The Contentious Marriage of Christianity and Capitalism:
Can It Be Annulled?
It’s a strange union—Christianity, with its poor, itinerant teacher who blessed the meek and cast down the mighty, married to capitalism, a system that celebrates wealth, competition, and personal gain. And yet in many parts of the world—especially in the United States—this marriage has shaped political ideologies, cultural identities, and even theologies.
At first glance, the pairing seems contradictory. Christianity teaches that grace is unearned, that we are saved not by what we do or produce but by divine love freely given. Capitalism, by contrast, thrives on meritocracy: those who work hard and succeed are rewarded, while those who don’t are left behind. One proclaims, "Blessed are the poor," the other, "Blessed are the winners."
This marriage also obscures a central Christian commitment to the common good. From the prophets to Jesus to the early church, the Christian tradition calls for communal life, mutual care, and justice for the vulnerable. Capitalism—at its most unregulated—celebrates individual achievement, personal ambition, and accumulation. The poor become invisible, or worse, blamed.
Consumerism compounds the issue. While Jesus taught contentment, simplicity, and generosity, capitalism depends on dissatisfaction, desire, and endless growth. The Sabbath rhythm of rest and reflection gives way to the hustle of productivity and profit.
So, can this marriage be annulled?
Not easily. The entanglement is deep. But it can be named. It can be questioned. And it can be challenged by a different kind of Christian witness—one that lifts up compassion over profit, grace over merit, and community over consumption. That witness already lives in monasteries, in mutual aid networks, in churches that refuse to bow to Mammon.
To annul the marriage is to reclaim Christianity from its captivity to capital—and to rediscover a gospel that sets both captives and captors free.
Who Will Annul the Marriage?
If the marriage of Christianity and capitalism is as fraught as it seems—filled with contradictions, betrayals, and spiritual confusion—then the next question is: Who will annul it?
There is no single authority to issue a decree. No pope or president can undo centuries of entanglement. The annulment, if it comes, will not be a top-down declaration. It will come from within—from Christians who see through the illusion, who feel the dissonance in their souls and choose a different path.
It will be artists and poets who refuse to commodify their gifts. Pastors and theologians who preach good news for the poor rather than prosperity for the privileged.
Communities of mutual aid, cooperatives, monasteries, and local churches that model alternative economies rooted in grace, sharing, and simplicity.
It will come from young people, tired of inherited hypocrisies, who hunger for a faith that means something beyond personal salvation and consumer success. From those on the margins who know the pain capitalism can inflict, and who rediscover in Jesus a liberator, not a mascot for the market.
And perhaps it will come, too, from within each of us—as we examine how deeply capitalism has shaped our desires, habits, and assumptions about what it means to live a good life. To annul the marriage is to reimagine discipleship not as private piety but as public, economic resistance. It is to say, with our lives, that Christ is not for sale.
After the Annulment: A New Covenant
Annulment is not the end of the story. It’s a release—a setting free—not into chaos, but into possibility. What comes after isn’t a vacuum, but a new covenant: a re-rooting of Christian life in values that are older and deeper than the market, and more enduring than profit margins.
This new covenant doesn’t reject all forms of exchange or enterprise. It simply refuses to make them ultimate. It dares to imagine economies of enough, not excess; cooperation, not competition; gift, not greed.
In this covenant, work is redefined—not as a measure of worth, but as a form of service, artistry, and shared contribution. Wealth is seen not as a sign of divine favor, but as a dangerous temptation, to be held with humility and shared with joy.
Communities organize themselves around the vulnerable, not the powerful. Success is measured by solidarity, not status. The earth is not a resource to be extracted, but a living partner to be cherished. Time is not a commodity, but a rhythm—of rest, reverence, and renewal.
And at the heart of this covenant is love: the love of God who cannot be bought, the love of neighbor who cannot be priced, and the love of life that bursts into being wherever grace is allowed to grow.
This is not a utopia. It is a promise, broken and repaired a thousand times over. It is the mustard seed Jesus spoke of—tiny, defiant, and real. After the annulment, we are invited not into despair, but into this slow and stubborn revolution of love.
At first glance, the pairing seems contradictory. Christianity teaches that grace is unearned, that we are saved not by what we do or produce but by divine love freely given. Capitalism, by contrast, thrives on meritocracy: those who work hard and succeed are rewarded, while those who don’t are left behind. One proclaims, "Blessed are the poor," the other, "Blessed are the winners."
This marriage also obscures a central Christian commitment to the common good. From the prophets to Jesus to the early church, the Christian tradition calls for communal life, mutual care, and justice for the vulnerable. Capitalism—at its most unregulated—celebrates individual achievement, personal ambition, and accumulation. The poor become invisible, or worse, blamed.
Consumerism compounds the issue. While Jesus taught contentment, simplicity, and generosity, capitalism depends on dissatisfaction, desire, and endless growth. The Sabbath rhythm of rest and reflection gives way to the hustle of productivity and profit.
So, can this marriage be annulled?
Not easily. The entanglement is deep. But it can be named. It can be questioned. And it can be challenged by a different kind of Christian witness—one that lifts up compassion over profit, grace over merit, and community over consumption. That witness already lives in monasteries, in mutual aid networks, in churches that refuse to bow to Mammon.
To annul the marriage is to reclaim Christianity from its captivity to capital—and to rediscover a gospel that sets both captives and captors free.
Who Will Annul the Marriage?
If the marriage of Christianity and capitalism is as fraught as it seems—filled with contradictions, betrayals, and spiritual confusion—then the next question is: Who will annul it?
There is no single authority to issue a decree. No pope or president can undo centuries of entanglement. The annulment, if it comes, will not be a top-down declaration. It will come from within—from Christians who see through the illusion, who feel the dissonance in their souls and choose a different path.
It will be artists and poets who refuse to commodify their gifts. Pastors and theologians who preach good news for the poor rather than prosperity for the privileged.
Communities of mutual aid, cooperatives, monasteries, and local churches that model alternative economies rooted in grace, sharing, and simplicity.
It will come from young people, tired of inherited hypocrisies, who hunger for a faith that means something beyond personal salvation and consumer success. From those on the margins who know the pain capitalism can inflict, and who rediscover in Jesus a liberator, not a mascot for the market.
And perhaps it will come, too, from within each of us—as we examine how deeply capitalism has shaped our desires, habits, and assumptions about what it means to live a good life. To annul the marriage is to reimagine discipleship not as private piety but as public, economic resistance. It is to say, with our lives, that Christ is not for sale.
After the Annulment: A New Covenant
Annulment is not the end of the story. It’s a release—a setting free—not into chaos, but into possibility. What comes after isn’t a vacuum, but a new covenant: a re-rooting of Christian life in values that are older and deeper than the market, and more enduring than profit margins.
This new covenant doesn’t reject all forms of exchange or enterprise. It simply refuses to make them ultimate. It dares to imagine economies of enough, not excess; cooperation, not competition; gift, not greed.
In this covenant, work is redefined—not as a measure of worth, but as a form of service, artistry, and shared contribution. Wealth is seen not as a sign of divine favor, but as a dangerous temptation, to be held with humility and shared with joy.
Communities organize themselves around the vulnerable, not the powerful. Success is measured by solidarity, not status. The earth is not a resource to be extracted, but a living partner to be cherished. Time is not a commodity, but a rhythm—of rest, reverence, and renewal.
And at the heart of this covenant is love: the love of God who cannot be bought, the love of neighbor who cannot be priced, and the love of life that bursts into being wherever grace is allowed to grow.
This is not a utopia. It is a promise, broken and repaired a thousand times over. It is the mustard seed Jesus spoke of—tiny, defiant, and real. After the annulment, we are invited not into despair, but into this slow and stubborn revolution of love.
| CHRISTIANITY | CAPITALISM |
|---|---|
| Grace is unearned | Value is earned through success |
| Blessed are the poor | Blessed are the wealthy |
| Community and the common good | Individualism and competition |
| Simplicity and contentment | Consumption and desire |
| Compassion for the vulnerable | Efficiency and profit maximization |
| Sabbath and rest | Hustle and productivity |
| Wealth as spiritual danger | Wealth as achievement and virtue |