Curious Minds, Dangerous Times: How Christian Nationalism Threatens Us All
How the fuck did we get here? My daughters deserve a world where faith is a bridge—not a weapon.
Religion has always been complicated for me.
I grew up in a Jehovah’s Witness household, where faith felt more like a rulebook than a refuge. My birthday was never celebrated. My questions about suffering were met with silence. When I asked what the point of it all was, the answer was always to wait for Armageddon—to endure this life, not to live it.
Later, my exposure to faith only deepened my skepticism. My mother’s relationships, shaped by survival and scarcity, brought me into alternative spiritual communities that many would call cults. Not by choice, but by a system that kept her trapped in cycles of dependency, in relationships dictated by power rather than love.
These experiences made me wary of religion. My knee-jerk reaction to conversations about faith is to flee. I was raised being told not to talk about politics, money, or religion, yet today, those are the only conversations that seem unavoidable. And the more we avoid them, the deeper the fractures between us become.
So, I have to ask myself: Why does talking about faith make me so uncomfortable?
The Slippery Slope
It feels like I’m watching a dystopian science fiction novel play out in real time—where the boundary between church and state crumbles, and religious fervor fuels a dangerous new normal. But what gives me the most fear is not that these things are happening, but the zeal with which they are being embraced.
The danger lies in the growing fervor for Christian nationalism, not just from policymakers but from everyday believers who see this as a divine mandate. The rise of this ideology isn’t just a political movement; it’s a religious revival aimed at control—control over bodies, beliefs, and entire communities that don’t fit its mold.
I fear not only the policies but also the retribution against non-Christian communities:
Grants and public funding redirected exclusively to Christian organizations.
Freedom of worship curtailed for those who follow other faiths or none at all.
Suppression of diverse voices, with non-Christian groups silenced under the guise of protecting morality.
Indoctrination, with children raised to believe that only one way of life—one faith—is valid, while everything else is heretical.
This isn’t an imagined future—it’s already happening. Book bans are sweeping the country, stripping school libraries of works by LGBTQ+ and BIPOC authors. Curriculum restrictions are being imposed in the name of “family values,” erasing histories and perspectives that don’t align with a singular worldview.
Russell Vought’s declaration that we are a “Christian nation” wasn’t a slip of the tongue. It’s a battle cry. The White House Faith Office, cloaked in the language of unity, exists to reinforce this ideology. Leaders like Paula White-Cain, who command “satanic pregnancies to miscarry,” are mainstream figures in this movement, wielding power with dangerous intent.
When belief transforms into a weapon for political gain, the most vulnerable among us suffer. Non-Christian communities—Jewish, Muslim, indigenous spiritualists, agnostics—are already being edged out of public life. Their freedoms are being restricted, their traditions erased, their futures rewritten.
Raising Curious Believers
Growing up within a strict religious household makes it particularly triggering to watch that same kind of control play out on a national scale. The rules, the judgment, the unyielding certainty that there is only one right way to live—it’s a familiar kind of suffocation, one I’ve spent years unraveling.
But it’s also what motivates me to teach my children differently.
I attended a Catholic university for both my undergraduate and graduate studies, where I explored everything from the Old Testament to Catholicism, from Buddhism to dismantling the very concept of God. These courses didn’t just challenge my understanding of faith—they taught me how to approach it critically and expansively. They helped me realize that questioning isn’t a rejection of belief—it’s an invitation to go deeper.
As a homeschool parent, I bring that perspective into our lessons and conversations. We never shy away from topics of faith and religion. My daughters know their friends come from many different backgrounds: some are Christian, some are Muslim, some are Jewish, and some have belief systems entirely their own—built on childhood imagination and family traditions. We’re the kind of family that will ask our friends to share about their holiday practices, traditions, and beliefs because we believe connection starts with curiosity.
We recently worked on a homeschool project where my daughter created a spirit guidebook. It was a beautifully creative expression—a collection of rituals and stories about the spirits that watch over us. But when it came time to share it with her Christian friends, I hesitated.
Would their families reject it? Would they see it as something dangerous or wrong?
I almost kept it to myself, afraid of the judgment that might follow. But that fear wasn’t really mine—it was something society had taught me. It was the residue of a culture that has long told us to fear conversations about religion and faith, to tread carefully and avoid crossing invisible lines.
So, I ignored that fear. I encouraged my daughter to share her guidebook. And what happened next surprised me.
Instead of rejection, her friends embraced it. Their parents smiled, not out of skepticism but curiosity. Her guidebook became a favorite among her friends, a shared experience that deepened their connection rather than dividing it.
It was a reminder that curiosity is always more powerful than fear—and that the conversations we’re taught to avoid are often the ones that have the most potential to bring us together.
The Hypocrisy of Faith as a Weapon
What troubles me most about this moment in history isn’t just the blurring line between church and state—it’s the glaring hypocrisy of those who claim to act in the name of faith while promoting policies that suppress, harm, and exclude.
How can you preach love and acceptance while working to control the lives, bodies, and futures of people who don’t conform to your worldview?
What would Russell Vought want for my daughters? He’s been clear in his vision of a Christian nation—a place where my girls would be expected to marry young, have babies, and embrace a sanitized, white-washed version of Jesus, all while suppressing their natural curiosity about the magic and diversity of the world.
And then there’s Paula White-Cain, who would look at the spirit guidebook my daughter created with joy and imagination and call it satanic, not creative.
These are not fringe figures. They are the voices shaping policy, leading national prayer breakfasts, and defining what is acceptable in our society. Their faith isn’t about connection or compassion—it’s about control. About ensuring there is only one version of the truth and punishing anyone who dares to stray from it.
What We Need to Do
This isn’t just a call to Christians. It’s a call to all of us. We all have a responsibility to reach out—to connect with our Christian neighbors, family members, and friends. To share our fears with them—not in anger, but in honesty. To show them how these shifts in rhetoric and policy affect us all.
If you are Christian, you have a unique opportunity to build bridges within your communities. Pay attention when the words in your places of worship no longer reflect the compassion you believe in. Speak up when exclusion is dressed up as morality. Challenge leadership when it strays from love and justice.
If you’re not Christian, your role is just as critical. Don’t give in to division or hopelessness. Reach out. Start conversations. Find connection and common ground with the Christian communities around you, even when it feels uncomfortable. Let them see your humanity, your hopes, and your fears. Help them understand how these policies and ideologies don’t just affect one group—they shape the kind of world we all live in.
Because if we don’t—if we continue to sit in silence, afraid to disrupt the status quo—then one day we’ll find ourselves surrounded by the wreckage, wondering the only question that will remain:
How the fuck did we get here?
About the Author
I’m Alisa Sieber—a Marine Corps veteran, writer, and mother raising curious daughters in a world that often punishes difference. Growing up in a strict religious household taught me how control disguises itself as care, and now I write to expose the systems that wield power under the guise of faith, while holding space for something better—truth, connection, and freedom.
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