I am a Christian Nationalist!

 

Christianity, Nationhood, and the Danger of False Extremes

I didn’t hear the phrase Christian Nationalism until relatively recently. Like many people, I first encountered it around the time Donald Trump entered national politics, when the term suddenly appeared everywhere and almost always as an accusation. It was presented as self-evidently dangerous, un-Christian, and even un-American. Yet the more I read, the more I noticed something familiar. The same critics who rejected Christian Nationalism outright also tended to reject the idea of American Exceptionalism, national identity, or even patriotism itself.

That overlap is not accidental.

Both debates are really about the same underlying question: Can a nation have a meaningful moral identity shaped by Christianity without becoming an idol? My answer, informed by Catholic theology and history, is yes—but only if we avoid the false extremes that dominate the conversation.

What I Mean by American Exceptionalism

When I defend American Exceptionalism, I am not claiming that the United States is divinely elected in the way Israel was, nor that it is morally superior to all other nations. That would be bad theology and bad history. Rather, I mean that the United States has a distinctive historical character, shaped by particular philosophical, cultural, and religious influences, including Christianity.

To deny this is simply to deny history. Christian ideas about human dignity, moral law, freedom of conscience, and the limits of political power undeniably influenced the American experiment. Recognizing this does not require triumphalism. It requires honesty.

At the same time, Catholic theology is clear that no nation, including my own, stands above moral judgment. Nations are accountable to justice, natural law, and the dignity of the human person. Exceptionalism, rightly understood, is a description of history and responsibility, not a claim to divine immunity.

Why “Christian Nationalism” Became a Flashpoint

The term Christian Nationalism did not arise as a neutral self-description. It became popular largely through academic and political critique, often employed by people already hostile to Christianity’s presence in public life or skeptical of national identity altogether. As a result, the term is frequently used imprecisely, applied to everything from violent extremism to ordinary Christian political engagement.

That misuse matters. When every expression of Christian moral reasoning in public life is labeled “Christian Nationalism,” the term ceases to clarify and begins to obscure. It becomes a rhetorical weapon rather than an analytical tool.

At the same time, I do not deny that real dangers exist. There are forms of nationalism that elevate the nation to a quasi-divine status, and forms of Christianity that willingly subordinate the Gospel to political power. Both are distortions. Christ is not the servant of any state, and the Kingdom of God cannot be reduced to a political project.

A Qualified Affirmation

This is where I differ from both sides of the debate.

I reject the secular assumption that Christianity must be privatized, stripped of public influence, and treated as a threat whenever it shapes moral or cultural norms. Christians are citizens, and faith necessarily informs conscience. Expecting otherwise is neither realistic nor just.

At the same time, I reject a politicized Christianity that treats the nation as sacred, equates dissent with disloyalty, or imagines God as uniquely aligned with one country’s power. Jesus’ declaration that “My kingdom is not of this world” sets clear theological boundaries.

If I accept the term Christian Nationalism at all, I do so only with strict limits. Christianity may inform national moral vision, but it must never be absorbed into the state. National loyalty may be virtuous, but it must never override the universal dignity of the human person. The Church must shape consciences, not become an arm of political authority.

The False Choice We Are Offered

Much of today’s debate forces a false choice: either reject national identity entirely or embrace an uncritical, quasi-religious nationalism. Either silence Christianity in public life or weaponize it for political ends. Catholic theology allows neither.

The Church has always insisted on a tension rather than a fusion: faith informs culture, culture shapes nations, and nations remain morally accountable. This tension is not a flaw. It is a safeguard against idolatry.

In this sense, my views on American Exceptionalism and Christian Nationalism are part of the same argument. I defend the legitimacy of national identity and Christian moral influence, while rejecting any attempt to absolutize either one. Nations matter. Christianity matters more. And neither is served when we confuse their proper roles.

Conclusion

I do not believe America is a messiah, nor do I believe Christianity exists to sanctify political power. But I also reject the claim that faith and nationhood must be enemies. History, theology, and common sense all point to a more balanced truth.

A nation shaped by Christian ideas can pursue the common good without claiming divine status. A Christianity engaged with public life can remain faithful without becoming political propaganda. Holding these truths together is harder than choosing an extreme, but it is also more honest.

And in an age defined by caricature and suspicion, honesty is itself a form of resistance.

Constantine, Christendom, and the Question We’re Still Asking

The modern debate over Christian Nationalism and American Exceptionalism is not new. The Church faced an earlier version of it in the fourth century, when Constantine legalized Christianity and Theodosius later established it as the official religion of the Roman Empire. Many Christians at the time understood these developments as not only good, but providential.

This was not naïve triumphalism. After centuries of persecution, the Church suddenly found itself protected by law, free to evangelize openly, convene councils, build institutions, and shape public life. Writers like Lactantius, who lived through the transition, interpreted Constantine’s victory as divine intervention on behalf of the persecuted Church, explicitly linking imperial success to God’s judgment against tyrannical persecutors.¹ Eusebius of Caesarea went further, presenting Constantine as an instrument chosen by God to bring peace to the Church and to advance Christ’s reign through history.²

For many believers, Scripture itself seemed to illuminate what they were witnessing. The petition “thy kingdom come, thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven” (Matt. 6:10), and Revelation’s proclamation that “the kingdom of the world has become the kingdom of our Lord and of his Christ” (Rev. 11:15), were read not merely as future hope but as unfolding historical reality. Modern Revelation scholarship confirms that this language is intentionally political and historical, portraying Christ’s victory as something that breaks into time, not something postponed entirely to the end of history.³

In important respects, those early Christians were right. The Christian Roman Empire did help bring the Gospel to the world. Roman infrastructure, legal recognition, and imperial stability became tools of evangelization. The great ecumenical councils, the preservation of Scripture, the development of Christian education and charity, and the shaping of Western moral culture were all made possible, at least in part, because Christianity was no longer illegal or marginal.

Augustine did not deny this good. What he denied was the claim that any empire, even a Christian one, could be identified fully with the Kingdom of God. In The City of God, Augustine affirms that earthly political orders can serve God’s purposes while remaining provisional and morally accountable.⁴ Rome could be used by God without becoming the City of God itself. This distinction was a theological refinement, not a repudiation of Constantine.

This history matters for America.

Just as Rome’s embrace of Christianity was real, beneficial, and providential without being eschatological fulfillment, so too America’s Christian inheritance can be acknowledged without divinizing the nation. The United States is not the Kingdom of God, but neither is it a morally neutral accident. Christianity shaped its moral imagination, legal assumptions, and understanding of human dignity. Recognizing this is no more idolatrous than acknowledging what Rome once became.

The lesson of Constantine is not that Christian influence in public life is dangerous. The lesson is that success must be interpreted with humility. God works through nations. He always has. But nations remain instruments, not ends.

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A Brief Response to Anti-Constantinian Critics

Some modern critics reject Constantine outright, portraying the legalization of Christianity as a betrayal of the Gospel. This position is historically and theologically unsustainable.

It implies that persecution is the Church’s normative condition, a claim neither Scripture nor tradition supports. It treats political authority as inherently corrupting, despite Scripture’s insistence that governing authority exists by God’s permission (Rom. 13:1). And it ignores the tangible fruits of Christendom: doctrinal clarity, evangelization, moral reform, and cultural transformation.

Even Augustine, often invoked against Christendom, never argued that Constantine was a mistake. His concern was not Christian rulers, but Christian hubris. The danger lies not in Christianity shaping a civilization, but in mistaking that civilization for salvation itself.

That same distinction applies today. America need not be rejected as irredeemably corrupt, nor embraced as divinely guaranteed. Like Rome, it can be judged, corrected, and used by God—without ever becoming the Kingdom itself.

History does not warn us against Christian influence in public life. It warns us against forgetting who the King really is.

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Footnotes

1. Lactantius, De Mortibus Persecutorum, trans. J. L. Creed (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1984), esp. chs. 44–48.

2. Eusebius of Caesarea, Life of Constantine, trans. Averil Cameron and Stuart G. Hall (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1999), I.1–4; II.28–29.

3. Richard Bauckham, The Theology of the Book of Revelation (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1993), 34–38; see also N. T. Wright, Revelation for Everyone (Louisville: Westminster John Knox, 2011), 98–101.

4. Augustine, The City of God, trans. Henry Bettenson (London: Penguin Classics, 2003), XIX.17; V.17.

Rome and America: History, Providence, and the Limits of Christian Power

Any serious discussion of Christian Nationalism or American Exceptionalism eventually runs into history—and not just any history, but Rome.

The Roman Empire remains the most important test case for a question Christians still wrestle with today: What happens when Christianity shapes a dominant political power? The legalization of Christianity under Constantine and its establishment as the state religion under Theodosius were not marginal developments. They were civilizational turning points. How we interpret those moments inevitably shapes how we think about America’s Christian heritage.

Rome Was Not Neutral, and Neither Is America

Before Constantine, Rome was not religiously neutral. It enforced pagan worship, punished Christian refusal to sacrifice, and treated the Church as a threat to civic order. When Christianity was legalized and later favored, this was not merely a policy change; it was a moral reorientation of imperial authority.¹

America, likewise, is not religiously neutral in the way modern secular theory often assumes. The United States emerged from a Christian moral and intellectual world shaped by biblical assumptions about human dignity, moral law, and accountability beyond the state. Recognizing this does not require claiming America is the Kingdom of God any more than recognizing Rome’s Christianization required claiming Christ’s return had occurred.

In both cases, the nation is historically conditioned, morally accountable, and capable of being used by God without being divinized.

Rome as a Providential Instrument

Early Christians were not irrational for seeing God’s hand in Rome’s conversion. Lactantius, writing during the transition, explicitly interpreted Constantine’s victory as divine judgment against persecuting emperors and as God’s protection of the Church.² Eusebius of Caesarea went further, portraying Constantine as a providential ruler raised up to secure peace for Christianity and to extend Christ’s reign through history.³

Rome became a means through which Christianity could spread, organize, and mature. Councils could convene, doctrine could be clarified, Scripture could be preserved, and charity could be institutionalized. These developments were not accidental, nor were they spiritually insignificant.

Similarly, America’s stability, global influence, and legal traditions have allowed Christianity to flourish in ways that would have been impossible under regimes hostile to the faith. Acknowledging this is not triumphalism; it is historical realism.

Augustine’s Correction, Not Rejection

Augustine is often invoked as a critic of Christendom, but this reading oversimplifies his argument. In The City of God, Augustine does not deny that God used Rome. He denies that any empire—even a Christian one—can be equated with the City of God itself.⁴ Earthly political orders can serve God’s purposes while remaining provisional and subject to judgment.

This distinction is crucial for America. A nation can be providential without being salvific. Augustine’s warning was not against Christian political influence, but against confusing historical success with eschatological fulfillment.

The Same Temptation, a Different Empire

The temptation facing American Christians today is not fundamentally different from that faced by fourth-century Christians. Political success can feel like divine approval; cultural influence can feel like confirmation. Revelation’s declaration that “the kingdom of the world has become the kingdom of our Lord and of his Christ” (Rev. 11:15) was read by early Christians as breaking into history, not merely awaiting the end of time. Modern scholarship confirms that Revelation intentionally frames Christ’s victory in political and historical terms.⁵

Yet Rome fell—not because it was Christian, but because no empire is eternal. This does not negate its Christian heritage, nor does it require Christian withdrawal from public life. It requires humility.

What Rome Teaches America

Rome teaches four enduring lessons:

1. God can and does work through political authority.

2. Christian influence in public life is not a betrayal of the Gospel.

3. No nation is the Kingdom of God.

4. Gratitude must never become idolatry.

The mistake is not saying “God used Rome” or “God has used America.” The mistake is concluding that such nations are therefore beyond judgment or failure.

Conclusion

Rome and America are not identical, but they rhyme. Both were shaped by Christianity. Both exercised extraordinary influence. Both faced the temptation to confuse providence with permanence.

Christian Nationalism and American Exceptionalism become dangerous only when they forget this history. Properly understood, both debates ask whether Christians believe God still acts in history—and whether nations can serve purposes larger than themselves without becoming objects of worship.

Rome did. America has. Neither is God.

Holding those truths together is not compromise. It is maturity.

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Footnotes

1. Peter Brown, The Rise of Western Christendom, 2nd ed. (Malden, MA: Blackwell, 2003), 68–74.

2. Lactantius, De Mortibus Persecutorum, trans. J. L. Creed (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1984), chs. 44–48.

3. Eusebius of Caesarea, Life of Constantine, trans. Averil Cameron and Stuart G. Hall (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1999), I.1–4; II.28–29.

4. Augustine, The City of God, trans. Henry Bettenson (London: Penguin Classics, 2003), V.17; XIX.17.

5. Richard Bauckham, The Theology of the Book of Revelation (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1993), 34–38; N. T. Wright, Revelation for Everyone (Louisville: Westminster John Knox, 2011), 98–101.