Faith vs. Political Loyalty

I’ve had the opportunity to visit the East Coast a couple of times this year, spending time with family who hold considerably more liberal political views than I do, from Philadelphia and New York City all the way up to Boston. Spending time with them has challenged some of the ways I’ve thought about politics, faith, and what’s important to me. And honestly, every time I return to Texas, I find myself questioning my life choices and contemplating ways to move back East. For starters, they actually have four seasons! I love everything about fall, and I’d love to live somewhere I could enjoy the changing leaves, crisp autumn air, and even winter sports again. Meanwhile, Texas seems determined to keep summer around for most of the year. But beyond the weather, there’s also the political climate, and frankly, that’s becoming harder for me to tolerate than the Texas heat. I’ve found myself increasingly uncomfortable with some of the political beliefs and ideologies that dominate deeply conservative states like Texas, particularly when they conflict with the values I’ve come to embrace and the kind of community I want to be part of.

What I’ve found refreshing is the tolerance, acceptance, and understanding I’ve experienced in conversations with family and friends about politics, religion, and the issues affecting our country. I’ve realized that our perspectives and values are more closely aligned than I once thought. In fact, I’ve experienced more compassion and understanding among my liberal friends and family than I have with some of my conservative friends in the evangelical communities here in Texas. And that’s what continues to challenge my perspective. How is it that people who don’t necessarily share my Christian convictions have demonstrated so many of the very qualities I’ve been taught are central to following Jesus?

All my life, I’ve been surrounded by evangelical Christianity, where conservative political beliefs were often presented as an extension of biblical values. Supporting Republican candidates was closely associated with defending Christianity, protecting families, and standing for what was morally right. But through my own experiences within evangelical churches and relationships with other Christians, I’ve begun questioning whether the values being preached are consistently reflected in how people are actually treated. What I’ve begun to question isn’t necessarily the beliefs I’ve held for much of my life, but the political expectations that have become so closely associated with them. If compassion, integrity, humility, accountability, and caring for the vulnerable are central to following Jesus, shouldn’t those same principles influence how we evaluate political leadership, regardless of party affiliation?

I’ve also begun questioning why we feel the need to identify ourselves so strongly as Republicans or Democrats in the first place. Why should our political affiliation define our values, our faith, or the way we evaluate someone’s character? I can hold conservative beliefs rooted in my faith while also supporting individual rights, personal autonomy, and policies that are traditionally associated with liberal perspectives. Those beliefs don’t have to be mutually exclusive. We don’t have to identify as Republicans or Democrats to participate in politics, nor should our political identity dictate how we vote or require us to give any party our unquestioning loyalty. I believe we should evaluate leaders by their character, integrity, policies, and actions rather than simply the political party they represent, especially when political parties themselves can change over time and no longer reflect the values we once associated with them.

Following Ken Paxton’s May 2026 victory over longtime U.S. Senator John Cornyn in the Republican primary runoff, I’ve found myself reconsidering what my vote should represent, particularly when neither of the major-party candidates fully aligns with my values. Voting for someone doesn’t necessarily mean agreeing with every position they hold; it can also reflect concerns about the direction of political leadership.

I recognize that corruption, infidelity, and moral failures exist on both sides of the political aisle. What I find increasingly difficult to reconcile is how some Republican politicians publicly champion their Christian faith, traditional marriage, and family values while facing serious questions about whether their own conduct reflects those same convictions. Yet an even more troubling question is why so many evangelical Christians continue to support and vote for these politicians despite the very behaviors and controversies that would often invite judgment, discipline, or exclusion within their own families and churches.

If Christians use biblical values to guide their political decisions, shouldn’t they also consider whether the leaders they support demonstrate those same values through their character and conduct? How is it that, in some churches, leaders can determine after prayer and thoughtful consideration, they’ve determined those individuals should no longer attend their church or participate in its ministries, while some of those same Christian communities continue extending political loyalty and support to public figures whose conduct raises serious moral concerns? Why should the standards used to determine someone’s place within a church be different from those applied when evaluating the political leaders Christians choose to support?

Being human means accepting that we’re going to make mistakes. We’re all capable of making mistakes, falling short of our own convictions, and needing forgiveness. That’s something I’ve had to wrestle with in my own life, and it’s continually shaping how I understand grace, accountability, and the possibility of genuine change. I’m still learning what it means to acknowledge my own shortcomings, take responsibility for the ways I’ve hurt others, and pursue reconciliation and healing where possible. I certainly haven’t figured it all out, but I’ve come to recognize that personal growth isn’t something we accomplish once and move on from. It’s an ongoing process that requires humility, self-reflection, and a willingness to confront the parts of ourselves that still need to change. That’s also changed how I look at the people we trust to lead our country, as well as others in positions of authority, particularly when they continue to demonstrate harmful patterns of behavior without showing meaningful change. There’s a difference between someone who has fallen short and is genuinely working to address the harm they’ve caused and someone who repeatedly engages in the same behavior while expecting forgiveness or continued support. I believe deeply in grace, forgiveness, and restoration, but extending those things doesn’t automatically restore trust or eliminate the responsibility to change. Nor should someone’s past mistakes permanently define their character or automatically disqualify them from leadership. To me, accountability isn’t about demanding perfection. It’s about recognizing whether someone’s actions demonstrate a sincere commitment to doing better, particularly when their position gives them the power to influence the lives of others.

I’ve also found that some of the very qualities I was taught are central to following Jesus—kindness, empathy, genuine acceptance, and supporting others without judgment—have been demonstrated more consistently by people I’ve known who are atheists, agnostics, or members of the LGBTQ+ community than by some of the Christians I’ve encountered throughout my life. That, to me, speaks volumes about the difference between professing certain values and actually living them out.

What’s particularly problematic about the relationship between evangelical Christianity and the Republican Party is how difficult it has become to distinguish religious convictions from political loyalty. I’ve witnessed how defensive people can become when their political beliefs are challenged, sometimes even ending relationships over political differences. Christianity isn’t a political party, and the Republican Party isn’t the church.

I believe the separation of church and state matters, not because Christians should abandon their convictions when entering the political arena, but because our government represents people of different faiths, beliefs, and backgrounds. My Christian convictions can influence how I live and how I vote without requiring everyone else to live according to those same convictions. Christianity shouldn’t become synonymous with Republican politics. Yet since Donald Trump’s rise in Republican politics, I’ve become increasingly concerned about how closely evangelical Christian identity has become associated with loyalty to him and the Republican Party. I’ve also had to examine how deeply political loyalty can become intertwined with our religious convictions, sometimes to the point where questioning a political leader feels almost like questioning Christianity itself. It’s something I’ve had to wrestle with in my own life, particularly as I’ve begun separating the Christian faith I hold from the political expectations I grew up believing were inseparable from it. When churches become so closely aligned with a particular political party, defending that party can begin to take precedence over examining whether its leaders and policies reflect the very values Christians claim to uphold.

I still hold many conservative values rooted in my Christian faith. What has changed is my understanding of how those convictions should influence the way I vote, how I treat others, and whether my personal religious beliefs should determine the rights and freedoms of people who don’t share them. My views on abortion have evolved considerably over the past year, particularly as I’ve thought more deeply about circumstances involving rape and incest. My views on abortion have evolved over the past year, particularly as I’ve considered circumstances involving rape and incest. While I may personally disagree with abortion in certain situations, I ultimately believe the decision belongs to the woman facing it. I may not fully understand her circumstances, but I can respect her autonomy, hold space for her, and choose to love her well. I can hold traditional Christian beliefs about marriage while supporting the civil rights, dignity, and belonging of LGBTQ individuals. Those positions aren’t necessarily contradictions. Rather, they reflect my growing understanding that living according to my faith and expecting everyone else to live according to it are two very different things.

That shift has also made me more aware of how certain moral convictions are applied within conservative politics. For decades, conservative evangelical Christians have placed considerable emphasis on issues such as abortion, traditional marriage, sexual morality, and preserving biblical values. These convictions have become deeply intertwined with Republican politics, particularly when determining which candidates deserve their support. I understand that many Christians sincerely believe their political decisions are an extension of their religious convictions. But I’ve also come to recognize how easily prioritizing certain political issues can overshadow other considerations, including a candidate’s honesty, integrity, and willingness to be held accountable. I want to weigh those issues alongside the broader consequences of candidates’ policies and conduct.

Take Ken Paxton, for example. Throughout his political career, he has presented himself as a defender of conservative Christian values, particularly concerning abortion, traditional marriage, and religious liberty. Yet his career has also been marked by significant controversies, legal disputes, and questions surrounding his personal conduct. In July 2025, his wife of 38 years filed for divorce, alleging adultery and citing biblical grounds for ending their marriage. Paxton was also impeached in 2023 by the Republican-controlled Texas House over allegations involving abuse of office and corruption. Notably, 60 members of his own party joined Democrats in voting for his impeachment, although the Texas Senate ultimately acquitted him of the charges.

Beyond those controversies, Paxton’s office also came under scrutiny over a plea agreement negotiated in the case of former Waco attorney Adam Hoffman, who initially faced a first-degree felony charge of continuous sexual abuse of a child. Following a mistrial, Hoffman pleaded guilty to two misdemeanor offenses rather than face another felony trial. The judge rejected the prosecution’s initial proposed sentence and ultimately imposed 60 days in jail, of which Hoffman served approximately 29 days. The misdemeanor convictions did not require him to register as a sex offender in Texas. Prosecutors said the victim did not want to testify again and that they could not secure a felony conviction without his testimony. Nevertheless, the outcome drew criticism and raised questions about accountability and the protection of vulnerable children. Despite these controversies, Paxton has continued to receive substantial support among white evangelical voters, and Donald Trump endorsed his candidacy in the Republican Senate primary.

I recognize that allegations are not the same as established wrongdoing, and I believe it’s important to distinguish between the two when evaluating someone’s character and conduct. When wrongdoing has been established, I also believe that genuine change requires intentional effort, whether through individual therapy, marriage counseling, or addressing harmful patterns of behavior in other meaningful ways. But simply apologizing or attending counseling doesn’t necessarily demonstrate that someone has changed. What troubles me is when people in positions of leadership continue repeating the same harmful patterns of behavior, sometimes even publicly boasting about their actions rather than acknowledging the harm they’ve caused. To me, what matters is whether their actions consistently demonstrate accountability and a genuine commitment to change, particularly when they’re entrusted with positions of leadership and public trust.

I don’t believe corruption, dishonesty, or moral failures are exclusive to the Republican Party. But my concern here extends beyond political hypocrisy. When politicians make their Christian faith central to their public identity and political platform, yet behave in ways that contradict the very teachings they publicly champion, I believe they risk misrepresenting Christianity to those watching. When Christians defend these leaders without seriously examining those contradictions, I worry about the message that sends to people outside the faith.

And these inconsistencies extend beyond the character and conduct of political candidates. I’ve also struggled to understand how some Christians can be so passionate about protecting unborn life while simultaneously supporting immigration policies that can separate children from their parents, disrupt families, and leave vulnerable people facing uncertain futures. I still hold personal convictions about the sanctity of life, but if we believe that human life is sacred, shouldn’t that concern extend to people both inside and outside the womb?

Scripture repeatedly calls us to love our neighbors, welcome the stranger, and care for those who are vulnerable. I recognize that some Christians believe these responsibilities are primarily meant to guide how we personally treat others and how our churches serve their communities, rather than determine the policies of a secular government. And I understand that immigration enforcement and abortion involve different legal and moral considerations. The inconsistency I struggle to reconcile, however, is why certain biblical convictions are considered important enough to influence legislation and government policies, while others are treated primarily as matters of personal responsibility. If we’re going to look to Scripture when determining our political convictions, shouldn’t we be willing to consider the full scope of what it teaches about compassion, justice, and protecting vulnerable people?

My experiences within evangelical Christian communities have played a significant role in why I’ve become more socially liberal, particularly when it comes to individual rights, personal autonomy, and the inclusion of people whose beliefs, identities, and life experiences differ from my own. Holding conservative Christian convictions doesn’t mean I have to support imposing those convictions on others or limiting their rights and freedoms.

We can become so focused on defending what we believe Christianity stands against that we fail to examine whether we’re demonstrating what Christianity calls us to stand for. I don’t expect any political party or candidate to reflect my convictions perfectly, but I also don’t want to overlook behavior I would otherwise consider unacceptable simply because a candidate represents the political party I’ve traditionally supported.

My own experiences within Christian communities have taught me just how deeply it matters when those values are professed but not consistently demonstrated, particularly by those entrusted with positions of leadership and spiritual authority. I’ve come to believe that how we treat people, especially when they are vulnerable, struggling, or facing difficult circumstances, reveals far more about our character than the beliefs we publicly claim to uphold.

I also find myself thinking about the example I’m setting for my children, particularly my daughter. As a mother, I’m continually learning how to model the dignity, respect, and accountability I want my children to carry into their own lives. That includes teaching my daughter that her worth extends far beyond her physical appearance and that degrading women, sexualizing their bodies, or treating them as objects rather than individuals deserving of respect is unacceptable, regardless of someone’s position or influence. When political leaders publicly make remarks about women’s bodies, including Donald Trump’s comments about Nicki Minaj during a political rally, I find myself reflecting on the example my own choices set for my children. I also want my daughter to recognize and challenge misogyny within Christian communities, particularly when women who come forward with experiences of abuse are met with skepticism, shame, or judgment rather than compassion, understanding, and a willingness to take their stories seriously. These are lessons I’m still learning to live out myself, and I want the people and institutions I support to reflect those same principles.

Those concerns become even more personal when my own children ask why we can no longer return to a church that was once part of our lives. As parents, we’re left navigating difficult conversations about decisions made by church leadership and trying to explain, in ways our children can understand, why people entrusted with spiritual authority don’t always demonstrate the compassion, fairness, and integrity they’re called to uphold. These experiences have also made me increasingly aware of how misogyny can manifest within Christian communities, particularly when women’s voices are dismissed, their experiences are questioned, or they’re made to feel that challenging those in authority is somehow inappropriate or unbiblical. I don’t want to teach my children that respecting spiritual authority means never questioning it, that women should remain silent in the face of mistreatment, or that being a Christian requires overlooking harmful behavior simply because someone holds a position of leadership. I want them to understand that their voices matter, that they deserve to be heard and treated with dignity, and that no institution, religious leader, or political figure should be beyond accountability simply because of their position of authority.

Ultimately, I want my children to understand that living according to our convictions isn’t simply about professing the right beliefs, attending church, or identifying with a particular political party. It’s about how we live, how we treat others, and whether we’re willing to stand by those convictions even when doing so challenges the people, institutions, or traditions we’ve trusted. I want the values we teach our children to be reflected in the example we set, including the people and institutions we choose to support.

My Christian convictions haven’t disappeared. If anything, they’ve become more deeply grounded in my understanding of what it means to live according to my faith. My relationship with God has never depended on my relationship with a church or its leadership, and despite the difficult experiences I’ve had within Christian communities, my faith remains an important foundation in my life. I’ve also come to recognize that remaining faithful doesn’t mean allowing the expectations, judgment, or disapproval of others to determine my political decisions. I can hold firmly to my Christian faith while also having the freedom to question the political loyalties I’ve carried for much of my life.

And that’s why I find myself hopeful for a blue wave in Texas. Not because I suddenly agree with every Democratic policy or believe that James Talarico represents all of my convictions, but because I see the 2026 Texas Senate election as an opportunity to express my concerns about the direction of Republican leadership. For me, the possibility of political change is also a chance for Republican voters to reconsider the kind of leadership we actually want for the future.