The Overturning of Roe v. Wade, and Christian Nationalism at the End of the World
How isolationism teamed up with religion to create an insidious replacement for society.
Joyful times, eh? The news out of SCOTUS today, while remarkably unsurprising, did remind me of something that proved to be a flash in the pan a few weeks back. One of everyone’s favorite seditionists, Marjorie Taylor Greene, U.S. Representative from Georgia, went live back on June 2nd and chose a very intentional and chilling term to talk about what, in her eyes, might save the nation: Christian nationalism.
The last thing I want to do is give MTG any more attention — that’s why I’ve chosen not to link her video or any hosting of it — but Talking Points Memo has a pretty good write up of the high points of what MTG discussed in her “MTG Live” episode. And while the overturning of Roe and the countless other threats that will surely be delivered by SCOTUS in the coming months are rightfully in the center of today’s discussion, I think that this video from MTG is a great jumping off point to look at “Christian nationalism,” and the weight that term holds in the legislative reality that informs these majority court opinions.
It’s been a hell of a whirlwind, in my world. I posted my first piece of writing in years in May, while I was on the way to my brother’s wedding in a fundamentalist Christian church. When I initially set out to attend and be a part of the ceremony as a groomsman, I never stopped to think about how that would affect me - a queer man who currently isn’t ascribed to a religion. At worst, it would be a kind of surreal experience that would be fodder for good camp writing later on; at best, I’d get to celebrate a huge milestone in my brother’s life.
Instead, what I got was the emotional equivalent of the H-Bomb.
While I could spend time outlining my own experiences, talking about my pain and relating it all together as part of a larger personal narrative — which I’m apt to do, at some point — I’m less interested in being miserable and more interested in this idea of “Christian nationalism” as it relates to what I experienced first-hand in Arizona, and why I fear that MTG’s statement is more prescient than anyone would care to admit. When I wrote this first draft, I left room for hope, saying that it was “likely to be more prescient,” but I need to thank Justice Thomas for not only eroding the rights of most citizens, but also for proving me right.
One of the first moments of my time in Arizona that really struck me was when I got to my brother’s apartment, littered with boxes for furniture, appliances, and home goods that came off his wedding registry. While helping him assemble a few pieces and tidying up, he was talking with his best friend, a girl who grew up with him, about a sermon he’d watched where a missionary lived among a tribe in Papua New Guinea. According to my brother and the video they put on the TV to discuss, this man lived in the village with the tribe in order to learn their language to translate the Bible for them, and bring them a Christian worldview. When I asked if the missionary had taken down any information about what the tribe had believed originally, I got blank stares from my brother, his best friend, his fiancée, and the girl that had called via FaceTime and asked about the video, prompting them to watch it with her over the phone.
It was telling that this man who did something that’s objectively incredible — learned the language of a formerly-uncontacted group of people — didn’t even bother to record what the people who had welcomed him into their community believed. None of his conversations with the locals were meant to be that, they we’re meant to be the means to an end. The end of their own unique culture and the beginning of their belief in the supremacy of the church.
Sadly, I haven’t been able to track this video down, but I have been able to find various other missionaries who have taken it upon themselves to do the exact same thing and learn the languages spoken by remote tribes with the sole purpose of proselytizing. In fact, there are various companies that will sponsor and train hopeful missionaries, which partner with various churches.
None of this should come as a surprise. What came as a surprise to me was how uncritical the view of this was from a group of college students, young adults who, by all accounts, should be at the stage of life where they question the things around them. And yet, I was the only voice that came close to offering something even resembling dissent.
How could this happen in 2022? Well, that’s where “Christian nationalism” comes into play. Without picking apart the intricacies of the term — which are numerous and fraught — it’s easy to imagine “Christian nationalism” as a rallying call for a Christian society, a Christian nation. But not just some kind of ecumenically-Christian nation, with equal room for all denominations, it’s only got room for the most extreme of beliefs.
That’s the wake-up call I received when I visited the homepage for my brother’s church, and under their values section, I read screeds against the existence of homosexuality and transgender people, writing off their identities as evidence of being “broken people.” Again, nothing that’s too much of a surprise to anyone with a knowledge of Christianity, but how did my brother go from being affirming of my own identity and even questioning his own identity, to believing this?
And it’s not just a shaky belief, either. The second morning in Arizona, we had a big family breakfast planned at an IHOP down the street from the hotel that was blocked off for the wedding. I arrived first, with my mother and my brother’s aforementioned friend, and we got the table ready for the group of 13; my brother rolled in a few minutes after we got situated. What followed was an hour-long theological debate, sparked by the fact I had on a bracelet from the synagogue that I’d been attending as a student in an Intro to Judaism course, to better understand my own spirituality.
The debate ended when my I asked my brother how “accepting Jesus in my heart” would clear up the contradiction of my existence with the belief of his church. He looked me in the eye and told me that “God will take care of that, and you’ll be fixed.” I quickly said “Okay,” and then stood up and left.
How could this happen? Well, I don’t have to look far to find an answer. My brother’s religious journey started with a youth group called The Porch, which is operated by the notorious Watermark Community Church, here in Dallas. This is the same church with pending lawsuits alleging discrimination. This is the same church that’s built a huge arena-style chapel at the busiest highway interchange in all of DFW. This is the church that exports its beliefs, word for word in most instances, to smaller churches all around the country, through their line of programming online. This is the same church that’s made a video on its YouTube channel countering questions of it being a cult.
The decision to post that on YouTube is a fascinating one, in my eyes, since it acts as a very public rebuke of a belief that really doesn’t have much digital traction. At least, not that I could find. Of course, Dallas locals will know that Watermark landed in hot water back in 2016, when it came to light that they kicked a member out after he refused to break up with his significant other, another man. That certainly spurred discussion that was critical of the church, but there was far from large-scale outcry. In my own research, I found very little that castigated Watermark as a cult, so for a ministry whose largest reach is their online reach to share a video online that responds to virtually non-existent criticism is deeply telling.
They want to be called a cult. They want their members to feel threatened by the rest of society. They want to create fear around their purpose to galvanize their beliefs, themselves rooted in fear.
That story from the Advocate actually mentions by name one of the biggest draws for Watermark, their “re:generation” recovery program, which states that “we all have experienced brokenness in this life,” and that they have the solution! Solutions to “struggles,” like masturbation, pride, same-sex attraction, sexual abuse, and codependency, alongside addictions like alcoholism, gambling, and substance use.
So it sounds like boilerplate Christian extremism, right? But what’s the issue when it’s just this one church? Well, remember that this is Watermark, the incredibly-online, well-connected, filthy-rich megachurch that’s stamped its mark on the nation’s fourth-largest metropolitan area. Naturally, they’ve exported re:generation to over 120 churches around the country:
We’ve been lead to believe that these are normal things for this new crop of non-denominational churches, especially these megachurches, to do. That the freedom of religion includes protections for these groups and holds them in equivalent standing to other branches of Christianity. But, is this really normal?
I’d argue this is the proliferation of “Christian nationalism” at work, and it’s been working for decades. Maybe not the kind of “Christian nationalism” that’s being insinuated by MTG, but it has the signs of it.
I’m not sure if this specific program is the one that my brother was a part of, but the language is eerily similar. Not just from him, but from countless other young people who suddenly became hyper-religious in the last few years. The idea of “brokenness,” being at odds with a society that seems ambivalent to pain, is a very real phenomenon. But Watermark and other fundamentalist churches aren’t positing any kind of readjustment of one’s relationship to society as a solution; they’re advertising a destruction and replacement of society with Christianity.
My brother was led to believe that he was a broken person; months after he started attending a Watermark-affiliate church in 2019, he underwent a baptism at a summer camp he suddenly moved to that summer, and posted about it on Instagram. In his caption, he wrote that he was “broken,” “a drug addict,” and “lost,” among other identifiers. The thing was, this narrative was completely fabricated. He smoked pot on occasion and was screwed out of going to college on time by our parents’ divorce.
Depression and alienation aren’t new problems, but they’re certainly more widespread than in the past. But in the span of time of a semester of school, in the span of time that I’ve taken one class at a synagogue, my brother had an out to renounce society writ large, and I believe that’s the entire point of fundamentalist churches.
The rapid conversion, the replacement of one’s support systems with ideological frameworks, the shunning of mainstream society, doesn’t it all ring familiar? Doesn’t it call to mind the legions of alt-right posters bemoaning feminism, complaining about the plight of the incel, tweeting about the decay of society because it deigns to include Jews, Muslims, and non-believers alongside Christians?
Natalie Wynn of Contrapoints really brings these threads together in her masterpiece “Envy” (time: 1:26:19), where she connects the thread that underlies a big part of the “brokenness” and suffering in society, which can be traced back to envy. And, if that envy is left unchecked, left to fester in, oh, I don’t know, digital message boards populated by men all down so bad they met Dante in Hell, or in churches whose pastors have ironclad grips on their congregations through charisma, threats, or both, then the result is this resentment of society. The result is a desire to restart, by any means necessary. The result is nationalism, often flavored with Christianity.
The power of this kind of messaging undermines society writ large, because it actively advocates a withdrawal from society while also basing it on a new foundation. It’s one thing when these beliefs drive people to isolation, but the modern idea of “Christian nationalism” doesn’t do that. How could it, when the resentment that fuels the idea exists in society? Without that specter looming large on the horizon, what would the motivation be for preachers, lawmakers, and others in positions of power? Hence, the endless messaging, the fear mongering, the demonization; no one’s minds will change, but the people who already believe that the end of the world is nigh will be driven further to the brink and feel that their struggle is just that much more desperate.
And critically, these messages all come from well-funded churches, trust fund babies, tax-evading racketeers, who drive wealth back into the churches and the communities that foster resentment. That’s the only way that one could advocate for a crusade against society, when one has been built up in the wings. Churches provide wealth, community, access to healthcare, education, and other resources. Historically, that was the role of religion, and the revival of that model of society is fundamental to the success of any hypothetical crusade that sees “Christian nationalism” win the day.
There’s already a harbinger of what’s to come, should the power of secular(-ish) institutions continue to be undermined: Redding, California. The city is home to a touch under 100,000 people, as well as one of the few churches even larger than Watermark, Bethel Church. Over the course of its 50+ year existence, the church has become the most influential group in the city of Redding, with the city’s mayor sitting on the board of elders, the church picking up the tab for police officers who were set to go without wages, and possibly getting the city’s only gay bar shut down. This article from The Daily Beast goes into more detail, but the reality is already clear; this is the vision of the future that “Christian nationalism” has for all of us.
—
Back in Arizona, I spent 20 minutes just walking the streets, aimless, after leaving the IHOP. I ended up on the corner of a small road in the suburbs, and I dropped to my knees and sobbed. In a way, I’d gotten the unimaginably camp moment I had hoped for, but at that point, it was the furthest thing from my mind. Instead, I was wracked with pain, because my brother — the bright-eyed, eternally-chill, absolutely hilarious and talented photographer, the kid who’d talk your ear off about baseball, sneakers, Michael Jackson, photography, or whatever Vine he was able to recall that day — was completely gone.
He’d convinced himself that person was broken, irreparably, because society failed him. And so he turned his back on society, and embraced a world view that told him his own brother was an aberration, deserving of love on the condition that I give up the biggest part of myself, my identity as a queer man.
I was crying because he was gone, and countless other young people were, too. I was crying for all these victims of an apathetic and hyper-capitalist society, and who all decided that the only recourse was to give up on society. And I was crying for myself, and all those who see the threats, who have felt the pain, and yet still chose to not give up on society; I was crying for the hopelessness we all feel in the face of evil.
And now today, I’m sitting here with a pit in my stomach, because “Christian nationalism” is just the most overt uniting of the rise of the alt-right online with the longer, more subdued, rise of fundamentalist Christianity. It’s the force that led us to the Dobbs decision, the force that motivates the court to overturn decisions in Obergefell, Lawrence, and Griswold, the force motivating every further push to create distance between the pulpit and the public, whether preached in a church or forum post.
That phrase is the distillation of years and years of resentment for a society that’s failed every single person who isn’t the beneficiary of wealth, whiteness, and a Y-Chromosome (among other things), and the fracturing that was inevitably going to happen. This is the singularity for isolationism in the US, and it’s a damn shame it’s come to pass. The decision in Dobbs is just the latest mile marker on the long road we’ve been rolling down for decades, and it looks unlikely for our slide down the slope to stop.