Who Do You Say I Am?
Faith, freedom, and the fight to define Jesus.
Dearest Reader,
Allow me to pose a most uncivil question:
What kind of Christian are you—
and are you prepared to prove it to your government?
It is said that two-thirds of Americans identify as Christian.
Charming.
But I must ask—Christian in what manner?
Sunday morning only?
Or also Tuesday afternoon, when the poor man knocks
and the queer girl cries?
We live in an age when men with power presume to decide what makes a Christian “enough.”
They call it patriotism.
They call it protecting tradition.
They call it moral clarity, cultural courage, family values.
But cloaked in reverence, it still reeks of control.
And control, dressed up in Scripture,
is still just idolatry with a Bible verse tacked on.
So again I ask:
What kind of Christian are you?
• The kind who thinks the government gets to define it?
• The kind who forgets Jesus was neither white, nor armed, nor particularly fond of kings?
• The kind who shouts “persecuted” while wielding power—and calling it a cross?
Because let us not forget:
Religious freedom is not a trinket reserved for quaint pagan festivals and interfaith panels.
It is the last guardrail between holy conviction and political theater.
And when someone builds a Presidential Task Force on Anti-Christian Bias,
one ought to ask: Who defines “Christian,”
and what becomes of those who don’t pass inspection?
(I’ll give you a hint: the same men who once lit torches to hunt women they called witches in the name of God now just carry briefcases—and brand consultants.)
Jesus, inconveniently for some, never required identification at the altar.
He asked only this:
“Who do you say I am?”
(Matthew 16:15, if you’d like to check my sources—before the librarians are arrested.)
Who do you say I am?
Who gets to say “I am Christian”? And who gets to define exactly what a Christian is?
Lots of people call themselves Christian.
My upbringing? Pentecostal sermons, Mormon genealogies, Baptist campfires,
and an Apostolic youth group that could guilt you into tongues by Thursday.
My friends took purity pledges.
One didn’t own a television.
One had a library of Left Behind novels that read like political manifestos.
And everywhere—everywhere—was VeggieTales.
That life is a part of me.
I know Christians. A lot of different Christians.
And I also know this:
Faith that fears questions is no faith at all.
Jacob wrestled.
Thomas doubted.
Jesus explained—not excommunicated.
And the Bereans—God bless the Bereans—
were called noble for fact-checking Paul.
Imagine that.
A holy invitation to ask, “Are we sure?”
A sacred right to challenge a pulpit—
without getting burned at the stake, sued into oblivion, or disappeared beyond the borders you call home.
That’s the kind of church I want to join.
One that invites questions—not just converts.
One that walks with Jesus—not weaponizes His name.
One that breaks bread with the doubter, the outcast, the unclean—just like He did.
Now, if you prefer your religion with rules, here’s one you might recall:
“Love the Lord your God with all your heart…”
“…and love your neighbor as yourself.”
Yes, even that neighbor.
Even if she uses different pronouns.
Even if he fled here for safety.
Even if they vote blue, wear glitter, or won’t eat Chick-fil-A.
Jesus didn’t say “Love your neighbor unless they make you uncomfortable.”
He said: Just love.
So again—
What kind of Christian are you?
Because when the Church of the State comes calling with a purity test,
you may want to be able to say:
“I loved. And that was enough.”
Author's note: This piece revisits and sharpens themes I first explored in What Kind of Christian Are You? You can read that reflection as a companion to this letter.