The Persecution Complex: When Equality Feels Like Oppression
Christian nationalism isn’t fighting for freedom—it’s fighting to maintain dominance by cloaking power in the language of victimhood.
Some of the loudest cries of "Christian persecution" in America aren't coming from people losing rights. They're coming from people losing privilege.
They’re not being silenced. They’re being disagreed with.
They’re not being oppressed. They’re being expected to share the public square.
And to those used to holding all the power, equality can feel a lot like persecution.
Let’s be clear: there are real places in the world where Christians are persecuted. Places where people are imprisoned or killed for their beliefs. But that's not what we're talking about here.
In the United States, Christianity has enjoyed centuries of cultural dominance. Christian holidays are national holidays. Christian prayers open government meetings. Christian language is baked into courtrooms, classrooms, and currency. Christian moral frameworks have shaped laws on everything from sex to marriage to education.
So when that dominance is even slightly challenged—when other voices are invited in, when other worldviews are given space, when laws are revised to reflect a pluralistic society—some Christians interpret that as persecution.
Because they’ve confused losing supremacy with being oppressed.
When you’re used to privilege, equality feels like discrimination
Imagine you’ve always had a megaphone. You’re used to speaking first. Your views are seen as the default. Your moral code is the yardstick by which others are measured.
Now imagine that someone else is handed a megaphone too. You’re no longer the only voice. You have to share the spotlight. You have to listen.
To the person who’s always had the megaphone, that shift feels like loss.
But it isn’t loss. It’s balance.
And balance is what a lot of Christian nationalists fear.
Because balance means LGBTQIA+ people get equal rights.
It means schools teach evolution without including creationism as science.
It means politicians can’t legislate based solely on religious texts.
Balance means the Bible doesn’t get to make the rules for everyone.
And when you're used to your belief system being treated as sacred and unquestionable, scrutiny feels like persecution.
This discomfort isn't new. Historically, dominant religious groups have framed any movement toward equal rights as an existential threat. From school desegregation to women's rights to marriage equality, the pattern is consistent: expanding rights for others is painted as an attack on religious liberty.
Why? Because that liberty was never just about worship. It was about influence. It was about control.
When you’ve held the power to dictate public morals, define family structures, and set the terms for legitimacy in society, watching those powers erode can feel like oppression—even when it’s just others being allowed to live freely alongside you.
Disagreement is not oppression
We live in a country where religious belief is protected. Christians can worship freely, preach publicly, and build entire media empires around their faith. There are over 350,000 Christian churches in the U.S. That’s nearly seven churches for every Starbucks.
You can wear a cross, print Bibles, run for office on a Jesus-first platform, and believe that the Earth is 6,000 years old—all without consequence.
But if someone critiques your beliefs? If someone says "I disagree with your views on gender, or hell, or morality"—that’s not persecution. That’s participation in a democracy.
You have the right to your beliefs—just like the school board in Texas recently affirmed the right of students to opt out of religious programs, despite pressure from evangelical groups.
You don’t have the right to be shielded from disagreement.
And you definitely don’t have the right to impose your beliefs on others through law.
Yet this is where the narrative of persecution gets weaponized. Every court ruling that protects someone else's rights is reframed as a spiritual assault. Every step toward inclusivity is spun as a moral collapse. Every public rebuke of Christian dominance is interpreted as hatred for Christianity itself.
But free societies are built on tension between competing ideas. And healthy democracy requires people to be uncomfortable sometimes. That’s not persecution. That’s pluralism.
The real threat isn’t to faith. It’s to unchecked religious power.
Every time a teacher is told they can’t lead students in prayer, some Christians call it censorship.
But public school teachers are agents of the state. And the First Amendment protects students from state-sponsored religion.
When a business refuses to serve someone based on their sexual orientation, and the law says that’s discriminatory, some Christians claim their religious freedom is under attack.
But the freedom to practice religion doesn’t include the right to deny others their civil rights.
This isn’t religious suppression. It’s equal protection.
And it’s exactly what the Constitution intended.
The real threat isn’t to Christian faith. Christians are free to believe, worship, and live according to their values. The threat is to Christian supremacy—to the idea that one religion should hold cultural and legal priority over all others.
And that is the threat that many Christian nationalists are reacting to. Not the loss of freedom—but the loss of control.
The persecution narrative is a powerful political tool, often deployed during election cycles to rally conservative religious voters. In the lead-up to the 2024 presidential election, candidates like Ron DeSantis and Speaker Mike Johnson leaned heavily into rhetoric portraying Christians as victims of a secular, anti-God agenda—despite Christianity remaining the dominant religious and cultural force in the country. It’s a calculated strategy: frame social progress as spiritual warfare, and you energize a base that confuses cultural discomfort with moral decline.
Here’s the uncomfortable truth: a lot of Christian nationalist rhetoric about persecution is less about protecting faith and more about mobilizing outrage.
It’s easier to energize a voting base when they feel attacked. When they feel like their way of life is under siege. When you can say "They’re coming for your Bibles" or "They’re outlawing your beliefs."
But in reality, no one is banning churches. No one is stopping Christians from worshiping. What’s happening is that their ability to dominate unchallenged is being questioned.
That’s not persecution. That’s democracy doing its job.
And it’s no coincidence that this narrative often resurfaces near elections, during culture war flashpoints, or when legislation threatens to close the loopholes that allowed religious privilege to flourish.
By framing equality as persecution, Christian nationalism taps into deep fears about identity, belonging, and power. It becomes a tool not just for political mobilization—but for reinforcing a worldview that sees any loss of dominance as moral decay.
So what does actual religious freedom look like?
It means Christians can practice their faith.
It means Muslims, Jews, Hindus, atheists, and everyone else can too.
It means no religion gets special treatment under the law.
It means the government doesn’t promote or suppress any faith.
It means pastors can preach their beliefs—but they can’t write the laws. It means churches can organize how they see fit—but public schools can’t become pulpits. It means belief is personal—but civil rights are not up for theological negotiation.
And it means disagreement—even sharp, vocal, public disagreement—is not an attack. It’s a right.
We need to stop mistaking criticism for censorship.
We need to stop calling equality persecution.
We need to stop pretending that asking for fairness is the same as being anti-Christian.
And we need to start telling the truth:
Christianity isn’t under attack in America.
But Christian supremacy? That’s finally being questioned.
And it’s about time.