Christian Resistance in the Trump Era: Duane W.H. Arnold, PhD

Christian Resistance in the Trump Era

By Duane W.H. Arnold, PhD

I have never believed that the Church is safe—not from compromise, not from collusion, not even from its own desire to be admired. What we have witnessed in recent years, however, is not merely the drift of a few individuals or institutions. It is the exposure of a fault line—a theological one. A line between allegiance to the crucified Christ and allegiance to a cultural construct bearing His name but not His likeness.

We have seen the American Church—at least large swaths of it—enthralled not by the Gospel, but by the promise of power. The language remained familiar. Scripture was quoted. Prayers were offered. Yet underneath it all, something shifted. We were no longer proclaiming the Kingdom of God. We were defending the kingdoms of men.

What, then, does Christian resistance look like in such a time?

It begins with remembrance. Rowan Williams once wrote, “The Church is not here to provide the nation with moral endorsement but to remind the nation of the Kingdom of God.” That sentence should be taped above pulpits. In an age when the Church is tempted to exchange its birthright for relevance, Christian resistance begins by remembering what we are for—and what we are not.

We are not here to win elections. We are not here to court Caesar. We are not here to preserve our influence. We are here to bear witness. Augustine saw this clearly. In The City of God, he reminded the Church that the city of man, the earthly city, is marked by the love of self, even to the contempt of God. The city of God, by contrast, is marked by the love of God, even to the contempt of self. One city seeks dominance. The other seeks holiness.

In recent years, too many Christian leaders chose dominance.

But resistance also looks like truthfulness. In a time when falsehood is currency, to tell the truth is a subversive act. Robert Webber—a friend, a mentor—said often that the Church’s task is to “tell the story of God’s work from creation to consummation and invite the world into that story.” That story is not bound by any party or platform. It cannot be co-opted without distortion. It begins in a garden and ends in a city, but nowhere in between does it pledge allegiance to empire.

The problem is not merely political. It is liturgical. It is catechetical. Somewhere along the line, we stopped forming people in the likeness of Christ and started forming them in the image of talk radio. We traded the slow disciplines of prayer and study for slogans. We lost the long memory of the Church in exchange for the short cycle of electoral momentum. That, too, is a crisis. Not one that can be fixed by voting differently, but one that must be addressed at the level of discipleship.

Christian resistance, then, is not loud. It is rooted.

It looks like a pastor quietly refusing to lie. It looks like a congregation returning to the lectionary, the Eucharist, the Psalms. It looks like young seminarians, unsure of what kind of Church they will inherit, reciting the Nicene Creed with trembling faith and stubborn hope.

It looks like worship.

To receive the Body of Christ in the presence of the broken, the poor, the undocumented, the politically homeless—this is resistance. The Eucharist is a rejection of every ideology that says some are in and others are out. The table is not partisan. It is eschatological. It points to the feast to come, not the party convention next summer.

In one sense, resistance is nothing new. The Black Church has long known how to survive in the face of power’s indifference or hostility. So have immigrant churches. So did the early Christians. So did Bonhoeffer. “Not to speak is to speak,” he wrote. “Not to act is to act.”

There are still churches who will not speak. There are still bishops who will not act. But there are also voices rising—quiet, clear, courageous. Not shouting into the void, but proclaiming Christ crucified. Not seeking power, but embodying love.

That is resistance.

We resist not because we are political, but because we are theological. We resist not with hatred, but with holiness. Not with violence, but with vision. Not with nostalgia, but with memory.

This is not about being anti-Trump. That’s too easy. This is about being for Christ—truly, deeply, sacrificially for Him. The Christ who was homeless, not housed. The Christ who was mocked, not crowned. The Christ who was lifted up, not by supporters, but on a Roman cross.

So we remember. We repent. We worship. We resist.

Because we believe that Jesus—not Caesar—is Lord.

And that changes everything.