How Evangelicalism Trained Me to Vote Against My Neighbor—and What I’m Doing Differently Now

It was 1991 and I was just a 12-year-old kid in school. We were studying history at the time, and Bill Clinton was running for election. There was a lot of buzz in my home about who would become the future President.

My parents were both Christian pastors who rode the Bible harder than a bull rider at a rodeo, so their political stance was loud and clear:
We vote Republican.
There is no other option when you follow God. Zero exceptions.

At that time, I had no real understanding of politics—or the needs of the people I called my neighbors. But when it came time for us to participate in a mock election at school, I knew exactly who I was voting for. I marched into that fake ballot box and proudly ticked off George Bush’s name.

There I was, a 12-year-old kid, proud because I made the “right” choice.
The “Godly” choice.
But in all reality, I made the most uninformed choice of all.

I didn’t know who or what I was voting for. I just knew what I had been told. What I had been taught.

And you’d think that as I got older, that would change. That I’d grow out of it and begin to form my own ideas. But I didn’t—not for many years.

In fact, I spent 36 years of my life inside evangelical spaces.
Spaces where false information is passed off as truth on the daily.
Spaces where a fetus is more important than the people already living.
Spaces where I was taught not just what to believe, but what to ignore.

So every time I hit the ballot box, I punched red.
A straight ticket every single time.
I had to. It was the only way a “Godly” person could vote.
Anything else was sinful.
Anything else meant you were deceived.
Anything else meant hell.

Hell, I never even looked at policies. I didn’t care what laws were being proposed. I didn’t bother to read what these people stood for.
All that mattered was whether they uttered the phrase “I’m pro-life.”

That is, until Trump showed up on the scene.

When he announced his run, everything changed for me.
His sins were so egregious—so public—that I could no longer keep my head buried in the sand.

When he ran, it was the first time I refused to vote.
I was at a moral impasse.
I couldn’t bring myself to vote for Trump, but I also couldn’t yet bring myself to vote for his opponent.

But when he actually became president, it shattered something in me.

I sat back and watched in horror as my church family got in bed with a pedophile and a rapist. They didn’t just support him—they celebrated him.
They embraced him.
They championed for him.
They made excuses for him.

I wasn’t even political at the time. I couldn’t care less about policies.
But suddenly, I couldn’t look away.
Human rights? What are those?
How do we help the poor?
How do we protect the vulnerable?
What policies actually make a difference?

The more I learned, the more I read, the more horrified I became.

The church was duped.
They weren’t just misled—they were willfully ignorant.
And I know, because I was one of them.

For so long, politics in my world wasn’t about policies or people. It was about purity. It was about proving your righteousness through a ballot. Voting wasn’t civic duty—it was a test of faith. And God forbid you failed.

But when Trump rose to power, everything began to unravel. I watched as leaders who once preached holiness bent over backwards to excuse hatred, lies, corruption, and abuse. The same people who taught me that “character counts” now screamed that “God uses imperfect vessels.”

I watched them kiss the feet of power, all while the marginalized—immigrants, LGBTQIA+ folks, the poor, the sick—were thrown under the bus. I started asking questions. Dangerous ones. Ones that made me the black sheep.

If this is what being “Godly” looked like, I didn’t want it anymore.

I had been indoctrinated—not into politics, but into a religion about politics. A religion that cloaked itself in scripture, but wielded power like a weapon. I had been taught that to be faithful meant being loyal to a party, not to people. That obedience was more important than compassion. That certainty was more valuable than curiosity.

But no more.

Now, I vote with my eyes wide open.
I vote with my neighbor in mind.
I vote with the Jesus who flipped tables—not the one hijacked by nationalists.

This isn’t just about politics.
It’s about repentance.
About returning to something true.
And I’ll never go back to blind loyalty again.

So, What Now?

If you’re waking up to how deeply politics and faith have been entangled—and how that entanglement has harmed others—you might be asking:
What can I do differently? How do I make this right?

Here’s the good news: you don’t need to become a political expert overnight.
You just need to start showing up—with open eyes and a tender heart.

Here are a few ways you can do politics better and live out your values with integrity and love:

1. Educate Yourself

Read widely—from multiple perspectives. Learn how policies affect marginalized communities, not just the people who look like you or vote like you.

Follow leaders, activists, and journalists who speak truth to power.

Don’t just rely on headlines. Go deeper.

2. Volunteer Locally

Food pantries, community gardens, shelters, after-school programs—your neighborhood needs you.

Politics starts on your street corner, not just in Washington.

3. Call Your Representatives

Tell them what matters to you. Whether it’s reproductive rights, racial justice, housing, or healthcare—your voice counts.

Use platforms like 5calls.org or Common Cause to help you know what to say and who to call.

4. Show Up to Protest and Peacefully Demonstrate

When injustice happens, don’t stay silent. Join with others to make noise, raise awareness, and demand change.

Even your presence can make a powerful statement.

5. Write Letters and Vote Intentionally

Don’t just vote a straight ticket. Research the people and policies. Know what’s on the ballot.

Write letters to the editor. Speak truth. Challenge lies. Tell your story.

6. Build Genuine Community

Share meals. Hold space. Listen without fixing.

Create environments where people feel safe, seen, and supported—especially those often overlooked.

7. Practice Ongoing Repentance

Own where you’ve gotten it wrong without shame, but with humility.

Keep listening. Keep growing. Keep showing up.

You don’t need to do everything. You just need to do something.
Because politics isn’t just about power—it’s about people. And people are hurting.

Let your faith move your feet. Let your heart move your hands.
And may your love for others be louder than any party line.

If this resonated with you…
I’d love to hear your story. When did you begin to question the way faith and politics were intertwined in your life? How did you begin to reclaim your voice? Drop a comment below or hit reply if you’re reading this by email—I read every one.

If you’re deconstructing faith and politics, you’re not alone.
Let’s keep walking this road together.