Jesus, John Wayne, and Me
Like many Americans on January 6, I was watching on my phone as swarms of Trump supporters, far-right militiamen, and white evangelical nationalists stormed the U.S. Capitol. The horrifying, crowning moment came when one of the most white evangelical prayers I’ve ever heard was proclaimed by a group of insurrectionists in the overrun Senate chamber.
As someone who has been inside of various expressions of evangelicalism for most of my life, more and more people came to me in the months before the insurrection wanting to know why so many white evangelicals had seemingly lost their minds. (Full disclosure, I’m a Christian who no longer identifies as evangelical.) This frustration finally blew up my phone on January 6:
“What the hell is wrong with evangelicals?”
“They really believe this is what God wants?”
“Do they not understand this is why the world thinks they’re full of crap?”
The answers to these questions aren’t simple. Rather than provide facile responses, I spent a few days writing Why White Evangelicals Have an Extremism Problem to provide a more nuanced answer.
Late that night, my phone buzzed with a message from an old friend —a former white evangelical himself— who had just read the piece:
“Yep, all true. You read Jesus and John Wayne?”
Sheepishly, I replied that I’d been avoiding the book because I knew it would be a deeply painful read. “No pain, no gain,” he replied.
I ordered the book and read it in two weeks. I’ve been trying to write this piece on and off ever since, struggling to distill my thoughts down into a starting place. I finally landed on this a few weeks ago:
“It’s all true. Once you see it, you can’t unsee it.”
Jesus and John Wayne’s core historical lesson is undeniable
Dr. Kristin Kobes Du Mez’s authoritative book tells the 75-year history of how aggressive masculinity and militarism came to dominate white evangelicalism in the United States. In excruciating detail, she shows how leaders spread their ideology and became a social force to be reckoned with.
Du Mez’s impressive scholarship — which includes a whopping 31 pages of small-print citations — comes at a time when white evangelicals are losing control of their own narrative. The moral veneer evangelical leaders often throw over their ideology is painfully peeled off in this book with their own words and actions. What remains isn’t pretty: a movement built on white patriarchal authority instead of the Jesus of the Gospels. Du Mez notes how this explains the staunch white evangelical support for Donald Trump:
“But evangelical support for Trump was no aberration, nor was it merely a pragmatic choice. It was, rather, the culmination of evangelicals’ embrace of militant masculinity, an ideology that enshrines patriarchal authority and condones the callous display of power, at home and abroad.” (3)
This dominant strain of evangelicalism is driving the crisis plaguing much of the American Church and the United States today. Rather than summarize the history Du Mez provides — seriously, just go buy the book — I want to pull forward three intertwined threads that run through Jesus and John Wayne to examine further.
White evangelicalism is more cultural than biblical
No one escapes the reality that belief systems interact with culture, and vice versa. We’re all born with personalities and often have beliefs instilled in us by our families, but our environments play major roles in shaping who we are and what we believe as well.
This interplay between theology and culture is a mess in white evangelicalism. It’s common to hear white evangelicals claim that their cultural and political beliefs are rooted in the Bible, but even a cursory comparison of the life of Jesus to white evangelical subculture shows its often the other way around. Summarizing history, Du Mez speaks to this reality in her closing chapter:
“Despite evangelicals’ frequent claims that the Bible is the source of their social and political commitments, evangelicalism must be seen as a cultural and political movement rather than as a community defined chiefly by its theology. Evangelical views on any given issue are facets of this larger cultural identity, and no number of Bible verses will dislodge the great truths at the heart of it.” (297–98)
Ouch.
In the real world, this plays out in too many ways to cover here. Perhaps the most obvious is that white evangelicals are left with massive cultural blindspots, especially on issues of race, gender, authority, and politics.
This is why white evangelicals shout all lives matter in the face of black lives matter, leaving people who don’t look like them feeling that their existence and experiences aren’t taken seriously. It’s why white male leaders often respond with confusion when they are called out for protecting abusers instead of victims. It’s also why they angrily lash out when good-faith questions are asked about why they don’t allow women to teach or lead.
It means voting for Republican candidates because of a few issues, with little regard for morality of candidates and bigger consequences. As we’ll examine momentarily, it means white patriarchy is rarely held accountable, even when crimes are being committed.
Melania Trump listens to Donald Trump during a White House dinner celebrating evangelical leadership. (The White House, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons)
These kinds of experiences are so endemic in white evangelicalism that people inside the subculture believe this is what normal is supposed to be. We expect that when a white evangelical leader is caught in a lie or abuse, it will be blamed on “the enemy” or “secular forces” that are “out to get us.” In the best case scenario, a church will quietly push an abusive leader to the sidelines with no real consequences. Far too often though, the hierarchal machinery kicks in to protect them at the expense of victims.
Cultural blindspots like these hinder the spread of the Gospel because this us vs. them mentality drives people away from the Church. Many white evangelicals operate as if the slightest cultural or political disagreements must lead to permanent separation and vilification, despite the Bible making it clear that loving others is no crime (see Matthew 5:43–48).
This backwards interplay between theology and culture also plays out in some ways that are as humorous as they are dangerous. Du Mez could have just as easily titled her book Jesus and Mel Gibson’s William Wallace, although I imagine her publisher wouldn’t be thrilled with the title length. Like many men who came of age in the 2000s, I remember the film Braveheart being played on summer youth trips, with Gibson’s protagonist held up to us as what a Christian man ought to be: a militarized, nationalist savior who battles societal institutions. The thread between experiences like that and white evangelical support for Trump is so obvious now, isn’t it?
One is left to wonder if the Bible really plays a role in shaping the social commitments of white evangelicals. I have my doubts. I’ve talked to a number of church leaders around the country the past few years. Many pastors especially have come to the depressing conclusion that the talking heads on Fox News are a competing pastor in their churches. That brand of social conservatism is a corrupt religion rooted entirely in the cultural and political.
By the end of Jesus and John Wayne, history shows that the American evangelical fetishization of white patriarchal authority hasn’t served the Church well. As Du Mez summarizes:
“While dominant, the evangelical cult of masculinity does not define the whole of American evangelicalism. It is largely the creation of white evangelicals. The vast majority of books on evangelical masculinity have been written by white men primarily for white men; to a significant degree, the markets for literature on black and white Christian manhood remain distinct. With few exceptions, black men, Middle Eastern men, and Hispanic men are not called to a wild, militant masculinity. Their aggression, by contrast, is seen as dangerous, a threat to the stability of the home and nation. Evangelical masculinity serves as the foundation of a God-and-country nationalism…” (301)
I use the word fetishization because even kind-hearted complementarians I know are beginning to see that their culture has idolized unaccountable white patriarchy.
It’s one thing to say you believe in soft, servant-style male leadership in the Church because of a particular interpretation of Scripture, with strong policies and procedures in place to protect those who aren’t in leadership and that provide ample opportunity for everyone to serve others.
It’s another thing entirely to actually pull that off.
Instead, what often happens is a small group of older, white men oversee a culture in which women, minorities, and younger people have little to no voice or agency — or worse — are abused because leaders have created no avenues for justice and few opportunities to really live for Jesus. What makes this even more dangerous is when elders and pastors throw the linguistic veneer of “soft patriarchy” over the abuse. All that accomplishes is driving some of the abuse out of sight and out of mind.
This obsession with white patriarchal authority stands out as one of the more obvious oddities in white evangelicalism. For a group of people who declare everyone needs Jesus to save them because sin is inescapable, it is strange that they instill so much power in such small groups of homogenous men with virtually zero accountability structures. This reality becomes even more bizarre when you consider that white evangelicalism frequently teaches men that they are weak in the face of sexual temptation and lust for power.
These contradictions are obvious to those outside of white evangelical subculture, but aren’t obvious to those inside. Why?
As Du Mez points out, history provides answers. On the heels of 9/11, several books — such as John Eldredge’s Wild At Heart — were embraced by white evangelical leaders who needed a playbook to mobilize their movement for the culture wars. For decades in white evangelicalism, aggressive masculinity has been taught as being the solution to cultural challenges. 9/11 gave them a new opportunity to spread this ideology.
Books like Wild At Heart were light on actual Scripture, but heavy on patriarchy and a warfare mentality. Eldredge’s own book pitch says it all:
“God did not create men to be nice boys. He created us to live a life of passion, freedom, and adventure. To be dangerous men living in a really big story.”
I was handed Wild At Heart in high school and, regrettably, was briefly taken with it. My high school years were marked with somewhat abnormal wounds that came from outside my control. Eldredge’s views on how men can be wounded in their youth seemed to click.
But when I held Wild At Heart up to the Bible, it was clear that white evangelical masculinity — as laid out by Eldredge and so many others — is fraudulent. This version of “Christian manhood” is unbelievably selfish. It’s performance-driven with an emphasis on controlling culture, not improving hearts. Jesus even warned against this type of teaching and leadership because it is so dangerous (see Mark 7:1–13).
The Jesus of the Bible is not a warrior-savior, but a sacrificial lamb offering redemption. The two greatest commandments Jesus gave were to love God and our neighbors (see Matthew 22:36–40). He later followed those up with the Great Commission (see Matthew 28:18–20), in which He said to make disciples of all nations, not abusively conquer with cultural and political power.
In American evangelicalism, white patriarchal authority and strict gender roles are placed on equal footing or in higher importance than Jesus. I’ve seen the disastrous results of this idolatry in my own life. Growing up, I watched boys suppress their love for learning music, reading, and playing “less manly” sports after they were made fun of for not participating in heavy contact sports. People I knew who came from minority communities were often treated with suspicion. Girls were told to dress modestly to protect their sexual purity and, more importantly, the purity of the boys around them. Unsurprisingly, talking about sex and purity all the time only made teenagers think about and want to have unsafe sex all the time. And, of course, I’ve rarely seen women allowed to speak from a stage or step into any leadership role.
Manly stuff? Photo by lucas Favre on Unsplash
More recently, an elder at our now former church tried to gaslight me into believing my marriage was in trouble, simply because I asked him a question about how volunteer decisions were being made. He was visibly furious and tried to force me to commit idolatry to him. This was a holy war to him and, for some reason unbeknownst to me, I was suddenly the villain. It was deeply disorienting, so I walked away.
My story as a victim of white patriarchal abuse — and it was far from the worst kind — could easily be found in Jesus and John Wayne. Perhaps that’s why the book resonates with so many people: it’s easy to see how our own experiences stem from white evangelicalism’s history. This particular experience wasn’t as bizarre as I thought it was at the time. It was the logical conclusion of the white evangelical obsession with authority and power.
A third underlying thread that knits Jesus and John Wayne together is the pervasive fear in white evangelicalism. As Du Mez shows throughout her book, white evangelical leaders have been trafficking in fear for decades.
Growing up, I saw only bits of fear in the evangelical circle I was directly involved in. When I entered high school in 2002, the threat of communism was a distant memory. There were concerns about secular humanism and a post-truth society, but both were treated as far-off challenges. I saw some fear of Islamic extremism, but so little that it felt jarring.
Looking beyond my bubble though, I saw the fear found in Jesus and John Wayne pretty much everywhere else. Students at school drove trucks with Jesus stickers and Confederate and American flags flying off the back. Friends of friends used racially-charged language and made sexist comments about girls. I saw white evangelical fear directed at “the gays,” Muslims, and liberals, as well as distrust of African Americans when we associated with other white evangelical youth groups and the adults overseeing them.
The inescapable question stemming from these experiences is this: if the Bible tells us not to fear (see 2 Timothy 1:7), why do white evangelicals see so many perceived threats in the broader culture around them?
President Richard Nixon in the Oval Office with Reverend Billy Graham. August 10, 1971. Public domain.
Again, Du Mez shows that history provides answers. White evangelical leaders traffic in fear to gain closer proximity to power. Jesus and John Wayne efficiently exposes the networks that blur the lines between the fringes and mainstream white evangelicalism. Fear is how platforms are built, financial windfalls are gained, and more extreme teachings are justified. It’s also how dissenting voices are silenced. And, of course, millions of people consume it.
One example is when Mark Driscoll’s name first appears in Jesus and John Wayne. I tensed up, realizing that I had subconsciously repressed his very existence. Driscoll’s fear-based teachings were laundered through “mainstream” white evangelical leaders, including John Piper (273). I still keep in touch with one person who lost their faith entirely because of Driscoll’s toxicity, via Piper’s association. And the broader white evangelical belief that everything Piper says is capital-t Truth is deeply alarming.
White evangelical fear often extends to anything and anyone that doesn’t conform 100% to their subculture. A current example of this is the fearful language used in the white evangelical resistance to COVID-19 vaccines. I’ve personally heard several white evangelicals claim they are straight up scared of the vaccines, either because they were “developed too quickly” or “we just don’t know anything about them.” No doctor, scientist, or public health official will convince them otherwise. Their pastors might, but they’re mostly silent on the subject.
The declared enemies and fears of white evangelicalism have shifted over the decades. Today’s enemies are well-known: Black Lives Matter, critical race theory, socialism…the list seems to get a little longer every year. There always has to be something to be afraid of; otherwise, the entire belief system would start to fracture.
The reason why white evangelicals ignore Jesus’s basic teachings about love and hope — love your enemy (see Matthew 5:43–48), as just one example — is because they would have to give up social power to truly follow Him. As Du Mez shows in Jesus and John Wayne, it’s easier to participate in a fearful persecution mentality wrapped up in an America-is-in-decline narrative.
Where do white evangelicals go from here?
This all explains why so many white evangelicals staunchly support Donald Trump. He is a white patriarchal protector, a culture warrior who could restore America to the mythical “good-old days,” when the dominance of white evangelicals was unchallenged. He is the logical conclusion of white evangelicalism in action, not an aberration that can be easily explained away.
Du Mez closes the book with no concrete solutions. Her final words are:
“What was once done might also be undone.” (304)
Maybe it’s just me, but there are parts of Jesus and John Wayne that make this book more than a history lesson. Du Mez’s contribution here is humbly pastoral. One imagines that her leaving the future in the readers’ hands comes from researching a subculture defined by authoritarianism. Du Mez clearly wants us to think for ourselves. That’s needed given the context.
In the aftermath of the January 6 insurrection, some white evangelicals are beginning to question the role their culture has played in building up the looming threat of Christian nationalism. Sadly, the lens they are attempting to address Christian nationalism through doesn’t get to the heart of the issue. The goal is to preserve their subculture first and deal with a dangerous problem infested in their system second.
In reality, you can’t fix one without fixing the other. Some healthier questions white evangelicals could ask themselves are:
What role do our cultural beliefs play in building Christian nationalism? (see Acts 10:34–48 to understand how God does not show favoritism and Philippians 3:12–21 to understand the hope found in embracing a heaven-heavy “dual citizenship”)
Have we made white patriarchal authority and gender roles as important or more important than Jesus? (see Mark 7:1–13 to understand how Jesus warns against placing tradition over God and loving others)
Have we misunderstood who Jesus is and how we are supposed to serve others? (see James 1:19–27 to understand how we are called to serve others calmly and without haughtiness or controlling behavior)
Is white evangelicalism even worth saving? (see Ephesians 2:11–22 to understand how Jesus breaks down “walls of hostility” between people groups)
Again, as someone who has been inside of various forms of evangelicalism for most of my life, I’m fully aware that asking questions like these puts one in the crosshairs of white patriarchal authority. But to those of you reading this from inside of white evangelicalism and see at least some of these problems — and I know some of you are reading this — I ask you: is conforming yourself to this subculture really more important than following Jesus and loving others?
Photo by Priscilla Du Preez on Unsplash
If you don’t know how to answer that — or are too anxious to answer — I point you to Jesus’s words in Matthew 11:28–30:
“Come to me, all who labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you, and learn from me, for I am gentle and lowly in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light.”
That invitation sounded better to an exhausted me many years ago. It takes time, but I can report that the yoke Jesus offers is in fact much lighter than the heavy chains of white evangelicalism. Jesus over all —including subcultural identity — even if it means leaving the only world you’ve ever known behind (see Matthew 16:24–28).
Closing Thoughts
And what responsibility do we post-evangelical Christians have in changing this broken subculture we once found ourselves in?
I struggled with this question long before I picked up Jesus and John Wayne. Some days I really am optimistic that white evangelicals can change. I’ve seen some move to more loving positions after extended discussions on these issues. I call some of them friends.
Disturbingly, I’ve seen much more of the opposite. Over the last few years especially, white evangelicals have questioned my faith, called me a blasphemer, and demanded that I repent for merely asking questions. I’ve been subjected to severe gaslighting and heard more self-aggrandizing, misogynistic, and racist language than at any other point in my life.
Perhaps I’ve just hit the fences of white evangelicals I know who are persuadable. Giving up feels wrong, but what other option is there?
I honestly don’t know how to answer that question.
What I do know is that more of us need to speak out. We need to be loving, but unrelenting in our calls for change and accountability. We need to expose the fabrication that white patriarchy is good, but just has some bad apples. And oh, what a lie that is. Even “softer” white patriarchy often comes with a more subtle spiritual abuse attached to it. It is a cultural institution that white evangelicals have idolized.
White evangelical patriarchy needs to be crucified. Not out of spite or revenge, but out of necessity for our neighbors and love for Jesus.
Finally, those of us who have retained our faith after leaving this subculture need to embrace the steady flow of refugees streaming out of white evangelicalism. We need to remember how disorienting it was for us when we left and guide newcomers to safer, healthier communities that place a premium on following the Jesus of the Gospels in diverse community with respect and love for others.
Perhaps one practical step we should take is ordering an extra copy of Jesus and John Wayne to give to white evangelicals we know who can tell something is wrong in their subculture, but don’t know what questions to ask.
This book may be sharp-elbowed truth, but it’s also a work of love to those of us who desire to follow Jesus, but have far too often been denied the chance because of white evangelicalism’s decadence. Passing Kristin Kobes Du Mez’s gift to others who need it seems like a Christlike thing to do.
I explore faith and American church culture from Memphis, TN. Never miss an article by signing up for my free newsletter or becoming a member. You can also subscribe to my podcast.
