About That Photo…

For those who weren’t following the conversation as it unfolded, a brief word of context is necessary.

In November, I posted a photo on X of myself with my oldest son, captioned simply: “As of today, I’m officially the father of a teenager. Pray for me.” The reference was not to a new adoption, but to the simple milestone of our son’s thirteenth birthday. He also happens to be both adopted and black.

The post traveled far beyond my normal audience. As of the last count, it has been viewed 14 million times. Many reactions were positive and encouraging. Others were careless. A number were openly hostile and racially charged.

What follows is not a post about my family. After the events of the past several weeks, I’ve decided to be more private about them online than I normally am. This is instead a response to a particular argument—made publicly by my friend Virgil Walker in his recent essay—and a reflection on what the exchange reveals, especially for Christians navigating the current conservative realignment and the loose constellation of ideas often gathered under the label “Christian nationalism.”

Virgil’s central claim is that the racial hostility exposed by the response to my post represents “the moment the mask slipped”—the fruit of a long-developing drift within Christian nationalism. While he is careful to say that not all Christian nationalists hold such views, he argues that a lack of theological guardrails, imprecise definitions of nation and ethnicity, and tolerance of racialized rhetoric created an environment in which biological determinism could grow. In his view, what once belonged to the pagan or white nationalist fringe has found new confidence and visibility beneath the broad canopy of Christian nationalism.

He contrasts this drift with what he calls a properly Christian vision of nationhood—one ordered around shared faith, moral formation, worship, and law rather than ancestry or bloodlines—and warns that any movement that allows ethnicity to outrank unity in Christ ultimately ceases to be Christian at all.

But is he correct in his read of the situation?

What Virgil Gets Right

Virgil opens his essay by describing the responses to my post as “ethnic hostility—open, public, unmasked.” On this, we agree. What was said in many replies was not merely imprudent or poorly worded but was outright sin. Scripture leaves no room for equivocation on this point. While Scripture does permit truthful moral generalizations about peoples and cultures when grounded in observed conduct and used for correction (Titus 1:12–13), partiality or contempt rooted in fleshly externals, including ethnicity, is plainly and repeatedly condemned (1 Samuel 16:7; John 7:24; Acts 10:34–35; 2 Corinthians 5:16; James 2:1).

Racial animus is clearly on the rise. And while the rapid ideological realignments now underway mean that our familiar left–right paradigm no longer carries the precision it once did, using the categories most people still employ, it does appear that racial hostility is becoming more visible on parts of what is broadly considered the political right than in the past. On this point, Virgil is of course correct that Christians must be on guard. And to the extent that Christian nationalism is to be a serious and coherent project, it must develop an immune system against biological determinism—the claim that inherited racial identity immutably determines behavior and worth. Both schools of thought are true ideologies in that they take a handful of valid, realist observations about human social groups, absolutize them, and enshrine them within an unyielding philosophical system. And both ideologies run aground on the doctrine of the imago Dei and the call to Christian charity.

Where I part ways with Virgil is not in the need for an immune system, but in how he diagnoses the disease.

“Christian Nationalism Opened the Door to Ethnic Hostility”

Virgil argues that the racial hostility directed at my family is the “bitter fruit” of Christian nationalism, that certain “leading voices” brought unsound ideas and figures into the fold, and that what followed was therefore predictable.

Yet this claim must be evaluated critically. To start, which—or whose—“Christian nationalism” is in view?

Presumably Virgil is not using something as sloppy as Heidi Pryzbala’s definition of Christian nationalism—one which, in essence, would include every theist involved in the American founding. To which definition does he then refer? Is Virgil talking about recent attempts at the retrieval of Reformed and post-Reformed political theology—i.e. natural law, the continuity of the moral law, and the historic Protestant doctrine of the civil magistrate? Is every anonymous right-winger on X with a dozen followers also contributing to the many-spangled definition of “Christian nationalism”? What of the several prominent CN proponents who commented positively and encouragingly on my post? And what of the many white supremacist, abusive commenters on my original post who were avowed atheists or neopagans, who explicitly condemned my family’s adoption because we are (in their words) “Christ cucks”—are these self-proclaimed unbelievers caught up in the CN problem as well?

Virgil himself acknowledges that many of the most vicious responses came from pagan or white nationalist corners of the internet, yet he maintains that Christian nationalism created the “space” in which these voices felt newly emboldened.

Yet ethnic hatred did not enter the world through theological retrieval. As Virgil can attest from experience, racial animus has long existed in our culture, and in forms that predate any contemporary political or theological movement. Virgil, of course, knows this, and to his credit, his original article attempted to make some of these distinctions. But the force of his argument, as it was taken up by some of his less careful readers, depends on collapsing diverse reactions into a single causal frame. To imply that racism required “Christian nationalism” in order to manifest is to misread both sin and history.

Racial Hatred Is Not a One-Sided Pathology

We live in a cultural moment where InterVarsity Press judged it appropriate to publish a book titled Can White People Be Saved? We also live in a country where innocent women like Iryna Zarutska can be targeted for murderous attack in cold blood on the grounds of simply being white. These are not distant or theoretical examples but on-the-ground realities of the sort documented in detail by Jeremy Carl and, earlier this week, Jacob Savage in a viral article for Compact Magazine.

The point is not to score ideological points, but to acknowledge reality. Racial hatred, to whatever extent it exists among elements on the right, is certainly not confined there. It manifests within a variety of different political camps, often in different forms, but with the same underlying contempt for human dignity. To borrow from Aragorn, a race war of some sort seems to be upon our culture whether we seek it or not (I, for one, don’t)—unless the church succeeds in bringing the whole counsel of God’s word to bear on this vexing issue.

For that reason, Virgil is right to insist that Christians must be vigilant against ethnic hatred. But that vigilance must be applied consistently via principled judgment, or it risks devolving into selective moral outrage.

If racial animus is the fruit we’re examining, then the root cannot simply be “Christian nationalism.” It is something far older, far deeper, and far more pervasive—i.e., sin.

“No Enemies on the Right”

Others responding to the episode involving my family saw it as a cautionary tale concerning the deleterious effects of “no enemies on the right” (NEOTR), Charles Haywood’s now well-known slogan. The claim is that this posture inevitably dulls moral judgment, blurs necessary distinctions, and invites ungodly alliances. That concern deserves to be taken seriously, but only if the term itself is understood accurately.

NEOTR, as I understand it, is not a governing philosophy for the Christian life, nor a theological principle for the church. It is a political strategy, limited in scope and purpose. At its most basic level, it reflects the recognition that time, attention, and rhetorical energy are finite. In moments of cultural crisis, it counsels against expending those resources primarily on internal disputes while far more powerful and destructive forces are advancing from outside the coalition.

That logic may or may not be persuasive in a given context, but it should not be confused with moral approval, doctrinal agreement, or ecclesial fellowship. Saying that a political movement ought not publicly police every internal fracture is not the same thing as saying sin does not exist on one’s own side, or that it should go unaddressed.

For pastors and churches, the duty is clear. Shepherds are accountable for their flocks. If congregants are being led toward sin—whether by racial animus, ideological idolatry, or any other distortion—there is a responsibility to warn, correct, and, when necessary, rebuke. Silence in the face of sin among one’s own people is pastoral failure.

Public platforms, however, are not identical with the pulpit. A minister speaking to his congregation bears a different responsibility than a minister speaking into a broad, fragmented public square—especially one shaped by algorithms, monetized outrage, and adversarial legacy media outlets. Yet treating these contexts as interchangeable often leads to the sort of performative public denunciations that signal virtue but persuade precisely no one (some of which was observed with my infamous post).

This is why I have been careful to say that NEOTR, whatever its merits or limitations, belongs strictly to the realm of political discourse. It is not a substitute for moral reasoning, nor an excuse for ignoring sin. It is a prudential judgment about where and how to engage publicly in a hostile cultural environment.

Another way to put it is this: not every family disagreement belongs on the front lawn, and not every internal dispute needs to be adjudicated in front of outsiders. Churches resolve church matters within the church. Families deal with family conflicts within the family. Political movements, likewise, are weakened—not strengthened—when every internal fault line is publicly litigated in venues designed to exploit division rather than resolve it.

None of this denies that there are real enemies on the right—people who do not love the gospel, who think in fleshly categories, and who are motivated by resentment rather than righteousness. There are. The question is not whether they exist, but how best to address their influence. Whatever approach one takes, one must not conflate the concrete obligation to guard the boundaries of family life and church discipline with the complexities of mobilizing diverse political coalitions in a fractured culture. In this realm, NEOTR is an occasional political stratagem, not a moral absolute.

Two Forms of Partiality

One element largely missing from Virgil’s analysis is the presence of two distinct forms of partiality in the response to my photo.

The first was obvious and ugly: racial hostility directed at my family because we adopted a black child. The second was quieter, but no less revealing.

Some responses moved almost immediately toward effusive praise and exaggerated affirmation, treating ordinary Christian obedience as something heroic or exceptional. My wife and I were publicly applauded, our supposed virtue elevated, and our family placed on a pedestal by people who knew little to nothing of the backstory at all.

Over the years, my family has encountered racial partiality more often in this form than the other—flattering, sentimental praise that I frankly doubt the post would have attracted had our adopted son been white.

There is something disordered about treating adoption as more or less virtuous depending on the ethnicity of the child. Caring for children in need is a basic Christian duty (James 1:27). While not every family is called to this difficult ministry, the church as a whole is commanded to care for orphans. Which leads to my final exhortation.

Don’t Let Your Love Grow Cold

I am calling Christians to think in categories. Scripture requires it. We distinguish between the realm of the church and the realm of the state, between pastoral responsibility and political strategy, between macro trends and individual moral judgments. Such is the way of wisdom.

So yes, recognize patterns. Name realities. Track trends. It is right to notice racial animus. It is right to notice demographic decline. It is right to notice institutional dishonesty and cultural decay. It is right to observe that certain ideologies and movements are exerting pressure on the church and on the public square. Category distinctions are necessary for discernment, for prudence, and for faithful action. But a category meant to help us see clearly becomes dangerous when it is turned into a hammer for every nail—when a real phenomenon like anti-white bias becomes a justification to fail to love one’s actual, nonwhite neighbor.

It is worth remembering that the same tools that help us see can also, if we are not careful, shape us in unintended ways. The danger is not that Christians will recognize patterns or name real trends; it is that prolonged attention to those trends alone can slowly press on the affections. Jesus himself warns that in seasons of mass lawlessness and public apostasy, “the love of many will grow cold” (Matthew 24:12). He also warns the church in Ephesus that, though they excelled in doctrinal vigilance, moral courage, and discernment, they had all the while lost their first love (Revelation 2:4).

Do not let your cultural analysis become an excuse for contempt. Do not see children as arguments or ordinary Christian living as an occasion for grandstanding.

To Christians who find themselves tempted to counter-signal adoption itself as suspect or naïve: it is worth remembering how Scripture speaks of our own adoption. While I refuse to glamorize or romanticize the challenges of adoption, or to pretend that it is simple, costless, or universally appropriate, Scripture is unambiguous about the shape of our redemption. “He predestined us for adoption to himself as sons through Jesus Christ” (Eph. 1:5), and he did so when we were not neutral parties, but when we were “dead in our trespasses and sins,” disposed toward rebellion, and “by nature children of wrath” (Eph. 2:1–3). Our adoption did not occur when we were at our best but when we were at enmity with God. I am grateful that God did not wait for me to be at my best before calling me his son.

But there is also a word for those who used my viral post as an occasion to grandstand—not Virgil, to be clear—riding out as white knights (pardon the pun) to defend my family. Simply virtue-signaling on the issue of race in 2025 is neither stunning or brave. What is far more necessary is the slow, unglamorous work of winning hearts and minds that may be tempted toward pernicious ideologies through patient discipleship and the renewing of the mind by the whole counsel of Scripture. This is why I declined a media inquiry from a left-leaning outlet during this episode. I refuse to provide ammunition to those who despise Christianity by laundering their narratives through an intra-conservative controversy. Sin should be addressed, not exploited in ways that strengthen our adversaries rather than serve the church.

Ordered Love

I am dispositionally suspicious of third wayism. Nevertheless, it is true that Christians in the present moment must steer between the Scylla of cosmopolitan, deracinated, and abstracted affections on the left and the Charybdis of hardheartedness on elements of the right. What, then is our north star? I would contend that it is ordo amoris—ordered love.

Christian love begins with God, moves outward through real obligations to family, neighbors, church, and even nation, and then—and only then—overflows into missionary zeal for the world. When that order is neglected, everything begins to distort: our politics, our ecclesiology, and yes, even our conduct on X.