I. Introduction: When the News Hits the Pulpit

Every so often, a news headline comes along that punches through the background noise of modern life and forces a moment of reflection. One such moment came recently when the Internal Revenue Service, under the praise and prompting of former President Donald Trump, reinterpreted the Johnson Amendment to allow churches—specifically houses of worship—to endorse political candidates without risking their tax-exempt status. Let that settle for a moment. The symbolic wall separating pulpit and podium just got a gate installed.

What followed was just as revealing: the Catholic Church, led by Pope Leo XIV and echoed by the U.S. Conference of Catholic Bishops, responded not with celebration but with restraint. Their message was clear: we will not endorse candidates. Instead, the Church reaffirmed its commitment to guiding the conscience, not commanding the ballot.

My first instinct was to breathe a sigh of relief. In a moment when political identity often overshadows spiritual formation, I found comfort in their decision. But it also stirred something deeper in me—a realization that this moment is about more than policy or power. It’s about who we are as a people of faith, and what kind of society we are shaping.

Because while the Catholic Church may speak in one unified voice, Protestant Christianity—my tradition—is another story entirely. In our decentralized chorus of denominations and personalities, there is no Pope, no singular statement, no echo heard round the world. And in the silence that followed this decision, I found myself wondering: Where is the Protestant voice of moral courage?

This isn’t just a legal debate. It’s a spiritual fault line. It raises urgent questions:

• What role should churches play in political life?
• Can we truly speak truth to power if we’re entangled with it?
• How do we avoid repeating the sins of the past—of crusades, state churches, and forced conversions?

This post is my attempt to wrestle aloud with those questions. Not to answer them with certainty, but to think them through—to “ask powerful questions,” as the saying goes, and to invite you to think alongside me. Because if we don’t reflect on what this means, someone else will decide it for us.

To borrow a phrase from The Matrix, this may be our red pill moment. Do we want to see how deep the rabbit hole goes?

II. The Slippery Slope: Why Candidate Endorsement Is Dangerous for Churches

Let’s suppose a pastor stands up on a Sunday morning and, with all the authority of the pulpit, declares, “This is the candidate God wants you to vote for.” What happens next? Maybe the congregation applauds. Maybe some walk out. Maybe donations spike. Maybe the church becomes the local headquarters for a campaign. Or maybe it fractures—its spiritual mission quietly sacrificed on the altar of political expediency. This is the precipice we now stand on.

Some may say, “But this is freedom! Finally, churches can speak without fear.” But freedom untethered from wisdom is not liberty—it’s license. The liberty to endorse today may become the temptation to coerce tomorrow.

History offers a warning, and few are more haunting than the German Church in the 1930s. When Adolf Hitler rose to power, most churches—both Protestant and Catholic—either remained silent or actively endorsed him. They confused national strength with divine blessing, morality with majority. The Deutsche Christen (German Christians) movement even rebranded Christianity around Nazi ideals, attempting to marry the cross with the swastika.

But not all bowed. A minority refused. Among them was Dietrich Bonhoeffer, a pastor and theologian who helped found the Confessing Church—a resistance that rejected Nazi interference in religious life. He knew that when the church trades its prophetic voice for political favor, it loses both. For his refusal to cooperate, he paid with his life. What Bonhoeffer grasped is that once the church weds itself to the state, it is no longer the bride of Christ—it becomes a tool of Caesar.

Pop culture gives us a parable in Star Wars. Remember how Chancellor Palpatine used a crisis to transform the Republic into an Empire? The Jedi, guardians of peace, were drawn into political entanglements and war. By the time they realized they were pawns in a greater game, it was too late. The Republic died to thunderous applause—and the Jedi with it.

Churches risk the same fate when they confuse their mission with maintaining influence or power. It starts with a single endorsement, “just this one time,” and ends in spiritual compromise.

You might argue, “Well, we’re only standing up for moral truth.” But morality isn’t a monopoly held by one political party. Once you endorse a candidate, you endorse the entire package—policies, character flaws, compromises, and all. If they fail morally, so does your witness.

The church is supposed to be salt and light, not a campaign banner. This is why the Catholic Church’s refusal to endorse candidates, even when legally permitted, is not cowardice—it’s clarity. They understand that the pulpit is sacred space, not a soapbox. Their voice carries authority not because it controls votes, but because it doesn’t seek to.

Can Protestant churches summon the same restraint? Or will we follow the siren song of political relevance, not realizing until it’s too late that we’ve traded away our credibility?

III. Speaking Truth Without Picking Sides

“Silence in the face of evil is itself evil. God will not hold us guiltless. Not to speak is to speak. Not to act is to act.” – Dietrich Bonhoeffer

Let’s face a hard truth: people are flawed. Every one of us carries imperfections, blind spots, and contradictions. So it should come as no surprise that every political candidate is flawed too—sometimes profoundly. And since political parties are made up of imperfect people, no party will ever be perfectly righteous or wholly aligned with the values of the Kingdom of God.

This is why the Church must resist the temptation to pin its moral witness to any single person or political platform. If we do, we risk tying our message of eternal truth to the fate of temporary, fallible institutions. When a candidate stumbles, the Church’s credibility stumbles with them. When a party fails morally, so too does the Church’s influence—if we have publicly thrown in our lot with them.

So where does that leave us? If the Church is to maintain a meaningful voice in the public square, it must focus on what transcends partisanship: truth, compassion, justice, and the common good. These are not partisan talking points. They are eternal values that must guide Christian engagement with politics—not the personalities, not the party lines.

This doesn’t mean churches should remain silent on moral issues. Far from it. We must speak clearly when it comes to injustice, corruption, or the exploitation of the vulnerable. But that voice should never be reduced to a slogan or a campaign button. The Church’s role is to shape the conscience of its community, not to serve as a campaign office for the candidate of the month. This is a higher calling—and a harder path.

To help illustrate this, think of Gandalf in The Lord of the Rings. He doesn’t declare support for a throne or a crown. He isn’t in it for power or prestige. He guides, warns, challenges, and encourages—but always leaves the final decisions to those around him. His wisdom doesn’t dominate; it invites. Likewise, Dumbledore in Harry Potter never seeks control of the Ministry of Magic, even though he’s arguably the only one wise enough to lead it. Instead, he focuses on preparing others to choose rightly for themselves, even in the face of evil.

These figures remind us that influence grounded in wisdom and moral integrity is far more powerful—and more enduring—than endorsements built on fleeting popularity.

If churches are to engage politically at all, let it be issue-driven, not candidate-driven. Let us care deeply about protecting life, caring for the poor, defending religious freedom, safeguarding human dignity, and promoting peace. Let us articulate those principles boldly—but let people apply them through their conscience, not compulsion. The Church was never meant to crown kings. It was meant to remind kings that they are not gods.

IV. The Protestant Problem: Many Voices, No Trumpet

There’s something deeply compelling—perhaps even enviable—about the way the Catholic Church handled the IRS ruling: with one clear, unified voice. The Pope didn’t need to summon a press conference. A simple statement from the U.S. bishops affirmed what has been the Church’s consistent position for decades: We don’t endorse candidates. We form consciences.

For Protestants, however, there is no such trumpet. What we have is a choir of soloists, often singing in different keys.

This isn’t necessarily bad—Protestantism was born out of a desire to reform the abuses of centralized religious power. But the flip side is that with decentralization comes fragmentation. There is no unified voice that can speak for “Protestantism.” No Pope, no Patriarch, no authoritative statement that draws a moral boundary around public engagement. Instead, what we have is chaos: celebrity pastors, online influencers, denominational squabbles, and the loudest voices often being the least careful.

At times, we’ve had figures who rose above the noise—Billy Graham, for example. Though he never claimed to speak for all Protestants, he commanded a level of moral respect across denominations. His focus was evangelism, not politics. And for a brief moment, Protestants had something close to a unifying figure.

But since then? The stage has too often been dominated by personalities known less for their Christlike witness than for scandal, power grabs, or culture war theatrics. From televangelists caught in moral failure to pastors doubling as pundits, the result has been confusion, division, and a weakening of the Church’s credibility in public life.

Without a unifying presence, Protestant responses to the IRS ruling have been all over the map. Some cheer, others denounce, and many remain silent—not because they don’t care, but because they don’t know who speaks for them.

It’s like Starfleet with no Captain on the bridge—or the Fellowship of the Ring without Gandalf. Each faction sets out in its own direction, often forgetting why the fellowship was formed in the first place.

This leaves a profound question for Protestant churches today:

• If we can’t speak with one voice, can we at least agree on which voices should matter?
• And more importantly: Can we unite around the essentials—truth, justice, mercy, humility—even if we differ on the specifics?

Until we do, the risk is that others—politicians, pundits, ideologues—will speak for us. And they will do so loudly.

V. Free Will and Coercion: A Theological Case for Non-Enforcement

“God cannot ravish. He can only woo.” – C.S. Lewis

This is a theme I’ve only begun to explore in depth, but it continues to press on my conscience—and I believe it warrants much more attention. So consider this a working thesis, one I hope to refine further in the future:

God grants us libertarian free will. And the Church should do the same.

By “libertarian free will,” I mean the capacity to choose without coercion—freedom that is real and meaningful, not merely illusory. In the Christian understanding, God does not force love, trust, or obedience. He invites it. He calls us. But He also allows us to walk away. From Genesis to Revelation, Scripture reveals a God who permits rejection, disobedience, even betrayal—because coerced virtue is no virtue at all. That should tell us something profound about how we engage with others, especially in politics.

Yet in some circles today, we see the rise of Christian nationalism—a movement that seeks not only to privilege Christianity culturally, but to enshrine its values into law and enforce them across society. Some do this with good intentions, hoping to restore morality or revive a sense of order. But here lies the paradox: Christianity, by its very nature, must be chosen. When you attempt to enforce faith or Christian behavior on a population, you risk creating a society of performers, not disciples.

It may feel comforting to live in a world where everyone acts like a Christian, at least in public. The manners are polite, the slogans sound holy, and the churches are full on Sunday. But behind closed doors? That’s where the lie is exposed.

We’ve seen this before. In cultures where conformity is king, people wear the mask to survive—but their hearts are far from changed. The New Testament calls this hypocrisy. The prophets called it empty religion. Jesus called it whitewashed tombs.

Imagine, for a moment, a world where this logic is carried to its extreme. A kind of Black Mirror-esque dystopia where religious conformity is mandated, sermons are state-approved, and social status depends on public displays of piety. Everyone appears devout—but no one really is. Faith becomes theater. The kingdom of God becomes a bureaucratic program. That’s not discipleship. That’s dystopia.

So what’s the alternative?

The Church must aim not to legislate righteousness but to model it. Our calling is to persuade, not to police. To proclaim, not to pressure. We invite others into a life of grace and truth—but we must allow them to enter freely, or not at all.

Some may object: “But shouldn’t we want a society shaped by Christian values?” Yes, of course. But values imposed without conviction are like statues without foundations—they eventually crumble. We should advocate for justice, for compassion, for truth—but not through compulsion. Not by force of law or by threat of exclusion. Because God Himself doesn’t do that with us.

If the goal is to populate churches with people who merely “act Christian” out of obligation, we’ve misunderstood the mission entirely. The Great Commission is not a census of conformity. It’s a call to make disciples—people who choose to follow Jesus, not because they must, but because they are drawn to Him in love and wonder.

This tension—between moral persuasion and legal imposition—is not easy to navigate. I don’t claim to have fully mapped it out. But I do know this much: the Church must reflect the character of the God it claims to serve. And that God, while perfectly holy, never forces Himself on anyone. So neither should we.

You may ask, so what should the Church stand for, if not candidates or coercive laws? The answer, I believe, is timeless: the Church should stand for the common good, for justice, and for love. These are not partisan positions. They are divine attributes. The Church should advocate for the dignity of every person, defend the vulnerable, and embody compassion—not just in words, but in action. And ultimately, we must remember: it is by our witness, not our dominance, that people will come to their Creator. When the Church becomes a place where truth is spoken in love, where mercy triumphs over judgment, and where freedom is honored as sacred, it becomes a reflection of the Kingdom of God. And that Kingdom does not need to be enforced—it needs only to be revealed.

VI. Christian Nationalism vs. the Kingdom of God

“The earthly city glories in itself, the Heavenly City glories in the Lord.” – St. Augustine

If the Church forgets its citizenship, it risks losing its soul. There has always been a tension—sometimes subtle, sometimes fierce—between our loyalty to earthly kingdoms and our allegiance to the Kingdom of God. But in this moment, as Christian nationalism gains momentum in some circles, the tension is becoming an outright crisis of identity.

Let’s suppose a Christian finds themselves cheering for laws that favor their religion, officials who quote their sacred texts, and institutions that reflect their theology. At first, it feels like a victory—finally, the culture is bending our way. But what happens when faith becomes fused with national identity? When the cross gets wrapped in the flag? When being a “good citizen” becomes synonymous with being a “good Christian”?

We’ve been down this road before. The early Church knew the difference between Caesar and Christ. That’s why so many early believers were martyred—they refused to say “Caesar is Lord.” Their confession was not merely spiritual; it was political. They understood that Christ’s kingdom was not of this world, and that no earthly power could command their ultimate loyalty. They lived as citizens of Rome, but not as subjects of Rome’s gods.

Fast-forward to Constantine, and everything changes. Christianity becomes entangled with the empire, bishops gain political clout, and soon faith becomes less about transformation and more about affiliation. Titles, influence, power—they became the new sacraments. And with that shift, the Church began to lose its distinctive voice. When the Church marries the state, it often becomes a widow to its mission.

You can trace this pattern across centuries. During the medieval period, bishoprics were bought and sold. In England, the Reformation was as much about royal authority as it was about theology. Even in modern democracies, we see churches clamor for access to political power, believing they can sanctify the system from within—only to find themselves compromised, diluted, and disillusioned. The irony is tragic: in trying to “save” the nation, the Church often loses its soul.

And that’s the caution today. Christian nationalism—however well-intentioned—tends to conflate spiritual identity with national loyalty. It assumes that a Christian society is a godly society, and that legal structures can somehow produce holy hearts.

But Christ never called us to build His kingdom through legislation, coercion, or conquest. He said, “Follow me.” He didn’t need a senate seat. He needed disciples.

So where should our loyalty lie? It must be with Christ’s kingdom, first and foremost. Earthly kingdoms rise and fall—Rome, Byzantium, Britain, America. They are all temporary. But the kingdom of God is eternal, and its values don’t always align with national interests. Sometimes, they subvert them.

As Christians, we must be very cautious about dual allegiances. We live in this world, yes. But we are not defined by it. Our calling is to be ambassadors, not enforcers; witnesses, not rulers. When we forget this, we risk turning the Church into an extension of the state—or worse, a weapon of the state. We were not sent to take power. We were sent to carry a cross.

We must not forget that the early Church had no political power—and didn’t seek it. It had no senators, no kings, no seats at the table of empire. What it had was something far more powerful: a compelling witness. Through love, sacrifice, holiness, and unwavering hope, the early Christians became known not by their influence in government, but by the way they lived. And that witness transformed the world. It crossed borders, ethnicities, languages, and classes—until, without swords or votes, the Church became the most influential body of people on the planet. If we want to see similar renewal today, we must return to that role. Not as rulers of the culture, but as its conscience—a people who live so differently, so compellingly, that others are drawn not to our politics, but to our Savior.

If we want to see similar renewal today, we must return to that role. Not as rulers of the culture, but as its conscience—a people who live so differently, so compellingly, that others are drawn not to our politics, but to our Savior.

VII. Political Identity Crisis: We Are Not Just Red or Blue

There’s a lie that’s been sold to the American public for generations: that we must pick a side. Red or blue. Conservative or liberal. Republican or Democrat. Anything else, we’re told, is a wasted vote, a fringe belief, or a political fantasy.

But this binary thinking is not only simplistic—it’s corrosive. It reduces the richness of human belief to a color palette. It flattens our values into talking points. And it demands that we pledge allegiance to platforms that most of us, if we’re honest, only agree with halfway.

The truth is, most people are political hybrids. Surveys from the Pew Research Center and the Public Religion Research Institute confirm this: the majority of Americans hold a mix of conservative and liberal views, depending on the issue. You might be economically conservative and socially progressive. Or morally traditional but politically libertarian. And yet the system says, “Choose your fighter.” Pick your label. Wear your jersey. No nuance allowed.

This creates a false moral dilemma. If I care deeply about the sanctity of life, I’m expected to align with one party. If I care about justice for immigrants or racial equity, I’m supposed to support the other. But what if I care about both? What if my moral convictions don’t fit neatly into either platform?

Here’s where churches must tread carefully. When we allow our faith to be absorbed by partisan categories, we lose the ability to think critically, to apply biblical wisdom on a case-by-case basis, and to challenge both sides when they drift into error. We start choosing policies not because they’re just or good—but because “our team” supports them.

And this isn’t just a matter of thought—it’s a matter of funding. For decades, unions and allied organizations have overwhelmingly contributed to one political party, disproportionately shaping the political narrative. The perception—true or not—is that certain moral values get sidelined because only one side holds the microphone. The IRS’s reinterpretation of the Johnson Amendment may now shift that dynamic. Churches, especially more conservative ones, may begin to engage more overtly, balancing out what has long been a one-sided influence in campaign funding and public messaging.

That may sound like good news to some. But there’s a caution here: this new power must not be used to mirror the same political gamesmanship, only with different colors. The Church must not become a counterbalance to unions or special interests. It must be something altogether different—a conscience, a voice, a guide that refuses to be owned.

We need more than two choices. We need more than labels. And perhaps, we need the courage to support third parties or independent candidates who actually reflect the complex moral and spiritual convictions we hold. It may feel like a wasted vote, but in a system rigged by fear and inertia, voting your conscience is one of the few ways to keep your soul. Christians are not called to win elections. We’re called to witness—even if that witness costs us a seat at the table.

VIII. Money, Messaging, and Manipulation

“Power tends to corrupt, and absolute power corrupts absolutely.” – Lord Acton

There’s a troubling thought that lingers beneath the surface of this IRS ruling—and it’s not just about pulpits and politics. It’s about money.

Political endorsements are never free. They come with expectations, transactions, and very often, with donations. And now, with the IRS loosening the restraints, we may be entering an era where churches, once houses of prayer and healing, become indistinguishable from campaign headquarters—Super PACs in vestments.

Let’s not pretend this won’t be exploited. Political candidates will soon realize that certain churches have ready-made voting blocs, primed for activation. Churches will realize that endorsing a candidate can lead to a boost in visibility, influence, and, yes—funding. The moral authority of the church, instead of being stewarded for the sake of the Gospel, may be auctioned off to the highest bidder in exchange for a few soundbites and social capital.

But at what cost? What happens when the offering plate becomes a campaign donation portal? What happens when the church newsletter sounds more like a press release from a political consultant? What happens when your pastor has more in common with a lobbyist than a shepherd?

This isn’t just dangerous—it’s tragic. Because money that should be going to the widow, the orphan, the refugee, the addict, the hungry, the hurting will now be diverted into the machinery of political messaging. And while we’re at it, let’s not ignore the existing problem: many churches already pour excessive resources into buildings, programs, and productions while neglecting people. Now layer politics on top of that, and we begin to see a church not just distracted—but robbed of its purpose.

And if we’re not careful, we’ll end up with something truly absurd: a Spaceballs-style merchandising scheme, where the name of Jesus is slapped onto campaign banners, bumper stickers, and “Vote God 2026” coffee mugs. It’s parody, yes—but the kind that rings disturbingly close to real life.

The Apostle Paul’s warning echoes like thunder: “The love of money is the root of all kinds of evil.” (1 Timothy 6:10). And nowhere is that more evident than when the sacred is sold in the marketplace of political influence. Once money becomes the driver, truth becomes optional, justice becomes negotiable, and integrity becomes inconvenient.

This brings us to a haunting question Jesus posed when handed a Roman coin: “Whose image is on it?” When they answered “Caesar’s,” He replied, “Then render unto Caesar what is Caesar’s—and to God what is God’s.”

It’s time for churches to ask: Is this Caesar’s coin or Christ’s call? Because one leads to influence and applause. The other leads to a cross.

IX. The Call for a Better Way

So where does all this leave us? We’ve surveyed the terrain: the dangerous potential of church endorsements, the illusion of political purity, the perils of coercion, the seduction of power, and the corruption that follows money when it enters the sanctuary. What emerges is a sobering picture of what can happen when the Church forgets its identity and compromises its mission for the sake of influence.

But this isn’t a call to disengage. This is a call to engage differently. The Church should not withdraw from the public square, but it must rediscover its prophetic voice—a voice not shaped by polls, pundits, or party platforms, but by the teachings of Jesus. A voice that speaks out not for candidates, but for the poor, for justice, for mercy, for truth, for the vulnerable, for the outsider, and for the common good.

We must shift from campaigns to compassion, from power plays to presence. Instead of endorsing the next politician, what if churches invested in building bridges in divided communities? What if we spent more time feeding the hungry than feeding the algorithm? What if our witness became so compelling, our love so sincere, our integrity so unshakable, that people didn’t vote for our candidate—but came to know Christ?

There is a better way. And we’ve seen it before. It’s the way of the early Church, which flourished not through legislation but through love. It’s the way of Paul, who didn’t run for office but ran the race of faith. It’s the way of Jesus, who could have called down legions of angels to overthrow Rome—but instead washed feet, embraced lepers, welcomed children, forgave sinners, and bore a cross.

That way won’t make headlines. It won’t trend. But it will transform. So no, the Church doesn’t need to endorse a candidate to stay relevant. It needs to be what it was always meant to be: a light in the darkness, a refuge for the weary, a community marked by truth and grace. A people whose allegiance is first, last, and always to the Kingdom of God—not because we reject the world, but because we believe there is something more beautiful than the world could ever offer. Let’s choose that better way.

X. Conclusion: What Should the Church Do Now?

“My kingdom is not of this world.” – John 18:36

The moment we’re in demands clarity—not just of thought, but of purpose.

The IRS may have opened the door for churches to endorse political candidates without penalty, but the Church must ask a deeper question: Should we walk through it? Just because something is permitted doesn’t mean it is wise. And if we’re serious about our calling, our answer must go beyond legal analysis and public sentiment—it must go to the heart of the Gospel.

So what should the Church do now?

First, we must resist the temptation to endorse personalities. No candidate is perfect, no platform is pure. Aligning the Church with any one figure risks binding the eternal to the temporary—and tethering truth to inevitable compromise.

Second, we must speak with moral clarity on issues that matter. The Church must not retreat into silence or apathy. We are called to advocate for justice, defend the oppressed, and uphold the dignity of every person made in the image of God. But this must be done in a way that transcends party lines and calls all sides to account.

Third, we must reclaim our role as a transformative presence, not a political tool. This means building communities rooted in compassion, service, and discipleship—places where the Gospel is lived, not just preached. Our power is not in ballots but in our witness. And it is by that witness—not coercion, not endorsements—that people will be drawn to their Creator.

The early Church grew without political power. In fact, it thrived despite persecution, because what it offered was not legislation, but hope. Not propaganda, but truth. Not policy, but love. That same path is open to us now, if we have the courage to walk it.

Let others chase Caesar’s throne. Let us carry Christ’s cross.

“Dear brothers and sisters, pattern your lives after mine, and learn from those who follow our example. For I have told you often before, and I say it again with tears in my eyes, that there are many whose conduct shows they are really enemies of the cross of Christ. They are headed for destruction. Their god is their appetite, they brag about shameful things, and they think only about this life here on earth. But we are citizens of heaven, where the Lord Jesus Christ lives. And we are eagerly waiting for him to return as our Savior.” Philippians 3:17-20 (NLT)

Excerpt

In a time when churches can endorse candidates, we must ask not what is legal, but what is faithful. The Church’s power lies not in politics, but in prophetic love, justice, and truth. We don’t need to win elections—we need to bear witness to a Kingdom not of this world.