Why I’m Not Convinced Far Right Christianity Will Fade Like its Progressive counterpart

TL;DR:

I agree that when Christianity becomes indistinguishable from politics, it hollowes itself out—but far-right evangelicalism won’t collapse the way Progressive Christianity has. Progressive Christianity weakened itself by failing to explain why the church must exist at all. Conservative Christianity, for all its distortions, persists because it still binds people through guilt, high expectations, and a dense cultural ecosystem. What then does that leave for the rest of us?

I’ve spent a fair amount of time over the past couple years critiquing Progressive Christianity—often to the discomfort of some who assume that critique must mean a slide toward reactionary politics or theological retrenchment. It doesn’t. My concern has been far more basic: Progressive Christianity, as it has often taken shape in Mainline Protestant spaces, has struggled to articulate why the church itself must continue to exist.

The Death Spiral of Progressive Christianity: Why the Mainline Church is in Crisis

That struggle matters. In practice, it has meant worship becoming optional, theology giving way to ideology, and the church increasingly understood as unnecessary overhead—useful only insofar as it advances social outcomes that could just as easily be pursued elsewhere. Over time, that logic doesn’t reform churches; it dissolves them. And in many cases, it has. People haven’t been driven out by strict doctrine or moral demands, but by a quiet, persistent question left unanswered: Why bother with church at all?

It’s from within that line of critique that I’ve been listening carefully to a recent claim made by Carey Nieuwhof, drawing on research from sociologist Ryan Burge. Nieuwhof suggests that the current rise of far-right evangelicalism may eventually collapse the same way Progressive Christianity did—fracturing, losing credibility, and hollowing out from within. Burge’s data strengthens part of that case, noting that a growing percentage of Americans who identify as “evangelical” rarely, if ever, attend church. The label itself has become as political as it is religious.

There’s truth here. When Christianity becomes indistinguishable from a political ideology, there is, as Nieuwhof notes, “nothing left to convert people to.” I agree with that diagnosis. Where I’m less convinced is the conclusion that the far-right evangelical movement will therefore fade in the same way Progressive Christianity has.

Sociologically and theologically, the two are not the same.

1. Guilt Still Functions as a Binding Agent

One of the underappreciated differences between progressive and conservative Christian cultures is the role of guilt. In progressive spaces, sin is overwhelmingly framed as systemic rather than personal. While that insight is often correct and necessary, it has an unintended consequence: there is very little mechanism for personal moral obligation to the community. Asking why someone hasn’t been in church can feel judgmental. Naming personal responsibility can feel suspect. As Andrew Root and Christian Smith both hint in different ways, moral exhortation itself becomes difficult to sustain.

Conservative Christianity, for all its problems, does not lack this mechanism. Personal guilt is real, operative, and formative. Having grown up in those spaces, I’m under no illusion that this is harmless—religious guilt (or really religious shame) can wound deeply and should never be minimized. But sociologically, it binds people. It keeps them tethered to communities even when belief wavers. It creates an internal pressure toward participation that progressive spaces largely lack. Conversely, I would also add I don’t think guilt is inherently bad, sometimes people need to be reminded that they are not living up their stated values. But conservative Christianity is far more practiced in utilizing guilt—for good or ill—than progressive versions.

2. High-Control Culture Produces Durability

Closely related—but distinct—is the presence of high-control culture. Conservative Christianity has long normalized practices like accountability partners, pastoral authority, and explicit expectations around attendance, giving, and behavior. Leaders are expected to speak directly into people’s lives. Congregants, in turn, expect to be challenged—even corrected.

In progressive contexts, such practices are often viewed with deep suspicion, and for understandable reasons. Power has been abused. Authority has harmed. But the result is a culture where strong claims are difficult to make at all. A progressive pastor telling congregants they ought to attend worship regularly or give sacrificially is often met with silence or exit. In conservative settings, the same exhortation may produce resistance—but also compliance, conviction, or renewed commitment.

High-control cultures can become coercive. They can also, paradoxically, sustain institutions. I would also add, high-expectation and high-control don’t have to be the same thing. I’ve argued in the past for high-expectation churches, but such can certainly slip into high-control—especially if, as Smith notes in his book, the point of Christianity is simply about making people be good.

3. The Ecosystem Is the Real Difference

This, to me, is the most important distinction—and the one least acknowledged in comparisons between the progressive left and the evangelical right.

Conservative Christianity is not just a set of beliefs or churches. It is an ecosystem.

There are schools, colleges, seminaries, publishing houses, media outlets, podcasts, conferences, political organizations, legal advocacy groups, homeschool networks, worship industries, and donor pipelines. Belief is reinforced across multiple domains of life—education, family, politics, entertainment, and economics. One can drift from church attendance and still remain deeply embedded in Christian subculture. There’s a reason why Charlie Kirk was understood as a Christian martyr—because these systems are so intertwined.

Progressive Christianity has never developed anything comparable. Its institutions were largely inherited, not built. Its cultural infrastructure was thin. As ideology displaced theology, there was little ecosystem left to sustain belonging once worship lost its central place. Think about many influential progressive Christian voices like Rob Bell or Brian McLaren, both of whom have de-emphasized their Christian convictions and commitments. Remember, McLaren quite literally wrote a book, Do I Stay Christian?

So Will Far-Right Evangelicalism Collapse?

It may fracture. It already is. It may lose moral credibility. It should. But collapse is not inevitable in the same way, because the sociological scaffolding is different. Guilt binds. Control disciplines. Ecosystems endure.

None of this is an argument for far-right evangelicalism. It is an argument for realism. If we want a church that resists both ideological capture and institutional decay, we need to understand why some movements disappear quickly while others persist—even when deeply compromised.

Progressive Christianity has faded not because it cared too much about justice, but because it could not convincingly say why the church should exist beyond the causes it championed. I’ve tried to argue that its core mistake was grounding itself in secular ideology rather than biblical theologically—which I think uncategorically supports justice and equality.

Far-right evangelicalism, for all its distortions, has not made that same mistake, though time will tell as the far right drifts farther into Christian Nationalism, even going so far as sometimes questioning the efficacy of the Beatitudes, and the legitimacy of famed leaders like Ed Stetzer, Beth Moore, and the late Tim Keller.

So What Remains?

The question for those of us who reject both paths is whether we can recover a church that is neither ideological nor authoritarian—one rooted in worship, thick enough to endure, humble enough to repent, and faithful enough to remain distinct.

I can imagine a more genuinely middle-road—or politically “purple”—expression of Christianity beginning to take shape, not as a bland compromise but as a deliberate refusal of extremes. This would require Christian leaders to set aside partisan allegiance and instead coalesce around shared convictions centered on Christ himself. That kind of convergence will not be easy. It will demand humility, patience, and real flexibility—especially around questions like LGBT inclusion. But I don’t think this is wishful thinking. The theological and pastoral pathways already exist, particularly among leaders who are increasingly weary of being told they must choose between left and right orthodoxies.

Time will tell whether such a church can emerge with enough coherence and courage to matter. It almost certainly won’t generate the same attention or outrage as the loudest voices at the edges. But that, perhaps, is the point. The far edges of our discourse are far smaller than their amplified presence on social media suggests. Most people are not looking for ideological purity or culture-war dominance—they’re looking for a church that is faithful, honest, and real.

And that quieter work—forming communities shaped by worship, repentance, and hope—may yet prove more enduring than any movement built on outrage or fear.

Quick Editorial Update: The morning I have this set for release Ryan Burge just posted some very intriguing data related to this topic. I don’t think it contradicts my conclusions here, though I do hope to engage with it further at a later time.

The Political Takeover: Why Ideology, Not Faith, Drives the Culture War