The Absolute Absurdity of a Christian Nation

It sounds utopian: a Christian nation. Not a country that hosts prayer breakfasts but one that actually builds its budgets, borders, and public life around the teachings of Jesus of Nazareth. One that lets his words, not just about private morality but also about public justice, shape its systems.

It’s a laughable thought. Or maybe a dangerous one.

Paul warned us: the cross is foolishness to the world (1 Cor. 1:18). A crucified king. A kingdom where the first are last and the meek are blessed. You couldn’t run a nation that way – not for long, not without breaking it open. What would happen if we treated Jesus not as a mascot for our theocratic or nationalist ambitions but as the teacher and arbiter of our public life, in the foolish, subversive, kingdom-of-God way?

What follows is not a policy proposal. It’s a thought experiment, a way of asking what it might look like if a people decided to live, not just privately but politically, as if the Sermon on the Mount were their constitution. Let’s call it the Commonwealth of Christ.

When Money Isn’t God

“You cannot serve both God and money.” —Jesus (Matt. 6:24)

In Jesus’ economy, value is not determined by productivity. Wealth is not a reward for effort or intelligence. And money is not neutral – it’s a rival god, capable of bending every policy, every institution, every heart toward self-interest and away from mercy.

Jesus told a story about a man whose land produced so much that he ran out of space. So he tore down his barns and built bigger ones, imagining an early retirement and a soul at ease. But God called him a fool: “This very night your life is being demanded of you” (Luke 12:13–21). In the Commonwealth of Christ, that story would become a fiscal ethic. The goal wouldn’t be economic growth, but shared sufficiency. The question would shift from “How much can we get?” to “Do our neighbors have enough?”

And that’s where the foolishness starts. Such an economy would violate nearly every tenet of modern financial orthodoxy. It would challenge the belief that those who work the hardest deserve the most. It would remember – uncomfortably – that the land belongs to God, and we are tenants, not owners (Lev. 25:23).

In ancient Israel, every fifty years, debts were forgiven, slaves were freed, and land was returned. This was Jubilee, not utopia – a sacred recalibration. In the early church, that spirit persisted: “There was not a needy person among them” (Acts 4:34). This wasn’t socialism, it was resurrection economics. It’s what happens when the community of the crucified refuses to let mammon make the rules.

Imagine a system where housing is treated as a human need, not a market bet. Where wages are enough to live on. Where those with surplus share, not out of guilt but out of gratitude. It wouldn’t be efficient. It wouldn’t be clean. Some would exploit it. The GDP might shrink. The system might fail.

But it would fail in the direction of grace.

Photograph by Aaron Schwartz / Alamy Stock Photo.

Healing as a Public Good

“Those who are well have no need of a physician, but those who are sick.” —Jesus (Mark 2:17)

Jesus didn’t heal people as a perk for the faithful or a sign of divine favoritism. He healed because that’s what love does. On roadsides, in synagogues, among crowds – he made health a public witness. No payment required, no insurance plan, no proof of status. He touched people others avoided. He saw bodies as sacred – not perfect but beloved. In the Commonwealth of Christ, health care would be treated as a communal vow, not a commodity. Not because it’s cost-effective but because healing is what the kingdom looks like when it draws near.

And yes, some would take advantage. Systems would be strained. But maybe healing was never meant to be measured. Maybe it was always meant to be shared.

A Justice Made Strange by Mercy

“Let the one among you who is without sin be the first to throw a stone.” —Jesus (John 8:7)

In the Gospel of John, a woman caught in adultery is dragged into public view. The law is clear. The crowd is ready. Justice, they say, demands punishment. But Jesus kneels, writes in the dust, and speaks one line. Who is without sin? Slowly, the stones drop. Not with fury but with resignation. The law hadn’t changed, but mercy had entered the room.

In the Commonwealth of Christ, justice would begin not with condemnation but with confession. This wouldn’t erase accountability, but it would refuse retribution as a goal. Sin matters, but vengeance doesn’t heal. Justice here would mean repair.

Prisons would be rare. Restitution would be central. Courts would ask not just what laws were broken, but what relationships could be mended. Some offenders would exploit the system. Some wounds would remain unhealed. But even then, justice would keep moving toward mercy.

The prophets cried, “Let justice roll down like waters” (Amos 5:24). Jesus lived it. He welcomed tax collectors and zealots. He rebuked with tears. He restored with touch. He told stories where the prodigal comes home and the sinner finds grace. His justice did not destroy, it redeemed.

Welcome Without Fear

“I was a stranger and you invited me in.” —Jesus (Matt. 25:35)

This same mercy would extend to those arriving at our borders. The people of God have always been migrants. Abraham left his homeland. Ruth crossed borders to become the ancestor of our king. Jesus began life as a refugee. The scriptures say it plainly: “You shall love the stranger, for you were strangers in Egypt” (Deut. 10:19).

In the Commonwealth of Christ, immigration would begin not with fear, but with memory. It would honor the image of God in every person, regardless of passport. It would not be lawless, but it would be compassionate. It would center hospitality – not as charity but as faithfulness.

Yes, some would take advantage. Systems would strain. But the foolishness of the gospel insists: the stranger bears the face of Christ. And nations that forget this do not become secure, they become lost.

The Politics of the Cross

“My kingdom is not from this world. If it were, my followers would be fighting.” —Jesus (John 18:36)

No nation wants to be thought of as weak. Power must be projected. Borders must be defended. Enemies must be deterred. But in the Gospels, Jesus tells his followers to put away their swords. He rides into the city on a donkey. He heals the man who came to arrest him. He tells Pilate that his kingdom is not from this world – and proves it by dying.

This is not passivity. It’s defiance of a different kind.

In the Commonwealth of Christ, military might would not be a point of pride. The country might not even need a military. Peacemaking would be public work – taught in schools, funded in budgets, honored in leadership. Not the peace of submission or silence, but the kind that refuses to become what it fears.

Leadership would be redefined too. Not power over others but service to them. Jesus told his disciples, “Whoever wants to be great among you must be your servant” (Mark 10:43). In this commonwealth, greatness would be measured by humility.

What Schools Would Teach

“Let the little children come to me, and do not hinder them, for the kingdom of God belongs to such as these.” —Jesus (Mark 10:14)

Schools would form students not just for success but for wisdom, not just for achievement but for reverence. The goal would not be to prepare them to compete, but to help them become whole. To ask better questions. To listen in silence. To see the image of God in the stranger. They would grow up with stories like Samuel – still a child, lying in the dark, whispering, “Speak, Lord, for your servant is listening” (1 Sam. 3:10). Or Solomon, offered anything he asked for, choosing not wealth or revenge but wisdom (1 Kings 3:9).

This kind of wisdom lead to humility, not dominance. As James reminds us, “Who is wise and understanding among you? Let them show it by their good life, by deeds done in the humility that comes from wisdom” (James 3:13).

Everyone Deserves a Weekend

“The Sabbath was made for humankind, not humankind for the Sabbath.” —Jesus (Mark 2:27)

The calendar would breathe. Sabbath would not be religious performance; it would be resistance – a refusal to believe we are machines. We would set aside one day in seven to stop, to rest, and to remember that God rested and called it holy, that deliverance comes not from hustle but from grace. This would be a weekly reminder to reorder time around mercy, not metrics.

In the commandments, even the animals and immigrants were told to rest (Exod. 20:10; Deut. 5:14). In Jesus’ ministry, healing on the Sabbath wasn’t a loophole, it was the point (Luke 13:16). In the Commonwealth of Christ, the rhythm of stopping would be sacred. Not a weekend luxury, but a national confession: we are no longer slaves to Pharaoh, to profit, or to endless production.

A Holy Absurdity

None of this would be pragmatic. It might leave the nation vulnerable, slower, less efficient. But it would be a different kind of witness, a politics rooted not in dominance but in the cross.

Let’s not pretend this would work.

A nation built on turning the other cheek would be overrun. An economy of enough might not survive its own mercy. A justice system shaped by mercy would be mocked. A calendar built around rest would fall behind. Voters wouldn’t buy it. Investors would pull out. Poll numbers would crater.

But maybe that’s the point. Jesus never said, “Take up your sword and secure the kingdom.” He said, “Take up your cross and follow me.” When offered the kingdoms of the world, he declined. When the crowds tried to crown him, he disappeared. When Pilate asked if he was a king, he said yes, but not the kind Pilate could understand. And when he died, it wasn’t a defeat. It was a revelation.

The politics of Jesus won’t win elections, build empires, or protect assets. They lead to a hill outside the city, to a body broken, to a kingdom that rises not through power but through love.

So, what if, against all sense and strategy, a people tried to live this way, to let the foolishness of the gospel shape their laws and their lives? They probably wouldn’t succeed. But they just might bless the world.

They might become like yeast – small, hidden, rising. Like salt – ordinary, preserving what is good. Like a city on a hill – not powerful but visible, illuminating.

They might look absurd.

But they would also look like Christ.