One of the most challenging summers of my childhood involved a prolonged visit with my cousins. Both boys, slightly older than myself, made it their personal mission to torment me. I use the term “torment” loosely, as much of what I experienced was typical preteen boy behavior— “wet willies,” wedgies, and other assorted irritations. But one form of harassment stood out. My cousin would hold me down, pinning my arms back with his knees, and then take his knuckle and apply it repeatedly to the middle of my chest. The relentless pounding could only be ended by me uttering a single word—“Mercy!” That simple, universally understood word was a plea for relief, an acknowledgment of my cousin’s dominance, and, most importantly, a request for compassion. And to his credit, he always let me go once I said it.
It’s striking how ingrained this concept of mercy was among a group of roughhousing kids. There was an unspoken rule: when someone genuinely pleaded for mercy, it had to be granted. It wasn’t a matter of personal preference but a recognition of shared humanity, limits, and knowing that power wasn’t to be exercised without restraint. But in contemporary Christian Nationalism, mercy is not a given. Instead, it seems to be viewed as weakness, an obstacle to be overcome rather than a virtue to be embraced.
Mercy in the Public Square: A Virtue Under Attack
Consider the moment when Bishop Mariann Budde called upon President Trump to show mercy to migrants and transgender individuals. She wasn’t making a political maneuver—she was calling for compassion, for the extension of basic dignity to the most vulnerable. Yet, instead of her request being met with thoughtful consideration, it was met with mockery and derision. Trump dismissed her as “woke” and a “left-wing hardliner,” as if extending mercy to the marginalized was somehow an act of radicalism rather than a fundamental Christian value.
This response speaks volumes about the priorities of many within Christian Nationalist circles. Their faith, rather than being rooted in Jesus’ teachings of love and compassion, often seems more concerned with consolidating power, enforcing cultural dominance, and defining who is worthy of inclusion. Mercy, once a defining attribute of the Christian faith, is now treated with suspicion, as though it threatens the structures of control Christian Nationalists seek to maintain.
The rejection of mercy is not an accident but an intentional strategy. It is much easier to wield power when one does not have to account for the suffering of others. When policies are shaped not by concern for the vulnerable but by the desire to maintain hierarchy, mercy becomes an inconvenience. The very idea of extending grace to those who do not conform to their rigid moral framework is met with resistance because it threatens the power they have carefully constructed.
It seems that President Trump is unfamiliar with mercy, as he sees himself not needing it. In a 2015 interview at the Family Leadership Summit in Iowa, Donald Trump stated that he has never asked God for forgiveness, explaining that he tries not to make mistakes requiring such a request. This sentiment reflects a broader mindset within the Christian right, where seeking mercy is often seen as a sign of weakness rather than a spiritual necessity. Rather than embracing the biblical teaching that repentance is central to faith, this perspective values strength, dominance, and self-sufficiency over humility and grace.
Theocratic Aspirations: The Conflict with Jesus and the First Amendment
At its core, Christian Nationalism is not about faith—it is about control. Many of its adherents openly advocate for policies that would dismantle the separation of church and state, seeking to impose a theocratic order that privileges their interpretation of Christianity above all else. This drive toward a religiously governed state stands in direct opposition to both the First Amendment, which guarantees religious freedom for all, and the example of Jesus, who never sought political domination. Jesus did not force His teachings onto others through legislation or coercion; instead, He invited people to follow Him through love, service, and personal transformation. Christian Nationalists, however, seem less interested in personal conviction and more invested in codifying their beliefs into law, ensuring that their version of Christianity is the only one with cultural and legal authority. This version of Christianity is not the Gospel—it is the pursuit of unchecked power cloaked in religious rhetoric.
The Syrophoenician Woman: A Lesson in Relentless Faith
The Gospel of Mark tells the story of the Syrophoenician woman, a foreigner, an outsider, who came to Jesus with a desperate plea: “Have mercy!” She wasn’t looking for favor, nor was she attempting to challenge social norms—she was simply seeking help for her daughter. But Jesus’ initial response is jarring: “It isn’t right to take the children’s bread and throw it to the dogs.” It’s an uncomfortable moment. This is not the Jesus we often picture, immediately welcoming and affirming. Instead, He presents a boundary, a distinction between who is entitled to grace and who is not.
Yet the woman does not retreat. She does not get angry. Instead, she presses forward with a stunning reply: “Yes, Lord, but even the dogs under the table eat the children’s crumbs.” She does not demand fairness; she asks for mercy. She doesn’t challenge the social order—she simply insists that mercy must extend beyond its assumed limits. And Jesus rewards her persistence. He acknowledges her faith and grants her request, healing her daughter in that moment.
This is a lesson in what it means to seek mercy in a world that often withholds it. The Syrophoenician woman refuses to accept exclusion and allow the established order to dictate the limits of grace. Her faith expands the boundaries of who belongs at the table. It is a striking contrast to the modern Christian Nationalist movement, which seems determined to narrow those boundaries, defining who is worthy and who is not.
Mercy in Today’s World: Who Gets a Seat at the Table?
Imagine if the Syrophoenician woman were alive today. A foreign woman pushing back against rejection, refusing to be ignored—how would she be received? Many would call her disruptive, too demanding, and maybe even out of line. Some would tell her to stay in her place, be silent, and accept that mercy is not meant for people like her. But the Gospel makes it clear: God honors the faith that wrestles, refuses to let go, and recognizes the worth of mercy.
In stark contrast, Christian Nationalism often appears more concerned with preserving power than extending mercy. It prioritizes control over compassion and exclusion over inclusion. When policies seek to criminalize migrants, deny rights to transgender individuals, and impose rigid religious conformity on a pluralistic society, it becomes clear that mercy is not the guiding principle. Instead, we see a faith reshaped into a political weapon, wielded not to uplift but to dominate.
Choosing Mercy Over Power
The irony of Christian Nationalism’s rejection of mercy is that it stands in direct opposition to the very faith it claims to defend. Jesus did not hoard power—He relinquished it. He did not seek to control—He sought to liberate. Time and again, He chose mercy over might, compassion over coercion. And yet, those who claim to follow Him often choose the opposite, aligning themselves with political movements prioritizing force over forgiveness.
We must ask ourselves:
What kind of faith are we practicing? One that seeks dominance or one that extends mercy? Do we follow in the footsteps of the Syrophoenician woman, refusing to accept a narrow definition of grace? Or do we side with those who seek to dictate who is worthy of it?
Mercy is not a sign of weakness—it is the essence of Christ’s message. And if our faith is to mean anything at all, we must reclaim it. We must resist the temptation to let Christian Nationalism define the boundaries of grace. Because, in the end, mercy is not just something we receive—it is something we are to give. If we lose sight of that, we lose sight of the very Gospel itself.
Photo by Michaela Murphy on Unsplash
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