A plea for Christians to say what we mean
A crisis of language surrounds us. In many circles, it has become impossible even to speak the extent of our own troubles and fears aloud. We resort instead to euphemisms: “with everything that’s going on,” “these times of crisis,” “this urgent moment,” etc.
Along with euphemistic speech, comes the slow, unending drone of neologisms—“subaltern groups” instead of “minorities”; “indigenous” rather than “Native American”; the meaningless arguments over “anti-Semitism” instead of “antisemitism.” There are cases to be made for all these terms, and most of them derive from an effort to be more precise and more sensitive to the disadvantaged. But precision and sensitivity are not the hallmark of the ways these words are deployed, particularly on social media. “Cisgender” has probably done more service as a conservative rallying cry than as a promoter of transgender rights.
Many years ago, George Orwell wrote an essay called “Politics and the English Language,” where he made the case that the power to name things was the power to control thought. This vision was realized in Orwell’s fictional Newspeak from 1984, but he had plenty of real world examples. Acronyms, for example, allow you to gloss over worrisome realities with the fog of brevity: WMDs are less scary than “weapons of mass destruction.”
Language always evolves, and there are many new words and phrases I enjoy and support. I like “rizz” (my children had to explain it to me). For the record, I think “indigenous” is a useful term, although it is not the same as “Native American” and raises its own set of interesting historical questions.
As of 2025, however, we have crossed a threshold. Unsurprisingly, it comes from the White House.
President Trump unilaterally declared the Gulf of Mexico the “Gulf of America.” Google, Apple, and Bing followed his orders. Reporters from outlets that do not recognize a president’s right to rename large geographic features have been banned from the White House press pool.
What is the danger of this silly change, other than the fact that it is silly and most Americans do not think the name of the body of water to our south is of much concern?
It matters because it represents the use of political pressure to enforce a name change at the behest of one man—the entire idea was Trump’s, perhaps even thought of on the spur of the moment. It is the decision of a political leader to reshape language, and thought, on a whim. Press Secretary Karoline Leavitt feigned ignorance of any problem: “I’m not sure why news outlets don’t want to call it that,” she said, as though it hadn’t gone by a different name for hundreds of years, “but that is what it is.”
The late-night hosts and influencers are having their laughs, but for me it is terrifying. Specifically, it is terrifying to me as a Christian. For Christians assert there is one being whose word made the universe, and who was brought into human form to achieve salvation. Christians believe words matter. Of course we can change our language, but it should happen slowly and carefully—not on the whims of one man, no matter how powerful.
The urge to reshape the world through words—words backed by political power and the threat of violence—is now at our door, exemplified not only by the “Gulf of America” problem, but also through other words from Trump and his movement. When a preacher pleaded with Trump (in a sermon Trump attended) to remember the compassion of Christ, Trump replied with a stormy post aimed at the “so-called bishop.”
And there it is: Trump has taken it upon himself to determine who is and is not a bishop, who is and is not ordained to pastor the flock of Christ.
American churches—conservative and mainline, evangelical and Catholic—are the last major redoubt of American culture and national life with a nominal independence from elections. It is our job to stand for the gospel, not for momentary political gain. No matter what each church or parishioner stands to gain from a particular policy, we all should oppose the mutilation of language. If we ignore it as nonsense—be it the Gulf of America or a capitalized “S” in anti-Semitism—then it can creep forward and consume churches.
The crisis of language and the excuses made for it have already ravaged the church. In the last decade, millions of believers have simply stopped believing—in part because they see a Christianity reflecting the needs of a political moment rather than the true story of a crucified Messiah, a man who spent time with the poor, the diseased, and the impure. We have converted the story of a savior who cared less about purity than about forgiveness into a story of “winners.” We are beset by those who believe in Christ as one man among many, and those who believe in Christ as a god of war, and not the true story of a savior who spent his time not with the powerful but with the poor and the dispossessed, and dared to call them the true people of God. In these urgent times it is an act of piety and an act of love to declare that the words of the Bible are true: Jesus Christ is real, he did live and was resurrected and loved these people and waited for them with patience. To do otherwise is rename “Zeus” as Christ—to say that our god is a conquering being of power, and not a unique unfathomable being who nevertheless loved us even unto death.
It is good to be humble. It is good to be kind. But if we truly believe words are sacred, then we cannot allow political power or pressure to change our words. That is a submission to the world, and not to God. This struggle for language is the challenge of Christians and the church in the days to come.
Adam Jortner is the Goodwin-Philpott Professor of History at Auburn University. He is the author of Audible’s anniversary series, The Hidden History of the Boston Tea Party and, most recently, A Promised Land: Jewish Patriots, the American Revolution, and the Birth of Religious Freedom. He is a Contributing Editor at Current.
