​What We Have Learned to Admire

A pastor was explaining why Donald Trump’s harsh rhetoric did not trouble him.

“I don’t want some meek and mild leader or somebody who’s going to turn the other cheek,” he said. “I want the meanest, toughest SOB I can find to protect this nation.”

The statement generated predictable political reactions. Some applauded the candor. Others condemned it. Yet the most interesting thing about the remark may not be its politics but its theology.

The pastor was not merely expressing support for a candidate. He was offering a vision of the world.

At the center of Christianity stands a strange claim: that power is most clearly revealed not in domination but in self-giving love. Christians gather around the memory of an executed Messiah. They tell stories about martyrs, saints, and servants. They read teachings that bless the meek, commend mercy, and instruct disciples to love enemies.

For two thousand years, Christians have struggled to live up to those teachings. Failure is hardly new.

What may be new is the willingness to speak of those teachings as though they were obstacles rather than ideals.

The pastor’s statement is noteworthy because it places “turning the other cheek” and national security in direct opposition. One must choose. Either embrace Christian meekness or survive in the real world. The implication is unmistakable: Jesus may be admirable, but his teachings are not entirely practical.

This tension is not unique to contemporary America. It has appeared throughout Christian history.

The Israelites demanded a king like the nations around them. The disciples argued over which of them would be greatest. The church has often been tempted by the promise that security can be achieved through strength, unity through coercion, and righteousness through victory.

What makes the present moment distinctive is the degree to which many Christians appear willing not merely to tolerate aggression but to celebrate it.

This shift points to an important truth about religion. Religious communities do not simply teach doctrines. They teach admiration.

Every community forms habits of praise. It tells members whom to honor, what to desire, and what kind of person to become. Over time, these patterns shape moral imagination more deeply than formal statements of belief.

The crucial question, then, is not what Christians say they believe. The crucial question is what they have learned to admire.

When contempt becomes admirable, communities become more contemptuous. When cruelty becomes admirable, communities become more cruel. When truthfulness becomes optional, truth itself becomes difficult to recognize.

Political loyalties alone cannot explain such transformations. They are matters of formation.

The late philosopher Paul Ricoeur observed that human beings live through stories. We understand ourselves by inhabiting narratives larger than ourselves. Religious traditions are among the most powerful narrative systems ever created. They shape identity, memory, and desire.

The struggle visible in contemporary American Christianity is therefore not simply a political struggle. It is a contest between rival stories.

One story celebrates the strongman, the protector, the warrior who defeats enemies and secures the tribe.

The other tells of a teacher who washed feet, forgave executioners, and died between criminals.

The church has always lived uneasily between those stories. Yet moments of crisis reveal which story has become most compelling.

The challenge facing American Christians today may not be deciding whom to support politically. It may be deciding which story they want to inhabit.

The answer will be revealed not primarily in their votes, but in what they have learned to admire.