As I become increasingly aware of how deeply Christian Nationalism has infiltrated the political infrastructure of the United States, I feel called to tell my story. It’s a story I never felt a strong need to share — until now.
To be transparent, I haven’t identified as a “Christian” since I was 21. But today, as I witness so much being done in the name of Jesus that seems fundamentally opposed to what he did and taught, I feel a deep urge to speak up. Not to defend him — because I don’t believe he needs defending — but to stand with him, by sharing why I no longer call myself a Christian.
As a teenager, I was deeply involved in the Christian church my parents chose. I ushered at services, participated in a weekly youth group, started a Bible study at school, served as a youth leader and taught Vacation Bible School. More importantly, I sincerely sought to understand who Jesus was and what he taught. I spent time in quiet reflection and prayer, contemplating how his message related to my life and asking for his guidance.
Even years later, after I left the church for reasons I’ll soon share, I never doubted the sincerity of my search to know and relate to God. I was on a spiritual journey that has continued throughout my life. But back then, my path was confined by the belief system I was raised in — limited to Christianity simply because it was the only spiritual framework I had encountered.
During that time, I came across beliefs that didn’t sit right with me — such as the idea that humans are inherently sinful, or that people outside our faith tradition were excluded from salvation. But questioning those ideas wasn’t encouraged. I was expected to accept what church and family authorities said was true. So, I kept my doubts to myself.
Then, during my third year at Bethel College, a Mennonite school in Kansas, I spent a semester in Chicago through a program then known as The Urban Life Center. The center offered students from small Midwestern colleges the chance to experience city life firsthand — engaging with community organizations, social service agencies, cultural institutions, religious communities and diverse neighborhoods. The city itself was our classroom.
The goal, as I experienced it, was to expose us to people, perspectives and realities we might not otherwise encounter — and to do so in a structured, safe environment. We were encouraged to journal, ask questions and think critically. Ironically, it was Mennonite leaders who created this space and provided the support to do so. For the first time, I felt truly empowered to discern my own truth and begin living in alignment with it.
That shift was not easy. Having grown up in a religious culture that emphasized deference to authority and specific practices as evidence of faith, I struggled when those things no longer felt meaningful. I still considered myself a Christian, but I didn’t want to live out my faith from a place of obligation. I wanted to follow my heart. Eventually, I realized that if there were a God who would condemn me to hell for doing so, I didn’t want to be in heaven with that kind of God anyway. That insight brought unexpected freedom.
One of our first classes in Chicago was called “Urban Ministries.” We visited a wide range of faith communities — Protestant, Catholic, Orthodox, Bahá’í, Jewish, Muslim and others. We often stayed after services to talk with leaders and members about their beliefs, values and community work.
What stood out to me was that the values I saw as central to Jesus’ message — compassion, caring for the poor and marginalized, a commitment to justice — were not always front and center in the Christian churches we visited. In fact, they were sometimes more clearly embodied by congregations that didn’t identify as Christian. I came to believe that being a Christian has little to do with what label we wear and everything to do with how we live, how we treat others and how we respond to the needs around us.
It’s not about going to church.
It’s not about reading the Bible.
It’s not about specific prayers or declarations.
It’s about who we are.
The relationship between an individual and their Creator is deeply personal and cannot be judged from the outside.
So, I stopped calling myself a Christian — not because I rejected Jesus, but because I saw too much exclusion and judgment done in his name. I saw churches turn away homeless people for not dressing “appropriately.” I saw Christians — myself once included — judging others as lost or misguided. I saw women denied equality and LGBTQ+ people condemned. And I couldn’t be part of that anymore.
To be clear, I have also seen — and continue to see — real goodness in many Christian communities: people running food banks, offering shelter and living Jesus’ teachings with integrity and compassion. But for me, stepping away from the institution of Christianity was an act of alignment with the very values I learned from Jesus.
I have family members who identify as evangelical Christians. Some hold views that feel exclusive to me; others are more open-minded. Still, I want to avoid putting anyone into a box. Doing so doesn’t foster connection, and I know how painful it is to be boxed in and misunderstood.
My reason for sharing this is to break free from the labels I’ve silently accepted — particularly “non-Christian” — and the assumptions that often come with them. I hope to offer a different perspective and contribute to meaningful reflection.
To some in my family, my decision to step away from the Church may have suggested I’d lost my connection with God or become a harmful influence. I also sensed that, in their eyes, walking away from the label diminished the value of my perspective.
But I believe there is both an urgent need and a profound opportunity in the United States today for people to speak up — especially those who identify as Christian, and also those who don’t, but who still resonate with the values Jesus taught. When those values — compassion, humility, justice and care for the marginalized — are not reflected in the actions of our government or its leaders, silence can become a form of complicity.
The Christian Nationalist movement, rooted in rigid and exclusionary beliefs, seeks to exert control over nearly every aspect of American life — religion, family, government, education, media, the arts and business. It is imperative that those who disagree with this vision voice their truth, even if their views don’t align perfectly with others. There is room for nuance. There is value in diverse expressions of faith — and of no faith.
Historically, many Christians have chosen to stay out of politics, either by avoiding direct involvement or keeping their views private. I understand that. For much of my adult life, I wasn’t interested in politics either. I voted, but often based my choices on the opinions of people I trusted rather than on personal research or critical thinking.
In my view, part of the Christian Nationalist movement’s success lies in the fact that many Christians haven’t historically been politically engaged or well informed. Many were taught to defer to authority — pastors, parents, and, for women, often their husbands. Influential, mostly male “Christian” leaders have taken advantage of that deference, cultivating loyal followers who vote according to their guidance — even when those followers may not fully understand or even agree with what they’re supporting.
The result is a government increasingly filled with leaders who claim allegiance to Jesus, yet whose actions contradict the values he taught — compassion, humility, justice and care for the marginalized.
I’m not writing to convince anyone to believe what I believe or to abandon their faith. I’m writing because I believe silence — especially now — can be a form of complicity. My hope in sharing is to invite reflection, to challenge assumptions, to spark conversation or simply to affirm what someone else may have quietly felt but struggled to name.
At a time when religion is being used to justify harm, those of us who see things differently — whether we call ourselves Christian or not — must find the courage to speak. Not to divide, but to reclaim the heart of what we believe matters most: love, integrity, humility and the dignity of every human being.
If we are to move forward as a nation, I believe it will be because more of us choose to walk that path — even when it’s not the easiest one to take.
Katrina Mikiah is a life and grief coach with a trauma- informed focus. She lived for 17 years in Moscow, Idaho, a stronghold of Christian Nationalism, and draws on both personal and professional experience to address the co-opting of Jesus’ message for political ends. (This article represents the personal views of the author and does not necessarily represent the views of Americans United.)