When Did Christianity Become a CrossFit Gym for Empire?
A brief history of how following Jesus turned into LARPing for Caesar.
Somewhere between the Roman Empire feeding Christians to lions and modern Christians feeding each other conspiracy theories on Facebook, a memo got lost. A memo titled: “Hey, maybe don’t worship empire structures that murdered your founders.”
But here we are in 2025, watching a movement called Christian Nationalism flex in the mirror like it’s auditioning for the role of “Sword Guy #3” in a Gladiator remake.
These folks didn’t just forget the Sermon on the Mount. They aggressively unfriended it.
Early Christianity: A movement allergic to empire
The first Christians were basically an underground spiritual resistance community.
No political PACs. No merch tables. No $5,000 leadership conferences with fog machines.
They gathered in homes, broke bread, healed people, uplifted widows, and tried very hard not to get arrested for having a Lord whose last name wasn’t Caesar.
They were hunted, mocked, imprisoned, and—small detail here—killed by the empire.
Their whole vibe was “We follow a crucified rebel, not the empire that crucified him.”
Fast-forward 2,000 years and Christian Nationalists have the exact opposite approach:
“We follow the empire that crucified Jesus, not the crucified guy who resisted it.”
A bold strategy.
And let’s not pretend these early Christians were just another political faction waiting to form a Super PAC. They were a community of people who believed power should be shared, wealth redistributed, and food eaten in common. Today you’d call that socialism and accuse it of destroying Western Civilization. Back then, it was called Tuesday.
Modern Christian Nationalists would have reported the early church to the FBI as a fringe cult undermining “traditional Roman values.” They would’ve been on Facebook, posting memes about how the apostles were ruining the economy by giving their possessions to the poor instead of “pulling themselves up by their sandal straps.”
The Great Roman Cosplay Era
It’s honestly wild watching a movement claim persecution while simultaneously asking for greater state power.
Romans once:
“You can’t gather without risking death.”
Christian Nationalists now:
“Starbucks didn’t put ‘Merry Christmas’ on my cup, release the catapults.”
Romans once:
“Christians undermine the state.”
Christian Nationalists now:
“Wait, how do we become the state?”
It’s like watching a bullied kid grow up, take over the school, and immediately reenact the bullying but with Bible verses stitched into his varsity jacket.
And the cosplay is getting out of hand.
The sandals.
The fake crusader shields.
The ‘armor of God’ merch that is 90 percent polyester and 10 percent authoritarian longing.
If Paul materialized today, the poor man would need a 48-hour orientation just to understand why people are using his letters to justify the exact imperial nonsense he spent his life protesting. Imagine him scrolling TikTok:
“Who told these people to build an empire with my writings? I literally told them the opposite.”
He wouldn’t last five minutes before being labeled “woke,” “soft,” or “too political.” Someone with a Spartan helmet avatar would call him a beta. Some guy named Colton would accuse him of “watering down the Gospel with all that love-your-neighbor nonsense.”
And yes — half of these dudes really would block Paul before he even typed out 1 Corinthians.
Empire: The new protein powder of American Christianity
Christian Nationalism treats empire the way CrossFit treats kettlebells.
Lift it.
Show it off.
Drop it loudly so everyone looks at you.
Injure a tendon and pretend it’s virtue.
They’ve turned Christianity into a high-intensity interval training class where the workout is:
Jumping to conclusions
Sprinting toward power
Deadlifting authoritarianism
Bench-pressing the Gospel until it breaks
They talk about “biblical masculinity” like Caesar personally challenged them to a push-up contest. They talk about “taking the nation for Christ” like Jesus ever asked for a legislative assistant or a military escort. They treat the Cross like a gym logo.
Meanwhile, the man at the center of the whole thing kept saying weird stuff like:
“Blessed are the meek.”
“Put away your sword.”
“The last will be first.”
You know — socialist stuff.
Early Christians fled empire.
Christian Nationalists funnel donations into it.
Early Christians washed feet.
Christian Nationalists polish swords.
Early Christians built communities.
Christian Nationalists build golden statues of political leaders and call it a revival tour.
At this point, the only thing missing is a protein shake called “Caesar Gains.”
Blessed be the confused, for they shall inherit better reading comprehension
May the ones who mistake empire for holiness have their timelines invaded by actual scholars.
May the cosplay Romans discover that the Cross was never a flagpole.
May the ones who claim persecution because Target sold rainbow socks feel the gentle nudge of the Spirit saying, “My child, please sit down and hydrate.”
And may we all remember that the Kingdom Jesus talked about didn’t come with an army, a flag, or a merch drop.
It came with bread.
Compassion.
And a wild, stubborn refusal to bow to empire.
One Last Thing for the Brave, the Fed-Up, and the Spiritually Belligerent
If this roast stirred something in you, take a look at the card designed for the exact moment a Christian Nationalist starts lecturing you about “biblical truth” while clutching a flag and a conspiracy theory.
It’s a prayer card — not just for you, but for them.
A small, sacred interruption.
A pocket-sized reset button for people who confuse the Gospel with their voter registration.
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And I wrote this hymn for them too. https://youtu.be/oP51rnEm4lE?si=iylInplWH1zTy7iO