The Ethics of Memory: White Christian Nationalism, Veterans, and Historical Erasure

Over the last few years, I have watched mostly from the sidelines as white Christian nationalism (WCN) has gained momentum and is now steamrolling its way through the American religious and political landscapes. The ideas and effects of WCN frequently emerge in my work as a college professor and humanist chaplain. In both capacities, I often feel as if I am doing damage control as students, veterans, and colleagues struggle to make sense of things that they hear in the news, new executive orders, and the policies that inevitably flow from them. And while not all these items are inextricably driven by WCN, I have come to see WCN as providing the framework, language, and ethical justification for many of these projects and policies that are affecting so many.

While still a rather amorphous term, Christian nationalism has been thoughtfully defined by Amanda Tyler and colleagues as a political and cultural framework that involves a merging of “Christian and American identities.” Scholars like Anthea Butler have drawn additional focus on the racial component of WCN that has been most pernicious as it is often concealed (or even valorized) by appeals to tradition and a deep story of America’s unique – and uniquely religious – past, present, and prophetic future. Jemar Tisby describes this “permission structure” that WCN provides to engage in actions and support policies of erasure that can be devastating to so many. As with all ethnonationalist movements, for such a story of a nation’s glorious history to be told, other stories and histories must be erased. And in the case of America’s current engagement with WCN, stories of those who are not “white,” not “Christian,” or not “American” (enough, anyway) must be removed from the historical record, or retold to fit the WCN narrative.

In a recent conversation with a Black veteran in his eighties, I encountered this tension between national pride, WCN, and current policies of historical erasure. As we began our visit, this veteran appeared to beam with pride and gratitude as he commented on his service and his appreciation for the current medical care he was receiving. As I inquired a bit more about his mental and spiritual state, his demeanor took a more somber turn. There was a bit of a dance between us as he made a few statements about “the state of our nation” and the “difficult times” that we were facing, with even more on the horizon. I believe that he was sussing out whether or not I could be trusted to really hear and validate his concerns; was I an ally, or was I on the side of some iteration of WCN?

As I mirrored back his concerns in the empathetic ways that chaplains ought to, he began to open up. With both indignation and sadness, he described the national tragedy of the removal of Department of Defense (DOD) webpages and other content honoring figures like Jackie Robinson, the Tuskegee Airmen, and Native Americans. “They gave everything for their country, with so many dying for this great nation, only to be erased by our current leadership,” he said. I struggled to hold back my own tears as I listened and validated his concerns. Writing this, I struggle to do justice to the sadness and disappointment expressed in his words and written all over his face. It became clear that Jackie Robinson was one of his heroes, and he took great pride in seeing other Black veterans honored by his nation in these very public ways. Such national and historical honorings are often a central part in the healing of a nation that has such a deep history of racism. Consequently, the explicit erasure of Robinson’s story by the DOD had left this man gutted. His pride and solidarity had been overrun by feelings of rejection, anger, and even shame.

It seemed clear to me that he was experiencing the pain of this erasure of Black heroism, history, and legacy in the military. I tried my best to stay with him in his sorrow and anger. In these moments, I sensed his disillusionment with the military, with America, and with his/our hope of progress on racial justice. He began to ask me about what can be done. How can we fight back against this latest round of indignity and injustice? Caught a bit off guard, I muttered a few things about our collective duties to justice. I spoke about different activists, academics, and other figures…about solidarity movements, avenues for political engagement, and protests. He told me that he would love to get more involved but cannot get around as well as he used to. Then lifting his hands off his lap and wiggling his fingers, he said, “but I can still type.”

It is difficult to overstate the significance (both literal and symbolic) of removing links and information on patriots like the Tuskegee Airmen from such national sites of remembrance. It might enlighten us all to pause for a moment to reflect on the concrete message that this sends to veterans, Americans, and the world about our priorities and values as a nation. Fortunately, some of these materials have since been restored, but they are often more difficult to find and, most disturbingly, some have been edited to remove salient features about these heroes and their lives.

A recent PBS news article discusses these efforts to backpedal in response to public outcry, with some of the web pages having now been restored. However, it is in the nature of what has been restored that the WCN pretenses are laid bare. By way of one example, the DOD article highlighting the contributions of Pima Native American Ira Hayes was ultimately restored, but with a few not-so-subtle changes. The original article was titled, “Pima Indian Helped Raise American Flag on Iwo Jima During World War II” and offered a full-throated recognition of his Native American heritage: “It’s a time to reflect on the contributions and sacrifices Native Americans have made to the United States, not just in the military, but in all walks of life.” The restored article is now (as of the writing of this piece) titled, “Marine’s Valor Helped Secure Iwo Jima Victory in World War II,” with the aforementioned recognition of the unique sacrifices of Native American service members now reading, “November is a time to honor the courage and service of Americans who have shaped the nation, particularly through military excellence and sacrifice.” In just a couple of sentences, Hayes’ identity as a proud Akimel O’odham (Pima) Native American and the month honoring his people had been erased (or at least significantly minimized). There is a sentence in the updated article that mentions Hayes being from “Arizona’s Pima community,” but there is no mention of his being a Native American or of the unique contributions of Native Americans. And again, this focus on his significance as a Native American hero was the very framework for the initial article. Although this might seem like a subtle change, words matter here. His nativeness must be minimized to refocus the story on his, and the reader’s, Americanness.

There is an inverted, but often seductive logic behind the ethos of such erasures and retellings. And this is where WCN seems to provide both a rationale and permission structure to support policies that ultimately result in such profound harm. In the language of WCN, the goal of removing the articles on Jackie Robinson and Ira Hays is not to further discriminate against African and Native Americans, but to sweep them up in the broad banner of an inclusive Americanness. Hays’ and Robinson’s true greatness lies in their contributions to America writ large. And in many ways, this is the greatest honor that can be bestowed upon any American within a WCN framework; they are Americans first and foremost, and any attention drawn to their blackness or nativeness detracts from their (and our) greatness as Americans. Through the lens of WCN, there is even a sense in which such policies are the highest fulfillment of their understanding of Dr. King’s vision of a truly “colorblind” America. In their minds, they are not supporting hateful acts of erasure, but rather are doing the important work in eliminating the reality of a racially balkanized society.

In this WCN narrative, focusing on our individual differences as Americans is divisive and harmful to all Americans. Rather than providing necessary assistance to those in need and helping to heal and unite a nation with a history of discrimination, DEI and related policies are actually perpetuating such discrimination, and are harmful to all Americans. To tell the stories of Ira Hayes and Jackie Robinson, in full view of their racial and ethnic identities, is itself viewed as a cause, or even an act, of discrimination. The efforts to ban books and curricular content dealing with slavery, the Native American genocide, and even content on Anne Frank must be done in order to stop the divisiveness that they allegedly engender. Such bans or limits on expression, speech, storytelling, and even just plain history, are necessary to save us all from the discrimination that they promote or even inflict on our children.

It should come as no surprise that the majority of white Christian nationalist sympathizers and adherents see discrimination against whites as being as big of a problem as the discrimination that racial minorities face. Despite abundant evidence that the lion’s share of discrimination is still faced by members of various marginalized groups, this sentiment of white aggrievement prevails in the ethos of WCN.

It is at this point that I would like to directly appeal to those Americans who see these purges and other policies as steps in the right direction towards a more just and equitable America. It is definitely possible that many policies aimed at racial reconciliation are counterproductive. But it also seems possible that specific policies and actions– like those involving the digital scrubbing of Ira Hayes and Jackie Robinson, are just plain wrong. The pain that they have already caused is real, measurable, and they are not advancing our shared goals of building bridges and bringing Americans together.

Returning for a moment to my dialogue with the veteran. His commitment to “doing something” about the latest injustice and erasure from the DOD was personally empowering. We spent time discussing some websites, the work of local advocacy groups, and politicians that he could write to. It was great to see him engage with all of this and summon a bit of hope. And yet, I mostly felt shame. Shame for not doing my part. Shame for doing less with the relative health and avenues for influence that I have. Shame for letting it get to the point that such valuable stories, histories, and lives have already been erased from some of the repositories of national memory.

This is a national shame, and we all share in the burden to right these wrongs. We have a duty to remember the history of our nation in all of its beauty and horror. We have a duty to amplify the voices of those who have been on the receiving end of our national sins. We have a duty to speak up when the leaders of our nation engage in acts of erasure against our most marginalized brothers and sisters. If there is a Christian legacy to live up to in America, it is to love our neighbor as ourselves. And there is no love possible without honesty, accountability, reconciliation, and the active pursuit of justice for all.