Opinion
In her 2023 book Doppelganger: A Trip into the Mirror World, Naomi Klein argues that the process of mirroring explains an essential dimension of today’s politics and culture. Instead of a clean divide between good and evil, just and unjust, where we can confidently position ourselves on the side of liberators, we find ourselves in a hall of mirrors, puzzled about which way to turn. Racists pursue their policy ends in the name of civil rights, quoting Martin Luther King Jr. Social media and video hosting services like Rumble, Gettr, and Truth Social replicate YouTube and Facebook, responding to “systemic bias” in the mainstream media and supposedly championing free speech. In its treatment of Palestinians, the state of Israel reflects the persecution and genocide once faced by Jews. Donald Trump’s first go-to insults are the ones that are most obviously true of himself.
Defense Secretary Pete Hegseth’s short-lived plan to livestream the execution of Nidal Hasan was a product of our age of mirroring. While Hegseth was an officer in the U.S. Army, al-Qaida and Islamic State militants performed executions in public and circulated them online, shocking the world. Now, Hegseth shocks the world by recommending a similar practice, but ostensibly performed by the good guys, in the service of justice. While livestreamed execution might seem rather close to pornography—encouraging viewers to derive pleasure from dehumanizing another, and right-wing Christians find pornography deeply vexing as a political and personal matter—the world of mirrors we inhabit distracts us from noticing those similarities. That is, from making moral distinctions and judgments based on close attention to the particulars of a case and to our principles.
The headlines coming out of the Public Religion Research Institute’s 2026 American Values Survey seem simple: White evangelicals are less likely to view empathy as a foundational moral concept and more likely to say it can be a danger. But Sojourners analysis and an outside expert say PRRI’s question design and its own framing of results violate cardinal rules of survey research.
It’s tough to know what to do as a mainline Protestant pastor these days. Most of the news about churches has not been good. A recent article in The Hill by Rev. Jennifer Butler, Presbyterian minister and CEO of the nonprofit Faith in Democracy, made the case that mainline Protestants are the swing voters of the 2026 elections. It’s safe to say that mainline Protestants are at a crossroads, and how they handle this election will have ramifications for years to come.
Last week at a town hall event in Caro, Mich., a heckler lobbed Islamophobic accusations at Democratic Senate candidate Abdul El-Sayed. That’s unfortunately unsurprising this cycle, as Republicans, panicked by a growing Democratic wave, have doubled and tripled down on bigotry. But what made this incident go viral is the way in which El-Sayed calmly turned the accusations around and demonstrated the extent to which Republican hatred of Muslims is rooted in an exclusionary Christian nationalism.
This past weekend thousands of people marched to the polls in nearly 3,000 events for the No Kings: Vote Early mobilization. This was a historic surge in getting people and communities mobilized for early voting in neighborhoods across the country. Whenever possible, voting early and ensuring an overwhelming voter turnout is arguably one of the most powerful tools and best defenses we have against the abuse of power and authoritarian consolidation.
But early voting, let alone voting on election day, still requires persuading and, in many cases, empowering people to actually vote. Given the challenging reality that an estimated 87 million eligible voters didn’t exercise their vote in the 2024 election, I’ve been thinking a great deal about what role our Christian faith can and should play in dramatically increasing voter turnout.
American evangelicals have long made a bogeyman out of Marx and his many inheritors. In 1952, Billy Graham made “Americanism”—his counter to communism—a central message of his crusades. Of course, this opposition finds its context in both the Cold War and evangelicals’ existing alliance with free-market capitalism.
The latest installment of this criticism comes from former Moody Church pastor Erwin W. Lutzer and former Moody Bible Institute professor Gregg Quiggle: Marx and Moody, published by Moody Publishers in September. Marx and Moody is broken into two clear sections. The first is written by Lutzer, and it primarily deals with Marx. The second is written by Quiggle, and it engages the life and social activism of Moody.
From the outset, the authors make clear their position: This is not a neutral, objective, or academic comparative study of two figures who helped shape their respective disciplines. It is a plea for readers to choose light over darkness, good over evil, Moody over Marx.
In August, U.S. Immigration and Customs Enforcement awarded a $16.7 million no-bid contract for 6,000 pairs of electric-shock gloves. The Generated Low Output Voltage Emitter, abbreviated as G.L.O.V.E., can be activated by an officer against bare skin, delivering pulses of up to 380 volts—more than three times the voltage of a standard U.S. wall outlet. ICE says the gloves give officers another way to control people in close settings while supposedly avoiding more serious or lethal force. They’re manufactured by a company called Compliant Technologies, because subtlety is dead in our current political environment.
The gloves arrive at a strange moment in the Trump administration’s ongoing immigration crackdown. ICE arrests surged to nearly 51,000 in August. From June to August, ICE set arrest records. But deportations haven’t followed that trend. They’ve plateaued around 1,200 per day, roughly the same pace as May 2026, when ICE made about 32,000 arrests. There are many reasons for this gap: asylum claims, court proceedings, diplomatic issues with receiving countries. But the gap also makes the continued buildup of ICE’s arrest-and-detention machinery more revealing. If they are not getting better at the deportation part of their mass deportation campaign, what exactly is all this additional force accomplishing?
For two years, in the rectory where I live, my spouse and I hosted two parents seeking asylum along with their Canadian-born child. When she was a baby, not walking or talking, I used to sing lullabies to radicalize her—songs like the “Canticle of the Turning” (based on the Magnificat) and “Here I Am, Lord.” I would rock her to the beat of these justice-inspired songs, hoping that she would come to know that God is a God of justice.
But eventually, as anyone with a child in their life knows, you get bored of the traditional kid content, and so you begin searching for something unique. YouTube had just the thing I was looking for. The video I showed my 2-year-old housemate was from Rachel Griffin Accurso, who goes by the name Ms. Rachel. In this particular video, Ms. Rachel looks right into the camera and asks the toddler, “Can you say mama?” As I held this child, so innocent, so vulnerable, beside me as she engrossed herself in language and learning, I found myself thinking about the state of the world. How did we get to a point where—for years—we idly stood by and watched a genocide in Palestine livestreamed on our devices? How did we get to a point where anti-Black racism is making an unapologetic comeback? Why are we so hyper-focused on limiting the freedom of trans folks and immigrants when the actual source of our troubles is the Epstein class?
At the beginning of the second Trump administration, a homemade yard sign appeared in my neighborhood. It quoted the German Protestant pastor Martin Niemöller’s “First They Came” poem. Promoting both empathy and political action, Niemöller’s poem has become rightly omnipresent as Trumpism and its Christofascist base are arguably the most successful fascist movement since Nazi Germany. Lesser known than the poem is Niemöller’s journey into the antifascist spirit that inspired it.
Niemöller’s gradual turn against Hitler began only after the church’s autonomy was threatened in the Nazis’ attempt to establish the Reich Church. Before 1934, he voted for the Nazis numerous times, led a Freikorps unit during the Weimar Republic, joyfully greeted Hitler’s rise, and even sent his autobiography to Nazi Minister of Propaganda Joseph Goebbels with a personal note that it was written in the “spirit of the Third Reich.” In his role in the Confessing Church, he was againstHitler, but kept the ultranationalism and antisemitism that led him to support the Nazis in the first place. His imprisonment wasn’t enough to shake off his fascist proclivities—he still volunteered for the war effort from Sachsenhausen concentration camp. It took the defeat of Germany and a direct confrontation with his own complicity after the war, for him to reject fascism.
I need to level with you: The 2026 midterms are not a normal election.
Faith groups like Sojourners have long talked about the importance of elections. I have written about elections extensively in the past. But this year is different.
Specifically, there is a great risk that the Trump administration and its allies will attempt to disrupt or deny the election results; these attempts could very well succeed if we don’t act—or if they create enough chaos and fear to deter people from voting. It’s critical that Christians commit to pushing back on these attempts with faith-inspired activism—not just up to Election Day, but all the way through the seating of a new Congress on Jan. 3.
I’m at the point where I’m a bit at a loss for what to say about Palestine. It has been three years since the on Israel on October 7, 2023, when Hamas killed more than 1,100 Israelis and abducted another 251 people.
That date also marks the beginning of the genocide in Gaza, which continues despite the ceasefire. More than 70,000 Palestinians have been killed by the state of Israel. Palestinians are losing faith in nonviolent resistance, and I honestly can’t blame them. Settlers and their allies in government are determined to annex the entire West Bank, and Israeli politicians are openly imagining a world where Palestinians are no longer in Palestine. The word “bleak” does not even begin to describe the situation in Israel/Palestine—a situation that is only made worse by the U.S. continuing to provide military aid to Israel. Perhaps “catastrophe” is a better word.
The recent botched attempted executions of Christa Pike and Tony Carruthers in Tennessee have laid bare what it is we are doing in my state in the name of justice—and people of faith are horrified by it.
I was 20 years old before I told anyone else in my life that I had gender dysphoria. Or, as I said back then, “all these gender feelings.”
It wasn’t that I didn’t want to tell anyone. Throughout many different seasons of my childhood and teen years, I’d tried to write letters and speeches to tell my parents and friends what I’d been experiencing. From what I’d absorbed in media, though, “coming out” was a dramatic proclamation. My understanding was that it meant you were confidently displaying your “true self” to the world—being “brave,” letting your flag fly, making a grand statement that said, “I’m here, this is me, and you’ve gotta deal with it.” To be sure, many people do not think about coming out this way—and in the years since that time, I’ve been moved by countless examples of coming out that occurred in gentler, more intimate ways. But that was what I had internalized then.
“You need to wait for people to catch up,” the pastor said.
It was 2015, and I was visiting the church offices to talk with this pastor about changing parts of the liturgy to make it more inclusive for genderqueer parishioners in this open and affirming congregation. The well-meaning pastor’s response hung heavy in the church office. Over the first few years of my coming out as transgender in a Christian church, pastoral staff and close friends tried to be the community I needed them to be. But I needed more than this cisgender community was able to offer. Months later, the same pastor and I cried together as we concluded that I would find the all-encompassing, life-giving support I needed elsewhere.
In the months leading up to the U.S. midterm elections and in the shadow of today’s headline-dominating Christian Right, a lost gospel is getting a new hearing. In red states across the country, devout Christians running for office on the Democratic ticket are making the case, as Jesus himself once put it, that “The laborer deserves to be paid” (Luke 10:7).
“You know what happens if you don’t vote?” President Donald Trump asked the crowd gathered at the Republican midterm convention in Dallas. “You go to hell!”
The Emperor Constantine, who in the fourth century made Christianity an instrument of Roman imperial cohesion, valued Christianity for its capacity to unite an empire under his authority. For many oppressed Christians, this use of Christianity to build empires still exists today, yet in a different form. Today, empire-building is deployed through the language of protecting what many call “Western civilization.” And it is an empire-building strategy that has brought many Christians together across the religious lines that once divided them—Roman Catholic, Protestant, and even “cultural Christians”—as a new ecumenical movement.
Scholars like Leonard A. Schuette call this political ideology “Western Civilizationism.” In this ideology, the primary unit of belonging is not the nation, the state, or the country, but a broader Western civilization: “the West is defined by a specific geographic territory, a shared ancestry, and Christianity.” For adherents of Western Civilizationism, Christianity is a crucial component for organizing a civilization’s culture and values. Any threat to their version of Christianity must be considered a threat to the West itself.
Annie Dillard, one of the greatest American writers, considered her own first book on writing a failure. At least, she called it “dull” and told an interviewer that she “never should have published it.”
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In a 2023 sermon, Texas Democratic Senate candidate James Talarico called Christian nationalism “a cancer on our religion” and denounced Republicans for trying to transform America into a “Christian theocracy.”
Yet, at the same time, Talarico—a Presbyterian seminary student—has made his Christian faith a core message of his campaign. He mentions biblical teachings like “love thy neighbor” when discussing partisan division. He talks about the angel Gabriel appearing to Mary as a model for consent and a justification for abortion rights.
To some, these positions may seem to be in tension. If you oppose Christian theocracy, how can you use Christian theology to justify your political positions in the public sphere? When Christian beliefs are presented as the moral arbiter of politics, isn’t that the definition of Christian nationalism?