the Empathy List #116: The Christian Flag and the Capitol Riot
On the anniversary of the Jan. 6th Insurrection, a reflection on American Christian extremism.
Hello friend, Liz here.
I grew up wealthy and highly privileged on the East Coast of the U.S. Part of that privilege looked like attending a private Christian school from fifth through eleventh grade (a fact which now causes me to have looooots of conflicted feelings ;-) ).1
Every morning, I donned a uniform (polo shirts, oxfords, sweater vests, and past-the-knee plaid skirts); I played lacrosse and field hockey, and I ate Chick-fil-a chicken sandwiches for lunch; I memorized the books of the Bible in order during Bible class; and with my classmates, I pledged allegiance to the Christian flag in homeroom each morning.
Our chapel (auditorium) included a stand to display both the American flag and the Christian flag. I never questioned it, instead learning to associate the two flags.
Though no one said so explicitly, I intuited that patriotism went both ways: as long as America prospered, so would Christians; and as long as Christianity thrived, so would America.
Have you ever heard of a Christian flag?
The design of the Christian flag is simple. Anyone could reproduce it with a couple of crayons: white background (representing purity), a blue canton (rectangle) in the left-hand corner (representing baptism), and a red cross blazing in the center of the blue square (representing Christ’s blood, obviously).
Yet while the Christian flag’s design may be simple, its application has been polarizing. It appeared, for example, in the hands of rioters on January 6th, 2021 as they made their dramatic approach on the Capitol building to disrupt the certification of Joe Biden’s presidential win.
I know you remember it, too: rioters broke through police-erected barriers, scaled walls, broke windows, beat up D.C. police officers, threatened opposition senators (including an uncooperative VP), and invaded private offices.
The crowd held banners emblazoned with Trump’s face and name. Also flying high that day: the Gadsden Flag (the one with the rattlesnake and the classic phrase from the American Revolution, “Don’t Tread on Me”), the Confederate battle flag, and a white flag bearing a green pine tree over the slogan “An Appeal to Heaven” (this flag recalls the Pine Tree Riot, a colonist revolt which predated the Boston Tea Party).
Also waving in the breeze? The Christian flag.
And the Christian flag was not the only Christian imagery present, either. Protestors held hand-painted signs reading, “Jesus 2020,” or wore t-shirts declaring, “Jesus saves!” A wooden cross bobbed above the fray. One woman even carried a reproduction of Jesus’s face, and Jesus was wearing a MAGA red baseball cap.
So, where did the Christian flag come from?
The history of the Christian flag is fuzzy. It seems to have originated with Charles C. Overton, a Methodist New Yorker who presided over Brooklyn’s Sunday Schools in the late nineteenth century.
The legend has it that he once filled in for a no-show itinerant preacher. He spent an hour in the pulpit waxing on the symbolism of the American flag that draped the podium before asking his listeners to describe what a flag representing their faith might look like. Inspired by their answers, he created just such a flag.
For a fascinating look into vexillography—flag design—I recommend this 99 Percent Invisible episode, “99% Symbolic.”
In case you’re unfamiliar, the art of flag design is complex.
Generally, vexillographers (flag designers) take inspiration from existing standards. Flags have “families” and share resemblance with others. The family of the Christian flag? The “red, white, and blue” herself. In other words, the Christian flag and the American flag are a matching set.
Overton understood, as politicians do today, that Christianity exerts a hold over the people who claim it, much like a government over its citizens.2
Yet whenever government and Christianity mix, both sour.
The Insurrection showed me the true purpose of the Christian flag: it does not represent allegiance to Christ, but to a Christian America.
The extremist conservative Christians who opposed the outcome of the 2020 election showed up on the steps of the Capitol because their power was threatened, and they came waving the flag that represented both of their most important commitments.
The rioters had pledged themselves to Christianity, to country, and most importantly, to a Christian country.
Their belief in a “Christian” America meant an America goverened by the moral code of the conservative Christian church. Pluralism be damned. Democracy be damned. What mattered was maintaining the moral imperatives of decades past, not protecting the votes of the present majority.
Unfortunately, Christian nationalism isn’t anything new.
As early as the Roman emperor Constantine, Christianity has wrestled with the question of a “Christian” government. It’s a tempting utopia for us, and an idea that dramatically misunderstands Christ and what it means to follow Him.
The central claim of Christianity, after all, is that the Creator God relinquished power, made Himself vulnerable, and then was murdered at the hands of His Creation. That’s a story that is deeply offensive, even impossible to accept.
Who wants to give up our power now for a promise of belonging eternally? It’s hard to imagine. And those who actually surrender to Christ’s humility cannot be controlled by current morays or power structures; they are immune, their lives are “hidden with Christ.” They practice gentleness. They fight injustice with generosity and persistence. They embrace loss, understanding the upside down way of heaven. They take the longest view.
In fact, following the way of Jesus is impossible without empowerment by God’s Spirit (in itself, a mystery). Us humans do not easily give up control, and we hate losing. So, it’s tempting to do Christianity partway, to compromise, or even to put words in Christ’s mouth. We can use Christ for our own selfish ends.
This is how the message of Christian nationalism gains influence. (Or how any false teaching gains influence.) Whether today in America, in medieval Rome, or in fourth-century Constantinople, the Christianity of January 6 is alluring.
“John Wayne” Christianity exults power, authority, and winning while blasting weakness, humility, and collaboration.
In fact, Christian nationalists make themselves vulnerable to the manipulation of extremist politicians who happily borrow the authority of Christianity—hence, the rise of conspiracy theories and “alternative” facts. Attachment to power can make a person gullible—we want to believe we and our allies are right.
Worse, though “MAGA” Jesus is nothing like the Christ of the Gospels, this John Wayne Christianity has come to represent Christ anyway.
For those unfamiliar with any other type of Christianity, Christian nationalism seems to be the only Christianity.
Today, when those outside of my religion hear “Christian,” they do not think of Christ first.
Instead, they think of the attempted coup led by Christian extremists on January 6, 2021.
They think of hate, not love; war, not peace; judgment, not mercy.
They think of a white man wearing a red hat with a gun at his hip, cursing AOC and belting mediocre worship melodies in the same breath.
Frankly, I can’t blame them. Sometimes I fear that American nationalist Christianity is the only version of Christianity, too. I mourn the effects of this one day (Jan. 6) on the faith I have held since childhood. And I rage against the lie that undergirds it, the lie that Christianity is white, is male, is American, is power.
So, to me, the Christian flag has come to represent one more example of the lie of Christian nationalism.
I no longer call myself an evangelical. I no longer vote Republican. I no longer pledge allegiance to the red, white, and blue, neither version. I’m certain Jesus would never run for President. He doesn’t need to.
Because I believe that even the president of the United States will still bend to the will of Christ—one way or another, now or later, whether Mr. Pres. likes it or not. Thank God.
Thanks for reading, my friends!
Warmly, Liz Charlotte Grant
What were you doing on January 6, 2021, and how has its significance changed for you, three years later?
I originally published this essay at the Curator Magazine one week after the eventual day known as “the Capitol Insurrection.” At the time, I was flummoxed by what I was seeing on my screen. In fact, it would be hard to overstate my fury, disappointment, and disillusionment when I noticed how many self-identifying Christians were dotted through that violent crowd.
Along with many of my readers, the presidency of Donald Trump—culminating in the riot on January 6, 2021—marked a dramatic and fundamental unveiling for me. Whatever I had believed before about the culture and character of American Christianity, now I glimpsed the bald, ugly reality. And I hated what I saw.
So, I want to mark this day for those of us who are still reckoning with the effects of the Trump presidency.
For anyone whose faith shifted because of the Insurrection, for anyone whose heart broke, for anyone whose relationships changed in its wake: you are not alone. You are not crazy. Following Jesus does not look like that, and it never did.
Interestingly, Overton’s flag gained popularity not due to its stellar design, but because Overton was an able political organizer. As a teenager, he had founded a club to support the first-ever Republican candidate for president, John C. Frémont. Half a century later, he brought that same political enthusiasm to marketing the Christian flag. According to the April 3, 1898 edition of the Kansas City Journal, “So greatly interested is he [in the cause of the Christian flag] that he has had a large quantity of little buttons made similar to those so frequently seen during political campaigns, each containing on its surface a miniature reproduction of the flag.” He wore his allegiance to the Christian flag as if representing a candidate or party. (Talk about an American capitalist!)