New US Tax Code Reflects Biblical Values, Adjusts Deductions Based on Gender

By Huck Sterlie, D.C. Correspondent

WASHINGTON, D.C. – In a bold move to restore “God’s law” to America’s tax system, the new administration has announced sweeping changes to the tax code, aligning personal exemptions with Leviticus 27:1-7, a biblical passage that assigns different monetary values to men and women.

US Treasury Secretary, Caleb J. Usury, declared the change “a long-overdue correction” that brings U.S. tax policy in line with Christian principles. Under the revised tax brackets, male dependents will now be eligible for a full deduction, whilst female dependents will qualify for only half the amount.

“The Bible is clear: men are worth more than women, and it’s time the IRS reflects that reality,” said Providence Q. Flagbearer. “This will encourage families to have more boys, strengthening America’s workforce and preparing us for future holy wars against our enemies.”

New Tax Brackets and Deductions

The IRS has released the following updated valuation system for child tax credits, based directly on Leviticus 27:5:

• Males aged 0-5: $5,000 deduction

• Females aged 0-5: $2,500 deduction

• Males aged 5-20: $20,000 deduction

• Females aged 5-20: $10,000 deduction

The administration has defended the changes as both biblically sound and economically necessary. White House Press Secretary Glory-Anne Palter noted, “Women’s workforce participation has distracted from their biblical roles. By reducing their financial incentive, we’re encouraging a return to traditional values.”

Christian Nationalist Groups Applaud the Move

Religious lobbyists hailed the tax overhaul as a victory for Christian nationalism. “This is just the beginning,” said Rev. Malachi Theocraticus. “Next, we’re looking at implementing debt forgiveness every seven years and requiring all businesses to close on the Sabbath in accordance with Leviticus 25.”

Meanwhile, critics argue the new policy is blatantly sexist and unconstitutional. House Minority Leader Nathaniel “Nate” Lasthope responded, “If we’re going to let Leviticus dictate tax policy, do I get a discount on my goat sacrifice?”

What’s Next?

With the tax overhaul now in place, insiders report that the administration is considering additional biblical reforms, including:

• A tithing-based IRS: Americans will be required to donate 10% of income directly to churches, bypassing federal programs.

• The Stoning Act of 2025: Proposed legislation would expand capital punishment for a variety of “biblical crimes,” including working on Sundays and being disrespectful to parents.

• The Jubilee Year Repossession Program: Every 50 years, all land will be redistributed to its original owners, potentially creating chaos in the real estate market.

As the administration doubles down on faith-based governance, one thing is clear: the IRS now stands for “In Religious Service.”

But seriously folks …

Living in a rural area dominated by Christian nationalism means navigating a world where faith is not just personal but a litmus test for belonging. It permeates everything—the schools, the social fabric, even the local economy. It is assumed that one is Christian, evangelical, and conservative (and, ugh, MAGA to the core). To be anything else is to be an outsider, an object of suspicion at best and a target at worst. The pressure to conform is not always explicit, but it is relentless, woven into casual conversations, community events, and the very structure of daily life. It is in the expectant “Which church do you go to?” that assumes the question is about which denomination, not whether one attends at all. It is in the local businesses that display crosses and Bible verses in their windows, making clear that patronage is conditional. It is in the undercurrent of knowing glances and tightened smiles when one’s difference becomes apparent. And then there are the more overt reminders—signs declaring “Jesus is Lord over America,” churches preaching against the so-called dangers of secularism, the quiet withdrawal of invitations, the escalating rhetoric about “God’s natural order.” The danger is real.

For someone like me—trans, non-religious, and most certainly not aligned with the Christian nationalist worldview—this climate is suffocating. There is no room for dissent, no tolerance for those who do not fit within their rigid hierarchy of faith, gender, and nationalism. Here, Christianity is not a belief system but an identity marker, a weaponised cultural force that exists to separate “true Americans” from those they deem enemies. Their Jesus is not the figure of the Gospels, the radical who ministered to outcasts and rejected the religious elite. Their Jesus is a nationalist, a militarised saviour wrapped in the flag, a gatekeeper rather than a redeemer. He is invoked not in the pursuit of love or justice but to justify exclusion, control, and the enforcement of hierarchy. This Jesus does not welcome the poor and the stranger; he protects the power of the wealthy and punishes those who do not conform. This Jesus has been reshaped, twisted into something unrecognisable from the historical figure—a man who lived in an occupied land, challenged both empire and religious authorities, and embraced those whom society had cast aside.

It is this disconnect that must be confronted, because the Jesus they wield as a weapon against people like me is not the Jesus of the texts. He is a fabrication, a theological tool created to uphold power rather than to speak truth to it. The Gospels and the Gnostic texts paint a very different picture—one of a man who spoke not of nationalism but of a kingdom beyond the reach of earthly rulers, who rejected material wealth, who walked among the marginalised and the reviled rather than standing in judgment over them. The true Jesus, the one found in scripture, cannot be reconciled with the Jesus of Christian nationalism. And yet, in spaces like this, their version of him reigns supreme. The challenge, then, is not just to push back against the theocratic politics of Christian nationalism, but to reclaim Jesus from their grasp entirely—to separate the historical figure from the political construct and to expose the ways in which his message has been contorted to serve an empire he would have rejected.

Who Was Jesus Really? Separating History from Christian Nationalist Mythology

Jesus was not a Christian. This should not be a controversial statement, yet in the cultural and political landscape of Christian nationalism, it often is. Christianity, as a distinct religion, did not exist during his lifetime. The movement that formed around him was deeply rooted in Second Temple Judaism, not a new faith separate from it. The concept of “Christianity” as we know it today was shaped after his death, first through Saul of Tarsus’ theological expansions and later through the decisions of church councils that codified doctrine, often in ways that diverged from the earliest teachings of his followers. The first people to follow Jesus were Jewish sectarians, not church-building theocrats. They did not see themselves as founding a new religion but as reforming and fulfilling their own tradition. Saul, aka Paul the Apostle or Saint Paul, whose writings form a significant portion of the New Testament, took this message and reframed it for a Gentile (non-Jewish / outsider) audience, stripping away many of its Jewish communal elements and replacing them with a more individualised, salvation-based theology. The institutional structures that emerged centuries later—hierarchical churches, doctrines of orthodoxy, state-aligned Christianity—would have been utterly foreign to Jesus himself. The irony is that Christian nationalists, who treat their version of Christianity as fixed and eternal, follow a faith that would have been unrecognisable to the man they claim as their saviour.

Jesus was, by all reasonable historical evidence, a member of the Essene community in Qumran, a communitarian sect of Judaism that rejected material wealth, practised collective living, and saw themselves as preparing for an imminent transformation of the world. The Essenes, unlike the Pharisees and Sadducees who controlled the religious and political establishment of the time, lived outside mainstream society, adhering to strict communal principles. The Dead Sea Scrolls, discovered in the Qumran caves, contain texts that align closely with the teachings attributed to Jesus—particularly in their focus on radical economic redistribution, rejection of temple corruption, and the idea that the current social and religious order was fundamentally broken. Essenes shared everything in common, renouncing personal wealth in favour of a system where resources were distributed according to need. This is entirely at odds with the capitalist individualism of modern Christian nationalists, who preach prosperity theology and venerate wealth as a sign of divine favour. If Jesus were alive today, his economic philosophy would be closer to socialism than free-market libertarianism, a fact that deeply unsettles those who have turned him into a symbol of conservative capitalism.

His radicalism extended beyond economics—he did not restrict his ministry to those who were already in agreement with him. Jesus did not just preach to his friends and followers, nor did he demand ideological purity from those he engaged with. He deliberately sought out the outcasts and reviled members of society, choosing to associate with those whom the religious and political elite had discarded. He spoke with Samaritans, tax collectors, sex workers, and the poor, groups that were either despised or ignored by the dominant culture of the time. This stands in direct contradiction to the exclusionary, purity-obsessed worldview of Christian nationalists, who draw rigid boundaries around who is worthy of belonging. The very people Jesus spent time with—those on the margins, those deemed unclean, those outside the accepted social order—are the same people today’s Christian nationalists reject. They claim to follow Jesus, yet their entire social and political movement is structured around avoiding the kind of people he actively embraced.

I say all of this not from a place of religious belief, but from the perspective of someone who has spent years studying the world’s religious traditions, including the Abrahamic trio and their many branches, as well as numerous indigenous belief systems and smaller faith movements. My views are not shaped by faith but by an intensive scholarly deep dive, the kind I do as an autistic person when a topic captures my interest. I originally undertook this research ahead of teaching Comparative Religion and Comparative Philosophy classes, determined to engage with primary texts rather than filtered interpretations. What I found, across all these traditions, is that religion is never static—it is always interpreted, reinterpreted, and reshaped to fit the needs of those in power. Christianity, in its many forms, is no exception. The Jesus of history is not the Jesus of Christian nationalism, and the gap between them is not one of faith but of power, politics, and deliberate manipulation.

Example: a more accurate interpretation of John 2:1-11

From the perspective of Jesus as an Essene rabbi, his attendance at the wedding at Cana and the act of turning water into wine (John 2:1-11) takes on a very different meaning than the one often assumed in mainstream Christian interpretations. The Essenes were a sect that distanced themselves from the corruption of the Temple authorities and the political entanglements of the Sadducees and Pharisees, but they were still deeply Jewish and followed a strict communal lifestyle. Unlike the mainstream Jewish leaders of the time, the Essenes lived collectively, practiced ritual purity, and sought to restore a more “authentic” form of devotion to God, outside of the structures of power that had come to dominate Jewish life in Second Temple Judea.

In this context, Jesus attending a wedding at all is notable. The Essenes had strict purity laws regarding food, drink, and social gatherings, and their monastic elements often led them to live in isolation from broader society. However, there is evidence that not all Essenes lived apart—some engaged with society whilst still adhering to their communalist and ascetic values. If Jesus was part of an Essene community that believed in active engagement with the world rather than total withdrawal, then his presence at a wedding suggests something intentional: he was demonstrating that his mission was not about isolation but about transformation.

The act of turning water into wine is also significant. The Essenes used water for frequent ritual purification—they were obsessed with maintaining purity, both physical and spiritual, which is why they constructed elaborate mikva’ot (ritual baths) at Qumran. The stone jars at the wedding, which the Gospel of John specifically notes as being used for Jewish purification rites, would have held water meant for these types of rituals. By transforming this water into wine, Jesus was not simply providing alcohol for a wedding celebration—he was making a symbolic statement about spiritual renewal and transformation.

Wine, in Jewish tradition, was often associated with joy, covenant, and the presence of G-d, especially in the context of marriage. However, it was also tied to messianic expectations—many Jewish sects, including the Essenes, believed that the arrival of the Messiah would be accompanied by an era of abundance, feasting, and divine restoration. In some Essene texts, there are descriptions of an anticipated “Messianic Banquet,” where the coming age of righteousness would be marked by the pure drinking of wine in celebration of G-d’s renewed kingdom. By turning water into wine, Jesus was making a theological statement rather than just performing a miracle for convenience. He was signaling the beginning of a new spiritual order, one that moved beyond strict legalistic purity laws and into something deeper—a restoration of divine joy and communion with G-d, outside the structures of the Temple elite.

For Christian nationalists who interpret this story as Jesus simply blessing the institution of marriage or celebrating in a modern evangelical sense, they miss the radical implications of the event. Jesus, as an Essene teacher and reformer, was not endorsing the status quo but transforming it. He was not aligning with institutional power but instead introducing an alternative vision of divine presence—one that was communal, celebratory, and ultimately about breaking free from the rigid religious and political hierarchies of his time. This interpretation also dismantles the capitalist, individualistic reading of Christianity, showing instead that Jesus’ vision was deeply rooted in communal restoration and a rejection of institutional corruption.

Five Ways Christian Nationalism Betrays Christ’s Teachings

Christian nationalism is fundamentally at odds with the teachings of Jesus, yet it claims his name as justification for its ideology. Rather than embracing the radical communalism, rejection of wealth, and deep inclusivity that defined his ministry, it distorts his message to uphold hierarchy, exclusion, and the consolidation of power. Christian nationalism is not Christianity—it is a political movement that seeks to merge faith with empire, despite Jesus’ clear rejection of both.

Jesus rejected nationalism outright, making it clear that his kingdom was not of this world (John 18:36). He did not seek to establish a theocratic state, nor did he align himself with any political entity. His message was anti-imperial, challenging the religious and political structures that prioritised power over people. Yet Christian nationalists treat America as a new “promised land,” insisting that it is divinely chosen and must be governed by biblical law—at least, the parts of the Bible that suit their political agenda. This belief in “divine right nationalism” contradicts the very essence of Jesus’ teachings. He did not call for the merging of religion and government but for the transformation of individuals and communities through love, justice, and humility. Christian nationalism, by contrast, is obsessed with control—legislating morality, enforcing rigid conformity, and wielding faith as a weapon rather than a source of liberation.

This is particularly evident in their exclusionary, tribalistic approach to Christianity, which stands in direct opposition to Jesus’ Great Commission: “Go and make disciples of all nations” (Matthew 28:19). Jesus’ message was not meant for a chosen few—it was borderless, transcending ethnicity, nationality, and social class. He engaged with Samaritans, Gentiles, Romans, and outcasts, refusing to limit his ministry to those within a narrowly defined in-group. Christian nationalists, however, use their version of Christianity to enforce exclusion. Their faith is defined by who does not belong—immigrants, LGBTQ+ people, non-Christians, or even Christians who do not conform to their specific brand of belief. They push policies that force their ideology onto others through law, contradicting Jesus’ fundamental principle of invitation rather than coercion. He never sought to compel belief through force—Christian nationalists, however, seek to legislate faith in ways that deny others their rights, freedom, and dignity.

At the core of Jesus’ teachings was a call to love, not domination. His words in Matthew 25:40—”Whatever you did for the least of these, you did for me.”—make clear where his priorities lay. His concern was for the poor, the sick, the oppressed, and the outcast—those who had been cast aside by the religious and political elites of his time. Christian nationalism, however, is rooted in hierarchy, patriarchy, and control—the very things Jesus opposed. This is especially apparent in prosperity gospel theology, which teaches that wealth is a sign of divine favour and that those who struggle do so because of their own moral failings. This is the complete opposite of what Jesus taught. The Essene community from which Jesus likely emerged practiced radical communalism, rejecting material wealth and living in shared responsibility for one another. Their worldview was built on mutual aid, collective care, and rejection of economic exploitation—far closer to socialism than to the individualistic capitalism Christian nationalists champion today.

In rural Christian nationalist spaces, the hypocrisy is evident in daily life. Loving one’s neighbour is conditional, determined by gender, faith, and ideological conformity. Churches do not serve their wider communities, only their own congregations. There is a church up the road from me that is locked most of the time, its resources reserved for members rather than the public. It does not offer food, shelter, or any meaningful engagement with the community. And yet, it benefits from massive tax exemptions as a “public benefit” corporation—despite providing no benefit to the public. This is not faith in action; it is an institution of exclusion and self-preservation, funded by the state but answerable to no one. Jesus, who spent his life among the poor and dispossessed, would have condemned this outright.

Perhaps the most glaring contradiction in Christian nationalism is its idolatry of the nation-state. The first commandment in Exodus 20:3 states, “You shall have no other gods before me,” yet in nationalist churches across America, the flag is held in higher esteem than the cross. It is not uncommon to see the American flag positioned above the cross in sanctuaries, or for worship services to include pledges of allegiance to the United States. Their Jesus is no longer a wandering teacher from an occupied land, but a militarised, nationalistic figurehead, draped in red, white, and blue, invoked to justify war, capitalism, and state control over private lives. This is not Christianity. It is state worship, a civil religion in which loyalty to the nation is indistinguishable from faith in God.

The selective nature of their theology becomes even more apparent when examining which parts of scripture they prioritise. Christian nationalists cherry-pick verses that reinforce their political agenda while ignoring those that call for economic justice, radical generosity, and the protection of the vulnerable. Leviticus 19:34 states, “The foreigner residing among you must be treated as your native-born.” Luke 6:24 warns, “Woe to you who are rich, for you have already received your comfort.” These passages are rarely, if ever, the subject of sermons in Christian nationalist churches. Instead, they fixate on policing gender, sexuality, and social order, whilst turning a blind eye to corporate greed, wealth hoarding, the suffering of the poor, and America’s direct complicity in genocide—most notably in Palestine, the very land where Jesus himself lived and preached. Their theology does not challenge the powerful—it serves them. The billionaires who exploit their congregations go uncriticised, but LGBTQ+ people are treated as threats. The banks that trap working families in debt are ignored, but public libraries hosting drag queen story hours are condemned as the gravest moral crisis of our time. Their faith is not about righteousness—it is about power, control, and maintaining a rigid social hierarchy.

Christian nationalism is not Christianity. It is a political ideology draped in religious language, one that distorts the message of Jesus to serve the interests of power rather than the needs of the people. Jesus’ teachings were not about conquest, nationalism, or exclusion—they were about love, justice, and radical solidarity with the oppressed. By twisting his words to justify hierarchy, nationalism, and state worship, Christian nationalists betray the very faith they claim to uphold.

The Gnostic Christ: A Radical Opponent to Empire and Wealth

The Gnostic Christ stands in direct opposition to the version of Jesus presented by Christian nationalism. The Jesus of Gnostic texts was a teacher of personal liberation, not a gatekeeper of empire. His teachings did not centre on rigid law, patriarchal hierarchy, or the enforcement of morality through state control; instead, they focused on inner enlightenment, self-knowledge, and humanity’s connection to the divine. The Gospel of Thomas, one of the most well-known Gnostic texts, captures this radical vision. In Saying 3, Jesus declares: “The kingdom is inside you, and it is outside you. When you come to know yourselves, then you will be known.” This is a vision of divinity that rejects external control and institutional mediation—a worldview where understanding the self and one’s place in the world is the path to divine connection, not obedience to a political-religious order.

The Gnostic texts also hint at connections to Hindu and Buddhist thought, suggesting that Jesus’ teachings—far from being the rigid, exclusionary doctrines that Christian nationalism embraces—were part of a broader, global understanding of spiritual awakening. In these texts, Jesus speaks not of dominion over the earth but of humanity as a part of nature and creation, not apart from it or above it. This stands in direct contrast to the Christian nationalist commodification of nature, in which land, resources, and even people exist only to be extracted and exploited. The Gnostic Jesus does not seek to rule over creation but to guide people toward harmony with it. His message resists the logic of capitalism, which seeks to divide, consume, and control. In a world where Christian nationalism is often tied to climate denialism, corporate greed, and environmental destruction, the rejection of Gnostic teachings makes sense—they challenge the very foundations of dominion theology, which treats the earth as a commodity rather than a living, sacred system.

It is no coincidence that these teachings were suppressed by the early Church. Gnosticism undermined the emerging institutional and hierarchical control of Christianity by teaching that divine wisdom was within each individual, not confined to a church, a priesthood, or an emperor’s decree. The Roman-aligned Church discarded these texts because they did not serve state power—they could not be used to justify imperial expansion, forced conversion, or obedience to earthly rulers. Unlike the canonical Gospels, which were curated to reinforce a more structured, authority-driven version of Christianity, the Gnostic texts taught that spiritual enlightenment was personal, that salvation was found through understanding, not submission. The early Church could not build an empire on a religion that did not require churches, bishops, or state enforcement. What remained was a Christianity that prioritised institutional control, patriarchy, and empire-building over the personal liberation Jesus actually preached.

The Jesus of Christian nationalism today is a far cry from the Gnostic Christ. Their version is white, gun-toting, and capitalist, more an avatar of American empire than a teacher of radical love and justice. This transformation of Jesus into a figure of conquest is not new—it has deep roots in the history of scientific racism and evangelical Christianity, where biblical texts were deliberately manipulated to justify the enslavement of humans around the world. The same religious structures that erased the Gnostic texts also erased the historical Jesus, replacing him with a tool for colonial expansion, white supremacy, and capitalist domination. The Bible was weaponised to uphold slavery in the U.S., just as it was used to justify the genocide of Indigenous peoples, the apartheid system in South Africa, and the ongoing economic subjugation of the Global South.

But the real Jesus was nothing like the political construct evangelicals worship today. He was a dark-skinned anti-imperialist who preached against wealth accumulation, challenged the religious elite, and rejected the rigid legalism that prioritised power over people. His message was dangerous to the Roman authorities, just as it was dangerous to the Jewish religious elite who collaborated with them. And that is precisely why Christian nationalism today cannot allow him to be remembered as he was. Their movement depends on an imperial Christ, not a revolutionary one. The Jesus of history stood with the oppressed, not the ruling class—but the Jesus of the Christian Right exists to justify oppression, to enforce obedience, to maintain the status quo.

By suppressing the Gnostic texts, the institutional church stripped away the most radical aspects of Jesus’ message—his rejection of empire, his insistence on personal awakening over blind faith, and his vision of a world not governed by material wealth or coercive law, but by love, justice, and unity with creation. What remains is a faith that has been weaponised to serve the interests of power, a hollow Christianity that has more in common with Caesar than with Christ.

The Political Weaponization of Christ: A Personal Perspective

Living in a Christian nationalist stronghold means encountering the weaponisation of Jesus on a daily basis. Even in California—a so-called “blue state”—the rural areas are anything but safe for people like me. The assumption that progressive values dominate here ignores the stark reality: once you step outside the cities, Christian nationalism is deeply entrenched, shaping the culture, the politics, and the unspoken rules of social belonging. It dictates who is welcome and who is seen as a threat, and for people like me—trans, non-religious, and visibly outside the rigid mold of evangelical conservatism—there is no question where we stand. We are not simply different. We are the enemy.

This movement enforces conformity through fear. MAGA flags are everywhere, proudly displayed on trucks, houses, and businesses. They are treated as symbols of faith and righteousness, declarations of loyalty to a cause that has become inseparable from their version of Christianity. But whilst these flags fly freely, any visible sign of queer or trans existence is met with hostility. A Pride flag on a home is an invitation for anonymous threats, a quiet but unmistakable warning to stop being so visible, stop being so defiant, stop existing in their space. These threats are rarely direct—cowardice prefers anonymity—but they are felt all the same.

Ostracisation is one of their most effective tools. If you are not evangelical, if you are not Christian nationalist, you are always an outsider, always just beyond the edges of acceptance. This exclusion is not passive; it is active. The local queer Facebook group has been harassed into near silence, flooded with threats and abuse whenever it becomes too visible. An attempt at a local trans meet-up was met with the same reaction—shut down not by formal opposition, but by the sheer relentlessness of their hostility. The message is clear: there is no space for you here. Even something as simple as not looking “country” enough is enough to draw sneers, judgment, or worse. This is how Christian nationalism operates—it does not need official policies or explicit laws when the culture itself becomes a weapon of enforcement.

The most bitter contradiction in all of this is how often these same people speak of “loving thy neighbor.” They invoke the name of Jesus as justification for their ideology, yet their version of “love” is conditional, exclusionary, and weaponised to enforce conformity. Their neighbor is not the person in need, the outcast, or the stranger. Their neighbor is only those who look like them, pray like them, and obey their I am not religious. That has been true throughout this entire exploration, but it bears repeating here. My investment in this subject is not about faith, but about understanding the power that faith holds when it is weaponised for control. Christian nationalism is not simply a misinterpretation of Christianity—it is an existential threat, a movement that does not seek to coexist, but to conquer. It has no room for those who do not fit within its rigid hierarchy. It does not negotiate. It does not compromise. It seeks total domination.

This is not a faith-based movement, but a political one, designed to consolidate power through fear and exclusion. It has been brewing for decades, steadily eroding the boundaries between church and state, waiting for the right moment to seize control. Now, with the Tangerine Tyrant as its champion, it has found the figurehead it always wanted—a leader who does not believe, but who does not need to. Christian nationalism has never required sincerity, only obedience. He gives them the authoritarianism they crave, the power to impose their will, the promise of a future where their ideology reigns unchallenged. This movement does not represent the teachings of Jesus, but in its crusader mentality, its hunger for conquest, its willingness to use faith as a justification for violence and control, it absolutely mirrors the worst aspects of Christianity’s imperial past.

Living under the shadow of this distortion of faith means constant vigilance, constant resistance, constant awareness that people like me—trans, non-religious, unwilling to conform—are seen not just as outsiders, but as enemies of their vision for the world. I am fortunate. I am quite large and visibly strong. I am physically imposing. I can wear my heather-coloured tunics with pride, knowing that if someone decides to act on their hatred, they will have to think twice. But most do not have that privilege. Most who are targeted by this movement—trans people, queer people, disabled people, immigrants, those who do not conform to their narrow definition of “righteousness”—are far more vulnerable. They do not have the luxury of deterrence. Their safety, their rights, their very existence is under threat.

That is why this matters. That is why I have put this piece together—not because I have faith in changing the minds of the deeply entrenched, but because facts, history, and context matter in the fight against this movement. Because those who cannot do this work themselves deserve to have it done for them. Because Christian nationalism thrives on ignorance, and ignorance is its greatest weapon. And because the only way to resist an unhinged, authoritarian movement is to confront it for what it truly is. Not faith. Not morality. But power, greed, and control wrapped in the language of God.