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This is the second post in a short series reflecting on formation, power, and the witness of the church in this moment.

In the first post, “When Moral Concern Becomes Clickbait,” I explored how moral concern within American Christianity was slowly reshaped by platforms and systems that thrive on fear and outrage, and how that kind of formation affects what people see when they see our faith.

If you haven’t read it yet, you can find it here:
👉When Moral Concern Becomes Clickbait

This post builds on that reflection by asking a deeper theological question: when transformation through conversion is no longer trusted, what takes its place?

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When Conversion Is No Longer the Goal

Something has been missing for a while now.

Not in a nostalgic way, thinking “things were better back then,” but more quietly. Like a shared feeling fading without anyone noticing. Once, Christian communities talked openly about sharing Jesus, turning away from wrong choices, and experiencing new life. Today, American evangelical Christianity seems less interested in helping people find faith.

Christian culture in America focuses a lot on power. On threats. On winning. On control. But we hear much less about softening hearts or truly changing lives.

This shift didn’t happen out of nowhere.

At its heart, evangelical faith was encouraged by revivalist ideas; the belief that real change happens when individuals personally meet Jesus and are transformed from the inside. The basic idea was simple, even if not always perfectly shown: you can’t force God’s Kingdom to appear. You can speak about it. You can invite others to it. You can live it out. But you can’t make it happen through coercion.

This belief shaped how Christians saw those they disagreed with. Opponents weren’t just enemies to defeat, but people who needed Jesus. The answer to moral decline wasn’t domination, but conversion. Not enforcement, but sharing the gospel.

Over time, that perspective began to fade.

Part of this loss came from inside the church. Cultural worries, losing influence, and feeling marginalized made patience seem irresponsible. Trusting that change comes slowly started to seem naive. Fear can do that. It makes power seem practical, and persuasion seem weak.

But outside influences also sped this up.

Political groups and nationalist movements learned something important about the church. It has deep wells of loyalty, identity, and moral language. Evangelical Christianity already knew how to speak about good and evil, faithfulness and betrayal, righteousness and danger. These instincts didn’t need to be invented. They just needed to be harnessed and redirected.

And that’s what happened.

The language of faith was gradually reoriented. Leaders were valued not necessarily for spiritual wisdom or pastoral character, but for how useful they were. Christian identity became a way to rally voters, justify certain policies, and justify gaining and holding power. Over time, the church’s goals and political goals became so intertwined that it was hard to tell where one ended and the other began.

Now, there’s a noticeable shift from encouraging conversion to demanding compliance.

The focus is no longer on changing hearts, but on controlling behavior so it aligns with a particular culture. Obedience is valued even if a genuine belief isn’t there. Conformity is seen as success, no matter how it’s achieved. In this mindset, the government becomes a more effective tool than the gospel. Using force seems more reliable than helping people grow.

This is how Christian nationalism becomes more appealing—not just as an idea, but as a way of standing. It’s the idea that righteousness can be forced, that order matters more than renewal, and that society must be made to obey or face removal. The language gets sharper. The lines are drawn more clearly. And the patience needed to share the gospel is replaced by urgent, fearful actions.

Recent debates about immigration highlight this. The talk is no longer about welcoming or caring for others. It’s about excluding, punishing, and demanding obedience. The message shifts from “come and see” to “fall in line or face consequences.” Christians who speak a different language or practice different cultural behaviors are called invaders, a threat, the enemy rather than brothers and sisters in Christ. Baptism no longer defines membership in the community. A political affiliation that operates on a level of fundamentalism has replaced that sacrament and defines who is “us” and who is “them.”

What’s striking isn’t just how harsh this sounds, but how different it is from the core principles that once defined evangelical faith. Some of those labeled as threats today were once seen as brothers and sisters. Others were viewed as a mission field of lost souls. Those considered disposable used to be neighbors. A movement built on grace has become comfortable with coercion.

And that should concern us, not just because it’s politically uncomfortable, but because it reveals something deeper about how the gospel itself is being misinterpreted.

When we stop believing that the grace and love of God can truly lead hearts to change, we turn to using force. When we lose faith in transformation, we chase after control. And when the church believes in cultural and political powers that promise security and influence, it gradually trades its witness for access to those powers. It willingly allows its language, leaders, and liturgies to serve a different mission.

I understand the fear behind this shift. Losing cultural influence can feel like losing relevance. Watching familiar ground shift underneath can make us uneasy. But the church has never been faithful by dominating others. The focus of faith has always been on the cross. If we think we need to rule to survive, we’ve already forgotten what kind of King Jesus is.

And that raises an even tougher question.

If we no longer trust the gospel to transform lives, what do we really believe? If changing hearts isn’t the goal anymore, then what has replaced it? And who benefits from a version of Christianity that seeks power instead of new life?

Because when faith stops aiming for revival, it doesn’t disappear. It simply shifts its focus. And sometimes, it shifts toward trying to control instead.

That’s where we need to focus next.

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