Chaplain to Caesar or Witness to Christ

How American Christianity confused power with blessing—and turned the gospel into empire.

My guilty pleasure lately is watching The Righteous Gemstones on HBO. Few shows cut more sharply into the spectacle of American Christianity. Created by Danny McBride (Eastbound & Down, Vice Principals), the series offers a biting, absurd, and theologically revealing portrait of a fictional megachurch where the gospel is less about grace and more about brand. With John Goodman as patriarch Eli Gemstone, Walton Goggins as the gloriously tanned “Baby Billy Freeman,” and a fearless, Emmy-worthy Edi Patterson as Judy, the cast walks a razor’s edge between sitcom and tragedy.

The show skewers the megachurch industrial complex: worship soaked in wealth, pastors as celebrities, and spiritual branding run like a corporate franchise. But in an age where real pastors livestream from jets, cast out demons on TikTok, or lead worship like campaign rallies, it’s hard to tell satire from documentary. (Sadly, the same goes for politics.)

The Gemstones embody the theology behind the spectacle: the prosperity gospel—the belief that wealth, health, and fame aren’t just blessings, but evidence of divine favor. This gospel is alive and well, preached in the arenas of Joel Osteen, the crusades of Kenneth Copeland, the jet-set appeals of Creflo Dollar. In this vision, God may comfort the poor but partners with the rich.

If the prosperity gospel baptized wealth, the New Apostolic Reformation (NAR) goes further: it baptizes power. What The Righteous Gemstones parodies—celebrity pastors and spiritual branding—is just the surface. Beneath it lies a movement that doesn’t just equate wealth with blessing, but claims that Christians are divinely mandated to rule: over culture, politics, and the nation itself. This isn’t fringe. It’s mainstream—and growing fast.

In a striking article for The Atlantic, journalist Stephanie McCrummen explores the NAR’s expanding influence across evangelical and fundamentalist America. This is not an underground cult. It’s a sprawling network of churches, prophets, and political operatives preaching that Christians must take control of what they call the “seven mountains” of society: government, business, media, education, family, arts, and religion. As McCrummen reports: “42 percent of American Christians agreed with the statement ‘God wants Christians to stand atop the 7 Mountains of Society.’

(42%!! Perhaps this is among non-denominational churches but still!!)

Read Stephanie McCrummen’s Atlantic Article here:

THE ARMY OF GOD COMES OUT OF THE SHADOWS

In this framework, God does not favor the meek, the merciful, or the poor in spirit. God favors the strategic, the strong, the uncompromising. Faith is no longer measured by humility but by dominion. The Servant-King becomes a Warrior-General. The Church becomes an army. And Christian witness becomes political warfare. But this isn’t a theological breakthrough. It’s empire, repackaged.

To understand how movements like the New Apostolic Reformation gained traction—and why the Church has so often been drawn to authoritarian theology—we have to look deeper than political ideology. We must examine the structure of the Church’s relationship to power itself. Because this isn’t just a case of theology being hijacked by nationalism. The truth is harder: Christian theology has often produced this logic from within.

The earliest followers of Jesus had no temples, no armies, and no political leverage. They gathered in homes, broke bread with the poor, and built a community where “no one claimed private ownership of any possessions, but everything they owned was held in common” (Acts 4:32). It was a gospel of radical inclusion, shared resources, and mutual care—where power was not institutional, but moral, spiritual, and communal. To belong wasn’t to ascend, but to risk: persecution, marginalization, even death.

That changed with Constantine. When the Roman emperor converted in the early fourth century, Christianity moved from the persecuted margins to the imperial palace. What had been a countercultural witness became a state religion. The Church gained protection, property, and power—but at a cost. It no longer stood outside the empire critiquing it; it was absorbed into it. And over time, it adopted the empire’s logic.

Bishops became imperial administrators. Councils began to resemble senates. The cross—once a symbol of state violence—was now emblazoned on shields and banners of conquest. The Church began to speak in the language of jurisdiction, legitimacy, and control. Sacraments became not just means of grace, but tools of classification. Belief was codified. Dissenters, once prophets, were prosecuted as heretics. The “pagan” and “heathen” were no longer simply lost—they were legally and morally removable: from land, from treaty, from protection. Categorization justified conquest. Forced conversions gave way to inquisitions. Spiritual fervor merged with military campaign—crusades, invasions, and pillaging in the name of Christ.

Even the Eucharist, once a table of shared life and radical fellowship, became a guarded altar—a sacrament of spiritual privilege rather than communal grace. This transformation wasn’t superficial. It was structural. The language of empire became the grammar of theology. Holiness was tied to order. Salvation became something the Church administered. And legitimate dissent—once the mark of prophetic faithfulness—was rebranded as heresy.

The implications were enormous. A Church born to serve the least now functioned like the empire it once challenged. And theology, far from resisting this shift, often became its intellectual scaffolding. God’s kingdom began to resemble Rome.

That shift still echoes today. As the Church absorbed imperial structure, it also reimagined grace in imperial terms. Nowhere is this clearer than in its sacramental theology. Originally, sacraments were acts of participation and presence—embodied signs of God’s nearness in ordinary things: bread, wine, water, touch. They marked belonging, transformation, and divine love. But in the imperial Church, sacraments became tools of jurisdiction. Grace was no longer freely encountered; it was dispensed through official channels.

In this system, sacraments didn’t just signify grace—they caused it. As Thomas Aquinas would later formalize, they became instrumenta divinae virtutis—instruments of divine power. Baptism caused an ontological change, shifting the soul’s status from outsider to insider. Eucharist didn’t just give thanks for Christ’s presence—it transubstantiated substance itself through the official clerical formula. Penance wasn’t a cry for healing—it was a juridical act, forgiveness granted by decree. Only ordained clergy could mediate this grace. The Church ceased to be a community of transformation and became a metaphysical gatekeeper. Faith was no longer enough. Water had to be blessed. Words spoken precisely. Authority traced, verified, and recorded.

While the Catholic Church built an imperial theology through sacramental structure, the Protestant tradition eventually constructed its own version. For John Calvin, salvation hinged on divine election: God had already determined who would be saved and who would be damned thus doing away with perceived Catholic pretense. But this raised a paralyzing question: How can I know if I’m among the elect? Calvin offered no certainty. So believers looked elsewhere—for signs. Over time, those signs took material form. If salvation couldn’t be assured spiritually, perhaps it could be inferred practically: through work, thrift, and worldly success. Grace became linked to productivity. Wealth became a proxy for divine favor. If you were rich you were saved. Poverty, increasingly, was not just a structural or personal hardship—it was treated as a moral failure.

Sociologist Max Weber famously traced this shift in The Protestant Ethic and the Spirit of Capitalism. He argued that Calvinist anxiety, filtered through Enlightenment rationalism, helped spark the rise of capitalist economies in northern Europe. Spiritual assurance was sought through economic performance. The theology faded, but the structure remained.

In America, that structure thrived. The logic of election became the logic of achievement. Prosperity was no longer a sign of grace—it became grace itself. The rich weren’t just fortunate—they were righteous.

This theological inheritance continues to shape policy, culture, and public life. It undergirds resistance to redistribution, to welfare, to healthcare. It interprets taxation of the wealthy as punishment, and assistance to the poor as enabling vice.

And it’s no coincidence that those with the most wealth often hold the most power—across the very same “mountains” the NAR seeks to dominate: government, business, media, education, family, arts, and religion. When success is spiritualized, control feels ordained.

Which brings us back to the New Apostolic Reformation. Because what this movement gets right—deeply, even prophetically right—is that God cares about politics. Not as partisanship, but as the way we organize life together. Scripture is clear: God judges how power is used, how the poor are treated, how systems serve or crush the vulnerable. The prophets do not merely denounce personal sin—they denounce unjust kings, rigged courts, and corrupt markets. Jesus didn’t die to protect the status quo. He died confronting it.

But what the NAR gets tragically wrong is what to do with that insight. Rather than resisting the machinery of domination, they seek to inherit it. Rather than unmasking empire, they attempt to baptize it. Their vision is not of a kingdom that descends like leaven through love, but one that climbs the mountain and plants the flag. In their hands, Jesus flips tables only to set up his own table—the only table in the market now. This is not just a distortion of politics. It is a distortion of the gospel.

When Satan tempted Jesus with the kingdoms of the world, Jesus said no. When the crowds tried to make him king, he slipped away. When Pilate gave him a chance to plead his case, he stayed silent. And when he finally entered Jerusalem, it wasn’t on a war horse—it was on a borrowed donkey, surrounded by peasants, not soldiers. Jesus refused power in order to reveal a different kind of kingdom—one not built on dominance, but on self-giving love. Every step he took disarmed the logic of empire. Every word he spoke redefined power, not as control, but as compassion.

This matters. Because everything about his life—his birth, his teaching, his death—stood in defiance of the imperial mindset that equates strength with worth. He touched lepers. He blessed the poor. He welcomed children. He warned the rich. He washed feet. And he told his followers that the first would be last, that greatness meant servanthood, and that his kingdom was not of this world.

He wasn’t controversial because he was compassionate. He wasn’t crucified for being kind. He was crucified because he threatened the religious and political systems that had fused power with holiness. He exposed the lie that domination is divine. He showed that real authority looks like mercy, not might.

This is the gospel. And yet, throughout history, the Church has often chosen the path Jesus refused. It has taken thrones instead of crosses. It has sought influence instead of humility. It has taught conformity instead of compassion, catechism instead of costly love. It has echoed the logic of empire rather than embodying the upside-down kingdom Christ proclaimed.

From Constantine to televangelism, from medieval sacramental control to modern prosperity theology, the temptation has been the same: to trade the crucified Christ for one who ascends Caesar’s throne—to mistake dominance for blessing, and to confuse political victory with spiritual faithfulness. Today, that temptation is no longer just a danger—it’s a political strategy. It wears flags in the pulpit, holds prayer meetings in the Oval Office, and presents itself as gospel. Here is a recent photo released by the White House, described as a gathering of “Faith Leaders from across the country.”

At first glance, it appears to be a moment of prayer. But this isn’t an ecumenical invocation—it’s a summit of power. It’s not just intercession—it’s influence. These leaders aren’t just offering blessings. They’re helping shape policy, redefine faith, and consecrate control. Consider just a few voices in the room:

William Wolfe, a self-described Christian nationalist and former Trump official, praised the strategy of hidden extremism:

“I actually think there’s wisdom in cloaking some of your power levels… and then once you secure power… you govern in a more extreme position.”

(X Spaces, April 16, 2024)

Jim Garlow, a pastor aligned with the New Apostolic Reformation, put it plainly:

“We don’t just ‘preach Jesus.’ We preach what Jesus preached. He preached the Kingdom… What’s the King over? Everything. Including the governmental and political realm.”

(Mar-a-Lago meeting, November 2023)

Paula White, longtime Trump spiritual advisor, blends prosperity gospel with personal gain:

“Anyone who tells you to deny yourself is from Satan.” (Washington Post, January 3, 2017)

This year, she promised seven supernatural blessings to anyone who donated $1,000 before Easter—including: An angel assigned to them, God being an enemy to their enemies, Prosperity, Sickness removed from them, Long life, Increase and inheritance, A special year of blessing.

Movements like the New Apostolic Reformation are not fringe theological anomalies—they are symptoms of a deeper distortion within Christianity. What The Righteous Gemstones satirizes—celebrity pastors, spectacle worship, empire masquerading as gospel—is only slightly exaggerated. The NAR builds on the prosperity gospel’s spiritualized capitalism and adds a theology of conquest. It sacralizes domination, claiming Christians are divinely mandated to rule over every sphere of society. But what these movements fatally misunderstand is that Jesus did not come to seize the levers of power—he came to expose them. He did not enter Jerusalem to replace Caesar with a holier empire, but to announce a radically different kingdom—one built not on dominance, but on mercy, justice, humility, and love.

If the Church is to remain faithful to the crucified Christ, it must resist the allure of imperial logic—so embedded in our liturgies and worldview that even as we preach good news to the poor, we rarely confront the systems that generate their poverty. History is clear: when the Church aligns with empire, it does not sanctify power—it is disfigured by it. From inquisitions to colonialism, state-enforced orthodoxy to economic oppression, the cost of theological complicity with domination has been immense. The stakes are not theoretical. They are pastoral, spiritual, and political.

When the Church mirrors empire instead of God’s kingdom, it becomes a chaplain to Caesar, and not a witness to Christ.