“Our President is not a Christian,” Marjorie Taylor Greene posted to X on Easter Sunday. The former House Republican was responding to Donald Trump’s profanity-laden threats to destroy Iran’s civilian infrastructure and send its people to hell. A week later, when Trump posted an AI-generated picture of himself as a Christ figure, Greene accused him of having “an Antichrist spirit.” It’s tempting to say that if we’re going to label people based on their behavior, Greene—who has a long history of spreading antidemocratic, Islamophobic, antisemitic, and racist conspiracy theories—hardly qualifies as a Christian either. But we should resist this temptation, for both theological and practical reasons.
For millennia, the question of who qualifies as a Christian has fueled theological reflection, shaped councils and creeds, and determined the boundaries of participation in worship. In our own era, Greene is far from the first to anathematize Trump. In 2016, Pope Francis responded to a reporter’s question about Trump’s proposed border wall, “A person who thinks only about building walls, wherever they may be, and not building bridges, is not Christian.”
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The pope may have been recalling Luke 6:44: A tree is known by its fruit. Yet, however terrible a person’s actions, there are theological dangers in denying other people’s identity as Christians. When we make this contingent on observable human acts, we underestimate the power of baptism to confer belonging in God’s family and of communion to reconcile sinners with God. We also blur the line between justification and sanctification—a line the Reformers worked hard to preserve. And when we pattern our congregations on merit rather than grace, we deny God’s prerogative to constitute a beloved community of saints and sinners, one with invisible boundaries.
There are also practical dangers in defining our faith too narrowly. Bridges are broken and walls created with every utterance of the words, “You’re not a real Christian.” Conversely, a more expansive understanding can encourage tough conversations, elicit a spirit of mutuality, and cultivate a sense of accountability to a broader swathe of people—all postures which may be carried out into the world for the sake of the common good.
Greene and Trump both call themselves Christians. Both were baptized (Greene twice), have a history of church attendance and membership, and got married in the church (Trump twice). Both published social posts on Easter rejoicing in the salvation effected by Jesus’ death and resurrection. Trump often cedes his decision-making capacity to sinful impulses, interprets scripture in ways diametrically opposed to Jesus’ message, uses words to stir up violence, and acts in hateful ways toward others—the sorts of things Greene has been known for as well. But it’s possible to be a Christian and do all of these things. A tree is known by its fruit, but a person’s status before God can only be known by God.
If Trump and Greene are Christians, our siblings in Christ, fellow wayfarers, then our relationship with them calls us to hold them accountable for their behavior. Greene in fact models such accountability in part of her Easter post, when she says that Trump’s “words and actions should not be supported by Christians. Christians in the administration should be pursuing peace. Urging the President to make peace.”
