Raymond Klassen – Ideals and Identities

I entered Thailand in Christian communities, which are marginal in Thai society. Certain demographics place the number of Christians at just over 1% of the population. This is amazing considering that Thailand is one of the most evangelized countries of non-European descent. I admired the Thai Christians. Many, if not most, of them had to become Christian at great cost. Often their close families, including their parents, would tie being Thai to being Buddhist. And while King Rama 9 had established this to not be true, those that made the choice to become Christian still had to face incredible obstacles and personal sacrifice to be Christian.

This fact, and how God acts in the face of Buddhist nationalism, frames my attitude to the Christian nationalists in my midst.

In the viral popularity of James Talarico, especially after his appearance on Stephen Colbert’s YouTube page, and his appearance on Joe Rogan’s podcast, There is a surge of anger embodied by many of the people I am close to. It isn’t Talarico himself that causes the anger, but it is the surge of rage by people who appreciated the opposition to Christian nationalism that he has voiced. Moreover, by being a minister in training, there is a religious condemnation that Christian nationalists rightly sense and rebel against.

I am not a Christian nationalist. But neither am I comfortable with the reflex to sneer at those who are. That reflex reveals something troubling about our age: we no longer know how to disagree without attempting to destroy. The word “debate” increasingly feels like a ritual of denunciation. The goal is not persuasion, but eradication.

Yet the gospel does not move that way.

If we are to write and think about Christian nationalism without being captured by partisan reflex, we must begin somewhere deeper than headlines and electoral cycles. We must begin with love. Not sentimental love. Not therapeutic affirmation. But the love revealed in the self-giving life of Christ.

Christian nationalism, in its stronger forms, asserts that a particular nation possesses a uniquely Christian identity and that the state should consciously reflect, defend, and privilege that identity. It is more than patriotism. It is a theological claim about national destiny and political authority.

Its rise is not difficult to understand. Many Christians feel disoriented by rapid cultural change, moral fragmentation, and the erosion of shared meaning. In an age shaped by technocratic management and bureaucratic abstraction, the longing for moral coherence is powerful. When inherited institutions weaken, the instinct is to consolidate what remains. Nation becomes the vessel of continuity.

But before we criticize, we must understand.

The question is not: How do we defeat this movement?
The question is: What does love require of us in its presence?

Jesus’ words to Pilate provide a starting point: “My kingdom is not of this world” (John 18:36). This does not mean Christ’s reign is irrelevant to earthly life. It means its origin and authority do not derive from earthly systems of power.

The New Testament consistently resists national confinement. The Great Commission sends disciples to “all nations” (Matthew 28:19). At Pentecost, the Spirit does not erase cultural difference but speaks across it (Acts 2). Revelation envisions a redeemed multitude “from every tribe and language and people and nation” (Revelation 7:9).

Scripture’s trajectory is centrifugal, not nationalistic.

Yet Scripture is not politically naïve. Paul affirms governing authority in Romans 13. Peter instructs believers to honor the emperor (1 Peter 2:17). Christians are neither anarchists nor imperialists. They inhabit a tension: faithful citizens, but ultimate allegiance elsewhere.

To collapse that tension—whether into nationalism or into rootless cosmopolitanism—is to flatten the gospel.

Christian nationalism often emerges from fear: fear of moral collapse, fear of secular dominance, fear of losing cultural memory. These fears are not entirely imaginary. Western societies have undergone profound transformation. But fear makes power attractive.

When Christianity becomes culturally marginal, the temptation is to secure its future through political consolidation. If Christ once shaped public life, should we not reclaim that inheritance?

Yet the New Testament offers a different pattern. The early church flourished not by controlling Rome but by embodying an alternative community within it. Its authority was persuasive, not coercive. It conquered by witness.

History reinforces this warning. Dietrich Bonhoeffer, writing during the rise of National Socialism, cautioned that when the church seeks self-preservation through state power, it risks forfeiting its witness. The cross precedes resurrection. Any attempt to reverse that order distorts Christian discipleship.

At the same time, critics of Christian nationalism often respond with hostility. The rhetoric becomes apocalyptic. Social media accelerates outrage. Here the insight of René Girard is illuminating: human conflict is frequently mimetic. We imitate the hostilities of our rivals. In attempting to destroy what we oppose, we mirror it.

The gospel interrupts that cycle.

In the Sermon on the Mount, Jesus commands: “Love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you” (Matthew 5:44). This is not passivity. It is refusal to be defined by rivalry. Love resists both domination and contempt.

Israel’s own story reveals the spiritual risks of political consolidation. In 1 Samuel 8, the people demand a king “like all the nations.” God permits their request but warns them of its costs. Power promises security, but it also reshapes the soul.

Jesus refuses both Zealot violence and Sadducean accommodation. When Peter reaches for the sword, Jesus tells him to put it away (John 18:11). When questioned about taxes, he responds, “Render to Caesar the things that are Caesar’s, and to God the things that are God’s” (Mark 12:17). Earthly authority has a sphere—but it is not ultimate.

Paul reminds the Philippians, “Our citizenship is in heaven” (Philippians 3:20). This heavenly citizenship does not negate earthly belonging. It relativizes it.

To write about Christian nationalism without partisan capture, we must begin with theology rather than headlines. We must let Scripture frame the imagination before political categories do. We must name legitimate concerns without baptizing proposed solutions.

Many drawn to Christian nationalism sense the thinning of community and the erosion of moral language. Love listens before it critiques. “Be quick to hear, slow to speak, slow to anger” (James 1:19). Listening is not endorsement; it is charity.

But love also clarifies. The church is not coterminous with any nation. In Christ “there is neither Jew nor Greek” (Galatians 3:28). Ethnic and national identities remain real, but they no longer determine covenant status. The church’s unity transcends borders.

If our writing drips with sarcasm, we have already surrendered to the spirit of the age. Paul instructs Timothy that “the Lord’s servant must not be quarrelsome but kind to everyone” (2 Timothy 2:24). Kindness is not weakness. It is disciplined strength.

At the center stands the cross. “He disarmed the powers and authorities… triumphing over them by the cross” (Colossians 2:15). Power is redefined through self-giving love. If our vision of Christian political influence resembles Caesar more than Christ, something has gone wrong.

Revelation does not end with one nation enthroned. It ends with the nations bringing their glory into the New Jerusalem (Revelation 21). National distinctiveness is not erased; it is purified and subordinated.

That vision frees us from panic.

The church does not need to seize the state to survive. Nor does it need to rage against those who try. It needs to love patiently, truthfully, and without fear. In a polarized age, that may be the most radical political act of all.