One of the most overlooked moments in the life of Jesus happens early, before the crowds, before the healings, before the Sermon on the Mount. It happens quietly, in the wilderness. In that story, Jesus is offered something far more seductive than comfort or bread. He is offered power. Real power. Political influence. Control over kingdoms. The ability to shape society from the top down.
And he says no.
I’ve come to believe this may have been his greatest temptation. Not hunger. Not ego. Control. Control looks efficient. Control feels righteous. Control promises faster results. Control lets you fix things without having to sit in messy relationships with flawed people. Jesus could have taken that path. He could have aligned himself with political authority, built coalitions, leveraged systems, and imposed moral order from above. Instead, he chose something much harder. He chose proximity over power. Relationships over rulership. Transformation from the inside out instead of enforcement from the outside in.
That decision still matters.
Because American Christianity eventually revisited that same temptation, and this time, it said yes.
What many people don’t realize is that the modern marriage between evangelical Christianity and partisan politics didn’t begin with Donald Trump. It began in the 1970s, largely in response to the IRS decision in Bob Jones University v. IRS, which challenged racially discriminatory practices tied to tax-exempt status. That decision to remove the tax-exempt status from segregated schools threatened institutional power. And in response, leaders like Jerry Falwell helped organize what became the Moral Majority.
But here’s the uncomfortable part of that history. Segregation was no longer a publicly defensible rallying cry. So, the movement rebranded. Instead of marching under the flag of racial separation, it added a moral platform fighting abortion and equal rights for gay individuals. The language shifted. The issues changed. But the underlying motivation, protecting influence, preserving power, maintaining cultural dominance, remained.
It was the wilderness temptation, dressed in Sunday clothes.
From that point forward, large segments of evangelical Christianity began to fuse faith with political identity. The goal quietly shifted from winning souls to winning elections. From loving neighbors to defeating opponents. From being salt and light to becoming a voting bloc.
I’m not saying Christians shouldn’t care about civic life. Of course, we should. Voting matters. Policies affect real people. Justice is not optional. But there is a profound difference between participating in democracy and baptizing political power.
Once faith becomes fused with politics, something subtle but corrosive happens. Compassion shrinks while certainty grows. Enemies multiply. Nuance disappears. Loving your neighbor takes a back seat to owning them. I’ve watched this unfold for decades, not just in churches but also at Christian Counseling conferences and classrooms affiliated with a faith-based institution of higher education. People stop listening. They stop being curious. They stop asking hard questions of themselves. Instead, they outsource morality and ethics to their tribe and call it conviction.
When identity becomes tightly bound to ideology, we lose flexibility. We protect the group instead of examining the self. We defend positions instead of tending relationships. Spiritually, it looks like righteousness and fighting for truth. Emotionally, it is often based on fear.
And now we are living with the consequences. The evangelical church took the very temptation Satan offered Jesus, and in doing so, it slowly lost sight of its original mission. The kingdom of God was replaced with culture wars. Humility gave way to hubris. Service was overshadowed by strategy. Instead of standing for character, the church has gradually swallowed the lie that the ends justify the means.
Along the way, countless people who genuinely wanted to love their neighbors, care for the poor, welcome the outsider, and practice compassion began quietly walking away. Often, they shoved and cursed away from the Church and called woke or libtards, even when they were simply wanting to make a difference in people’s lives. And they didn’t just leave the church, but often, by association, Jesus himself. Not because they rejected faith necessarily, but they couldn’t reconcile it with what American Christianity had become.
Around the world, Christianity in the United States is no longer widely seen as salt and light. Increasingly, it is viewed as angry, partisan, and exclusionary… less a spiritual movement and more a political machine. In some places, it’s perceived not as a source of healing but as a kind of hate group. That should grieve us.
Jesus never organized his ministry around identifying villains. He organized it around healing people. He didn’t start with Rome. He started with neighbors. He didn’t seize institutions. He walked dusty roads and sat with people. He didn’t shame those outside the church; he challenged those within the religious institution.
The gospel was never meant to be enforced through legislation or defended through memes. It spreads through the presence of others with needs. Through humility. Through service. Through hard, ordinary love.
When Christianity becomes primarily about political victory, it quietly stops being about spiritual formation.
Jesus resisted temptation for the shortcut. He refused to rule by force. He chose to change people instead.
Maybe that’s still the invitation.
Not to withdraw from society, but to remember that real transformation doesn’t come from conquering culture. It comes from living differently inside it.
Dr. Wesley