Why We Need to Say “White Christian Nationalism” Even When It Turns People Off

I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve heard someone say, “Don’t use that term because people won’t read it.” They’re talking about white Christian nationalism. The phrase, they tell me, turns people off. It sounds too harsh, too political, too divisive. They worry readers will close the tab before finishing the first paragraph.

I understand the hesitation. I really do. We’re living in an age when every word feels like a trigger, and people are tired of conflict. But there’s a difference between avoiding unnecessary provocation and avoiding the truth. And when it comes to this particular truth — the rising tide of white Christian nationalism shaping our laws, our schools, and our sense of belonging — silence serves the wrong side.

The Fear of Naming Things

Here in Kentucky, I see it all the time. Good people (churchgoing, kind-hearted, generous) don’t want to believe that something so dangerous could be growing in their own backyards. They’ll talk about “extremists” or “religious overreach” or “divisive politics.” But say white Christian nationalism, and the air changes. The shoulders stiffen. The eyes look for a way out of the conversation.

I get why. The term sounds like an accusation or like we’re calling someone racist, or anti-Christian, or unpatriotic. But that’s not what it means. The phrase describes an ideology, not an individual. It’s the belief that America is and should remain a Christian nation defined by white Christian identity, and that our laws, institutions, and schools should reflect that.

That belief system didn’t appear out of nowhere. It’s been embedded in our history from the start, from colonists who claimed divine destiny to segregationists who preached “biblical order.” What’s new is how openly it’s being revived and how effectively it’s cloaking itself in language about faith and freedom.

When Faith Becomes Power

You don’t have to look far to see it. In Oldham County, we’ve seen outside religious programs like LifeWise trying to insert themselves into public schools annd off-campus Bible classes marketed as “character education.” In Shelbyville, a pastor stole LGBTQ+ books from the public library and justified it as a moral duty. Across the state, lawmakers are introducing bills that funnel public money into private religious schools while dismantling diversity programs.

This isn’t just about faith. It’s about control and about using faith as a political weapon to decide who belongs, who speaks, and whose children get to see themselves reflected in their classrooms.

When I write or speak about these issues, I use the term white Christian nationalism because it names that fusion of race, religion, and power for what it is. It doesn’t confuse Christianity with political dominance. It doesn’t water down the threat. And it reminds us that faith and democracy both suffer when one group tries to claim divine ownership of the nation.

The Temptation to Soften It

Still, I’ve had writers, editors, even clergy tell me: “People won’t read it if you use that term.” I used to wonder if they were right. Maybe I should find a gentler phrase such as “Christian extremism,” “religious nationalism,” something that didn’t make people flinch. But every substitute felt dishonest. Each one stripped away a layer of truth until all that was left was something vague and harmless.

Avoiding the term doesn’t protect readers. It protects the ideology. It lets it move unchallenged through our churches, our school boards, and our statehouses because no one wants to say the uncomfortable part out loud.

And the irony is, the discomfort is the point. The words make us uneasy because they hit close to home. They name something deeply woven into our national story and that is the myth that power belongs by right to white Christians, and that everyone else is here by permission.

Precision Is Not Hostility

There’s a misconception that naming white Christian nationalism is an act of hostility toward Christians. It’s not. Many of the loudest voices warning about this ideology are Christians — pastors, theologians, and faith leaders who believe in a Jesus who served, not ruled. They see how this movement distorts their faith into something punitive and self-serving.

I think about those voices when I write. I want readers, especially those in Kentucky, to understand that naming white Christian nationalism isn’t an attack on Christianity. It’s a defense of it. It’s saying, “Your faith deserves better than to be weaponized for political gain.”

Language as Moral Clarity

Words shape what people see. When we refuse to name something, we make it invisible. And what’s invisible can’t be resisted. That’s why the phrase matters. It gives us language for a pattern we’ve all been watching unfold — book bans, loyalty pledges, efforts to rewrite history, church networks trying to capture public institutions.

It’s tempting to believe that if we just talk around it, people will stay open-minded. But that kind of “openness” usually means denial. Truth-telling doesn’t close people’s minds; it opens their eyes.

When I think about the writers and activists who came before us, specifically those who named segregation, misogyny, and authoritarianism in their own times, I doubt any of them worried that the truth would turn people off. They worried that silence would.

The Kentucky Test

Kentucky is a mirror for this national struggle. We’re a state of deep faith, deep pride, and deep contradictions. The same churches that run food drives also host voter-registration bans. The same neighbors who defend religious freedom will vote for leaders who use religion to justify censorship.

We don’t fix that by softening our words. We fix it by telling the truth in love, with context, with care and without flinching. Because if we can’t name what’s happening in Kentucky, how will we ever confront what’s happening to the country?

The Work of Naming

Naming is not shaming. It’s seeing clearly. And clarity is the first step to courage. The people who most need to hear this aren’t the extremists waving crosses at rallies but the decent, uncertain majority who still believe faith should guide conscience, not government.

When I use the term white Christian nationalism, I’m not trying to provoke. I’m trying to be precise. I’m trying to describe the system that tells my neighbors they must choose between their God and their democracy. I’m trying to draw the line between devotion and domination.

Because democracy can’t survive what we’re too afraid to name.

So if the words make people uncomfortable, that’s fine. Maybe that discomfort is holy ground and the place where understanding begins.

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If this reflection resonates, share it with someone who still believes faith and freedom can coexist.