Fallen and Favored: The Christian Nationalist Blueprint
Post 3 in the Peaceful Resistance Series
You are fallen.
You are chosen.
You are under attack.
You are morally superior.
You are saved by grace.
You must dominate to protect that grace.
These are not separate beliefs.
They are the emotional scaffolding of a worldview—a theology that calls itself humble but is built to command.
Christian Nationalism isn’t just about policy.
It’s about identity design.
It tells people who they are, why they suffer, why they deserve power, and who to fear—often in the same breath.
It offers a story so compelling—so comforting in its contradictions—that it becomes not just a belief, but a blueprint for how to live, who to trust, and who to silence.
And it all begins with the twin myths that fuel it.
Chosen Victimhood: The Cultivation of Persecution
Christian Nationalism thrives on the belief that its followers are constantly under siege.
LGBTQ+ rights aren’t civil progress—they’re a threat to biblical families.
Public education isn’t a public good—it’s an attempt to indoctrinate.
Reproductive autonomy isn’t health—it’s a war on motherhood.
Regulation isn’t governance—it’s spiritual censorship.
This mindset reframes every social disagreement as an existential attack.
You’re not just being challenged—you’re being persecuted for righteousness.
You’re not just outvoted—you’re a remnant.
You’re not just misunderstood—you’re being silenced by Satan’s agenda.
And when you believe you are always under attack, any act of control becomes morally justified.
It’s how a baker refusing to serve a gay couple becomes a martyr.
It’s how a governor rolling back civil rights becomes a crusader.
It’s how drag story hour becomes spiritual warfare.
And once you’re cast as the victim, you can claim anything—land, law, history, identity—as divine inheritance.
Even if you’re in power.
Chosen Glory: Wealth, Obedience, and the Prosperity Myth
The Christian Nationalist worldview doesn’t just frame its followers as under attack—it also promises them victory.
Not later. Now.
Wealth is a sign of divine favor.
Power is a sign of righteousness.
Dominance is proof of blessing.
If you succeed, it’s because God is with you.
If others suffer, maybe it’s their sin—or their failure to obey.
This theology doesn't just allow for inequality—it requires it.
Someone has to be on the outside to prove that the inside is special.
Obedience Is the Currency of Belonging
You’re told you were born broken, sinful, fallen.
But you can be redeemed—if you submit.
Submit to the right leaders.
The right rules.
The right version of scripture.
But “trust” in this system is not relational.
It’s hierarchical. It’s performative. And it’s constantly under surveillance.
Ask a question—and you risk losing everything you were promised:
Community. Identity. Protection. Worthiness.
There’s an implicit (and often explicit) threat:
If you challenge the rules, you’re rebellious.
If you don’t toe the line, you’re deceived.
If you accept people the system rejects, you’ve been corrupted.
And so fear becomes the glue:
Fear of hell.
Fear of outsiders.
Fear of being cut off from the only love you’ve been told you deserve.
When faith becomes control, questioning becomes betrayal.
And when obedience becomes salvation, cruelty becomes divine order.
The Theology of Inequality (My Experience)
I didn’t read about this in a book.
I was raised in it.
I was raised in a version of Christianity where inequality wasn’t a flaw—it was the foundation.
A divine order. A sacred structure. A system of roles, ranks, and rules that could not be questioned without risking everything.
In that world:
Men led. Women submitted.
Straight was holy. Anything else was brokenness.
Wealth was blessing. Poverty was punishment or proof you didn’t work hard enough—or pray right.
Obedience was salvation. And questions were rebellion.
It wasn’t always spoken with cruelty.
Sometimes it was wrapped in love—“I just don’t want you to go astray.”
But the effect was the same: silence, suppression, control.
It wasn’t enough to follow God.
You had to follow their version of God—or you risked losing your family, your community, your entire identity.
I lived with that fear.
The fear that if I disagreed, if I asked too many questions, if I saw the humanity in the wrong people—
I’d be cast out. Labeled deceived. Or dangerous. Or both.
And that fear worked for a long time.
But eventually, I began to see it for what it was:
Not a gospel of grace.
Not a system of truth.
But a theology of inequality—built to protect the powerful and keep everyone else in their place.
I don’t write this lightly.
I write this because I know what it costs to leave that system.
And I write this because I know what it costs not to.
Control Justified as Protection
Once you accept the theology of inequality as divine order, control becomes moral.
You don’t just believe women should submit—you believe you’re protecting them.
You don’t just reject LGBTQ+ rights—you believe you’re saving souls by denying them dignity.
You don’t just support harsh immigration policy—you believe you're defending your children from evil.
The cruelty isn't seen as cruelty.
It's seen as courage.
And anyone who challenges it isn't just wrong—they're a threat to God's will.
The more people suffer under the system, the more righteous it makes those in charge feel—because to them, suffering is how truth is proven.
They mistake shared freedom for personal persecution.
Because their version of faith can only survive if it stays in charge.
The Echo Chamber of Certainty
Once you’re deep inside a belief system like this, it doesn’t just shape how you think.
It shapes what you’re allowed to hear.
You don’t just believe the theology—you’re immersed in it:
The sermons.
The books.
The schools.
The media.
The unspoken rules at dinner.
The moral panic behind every “prayer request.”
You are taught that anything outside the system is dangerous.
That other people’s truths are traps.
That listening is surrender.
That empathy is compromise.
It becomes your duty to stay enraged—because rage keeps you focused.
Focused on defending. Focused on surviving. Focused on proving your righteousness.
There is no time to question what the “other side” really believes.
No time to ask why someone might choose differently, live differently, vote differently, love differently.
Because if you did?
You might relate.
You might empathize.
You might stop seeing them as the enemy.
And that would break the entire logic of control.
Isolation isn’t just a side effect. It’s the point.
Control requires an echo chamber.
And if you want to keep people afraid, the one thing you can never let them do is listen.
Coming Up Next:
In the next post, we’ll go deeper into where this theology begins:
Eden.
We’ll examine how Christian Nationalism blames Eve, excuses Adam, and builds a gendered moral order based on fear, fragility, and projection.
Because the systems we build today are still haunted by that first story—and the way we’ve told it says everything about who we’re willing to control in order to feel safe.
NEXT: The Fear of Being Adam
