What Exactly Is the Christian Case for Stephen Miller?

A letter to those who've confused domination with discipleship

by

Perspectives

Heretic Adjacent | March 30, 2026

To the defenders of Christian nationalism:

I wish I didn’t feel the need to write this to you.

Truly, I do.

But in my casual news consumption, I came across an article. I don’t remember what it was about. I just remember seeing Stephen Miller pictured, the deputy chief of staff at the White House.

And I immediately thought the same thing I think every time I see him on the news, sounding like an adenoidal US version of Joseph Goebbels:

What exactly is the orthodox Christian case for Stephen Miller?

To those Christians who would defend him, just, why? Help me understand.

And I don’t mean the partisan case, cobbled together from polling data, border panic, or the old familiar promises that somebody-strong-will-make-the-scary-things-go-away. No, I mean the orthodox Christian case that satisfies Vincent of Lérins famous working description that we should hold as orthodox that faith which has been believed everywhere, always, by all.

What does the case for Stephen Miller look like under those constraints?

Because I need to understand how so many have come to feel at home in a moral vision that seems so cold toward the very people Jesus spent the bulk of his time with.

So, please explain. Just so I understand. Explain in regular old basic English the Christian case for a politics that wants to deny children an education.

Or, help me understand how terrorizing immigrant families makes us more like Jesus.

I wouldn’t mind hearing a theological justification for why spending $200 billion on blowing people and places up is more pleasing to God than spending that same money to make sure the uninsured have healthcare, and that little kids have food to eat and safe place to sleep at night.

I need help.

I’m not asking for abstractions. I mean actual Biblical passages and sound theological arguments.

Like this: Explain how children became acceptable collateral damage who follow a man who tells us that to welcome a child is to welcome Jesus himself.

Explain how immigrant families living under constant fear became a tolerable price to pay for a faith tradition with close to three dozen commands about welcoming the stranger.

Explain how the clenched fist became more emotionally satisfying than the open hand.

That last one may be the question lurking beneath all the others.

Because I suspect this isn’t only about policy. It’s about the kind of world many Christians have come to long for. A world where the “right” people get to be in charge, the “wrong” people are kept under control, and the fragility of others is met not with mercy but with suspicion and management.

I’m trying to understand a world in which Jesus seems perfectly comfortable with the idea that holding onto power matters more than giving away love.

And, I guess I get the temptation of that view of the world. I do. I mean, we’re living in scary times. All the disorder and the change, it’s so much. I get why a theology of control might feel comforting.

But I don’t recognize Jesus in the longing for a world like that.

Sure, I recognize some stuff. I recognize empire in it. I recognize Caesar and Herod. I know every fearful power structure that’s ever tried to pass itself off as itself up as moral necessity.

But what I don’t recognize is the one who told us to love our neighbors, seek out the least of these, welcome the stranger, and finally lay down the fantasy that salvation arrives on the wings of a Tomahawk Missile.

And that’s what makes my writing to you feel less like an argument to me than a gasp of real befuddlement, a cry of grief.

Because the Christianity being defended in this strain of nationalism is so fluent in the language of faith while seeming to retain so little of its heart.

I know that maybe it feels right to put two things together: faith and patriotism. What could be wrong with that?

But the problem with it, from where I sit, is that it seems strangely unburdened by fairly important things that Jesus seemed to care about. Things like mercy and compassion. Or how could we remain strangely untroubled by the suffering of others, strangely willing to let children and families bear the weight of our society’s fears?

Let’s be honest, that’s not a teeny flaw in an otherwise beautiful theological vision. Yeah, it’s a spiritual face plant.

And, you know what? Difficult as it may be to believe, I don’t take any pleasure in writing that. The whole thing makes me terribly sad. Because many of the people defending this Christian nationalist vision aren’t strangers to me. They’re people I know. People I grew up with. People who still say the name of Jesus with great gusto, even as they appear to defend a public ethic that seems formed by an altogether different god.

What grieves me is how many Christians now seem unable, or unwilling, to tell the difference between the message of Jesus and the message of imperial domination, complete with a flag and a Jesus fish starter pack.

So I’m asking, not because I necessarily expect a satisfying answer, but because I can’t seem to let the question go:

What exactly is the orthodox Christian case for Stephen Miller?

What creed makes children expendable? What gospel teaches that families should live in terror? Whatever that iss, it’s not good news.

Because beneath all the anger and all the frantic efforts to sanctify fear, I still want to believe there’s something in us that remembers who Jesus really was and how he actually lived. Surely there’s still something inside that still trembles at the recognition of the need for mercy, that still knows the stranger isn’t disposable, the child’s not a threat, and the message of Jesus isn’t a club to be wielded by the strong against the weak.

And if that memory’s still there, however buried, then maybe it’s not too late to grieve what we’ve become and ask God to lead us back.

May the God who never confuses power and love unsettle whatever’s inside us that’s grown too comfortable with cruelty.

May the Jesus who welcomed the stranger, blessed the vulnerable, and refused the sword lead us back from the edge of fear and into the arms of mercy.

And may the Holy Spirit give us the courage to grieve what we’ve become, tell the truth about it, and still be stubborn enough to believe that grace can make us new.

Amen.

Be gentle and brave,

Derek

The Rev. Derek Penwell is Senior Minister at Douglass Blvd Christian Churchin Louisville, Kentucky. This is a free post from the Rev. Derek Penwell's Facebook page. Click here to read the rest of his Substack essay.