When the pulpit merges with power, does the sword overshadow the Sermon on the Mount?

Though I’m no longer practicing, I was raised Catholic. I went through the rituals—Baptism and Confirmation. At the heart of Catholic doctrine were love, mercy, humility, and salvation:

“You shall love your neighbor as yourself.”

“Whoever wants to be first must be the servant of all.”

Today, those teachings are too often drowned out by fear, anger, and politics.

In 2024, Lance Wallnau, a prominent figure in the New Apostolic Reformation and self-described Christian nationalist, declared, “God has called Christians to exercise dominion over all areas of American society. The U.S. government should declare America a Christian nation.”

Others remember a different calling. Former Ohio Governor John Kasich, defending Medicaid expansion, said, “When you die and get to the meeting with St. Peter… he is going to ask you what you did for the poor. You better have a good answer.”

The difference between these two visions—supremacy versus service—reflects a conflict that began long ago.

For the first three centuries, Christ’s followers lived quietly, served humbly, and often died violently, refusing to retaliate even as they were mocked, jailed, and martyred under Roman persecution.

Then came power.

By the end of the 4th century, Emperor Theodosius made Christianity the official state religion. A once-persecuted faith became entangled with empire—and the consequences would echo for centuries. With imperial approval came influence. Bishops gained political power. Theologians aligned with emperors. Heresy became a state crime. The same empire that once fed Christians to lions now wielded the sword in Christ’s name.

That’s not a theological issue. It’s an ethical one.

Because when power fuses with belief, ethics too often take a back seat to authority.

By the 5th century, Augustine of Hippo introduced the idea of a “Just War”—violence that could be justified to protect the innocent or restore peace. In context, it made sense. But it opened the door to a dangerous compromise: righteousness with a sword.

By the 13th century, that sword turned inward. The Albigensian Crusade targeted fellow Christians labeled heretics. Asked how to tell them apart, one commander said, “Kill them all; God will know His own.” No principle survives that logic.

Then came the Spanish Inquisition. Torture extracted confessions. Executions became public theater. Orthodoxy was no longer shaped by reflection but enforced by fear.

Even the Protestant Reformation—born of protest—devolved into religious wars that drenched Europe in blood. Catholics and Protestants, both invoking the same Christ, killed in His name.

This wasn’t the inevitable path of Christianity. It was the path of Christians wielding power without ethical restraint.

Not all went along. Francis of Assisi. Martin Luther King Jr.—each reclaimed the Gospel’s moral core: faith, at its best, is not about dominance but service.

So what happened to Christianity?

The teachings didn’t change. What changed was how those teachings were used—often by people more interested in ruling than in following. The Sermon on the Mount was sidelined when it no longer served the ambitions of those in charge.

The lesson isn’t just historical. It’s deeply ethical.

Whenever belief is used to justify harm, we must ask: Are we living the values we claim to hold?
Are we loving our neighbor, or labeling them an enemy? Are we wielding truth, or just using it to win?

Christianity’s story is filled with grace, but also grave missteps. It’s not just about what people believed, but what they did with that belief when morality gave way to might.

Ethics—like faith—only matter when we choose to live by them. Especially when it’s hard, unpopular, or inconvenient.

That’s the real test of any belief. And it’s one we still face.