church was supposed to protect.

In a world full of extremes, we don’t need churches that choose between welcome or challenge—we need churches brave enough to hold both.

Week 36: This Contrast Matters

by Searching For Jesus in America

Who: Sarah and Nate

Church: Citizens of Heaven

Lunch: Oddstory

Topic: Great Hermeneutics and Exegesis… and a Willingness to Go Deep

This week is one where the connections run deep and where the personal and professional cross over… a few times. I met Sarah a year after we moved to Chattanooga and at the time she was working for Mental Health Association of East Tennessee. One of our very first projects together was a seven month labor of love that had us looking at the role of the Church when it comes to the mental health crisis facing our youth.

I could probably write five separate posts about this endeavor, but here’s the short version:

A while back, we tried to gather a group of local youth pastors for monthly conversations about the complex role churches play—both for better and worse—when it comes to the mental health of the young people in their care. Our hope was to create a space for honest dialogue and shared learning, where we could bring in community members with deep lived experience and professional insight—counselors, crisis responders, advocates—people who understood both the systemic challenges and the quiet suffering so many teens endure.

The meetings were co-facilitated by me, Sarah, and our friend Chris, who formerly worked with the Tennessee Suicide Prevention Network. All of us are Christians bringing invaluable perspectives, particularly around the intersection of faith and crisis prevention.

But here’s the hard truth: getting church leaders to attend was nearly impossible.

We heard all kinds of reasons—scheduling conflicts, theological differences, and, at times, just silence. But perhaps the most disheartening barrier was the deep division among some church leaders themselves. In more than one conversation, I felt like I was back in middle school—navigating cliques and rivalries, rather than a shared commitment to serve the young people in our community. It was a stark reminder that ego and turf wars can often get in the way of real, collaborative ministry. But one conversation still haunts me. A pastor with a congregation of over 1,000 people told us, point-blank, that his church “didn’t have a mental health problem.”

Statistically, that’s not just unlikely—it’s impossible.

When 1 in 5 teens experiences a mental health disorder and suicide remains a leading cause of death among young people, the idea that any large group of people—let alone an entire church—would be immune is dangerously naive. And when leaders dismiss the reality their youth are living, they’re not only failing to support them—they’re helping perpetuate the silence and stigma that keep kids from getting help in the first place.

This work is hard. But we keep showing up because we believe faith communities can and should be part of the healing process. And we’re not done trying.

I’m going to circle back to this in a moment—because it directly connects to the work our family is committed to. But more than that, it represents an incredible opportunity for the Church—not just to show up in name, but to step into the kind of transformational work that reflects the heart of the Gospel. It’s a chance to reimagine what it looks like to build relationships, meet tangible needs, and stand in the gaps where systems have failed. And if we’re willing to lean in, the impact could be both immediate and lasting.

So what were my takeaways from Citizens of Heaven?

I’m extremely hesitant to make a list of things I like (or don’t like) about any church. That has never been the goal of this project, and it still isn’t. This isn’t about personal preferences—musical styles, preaching formats, or whether there’s coffee in the lobby. Those things are surface-level. What I’m paying attention to—what this journey is about—is how communities live out their values: how they care for people, how they respond to brokenness, how they make space for those who’ve been left out or hurt. So while I may mention things I appreciated, it’s not to score points or make comparisons. It’s to highlight the ways a faith community’s posture can reflect the heart of Jesus. And in this case, there are some specific ways this church’s leadership and approach have done just that—and they’re worth naming.

One of the things I really need—and honestly feel compelled—to talk about is hermeneutics and exegesis. Not in some academic, ivory tower way, but because how we interpret Scripture matters deeply in the life of the Church and in the lives of the people we’re trying to love and serve. The lens we bring to the Bible—our hermeneutic—shapes what we see and don’t see. And our exegesis, the way we draw meaning from the text, has a direct impact on how we teach, how we lead, and how we show up in the world. When Scripture is handled responsibly, it can bring healing, challenge systems of injustice, and call us toward radical love. But when it’s used carelessly, or through a lens of power, fear, or cultural bias, it can do real harm.

So when I visit churches or listen to sermons, It’s not about whether the speaker is dynamic or the message is polished. I’m listening for how the text is being handled. Are we digging into context? Are we asking hard questions? Are we letting Scripture disrupt us, or are we using it to justify what we already believe? These are the kinds of questions that matter to me.

And, for the first time in a long time, I felt like I was back in seminary. For some, that might sound like a turn-off—like the sermon was going to be too intellectual, too dense, or disconnected from everyday life. But it shouldn’t be. And here’s why:

A gifted preacher doesn’t preach at people from an academic pedestal. They know how to meet people where they are, whether someone is walking through the door for the first time in years or has been studying theology for decades. They’re able to hold both the surface and the depth—offering something that is immediately accessible while also inviting people to go further, to wrestle, to dig into the tension and richness of Scripture.

That’s what good preaching does: it doesn’t water anything down, but it also doesn’t shame people for not knowing everything. It creates space for curiosity. It says, “You don’t have to have a degree to understand this—but if you do want to go deeper, there’s room for that, too.”

That’s what I felt for the first time in a long while: like I was being challenged and fed—not just emotionally, but intellectually and spiritually. And I think we need more of that in the Church today. Because when we honor people’s capacity to think deeply and feel deeply, we’re honoring the full complexity of who God made us to be.

I also want to mention that Citizens of Heaven just kicked off a new sermon series on the Gospel of John. Now, I’ll be honest—John isn’t my favorite book of the Bible (that title goes to James… feel free to psychoanalyze that however you want). But it does contain my absolute favorite passage: John 17:20–23.

I naturally lean toward the ESV for most of my reading, but the NIV’s interpretation of this particular passage has always stuck with me. And I’m genuinely looking forward to seeing how their pastor unpacks these three verses when the time comes.

That said… it might take a little while to get there. This past Sunday, he made it through just a few verses. (As someone who once spent two years walking a group of 20-somethings through the book of Romans, I have nothing but respect for that kind of deep dive.) And honestly? I’m here for it. Bring on the slow, intentional walk through Scripture.

Their pastor also spent time sharing parts of his own mental health journey—a moment that stood out not only for its vulnerability but also for how rare it is to hear from the pulpit. In my experience, pastors are often expected to carry the weight of spiritual leadership with an almost superhuman level of emotional control. But when a pastor openly names their struggles—whether with anxiety, depression, burnout, or anything else—it disrupts that false narrative and gives others permission to be human, too. It models emotional honesty, reduces stigma, and reminds the congregation that faith and mental health are not at odds. In a time when so many are quietly carrying emotional burdens, his willingness to speak openly created space for connection, healing, and grace.

My experience at Citizens of Heaven, juxtaposed against the experiences mentioned at the beginning of this post, reveals a stark and sobering contrast. In many of the spaces we’ve stepped into—especially when visiting churches or seeking collaboration for community work for BTCYI—we’ve often been met with hesitation, defensiveness, or even outright dismissal. Whether it’s theological rigidity, personality politics, or simply a reluctance to partner outside of one’s own circle, the result is the same: closed doors and missed opportunities for meaningful connection.

But Citizens of Heaven felt different. There was a sense of humility in the way they approached their leadership, a willingness to be vulnerable, and a genuine openness to engaging people where they are. Instead of posturing or presenting a perfectly polished image, they embraced authenticity—and in doing so, made space for others to do the same.

This contrast matters. Because it shows what’s possible when a faith community leads with grace instead of ego, hospitality instead of hierarchy, and curiosity instead of control. It’s the difference between gatekeeping and bridge-building. And in a world—and a Church—where so many are feeling disillusioned or displaced, that difference could not be more important.

Week 35: The Tension of Easter

by Searching For Jesus in America

Who: Sydney

Church: First Centenary United Methodist

Lunch: The Daily Ration

Topic: Traditions and Cultural Christianity

Today’s post begins with a backstory.

When our kids were little, Easter rivaled Christmas in sheer extravagance—overflowing baskets, egg hunts that stretched across the yard, chocolate bunnies the size of their heads. It was magical in its own way… but none of it had anything to do with Jesus.

But alongside all the Easter baskets and bunny-shaped pancakes, we also had traditions that grounded us—rituals that pointed our family back to the heart of the Gospel and the life of Jesus.

My kids grew up serving breakfast at a local community center on Christmas morning. Before a single present was unwrapped, we’d pack up the leftovers and deliver them to people camped outside the local soup kitchen. It became a rhythm for us—something we did alongside another like-minded family. And over the years, others joined in. It was simple, but sacred. A way of reminding ourselves (and our children) that the story of Jesus always moves outward—toward the margins, toward the overlooked.

And not just on Christmas.

Our family began partnering with a local church in downtown Portland, just two blocks from the city’s main soup kitchen. Every morning, we would walk the surrounding streets, inviting anyone we met to join us for breakfast at the church. What began as a simple meal quickly grew into something much deeper—we spent our mornings building real friendships with the very people we had once only passed by in our daily lives.

One year, a few weeks before Easter, I approached our church leadership, hoping to extend the invitation to the larger congregation. I thought: What if this became part of our shared story? A way for us, as a community, to embody the Gospel together?

But the response I received still baffles me.

Our Lead Pastor mentioned that he had been meaning to talk to me about our “little project.” I’ll admit, for a moment, I felt a flicker of excitement—maybe the church was beginning to catch the vision and see the potential of what we were doing. But that hope quickly faded when his expression shifted to one of concern. He went on to share that several members of the congregation had voiced worries about what we were allowing our children to do—specifically, spending time downtown and interacting with people they considered dangerous.

It was a sobering reminder that fear often speaks louder than faith when the unknown is involved. And it weighed even heavier as Easter approached, when our services were filled with flowers, banners, and celebration. Because while we sang about resurrection and redemption inside, the very people Jesus called us to love were considered a danger to their safety… or maybe it was something else.

It made the pomp and circumstance of Easter feel hollow. How could we proclaim “He is risen!” with such triumph, yet overlook the ones He rose for? How could we decorate the sanctuary while ignoring the suffering that sat just a few blocks away?

The contradiction wasn’t lost on me—and it changed me.

So, Easter services, like Christmas services, are hard ones for our family to stomach. But, Sydney agreed to go with me this year and some things went as expected… and some things were a pleasant surprise.

I must first note that we went to the wrong service. First Centenary had two distinctly different services: one in the main sanctuary and one in The Vine. Sydney and I ended up at the service in the main sanctuary, which was beautiful — both the sanctuary itself and the service. (Also, a HUGE shout out to the solo female vocalist who literally made me cry. Her voice was truly angelic and one of the most moving parts of the morning.)

That being said, “high liturgy” is a stumbling block for our family. It’s not that we don’t value tradition — we do. There’s a reverence and a rhythm in liturgy that can be deeply meaningful. But for us, especially after the journey we’ve been on, it can feel like a barrier rather than an invitation. Sometimes, the structure can feel so polished, so choreographed, that it’s hard to find the messy, human connection that we’re longing for in a faith community. It can feel like we’re being asked to participate in a beautiful performance, rather than being invited into a relationship that allows for questions, doubts, tears, and imperfect hope.

It’s not a critique of First Centenary — the service was deeply heartfelt, and it clearly means a great deal to the people who call that community home. It’s simply a recognition that, for us, we are drawn more toward spaces that feel raw and even a little unfinished — where the beauty lies not in the perfection of the service, but in the imperfect people who gather to remember why they need grace in the first place.

But there was something that immediately catapulted First Centenary to the top of an unofficial (but very real) list in my mind — a list of churches in Chattanooga that I would not only happily visit again but would wholeheartedly support in the future.

On Easter Sunday — one of the highest attended, most celebrated days in the Christian calendar — they chose to give their entire Easter offering to Bridge Refugee Services. In a world where churches often focus Easter giving inward, toward building campaigns or operational needs, First Centenary chose to look outward. They chose to see, to honor, and to invest in some of the most vulnerable members of our community — families and individuals who have fled unimaginable hardship to seek safety and a new beginning here.

It would have been easy for them to make Easter about themselves: about full pews, grand music, and a polished production. Instead, they used the day to remind everyone in attendance that the heart of the resurrection is about new life, hope, and welcome — not just for us, but through us, for others. Their generosity wasn’t just a financial gift; it was a prophetic act, quietly but powerfully embodying the Gospel they proclaimed from the pulpit.

And that matters. It matters more than polished sermons or perfectly executed services. It matters because it shows a church willing to live their faith outside their walls, to let love lead the way, and to extend their hands to the stranger and the refugee — just as Jesus so often did.

And, yes, the decision at First Centenary reminded us of our old church in Maine — a place that also had a tradition of giving away their Christmas and Easter offerings. I still vividly remember the first year they did it, when I was working for a small ministry embedded in the heart of Portland’s refugee community. It was an organization deeply connected to the life of the church — financially supported by the congregation, led by one of our own elders, and struggling every single month just to meet budget.

It seemed like the obvious choice. The offering could have made an immediate and transformational impact, right in our own backyard, for a ministry the church already claimed to champion. I felt this swell of hope, believing that the generosity we talked about so often would naturally flow toward the people we said we loved.

But that didn’t happen.

Instead, the Easter offering went to the local children’s hospital — which, on the surface, seemed noble enough. After all, who’s going to argue with helping sick kids? But the decision wasn’t really about the hospital. One of the elders later confided that it was a strategic move. They hoped that by giving a large donation to the hospital, the doctors and staff might be impressed enough to consider attending our church — and, eventually, boost the monthly tithes. (This wasn’t an assumption we erroneously created. This was the literal explanation given.)

It wasn’t about generosity. It was a gamble, a calculated investment in the hopes of a future financial return. And it felt gross…because it was.

It felt like everything Jesus came to turn upside down — the leveraging of power, wealth, and influence to serve ourselves, wrapped in the language of compassion.

That’s why First Centenary’s decision this Easter struck such a deep chord. They simply looked at who was hurting, and they gave. No strings attached. No ulterior motives. Just love, offered freely, the way it’s supposed to be.

And to be a part of that, in the smallest of ways, was a reminder that the Church, at its best, doesn’t have to impress, strategize, or perform. It just has to love. Quietly. Faithfully. Tangibly. And when it does, even a simple Easter offering can become a glimpse of the Kingdom breaking through.

Week 34: This Easter Week Felt Different

by Searching For Jesus in America

On Tuesday, I had the opportunity to speak with a group of college students at UTC about my faith. Their questions were thoughtful, honest—and at times, incredibly pointed. We talked about the Church, the Bible, and the growing influence of Christian Nationalism. And in their questions, I didn’t hear cynicism for the sake of cynicism. I heard longing. Hunger for truth. A desire to reconcile the Jesus they’re drawn to with the institution that so often misrepresents Him.

It was a powerful reminder of why I love this generation so deeply—and why I miss teaching. Their honesty doesn’t scare me. It inspires me. Because what they’re asking for isn’t shallow or dismissive. It’s rooted in integrity. They’re not afraid to ask hard questions, and they won’t settle for half-hearted answers.

That conversation also became an unexpected doorway into a heavier, more reflective Holy Week for me. A reminder of just how much harm the institution of the Church has caused in the name of control, power, and “rightness.” A reminder that the story of Jesus—His life, His death, His resurrection—has too often been weaponized instead of lived.

As I walked through this Holy Week, I felt the weight of both hope and heartbreak. Hope, because I still believe in the radical, restorative love of Jesus. Heartbreak, because I know how many have been wounded by the very place that was supposed to embody that love.

For those finding themselves in the in-between—between hope and doubt, belief and questions, grief and a longing to trust—this Good Friday might have felt heavier than usual. Or maybe quieter. Less about a church service and more about the ache in your chest you couldn’t quite name.

Sometimes, we forget that Good Friday wasn’t always good news. For the people who lived it, it was heartbreak. It was confusion. It was the silence of a story that felt unfinished.

And maybe that’s where some of us are too.

It’s 7:22am on Easter morning, and I’m sitting in my local coffee shop trying not to break down. (Spoiler: I’m not doing a great job.) For the past few minutes, I’ve been trying to name the weight I’m carrying—to put my finger on why this morning feels so heavy.

It’s not sadness exactly. It’s something deeper. Something tangled up in longing, in a hope that’s been stretched thin—not because I’m unsure of what I believe, but because I’m heartbroken over what the Church in America has become. There’s an ache in showing up to celebrate resurrection while feeling disillusioned with the institution that’s supposed to carry that message.

Honestly, it feels surreal. All across the country, churches are gathering today to celebrate the resurrection of Jesus—the hope, the victory, the promise of new life. And yet, many of those same spaces are also turning a blind eye—or worse, offering full-throated support—to the very horrors unfolding around us.

It’s jarring to see the name of Jesus lifted high in worship, while injustice is justified from the same pulpits. To hear words about love and redemption echo through sanctuaries that have grown comfortable with cruelty, exclusion, and nationalism disguised as faith.

How can we celebrate resurrection while aligning ourselves with systems that continue to oppress the vulnerable?

How can we claim to follow a Savior who fed the poor, welcomed the outsider, and challenged the powerful—while refusing to do the same?

There’s a deep dissonance between the Jesus we preach and the actions we defend. And on a day meant to proclaim the triumph of life over death, I can’t help but wonder: What kind of resurrection are we really celebrating?

It feels like we’ve traded humility and compassion for control and dominance. We’ve built platforms instead of communities, chosen power over presence, and somewhere along the way, we stopped looking like the Jesus we claim to follow. And I find myself grieving—not just for the ways we’ve strayed, but for the people who’ve been left behind in the wreckage. The ones silenced for not fitting the mold. The ones scarred by judgment when they came seeking grace. People Jesus would have drawn close… we’ve too often pushed out for asking hard questions.

I’m also incredibly heartbroken because I can’t get one member of my family to attend an Easter service with me. (Edited to say that my oldest just texted to say that she’s joining me!)

But, I don’t blame them.

How could I? When the version of church they’ve seen looks more like exclusion than welcome, more like performance than presence. When church has too often made them feel like projects to be fixed instead of people to be loved.

I understand their hesitation. I feel it sometimes, too.

Last night, my kids pointed out that if they attended church on Easter, they would become “one of those families” that only attends church on Easter and Christmas. (But, the only one that attended the Christmas service with me was my husband and he left half way through.)

Here’s the part that hurts: When people use that phrase, “one of those families,” it’s usually said with a mix of judgment and dismissal. Like it’s a character flaw. Like it’s laziness. But, for our family, what it really is… is grief. Disconnection. Weariness. It’s what happens when the Church stops feeling like a refuge and starts feeling like a place you have to explain yourself.

It’s not apathy or laziness or some failure of faith. It’s that we’ve seen too much. Heard too much. We’ve sat through too many sermons that preached love but practiced fear. We’ve watched too many leaders protect power over people. We’ve heard the silence when injustice demanded a response.

But, those aren’t the only issues.

We’ve also heard beautiful, stirring sermons that moved hearts in the moment—only to watch the energy fade before it ever turned into action. And somewhere along the way, the place that once felt sacred started to feel… foreign.

At first, we quietly wondered if there was still a place for us at the table. But over time, a harder truth became difficult to ignore: The table itself has been reshaped—corrupted—by the rise of Christian Nationalism.

At some point, the question shifted. It stopped being about whether we had a seat at the table… and became a harder, more haunting question: Is Jesus even at this table anymore?

And maybe that’s what’s unraveling me this morning. The deep desire for something real—for a Church that looks more like Jesus and less like an empire. A Church that leads with humility, not hierarchy. That feeds the hungry, lifts the oppressed, welcomes the stranger, and loves without agenda.

I don’t long for perfection. I long for presence. For sacred spaces that are honest, human, and rooted in compassion. For leaders who are less interested in being right and more interested in being like Christ. For a Church where the fruit of the Spirit isn’t just preached from the pulpit, but practiced in everyday life.

So maybe this ache, this unraveling, is a holy one. A sign that what once sustained us no longer will. A call to imagine something new—not as a rejection of faith, but as an act of faith. Maybe it’s not about leaving the table out of bitterness… maybe it’s about walking away in order to make room for something better.

A new table. A truer table. One where Jesus doesn’t just get mentioned… He’s actually there. A place where the weary are embraced, not evaluated. Where questions are welcomed. Where love leads.

That’s the Church I still believe in.
That’s the one I’m waiting on.
And maybe… that’s the one we’re called to help rebuild.

Week 33: Why I Didn’t Take Communion for Over a Year

by Searching For Jesus in America

This week, I’ll be sharing about my first visit to Citizens of Heaven, a church community located in downtown Chattanooga that’s come up in conversations quite a bit over the past few months. I’ll dive deeper into those conversations soon, but for now, I want to reflect on something specific—communion.

I attended their quarterly service dedicated entirely to this sacred practice, and it gave me pause. Communion is beautiful, but for many, it can also be complicated. It brings with it layers of tradition, personal belief, and sometimes even pain. For some, it’s a reminder of belonging and grace. For others, it can stir up memories of exclusion, rigid theology, or unspoken wounds from church experiences. That tension matters. And this week’s service made me think more deeply about how we approach the table—who we believe it’s for, what it symbolizes, and how it can either invite or alienate. I want to share more about that experience, and why I think how we do communion says a lot about what kind of community we’re trying to be.

I also need to make a confession, in an effort to be fully transparent: Over the past 18 months, I’ve only taken communion a handful of times. Not because I don’t believe in its significance—if anything, the opposite is true. It’s because I hold it with such reverence that I haven’t wanted to approach it casually, or in spaces where it felt disconnected from what I believe it’s meant to embody.

For me, communion has never been just about personal reconciliation with God—though that’s certainly a sacred part of it. It’s also about reconciliation with one another. It’s about connection—to the Body, to the people sitting next to you, and to the collective work we’re called to do in the world. When I take communion, I want to believe that we’re committing not only to Christ, but to each other. To being a community that feeds the hungry, cares for the hurting, and bears one another’s burdens.

Communion, for me, is sacred because it’s about shared responsibility. It’s about reminding ourselves that faith isn’t just personal; it’s profoundly communal. That’s why this particular Sunday hit me differently. Not because everything was perfect, but because it stirred up what I’ve been missing—and what I still long to find.

One of the things that has been especially difficult for me over the past five years or so is how often communion can feel like an afterthought. Like something tacked on at the end of a service rather than a sacred center. I’ve sat through so many moments where the bread and the cup are passed around with little reflection, little pause, and little weight—like we’re just checking off a spiritual box so we can move on with the rest of our Sunday.

Can we just pause for a second and talk about those commercial communion cups—the ones with the tiny juice shot and the wafer sealed in the lid like a snack pack from heaven? Every time I peel back that crinkly plastic, I can’t help but wonder what the early church leaders would think. Like, imagine trying to explain to the Apostle Paul that the body and blood of Christ now come individually shrink-wrapped for convenience. “Behold, brother, your salvation… in a 2×2 plastic cup.”

I know it’s meant to be efficient and sanitary, but there’s something wild about the mass production of what was once a deeply communal, table-centered experience. I picture the early church breaking bread over a meal, pouring wine, telling stories, weeping and laughing together—and now we’ve got communion kits that feel like they belong in an airline snack box. I’m not saying God can’t work through foil lids and wafer fragments… but man, if Peter saw that little cup, I think he’d need a minute.

But, all that aside, communion is not a box to check. It’s a holy sacrament. A moment that should stop us in our tracks. A call to remember the radical love of Christ and the sacrificial nature of the kingdom he came to establish—not just for us individually, but for the healing and wholeness of the whole community. When we rush through it, when we strip it of its depth, when we treat it like a side note instead of the sacred act it is—we lose something essential.

At its heart, communion is a disruptive invitation. It asks us to slow down, to examine our hearts, and to reorient ourselves toward Christ and each other. It’s not just about remembering that Jesus died—it’s about remembering why: to reconcile us to God and to one another. It’s an act of surrender, of unity, of restoration. And when we reduce it to a ritual, we risk forgetting its power. We risk forgetting who we’re called to be—together.

This is one of the reasons I deeply appreciated the intentionality behind the service at Citizens of Heaven that was solely focused on the sacrament of communion. It wasn’t rushed or sandwiched between announcements and the final worship song. It wasn’t treated like a ritual to get through or a spiritual snack to tide us over until lunch. Instead, the entire gathering was built around the meaning, weight, and beauty of the table.

There was space to reflect, to confess, to remember. There was a sense of reverence—like we were being invited into something ancient and holy, not just observing a tradition, but actively participating in it. It felt less like checking a box and more like being re-centered in the story of Christ’s love, sacrifice, and the call to live that out in real community. That kind of sacred slowing down reminded me why communion matters, and what it can look like when the Church treats it as the heartbeat of who we are—not just a symbol, but a practice that binds us to Jesus and one another.

Last week, someone asked me what my plans were after this year-long journey wraps up—specifically, if I planned on regularly attending church again. I didn’t have an answer. I just stared at them, and for a moment, the silence hung in the air. It was awkward… mostly for them, but a little bit for me too.

Here’s the thing: I don’t believe you attend church. I believe you are the church. Somewhere along the way, we’ve traded that identity for a destination—a building, a service, a schedule. But I can’t pretend that stepping into a sanctuary on Sunday automatically reconnects me to something holy. I’m still trying to unlearn the version of church that told me presence equals participation.

The early church gathering was deeply communal, intimate, and centered around shared life—not just shared doctrine. Believers met in homes, broke bread together, and pooled resources to care for one another’s needs (Acts 2:42–47). The focus wasn’t on performance or polished production, but on presence, vulnerability, and mutual discipleship. Worship wasn’t led from a stage—it was embodied around a table. Leadership wasn’t about status—it was about servanthood. Communion wasn’t an afterthought; it was a centerpiece.

In contrast, today’s typical Sunday morning service often mirrors a more institutional model. We file into rows rather than gather in circles. We sing along to a worship team, listen to a sermon, maybe greet someone briefly, and head home. It’s more passive than participatory, and sometimes more focused on content delivery than spiritual formation. While there’s nothing inherently wrong with structure or tradition, what we’ve gained in order and excellence, we may have lost in relational depth and shared responsibility.

The early church didn’t just attend gatherings—they were the gathering. And their radical way of life pointed not to a building, but to a person: Jesus. That’s the challenge—and invitation—for us today.

I’ll close with this: I participated in communion when visiting Citizen’s of Heaven. I’ve actually participated in communion several times over the past 33 weeks. And sometimes I haven’t. This ebb and flow has become part of my honest walk with Jesus—learning to come to the table not out of obligation, but out of authenticity. To not fake reverence or belonging just to keep up appearances.

I’ll be returning to Citizens of Heaven in a couple of weeks for a more “typical” Sunday morning experience, but I felt it important to share this experience as well because sometimes it’s the less typical, the intentionally different, that reminds us why we even gather in the first place.

This communion-centered service wasn’t just refreshing—it was recalibrating. It helped me remember that at the heart of our faith isn’t a performance or a polished production, but a table where we are invited to show up as we are. It reminded me that church isn’t meant to be consumed; it’s meant to be participated in. And it stirred something in me I didn’t even realize had grown quiet—hope that sacred spaces still exist where the mystery of Jesus is honored with humility, not just routine.

Week 32: “We’re hated because of our conservative Christian values.”

by Searching For Jesus in America

When I attended the first Civics + Culture class at Calvary Chapel Chattanooga in January, I approached it with an open mind, hoping to gain insight into their perspective. Politically, I’ve never aligned strictly with one party—I’ve likely voted for Democrats and Republicans in equal measure. (Granted, Maine Republicans tend to have a slightly different political ideology than their counterparts in the South, especially over the past decade.) However, as the class unfolded, it became evident that the leadership at Calvary Chapel Chattanooga was not merely engaging in civic education, but actively promoting a specific ideological agenda.

The leader of the Civics + Culture Ministry explained how in the fall of 2020, when Charlie Kirk spoke at their church, the seeds for this class and the direction for the ministry were first planted. Known for spreading misinformation and engaging in divisive culture war rhetoric, Kirk often distorts history, misrepresents policies, and makes inflammatory statements that fuel fear and resentment. When I think about the “fruits of the Spirit” I assuredly do not think of him and when churches give him a platform, they risk replacing gospel-centered teaching with political partisanship, discipling congregants in partisan loyalty rather than a faith that transcends political boundaries. Instead of fostering unity and biblical wisdom, this kind of rhetoric turns the church into an echo chamber for political ideology, reinforcing the idea that a singular political worldview is the only acceptable Christian perspective. This shift diminishes the role of spiritual formation, replacing Christlike humility, justice, and peacemaking with political mobilization and cultural tribalism.

You can find countless examples that highlight why we should approach figures like Charlie Kirk with caution, at the very least. His track record of spreading misinformation, promoting divisive rhetoric, and conflating political ideology with Christianity raises serious concerns about the influence he holds. When we uncritically accept the words of “public figures” who prioritize partisanship over truth, we risk distorting our understanding of faith, community, and civic responsibility. It’s essential to engage with different perspectives thoughtfully, fact-check claims, and ensure that the voices shaping our worldview align with values of integrity, wisdom, and compassion. You can find a great (and embarrassing) example of this HERE.

But, I wasn’t prepared for how personal it would become.

Within minutes of the first lecture beginning, it was explained that their motto for this ministry is “educate, equip, and empower”… the same exact motto for our organization. It was jolting. So much that I excused myself from the auditorium, slipping into the hall to call my daughter.

I didn’t leave because I was angry. I left because I was heartbroken. What do you do when language you use to represent healing and transformation in your context is echoed in a space that seems to be using it for a very different kind of formation? Hearing our words repurposed in a setting so closely aligned with ideologies and voices that contradict our values—not just politically, but spiritually—felt like a gut punch.

It might come as a surprise to some people, but our organization actually started as a ministry. And we ran it as a ministry for the first three years. Our version of “educate, equip, and empower” has always been grounded in the life and teachings of Jesus: equipping young people to ask hard questions, to engage with the world compassionately and critically, to advocate for justice, and to recognize the Imago Dei in every person. But in that moment, I realized that even the most well-intentioned language can be co-opted to support a narrative of fear, exclusion, and allegiance to power structures that have little to do with the kingdom of God.

I returned to my seat with a quiet resolve—not to fight over slogans or semantics, but to stay deeply rooted in the kind of formation that bears good fruit. The kind that doesn’t bend to pressure or popularity but is guided by love, humility, and the witness of Christ. Because if we’re not careful, we can spend all our time winning arguments and lose the very soul of our witness. And I refuse to let that happen—not in our work, and not in my own heart.

But, as I sat there on that first night, a pattern started to emerge—not just in what was being said, but in what wasn’t. Then one of the leaders made a statement that struck me as deeply dissonant: “We’re hated because of our Conservative Christian values.”

At first, I let the words sit, trying to understand where they were coming from. But the more I thought about it, the more it felt off. The truth is, people aren’t typically “hated” because they hold values. We all have values—ethical, spiritual, cultural. What breeds resistance, frustration, and even pain is when those values are forced onto others, often without empathy, humility, or room for conversation.

In many cases, the issue isn’t the values themselves, but how they’re weaponized—used to shame, exclude, or control. And when those so-called “Christian” values become disconnected from the actual life and teachings of Jesus—who welcomed outsiders, elevated the marginalized, and embodied compassion—they become something else entirely: a political identity dressed up as faith.

What I heard in that moment wasn’t just defensiveness—it was a refusal to wrestle with how the Church’s witness has been compromised. It’s easier to say “we’re hated because of our faith” than to ask hard questions about whether we’re truly living in the way of Christ.

Over the past several months, I’ve been pulling at multiple threads in the Christian Nationalism conversation. I’ve been unable to find a universally agreed upon platform, but there are clear patterns, statements, and leaders that articulate its core beliefs—and in recent years, some groups and political figures have explicitly outlined agendas that align with or promote Christian Nationalist ideologies:

  1. A belief that the U.S. was founded as a Christian nation and should return to that identity
  2. Efforts to integrate Christian values into laws, education, and government
  3. A distrust or rejection of pluralism, secularism, and separation of church and state

And I’m going to unpack those three points in the following two paragraphs:

The belief that the United States was founded as a Christian nation and should return to that identity is historically and theologically problematic. While many of our Founding Fathers were influenced by Christian ethics, they intentionally established a government that protected religious freedom and rejected a national religion. This view often overlooks the diverse religious beliefs of the Founders—including deism and Enlightenment thought—and ignores the systemic injustices (like slavery and Indigenous genocide) that were often justified using religious rhetoric. Theologically, equating God’s kingdom with any nation-state distorts the message of Jesus, who rejected political power and emphasized a global, borderless faith rooted in humility and love.

Efforts to integrate Christian values into government, education, and law also raises serious concerns about religious liberty and pluralism. Christianity is not a monolith—different traditions interpret scripture in vastly different ways—so embedding one group’s values into public policy privileges certain voices while silencing others. (And I will talk about this in a later post.) When faith is legislated rather than freely lived, it becomes coercive rather than compelling. Rejecting pluralism and the separation of church and state further undermines democracy and damages the credibility of the church. Ironically, it is this separation that has historically protected the church from being co-opted by political power. Jesus welcomed the outsider and called his followers to lead with compassion rather than control—showing that pluralism, the practice of honoring and respecting people across lines of difference, isn’t just a democratic ideal but a deeply Christlike one. Far from compromising the gospel, this posture reflects the heart of Jesus, who embraced the marginalized, challenged exclusion, and modeled a love that transcended social, cultural, and religious boundaries.

So, taking all this in to consideration, WHY do Christian Nationalists feel they are hated?

In my experience, Christian Nationalists often feel they are hated because they perceive growing resistance to their beliefs as persecution rather than critique. For much of American history, Christian (particularly white Protestant) values held cultural dominance in public life. As society became more pluralistic and inclusive of diverse worldviews, Christian Nationalists most likely saw this shift as a threat to what they view as a God-ordained identity for the nation. The loss of cultural control feels like oppression to those accustomed to influence and authority. When people challenge their political rhetoric or efforts to legislate specific Christian norms, Christian Nationalists often interpret such pushback as an attack on their faith rather than a legitimate disagreement with their political ideology.

When Christian identity is tied more to political power than to the teachings of Jesus, opposition to that agenda is misread as opposition to the gospel itself. In reality, many critics are not rejecting Christianity, but are instead seeking to protect its integrity from being compromised by political agendas.

But, there’s also something that needs to be addressed: Much of the Christian Nationalist agenda is focused on dominance and submission, not the mission and teachings of Jesus. You can see this happening all around the country.

Across the country, Christian Nationalists have pushed for laws that assert religious dominance in public spaces—such as requiring schools to post the Ten Commandments in classrooms, mandating moments of prayer, or encouraging Bible readings during the school day. These efforts are framed as a return to “biblical values” in education, yet many of the same lawmakers advocating for these policies have simultaneously opposed legislation that would provide free school lunches, expand healthcare access, or offer support to immigrant families and children. This reveals a striking hypocrisy: Christian Nationalists promote symbolic displays of faith while neglecting the core teachings of Jesus—such as feeding the hungry, welcoming the stranger, and caring for the poor. Instead of reflecting a faith rooted in compassion and justice, these actions prioritize performative religiosity and political control, often at the expense of the very people Jesus called his followers to serve.

So… here’s my honest take on Calvary Chapel Chattanooga: When the gospel gets overshadowed by culture war narratives, creating an “us vs. them” mentality that’s more reflective of partisanship than Christlike love, the church risks becoming a political echo chamber rather than a spiritual refuge. It stops being a place where people are invited to be transformed by grace and starts becoming a place where people are pressured to conform to a specific ideological mold. Instead of drawing people toward Jesus, it is, quite literally, pushing them away—especially those who are seeking hope, healing, and belonging. (I’ve talked to more than a dozen people who have left that church.) When loyalty to a political worldview becomes a litmus test for faithfulness, we lose sight of the radical, inclusive, upside-down kingdom Jesus preached—a kingdom where the last are first, the outsider is welcomed in, and love is the measure of everything.

There’s also a noticeable arrogance in SOME of the leadership—an air of certainty so thick, it leaves little room for questions, nuance, or honest wrestling. It’s the kind of spiritual pride that speaks with authority but rarely listens, that defends ideology more fiercely than it demonstrates humility. And honestly, that kind of posture is something I wouldn’t go near with a ten-foot pole. Because when leadership becomes more about being right than being Christlike, it creates a culture where doubt is dangerous, dissent is silenced, and the image of Jesus gets distorted in the name of control.

It stops being about shepherding people in love and becomes focused on maintaining power. That’s the same trap the Pharisees fell into—clinging to religious authority, obsessed with appearances, and threatened by anything that challenged their hold on influence. Jesus didn’t just challenge their theology; he exposed their hunger for control. And the danger today is that we repeat their mistakes—building systems that look holy on the outside but are driven by fear, pride, and the need to stay in charge.

That’s not the kingdom Jesus came to build.

Week 31: When Flawed and Misleading Ideas Take Root (Part 5 of 5)

by Searching For Jesus in America

This week’s post concludes a five-part series on Christian Nationalism, focusing on one Chattanooga church actively embracing the movement. (I will be unpacking all my thoughts in next week’s post.) Through their efforts to “educate, equip, and empower” their congregation, Calvary Chapel Chattanooga is blurring the lines between faith and politics, raising critical questions about the role of churches in civic engagement and the ethical boundaries they may be crossing. This is why I thought it fitting to hear directly from one of their congregants in this final post.

At its core, bad teaching is just that—bad teaching. But the real issue lies in what happens next. When flawed or misleading ideas take root, they can shape perspectives, influence decisions, and drive actions with lasting consequences. The danger isn’t just in the misinformation itself, but in how it’s internalized, spread, and weaponized to justify harmful ideologies or policies.

One particular member of their congregation was brought to the stage where she shared how January 2019 was her “tipping point”, bring her to the forefront of political engagement. She specifically referenced former Governor Cuomo signing the Reproductive Health Act (RHA) in New York, which she said allowed abortion up until the ninth month “basically to kill the baby up until birth.” She followed this up with the assertion that “all the ladies were clapping and laughing” at this news on social media.

For those unfamiliar with the Reproductive Health Act (RHA), which updated New York’s abortion laws, it covered the following:

  • Codified Roe v. Wade into state law, ensuring the right to abortion in New York even if federal protections were overturned.
  • Expanded access to abortion after 24 weeks if the fetus was nonviable or if the pregnancy endangered the woman’s life or health.
  • Decriminalized abortion by removing it from the state’s criminal code and treating it as a medical issue.

The claim that the law allowed the killing of babies is a misrepresentation. The law did not permit infanticide or the killing of newborns. It focused on allowing later-term abortions in rare cases where the fetus could not survive outside the womb or when the mother’s life or health was at serious risk.

For context, I think it’s important to provide an accurate perspective on how common abortions are after 24 weeks. The availability of abortion services after 24 weeks gestation in the United States is limited and varies by state due to differing laws and regulations. According to a 2023 study by Advancing New Standards in Reproductive Health (ANSIRH), approximately 60 clinics across the country provided abortions at or after 24 weeks gestation. Of these, only five clinics offered services at or after 28 weeks.

What a lot of people don’t realize is that ​obtaining an abortion after 28 weeks gestation in the United States is rare and subject to stringent protocols that vary by state and individual clinic policies. Generally, these late-term procedures are considered only under exceptional circumstances, such as:​

  • Serious risks to the pregnant individual’s health or life: Situations where continuing the pregnancy poses a substantial threat to the physical health or survival of the pregnant person.
  • Severe fetal anomalies: Conditions where the fetus is diagnosed with life-threatening or significantly debilitating abnormalities.​

Additionally, The specific approval process for an abortion after 28 weeks typically involves:​

  • Informed consent: Providing the patient with detailed information about the procedure, potential risks, and available alternatives to ensure an informed decision.
  • Comprehensive medical evaluation: A thorough assessment by healthcare professionals to document the medical necessity of the procedure.​
  • Consultation with specialists: Engagement with experts in maternal-fetal medicine, neonatology, or other relevant fields to corroborate the diagnosis and prognosis.​
  • Ethics committee review: Some institutions may require the case to be presented to an ethics committee to ensure that the decision aligns with ethical and legal standards.​

I could go into more detail on this—and maybe I will in another post—but for now, I want to share one important perspective. Having known women who have faced the heartbreaking reality of losing a pregnancy in their second or third trimester, I’ve witnessed firsthand the depth of their pain and the difficult choices they’ve had to make. These were parents who desperately wanted their children. Their nurseries were ready, tiny clothes folded neatly in drawers, names already chosen. And yet, in one instance, the life they dreamed of turned into a nightmare. Their insurance barely covered any of the associated costs—let alone the burden of traveling out of state because only a handful of clinics in the U.S. could provide the care they needed.

This never seems to be a perspective Christian Nationalists consider when they frame abortion as a matter of convenience or selfishness. They don’t seem to see the mothers and fathers who prayed for their child, who felt every kick with joy, who decorated nurseries with love—only to be told that their baby would not survive outside the womb, or that continuing the pregnancy could cost the mother her life.

They don’t acknowledge the impossible choices these families face, the grief of saying goodbye before they even got to say hello, or the devastation of navigating a medical system that often adds financial and logistical burdens to an already unbearable situation. Instead, they paint with broad strokes, reducing complex, deeply personal medical decisions to political talking points—ignoring the very real suffering of the people caught in the middle.

When complex, deeply personal issues involving suffering are reduced to political talking points, we are called to approach the situation with humility and a willingness to listen. Jesus consistently responded to suffering with empathy and care, reminding us to carry each other’s burdens (Galatians 6:2) and to be quick to listen, slow to speak, and slow to anger (James 1:19). While we should stand firm in biblical convictions, we must also model Christ’s grace, recognizing that every person’s story is unique and cannot be reduced to broad generalizations. Rather than contributing to division, we are called to be peacemakers (Matthew 5:9), fostering thoughtful dialogue and engaging in meaningful action to address suffering (James 2:15-17). Ultimately, our faith should compel us to uplift those in pain, ensuring our words and actions reflect Christ’s heart—full of both truth and compassion.

The second issue I find concerning is Calvary’s strong attachment to political figures, both among its leadership and congregants. What I found most disconcerting was this congregants adoration, even idolization, of Charlie Kirk. (And there were more than a few hollers of support when she asked “Who else follows Charlie Kirk?”) She encouraged people to attend his Turning Point Conferences and shared her own experience and how her life “radically, radically changed” after attending a conference herself.

Her words, not mine.

She explained how she met a young, female student at the conference who shared her experience of being ostracized at her school because of her association with Turning Point. She mentioned how the “leftists” would walk by tables and pour out drinks and spray bear spray. The congregant talked about how this interaction made her realize she couldn’t be quiet anymore, which also garnered her a round of applause.

She also mentioned meeting Rudy Giuliani, shaking his hand, and getting a picture of him, which she followed up with, “You never know what God has in store for you, if you just do what He asks you to do.” This is problematic for a few reasons. Giuliani is, at the very least, a polarizing figure, particularly due to his legal controversies and involvement in promoting false claims about the 2020 election. (The leader of the Civics + Culture Ministry openly shared his belief that Biden did not win the 2020 Presidential election.) The comment could be seen as endorsing or aligning with a controversial individual, which may alienate those who view him negatively. But, more importantly, the use of religious language to justify meeting or engaging with someone like Giuliani might suggest divine approval of actions that many find ethically or morally questionable. This can come across as an attempt to use religion as a means to support a specific political stance, potentially alienating others who do not share the same views.

I bring all this up because it underscores a troubling (and growing) movement in our country… in our churches: the merging of faith and political ideology in a way that elevates partisan loyalty over theological integrity.

This movement doesn’t just encourage political engagement; it promotes an interpretation of Christianity that is inseparable from a specific political identity. It creates an environment where following figures like Charlie Kirk or Rudy Giuliani becomes synonymous with being a “faithful Christian,” and where questioning this alignment is seen as a threat—not just to political beliefs, but to one’s standing within the faith community itself.

The implications of this are significant. When churches become platforms for political figures and organizations, they risk turning worship spaces into ideological echo chambers rather than places of spiritual formation. Faith becomes a tool for political mobilization rather than a transformative relationship with God that transcends party lines.

Even more concerning is how this fusion of politics and faith often fosters an “us vs. them” mentality, where those who hold different political beliefs are not just ideological opponents, but moral, or even spiritual, enemies. The congregant’s story about the student at the Turning Point conference illustrates this well—there was no questioning of the broader narrative, no curiosity about why some students might react negatively to Turning Point’s presence. Instead, the persecution complex was reinforced, strengthening the belief that being a “true Christian” means standing against a monolithic and hostile “leftist” enemy.

This trend is growing, and it’s deeply shaping the way many American Christians understand their faith. It’s one thing to bring faith into the public sphere, to engage in politics with a Christ-centered conscience. It’s another thing entirely to reshape Christianity to fit the mold of a political movement—one that thrives on division, fear, and an ever-tightening definition of who belongs.

They closed out this session talking about Intercessors for America (IFA), a Christian organization focused on intercessory prayer for the United States. Their mission is to mobilize Christians to pray for the country’s leaders, government, and key issues affecting the nation. The organization believes that prayer is a powerful tool to influence positive change in America and that Christians have a responsibility to intercede on behalf of their nation.

However, this organization is not without controversy.

IFA’s focus on national repentance, spiritual warfare, and the promotion of Christian nationalism has led to concerns about marginalizing non-Christian groups and promoting exclusionary views. The group’s association with far-right evangelical movements and its emphasis on America’s Christian identity has further sparked debates about the role of religion in politics.

In her closing remarks, the leader of the workshop said, “But, at the end of the day, ya know, my allegiance is to the Lord… at the end of the day, I have to put my head down on the pillow and know that I served Him, that I reflected Him.”

The problematic aspect of this statement lies in its use of religious language to reinforce a political stance while implying divine endorsement of a particular ideology. Given the broader context of the workshop—where figures like Charlie Kirk and Rudy Giuliani were praised, where political activism was framed as a Christian duty, and where skepticism toward the legitimacy of the 2020 election was openly expressed—this statement serves as a rhetorical shield.

By saying, “My allegiance is to the Lord,” the leader positions herself as spiritually above reproach, suggesting that her political actions and affiliations are inherently righteous. This discourages critical engagement or dissent because questioning her stance could be perceived as questioning God’s will.

Additionally, the phrase “I have to put my head down on the pillow and know that I served Him” implies that her activism—aligned with a specific political movement—is a direct act of faithfulness to God. This subtly reinforces the idea that opposing viewpoints are not just politically different but spiritually deficient. It further blurs the line between faith and partisanship, making it difficult for those who hold different political perspectives to feel fully included in the faith community.

Ultimately, the statement is problematic because it frames political allegiance as a measure of faithfulness, contributing to the growing trend of Christian Nationalism, where political identity and religious identity become inseparable.

(PLEASE NOTE: Next week’s post will be, in a way, my response to the last five posts and to the leader’s assertion that “We’re hated because of our conservative Christian values.”)

Week 30: Too Many Red Flags To Count (Part 4 of 5)

by Searching For Jesus in America

On February 23rd, Calvary Chapel Chattanooga offered a Political Activism Workshop as part of their Civics + Culture series. This workshop was designed for individuals resonating with a ‘Nehemiah’ burden, focusing on how to engage civically to bring about necessary change in the community. As a proponent for the Separation of Church and State, I believe it’s important to examine how this workshop framed political engagement within a religious context.

While churches have historically influenced social movements, the Johnson Amendment, enacted in 1954, restricts 501(c)(3) organizations, including churches, from endorsing or opposing political candidates. However, these tax-exempt organizations can still engage in voter education, issue advocacy, and civic participation, provided they remain neutral and do not explicitly support or oppose any candidate or party.

Simply put, whether Calvary Chapel Chattanooga’s Political Activism Workshop violates the Johnson Amendment depends on what was taught and encouraged:

  • If the workshop focused on general civic engagement—like voter registration, understanding government processes, or engaging in issue-based advocacy—it would likely not violate the Johnson Amendment.
  • If the workshop explicitly promoted specific candidates, parties, or election outcomes, it could violate the amendment and risk their tax-exempt status.

The Johnson Amendment is being widely discussed again because of its potential impact on the 2024 election, growing concerns over church involvement in politics, and recent political efforts to challenge, or weaken it. Many conservative churches openly endorse candidates despite the law, as the IRS rarely enforces it. Some proponents of the amendment believe it restricts religious freedom, while groups like Patriot Church and Turning Point Faith mobilize congregations for elections. As Christian nationalism gains traction, some pastors see political endorsements as a duty. Meanwhile, Democrats and watchdog groups are calling for stricter enforcement, raising the possibility of legal battles and IRS crackdowns.

So, is Calvary Church Chattanooga in violation of the Johnson Amendment? Today’s post takes a closer look at what was said at the Political Activism Workshop on February 23rd. (This isn’t about broad assumptions or speculation.) It’s about what was actually said in that room on that day and whether it crossed the legal boundaries that separate permissible civic engagement from partisan political activity—a distinction that’s crucial for any 501(c)(3) tax-exempt organization.

The workshop began with the review of a worksheet and the explanation of “why should Christian Republicans get involved” in local politics. What followed was an explanation of the Hamilton County voter turn-out in the 2020 and 2024 elections, specifically the decrease in voter turnout in the past two Presidential elections. The leader of the workshop voiced a notable frustration with the local Republican Party: “You would have hoped that there was more messaging from the Republican Party to capture Democrats and give them a true understanding of what was happening and why voting Democrat was not helpful for America.”

Beyond potential legal concerns, making such statements in a church setting can alienate members of the congregation who may hold different political beliefs. A church should ideally foster unity, inclusivity, and a focus on faith rather than partisan politics. Encouraging civic engagement in a nonpartisan way—such as promoting voting, discussing moral and ethical issues, or providing balanced information—would be more appropriate.

About 10 minutes into the workshop, when referencing the upcoming election for Hamilton County GOP leadership, she also said the following: “It is crucial to have us as normal, healthy Christians that think critically in the GOP because they do not. That is what I’ve learned. They are, many of them, are in it for the wrong reasons.”

This statement is problematic for many reasons. The phrase “normal, healthy Christians” implies that those outside this viewpoint—or those who were in GOP leadership—are abnormal or unhealthy, creating a divisive tone rather than fostering dialogue. Additionally, sweeping generalizations like “they do not” think critically and “many of them are in it for the wrong reasons” assume bad intentions without evidence, dismissing potential allies and alienating others. By conflating religious belief with political ideology, it suggests that being a certain type of Christian is necessary to participate in or improve the GOP, which risks excluding believers with different perspectives and contradicting the idea that faith should transcend party lines.

As the workshop transitioned into its primary focus, the leader outlined three key ways congregants were expected to get involved. The first was recruiting individuals to monitor local government meetings—specifically county commission and school board meetings—take notes, and upload reports to a shared Google folder. Notably, she emphasized a particular need for people to watch school board meetings and mentioned that a Moms for Liberty group regularly attends. It’s worth pointing out that this group is known for more than just passive observation; having personally witnessed their presence at a school board meeting, their engagement, at this particular meeting, went beyond note-taking.

So, why does this matter? In her own words: “We have people on the board that say they’re conservative, and we need to hold them accountable to how they’re voting and how they’re not voting.” This statement, again, reveals a concerning ideological framework—one that prioritizes political allegiance over thoughtful governance. Rather than encouraging congregants to engage in civic processes with an open mind or a focus on community well-being, the expectation is to pressure elected officials into aligning with a specific conservative agenda. This approach not only risks reducing complex policy decisions to partisan loyalty tests but also reinforces an exclusionary mindset, where faith and governance become tools for enforcing ideological conformity rather than fostering informed, independent decision-making.

The second call to action was centered around education. They encouraged people to start book clubs, and watch documentaries. The speaker even gave an example of someone sending her a documentary on Martin Luther King, Jr. and the Civil Rights Movement that led her to hours of “reading and studying about some of the truth of that” that “changes American history if all this is true.”

This statement is problematic because it subtly casts doubt on well-documented historical events, particularly Martin Luther King Jr. and the Civil Rights Movement, by suggesting that newly discovered “truths” might change American history if they are true. The vague wording implies skepticism toward established history without clarifying what is being questioned. While encouraging book clubs and documentaries is valuable, framing education as uncovering hidden truths rather than engaging with well-researched scholarship raises concerns about ideological bias. Given the broader context of the workshop, this could be seen as an attempt to reframe or diminish the significance of the Civil Rights Movement, aligning with revisionist narratives that downplay racial justice efforts.

Also, problematic was her charge: “Once you’re educated, you’re ready to fight.” It frames education not as a means of understanding, growth, or informed civic engagement, but as a prerequisite for combat. The phrase “you’re ready to fight” suggests a confrontational, adversarial approach rather than one focused on collaboration, discourse, or meaningful community involvement. It implies that learning should lead directly to action rooted in opposition rather than fostering critical thinking, dialogue, or solutions-oriented participation. In a church setting, where unity and compassion are often emphasized, this language can encourage division and an “us vs. them” mentality rather than constructive engagement.

For the record, I’m only 16:21 into my voice recording with 48:31 to go. (She also brought up her food truck again saying “I’m not going to lay down while the leftist community attacks us.” Again saying that they “slaughtered us.” Don’t want to beat a dead horse, so to speak, but the repeated references to persecution over a business dispute continue to paint a narrative of victimhood that fuels division rather than dialogue. This rhetoric not only exaggerates opposition but also frames any criticism or pushback as an outright attack, reinforcing an “us vs. them” mentality. If the goal is civic engagement and constructive change, this kind of language does more to entrench polarization than encourage meaningful participation. And remember—I’m still only 16 minutes in, with nearly 50 minutes left to unpack.

The final call to action centered on voting, where the most blatant violations of the Johnson Amendment occurred. The speaker expressed clear frustration with the current leadership of the Hamilton County GOP and emphasized the need to replace them with candidates who align with conservative Christian values. She then proceeded to introduce all the candidates running to unseat them, specifically highlighting three who are members of Calvary Chapel Chattanooga under the leadership of Pastor Frank. (For the purposes of this post, I will not name those individuals HERE, but you can read about them here because all five candidates won their election in early March.)

What was most disconcerting was the speaker’s request for those attending the workshop to vote for these five candidates, a clear violation of the Johnson Amendment… and they know it.

I quote: “I’m gonna just say it, I can cut this out of the recording, we’d love your vote.”

Equally disturbing was her assertion of what this election would mean. And, again, I quote: “We would like to have a seat at the table. If we win we get a huge seat at the table. As a church, just being honest with you, that’s huge for us.”

At this point, I still have 32 minutes left in the recording, and dissecting every statement would be an exhaustive and repetitive exercise. However, the overarching themes of the workshop are already clear—there was a deliberate effort to merge faith with political activism, a strong push for specific ideological engagement, and repeated rhetoric that blurred the lines between religious guidance and direct political endorsement. However, there is one thing I want to draw attention to in those last 30 minutes.

The speaker invited a member of their congregation to come to the stage and share some of her thoughts and experiences. During this time, she openly praised Charlie Kirk, idolizing him as a pivotal voice in the conservative movement, a deeply troubling reflection of the growing Christian Nationalist ideology taking root in our country. Her admiration underscored a broader shift, where political allegiance and faith are increasingly intertwined in ways that blur the lines between religious conviction and partisan loyalty. She also misrepresented the Reproductive Health Act signed by Andrew Cuomo in 2019. Citing it as the tipping point that propelled her into political activism, she underscored the insipid dangers on social media propaganda.

I believe these two points deserve more attention, which is why I’ll be taking a closer look at both in the part five.

Week 29: What is Christian Nationalism? (Part 3 of 5)

by Searching For Jesus in America

The logical place to start this post is with a clear definition of Christian Nationalism. I’m taking my definition from Andrew Whitehead and Samuel Perry, sociologists and leading scholars on Christian Nationalism in the United States. Whitehead co-authored Taking America Back for God: Christian Nationalism in the United States and has extensively researched how Christian Nationalism shapes political and social attitudes. Perry has written multiple books on the intersection of Christianity and American culture, including The Flag and the Cross: White Christian Nationalism and the Threat to American Democracy.

Together, Whitehead and Perry have conducted research using national survey data to show how Christian Nationalism influences views on democracy, race, gender roles, and policy decisions in the U.S. Their work highlights the distinction between personal faith and a political ideology that seeks to merge Christianity with national identity. This is a paraphrase of their definition:

Christian nationalism is a collection of myths, traditions, symbols, narratives, and value systems—centered on the belief that America is and should be a Christian nation—that seeks to merge Christian and American identities, prescribing a particular expression of Christianity as the only true religion and the foundation of civic life.

The term Christian Nationalism is being used frequently—often without a clear understanding of what it truly means. It’s a phrase that sparks strong reactions, yet many people seem to conflate it with simply being a patriotic Christian, or engaging in politics from a faith-based perspective. It’s important to unpack what Christian Nationalism actually is, how it differs from personal faith, and why its influence is worth examining critically. (I will diving deeper into this during Parts 4 and 5 of this series.) Christian Nationalism goes beyond Christian political engagement, asserting that American identity is inseparable from Christianity. It promotes the belief that the U.S. was founded as a Christian nation and should be governed by Christian principles—often from a conservative evangelical perspective. This ideology justifies political power under religious authority, reinforces racial and gender hierarchies, and marginalizes non-Christians by advocating for Christianity’s dominance in public life.

Many American citizens, however, believe that a healthy democracy respects religious freedom while ensuring that no single belief system dominates public policy. This is a huge tenant to the Separation of Church and State, which is not about restricting religious expression, but about preventing any one religious perspective from becoming the foundation for laws that govern everyone. This protects both religious institutions from political manipulation and government from becoming an enforcer of religious doctrine.

So, with this as the backdrop, I want to take a closer look at the second half of the Civics + Culture class at Calvary Chapel Chattanooga on January 26th. And, again, there was A LOT I could dissect, but for the sake of time I’m being selective in the points I’m underscoring.

The second speaker on January 26th set the tone in her opening remarks:

“It’s not just time to sit back and relax. Having Trump as our President really just gives us four more years to freely get involved, to freely proclaim Christ, and to help build a church, to build souls to the kingdom, most importantly, and now we know that there are more people to fight with us than against us.”

This statement reflects a fusion of Christian identity with national politics, which is a key characteristic of Christian Nationalism. It frames political victory as a religious mandate and creates an us vs. them mentality, suggesting that Christianity is in a battle against opponents rather than a mission of love and service. It also merges national identity with faith, reducing the church’s role to a political strategy rather than a spiritual calling. True Christianity transcends politics and thrives regardless of who is in power. More importantly, the idea that Trump’s presidency allows Christians to “freely proclaim Christ” suggests that religious freedom is contingent on a specific political outcome. However, religious freedom in the U.S. has been constitutionally protected regardless of who is president.

The speaker then spent quite a bit of time talking about the recent Tennessee Education Freedom Act of 2025, which established a universal school choice program, providing families with state-funded scholarships of approximately $7,300 per student to cover private school tuition and related educational expenses.

I’m sitting here, sprawled out on my bed with my notes, a few books, and not enough hours in my day to dissect the misleading, and overtly false, statements. But, I do want to highlight a few of them:

  1. “When the Pilgrims first arrived, they didn’t build public schools. They built their homes and they built one building, which was their civic center, their religious center, their church, and their school. It wasn’t public schools.”
    • While the Pilgrims didn’t establish “public schools” in the modern sense, education was a priority in early colonial settlements. Churches often played a role in education, but separate schoolhouses were common as towns developed. By the late 1600s, New England had an expanding network of dedicated school buildings. They were often funded by taxes or community contributions and intended to serve all children, making them more akin to public schools than the statement suggests.
  2. “The question that comes to my mind, is how do I, as a tax payer.. once my tax dollars are received by the government, they will then be given, through the filters of bureaucracy, to another family that will send their child to a private school of their choice. Well, what if that private school is the one with the mosque over there at Hamilton Place? They’re going to teach anti-Judeo, Christian values. They’re going to teach anti-Judaism.”
    • The statement implies that Islamic schools promote anti-Jewish teachings, reinforcing harmful stereotypes and promoting fear-based rhetoric rather than informed discussion about education policy. (This was one of the moments where I had to collect myself because the blatant Islamophobia was so shocking and unapologetic that it left me momentarily speechless.) The assumption that an Islamic school would inherently teach hatred toward Jews and Christians was not just ignorant, but deeply prejudiced. It reflected a broader pattern of fear-mongering that seeks to exclude certain religious groups from the very freedoms that others take for granted.
  3. “Now there will be parents who receive government funding to send their children to private schools. Of course they’re going to be satisfied. Why would you not be? Give me free money that’s not actually free. It’s somebody else(s) paying for it and then my kid get to go to CCS? That’s awesome. I can’t afford that. I would be satisfied… I do not mean to be rude or judgmental, but a parent that is given money that they did not work for, to send their child to a private school, is going to be satisfied with that program. Until they’re not and then they want more, which is what historically happens when any government subsidy is provided.”
    • The claim that parents will inevitably demand more is a slippery slope fallacy, ignoring that many government programs provide necessary aid without leading to endless dependency. (I speak from experience—when we had our first child, federal assistance was a lifeline during that first year. Programs like Medicaid and WIC provided the support we needed to stay afloat, giving us the stability to regain our footing and become self-sufficient.) Additionally, the argument applies a double standard, questioning lower-income families benefiting from vouchers while ignoring tax breaks or financial advantages that wealthier families use for private education. Assuming that recipients will always be satisfied until they “want more” oversimplifies reality—if a program is ineffective, parents will voice concerns just like any other taxpayer. Rather than focusing on misconceptions, the debate should center on whether the program effectively serves students and promotes educational equity.

The speaker went on to spend some time discussing the upcoming Hamilton County election. While she didn’t explicitly endorse a mayoral candidate, she implied disapproval of the current mayor, stating that he is “doing the surveillance” and expressing her dissatisfaction with it. This remark served as an indirect appeal to vote for his opponent. (The “surveillance” reference stemmed from Chattanooga’s partnership with the World Economic Forum (WEF) through the G20 Global Smart Cities Alliance. In November 2020, Chattanooga was selected—alongside San Jose, California—as one of only two U.S. cities to pilot the Alliance’s smart technology policy roadmap, which aims to promote the ethical and responsible use of data and technology in urban environments.)

But, not everything was implied.

Both speakers openly expressed their concerns about Red Bank “going blue,” with the final speaker emphasizing that it was “something really on our hearts.” Her primary concern centered on the presence of four standalone CBD dispensaries in the community, but she focused much of her time on the recent controversy involving Pizzeria Cortile.

With a personal stake in the issue, she described how the restaurant’s owners—whom she identified as believers—were “completely slaughtered by the left” after refusing to cater a same-sex wedding. She characterized the backlash as “shameful and demonic,” claiming the press framed them as “bigots and homophobes” and worked to destroy their business.

She then recounted how her husband publicly supported Pizzeria Cortile, leading to what she described as “24 hours of attacks” against them. Frustrated, she asserted that “in our red county, the left is destroying people” and criticized the city for offering little more than a single police car for one day. However, what she said next was particularly telling: “I also saw nothing from the local Republican Party to support a small business of conservative, Republican values.”

(I also want to take a moment to note that she spent time explaining how the Christian community rallied around the owners of Pizza Cortile and gave them the best week of business since opening their doors. This was met with a round of applause from the crowd, which also underscores the deep sense of solidarity among those who saw the situation as a stand for religious beliefs and conservative values. It also highlights how cultural and political divides are increasingly shaping economic and social dynamics within the community.)

Hypothesizing if the situation was reverse, and local conservative, pro-Christians did the same thing to local CBD stores, the speaker stated, “I guarantee you, the City of Red Bank would have shown up and I also guarantee you the Democratic Party of Hamilton County would have shown up.” Her frustration was underscored by her inability to understand how this could happen in “our red county, in our red state.”

She use this as the opportunity to let the audience know that because she’s been “watching Christians get destroyed, and mocked, and ridiculed for their beliefs”, she’s decided to run for leadership in the local Republican Party. She told the audience that she made this decision with the support of Pastor Frank, the lead pastor at Calvary Chapel Chattanooga, and that she felt it was her calling to “help identify solid candidates who can stand up against this leftist ideology that’s permeating all of our levels of elected government, even the Republicans. People cannot be afraid, or nervous, to proclaim their faith and their values. We need a local Republican leadership who engages the family, and who helps to engage voters, and gives a voice to everyone.”

The remaining 10 minutes was spent highlighting the candidates running to replace the current Republican leadership in Hamilton County, with special recognition going to three of the five candidates “sitting under Pastor Frank’s teaching, and that all of us are like-minded advocates for freedom.” She then pointed people to the Activate Hamilton website to read their platform and asked people to 1) registered for the convention and 2) make some phone calls (and give them money) to get the vote out.

But, what she said next has stayed with me the past two months.

She went on to explain that Shelby County just flipped their “establishment GOP”, presenting it as a model for what could happen in Hamilton County. Her message was clear: the alternative to the establishment GOP isn’t just a different faction of the party—it’s a movement led by faith-driven conservatives who are unafraid to put their values at the forefront of political leadership.

In her closing remarks from January 26th, the following was said:

“As far as I’m concerned, we are not going back to the ways things were. Even just six months ago, things were wild. It was only a month ago that I was being called the most vile and disgusting things online for all saying, basically saying that I’m a Christian, Constitution supporting business owner… Satan has lost major ground right now. But, I’m telling you, and you know it in your soul, that he’s going to do everything that he can to take it back. We were complacent for decades. We got by. By God’s grace and mercy, we now have a season of fresh wind and freedom. So, I’m asking you to join us as a church, over these next four years, we’re going to put our shoulders to the plow and we’re going to work and protect these freedoms that we just received because they need to be protected for four years. And then, please God, we need another four years. A deadly wind is at our backs. The Lord is at the helm, and like He always has been. We have the time now to gain souls, most importantly, to proclaim our faith in confidence, and fight for a government that will protect those rights for generations to come.”

This statement has several problematic elements:

Messianic Framing of Political Cycles – The statement implies that a specific political leader or party is essential for securing God’s will, reducing faith to a political strategy rather than a personal or communal belief system.

Christian Nationalist Undertones – It frames political power as a divine battle, conflating faith with government control, implying that Christianity should dominate politics.

Persecution Narrative – It presents a false equivalence between personal criticism online and true religious persecution, reinforcing a victim complex to rally support.

Apocalyptic Rhetoric – It portrays political opposition as a battle between God and Satan, casting ideological opponents as evil rather than simply having differing views.

Misrepresentation of Religious Freedom – It suggests that Christians have only recently “received” freedom and that it must be protected politically, ignoring that religious freedom has always been constitutionally guaranteed.

Partisan Religious Call to Action – It urges a church community to work toward securing specific political outcomes, potentially blurring the line between faith and partisan activism in ways that could conflict with legal church restrictions (e.g., the Johnson Amendment).

Next week’s post will dive into the February 23rd workshop at Calvary, where leaders outlined a strategy to mobilize their congregation in local elections. Understanding the groundwork they’re laying and the steps they’re taking is key to seeing the bigger picture.