The backlash came fast.

Last week, a plane landed: 59 Afrikaners, mostly farmers, mostly white. Trump called it a genocide. MSNBC called it racism.

Turning away the persecuted because they’re the wrong color is not justice; it’s betrayal.

Just like that, we were off. Cue the outrage cycle, fearmongering chyrons, left-wing think pieces, and Twitter threads from soft-palmed theologians who wouldn’t recognize a plow if it hit them in the face. “This isn’t what Christianity looks like,” they screamed.

But that’s precisely the problem. Trump’s version of Christianity doesn’t look the way they want it to. It doesn’t speak in nonprofit euphemisms, hold committee meetings on climate equity, sing hymns to intersectionality, or check in with the Episcopal diocese before making moral decisions.

It does something far more offensive: It acts on behalf of people the professional Christian class has decided no longer count. In other words, white, rural, conservative Christians who don’t fit the preapproved narrative.

Since the fall of apartheid, over 2,000 South African farmers — the majority of whom are white and Christian — have been murdered. It’s not a conspiracy theory. It’s documented by AfriForum, confirmed by Genocide Watch, and still chanted in the streets: “Kill the Boer, kill the farmer.” Yet none of this made it into the MSNBC segment. No photos, testimonies, or grieving families. Just condemnation of Trump’s optics.

Instead, somewhat preposterously, MSNBC fixated on the Trump administration’s decision to revoke Temporary Protected Status for Afghans. It was painted as cruel, hypocritical, and — gasp — even racist.

But that myopic take ignores what TPS is and what it isn’t.

TPS was never intended as a permanent visa. It's in the name, after all — temporary. It was created as short-term protection for people fleeing war zones, natural disasters, or sudden upheaval. The expectation was clear: Once conditions stabilized, people would return home. It was not meant to be a substitute for asylum or a silent pathway to permanent residency. It was designed to function like a humanitarian stopgap, not a loophole.

The legacy media could have made that distinction, but they chose not to. Of course, we know why: Saying Trump followed legal protocol doesn’t sell. Saying he’s racist does. Moreover, revoking TPS doesn’t mean automatic deportations. It means re-evaluating immigration pathways through more deliberate channels.

In other words, more structure, more security screening, and more accountability.

But the media don't want to hear that. They want to frame the whole thing as ethnic cleansing with a press release. The disingenuity and deception are staggering.

Which brings us to the Episcopal Church.

This is the same denomination that once prided itself on global humanitarian work. The same church that took federal money for decades to resettle migrants and called it Christlike, that praised itself for “prophetic witness” under every administration — until Trump.

Then, suddenly, moral clarity became optional. Compassion had a disclaimer. And Christian charity came with a footnote: Only if it’s politically convenient and only if the suffering checks the right boxes.

“In light of our church’s steadfast commitment to racial justice,” said Bishop Sean Rowe, justifying the Church’s refusal to assist in resettling white South African Christians.

Apparently, justice stops when the victims are white. That’s not moral clarity. That’s selective compassion. It’s the Episcopal Church as a cultural concierge, offering mercy only when it’s fashionable, when it photographs well, and when it won’t rattle the donor base or offend the editorial board.

But that’s the exact opposite of Christianity’s core ethic. The gospel doesn’t filter the wounded. Christ didn’t ask for demographic credentials before healing the sick. Turning away the persecuted because they’re the wrong color is not justice — it’s betrayal.

Trump, for all his flaws, didn’t play that game. He didn’t wait for theological consensus. He didn’t ask whether these Christians were the right kind. He just acted. And in doing so, he exposed the uncomfortable truth: The real split in American Christianity isn’t between denominations. It’s between those who believe faith should do something and those who believe it should signal something.

Trump’s Christianity doesn’t flatter elites, quote theologian Karl Barth, or attend interfaith summits. It doesn’t apologize for its roots or rename Christmas. It’s blunt, imperfect, pragmatic, and deeply offensive to the people who have turned Christianity into a lifestyle brand.

But look at the record.

Trump’s administration fast-tracked Syrian and Iraqi Christian refugees, groups the Obama administration left behind. He raised the profile of Nigerian Christians being slaughtered by Fulani militias. He placed visa restrictions on regimes that persecuted believers.

The liberal media barely covered it.

But ask Christians from Qaraqosh or Kaduna who showed up. It wasn’t NPR or the National Council of Churches. It was Trump’s State Department — and here they are showing up again.

Many in the American church, at least the part that gets airtime like the Episcopal Church, aren't interested in defending the faith. They're more interested in managing it, sanding down its edges, apologizing for its past, and translating it into something that looks more like a DEI seminar.

When someone breaks that mold — when someone like Trump uses it as a vehicle for action — they call it heresy.

But maybe heresy isn’t the problem. Maybe the problem is a faith that has become allergic to strength, certainty, and action without apology.