​Theology of Cruelty

​The Moral Meltdown of the United States

​"Cruelty isn’t just about what you do with your hands. It’s how you think, how you talk. And right now, we’ve got a President who’s cruel in his words and, frankly, in his thinking — especially toward immigrants, outsiders, dissenters, and the vulnerable. Maybe even in his actions, too. The problem is, when someone at the top acts like that, it sends a message: this kind of behavior is normal, even patriotic. But it’s not. It’s cowardice dressed up as strength. And it’s part of a deeper moral unraveling in this country I fought for. I am an ex-Marine. We’re better than this — or at least, we used to be.”

- Alex, an imagined ex-Marine, age 55

Unbounded Cruelty

We are becoming the global face of the cruel man currently in the Oval Office. The U.S. was never a nation of angels. But we have aspired to noble ideals no matter how imperfectly lived over our history. We are now in danger of abandoning any pretext to living those ideals. Never before has intentional cruelty and intentional destruction of democratic institutions and norms been wedded as national policy. Cruelty this truly is, with no other apparent motive than to demean others and to save what amounts to a paltry sum in federal spending. For those of us in the Catholic community, cruelty should be especially alarming. And a call to action. It is time to name the result of the chaos for what it is — unbounded cruelty.

- Editorial: Silence in the Face of Trump's Cruelty is Complicity: National Catholic Reporter, Feb. 6, 2025

The Threefold Meltdown 
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In The Meltdown of the United States, Melvin A. Goodman, a former CIA analyst, professor at Johns Hopkins University, and senior fellow at the Center for International Policy, identifies three crises currently unfolding in the United States: constitutional, existential, and identity-based.

These crises collectively signify a systemic unraveling of American democratic principles and social cohesion. However, perhaps the most insidious aspect of this unraveling is the emergence of a "theology of cruelty," a belief system that, while not representative of all American religious thought, has been notably implicit—and at times explicit—in the policies and rhetoric of the Trump administration and segments of the Republican Party.​ We do well to consider the threefold meltdown in a bit more detail; 


1. The Constitutional Crisis

Goodman points to the Trump administration’s defiance of the Supreme Court in the case of Kilmar Abrego Garcia, a Salvadoran migrant wrongfully deported without due process, as the beginning of a constitutional unraveling. Trump’s refusal to comply, his dismissal of inspectors general, and his efforts to consolidate executive power signal an erosion of the rule of law and a breakdown in checks and balances. The judicial system is under direct assault, with Trump publicly expressing contempt for federal courts and seeking to neutralize oversight mechanisms. 


2. The Existential Crisis

Goodman argues that the constitutional breakdown feeds into a deeper existential crisis, with U.S. leadership openly questioning core democratic principles. The administration’s actions have shattered the myth of American exceptionalism, destabilized global alliances, and cast doubt on U.S. strategic intentions. Citing parallels to the Civil War era, Goodman suggests the very identity of the republic as a democratic state is in jeopardy. The United States, once seen as a bulwark against fascism and communism, now exports confusion and instability. 


3. The Identity Crisis

At the heart of the crisis, Goodman identifies a profound identity meltdown, shaped by the personal cruelty and vindictiveness of Trump himself. From inhumane immigration policies to cultural and institutional purges—including attempts to rewrite American history, dismantle museums and universities, and revoke security protections for political adversaries—Goodman illustrates how the nation’s self-image is being deliberately deformed. The administration’s xenophobia, authoritarian instincts, and historical revisionism reflect a departure from the values symbolized by icons like the Statue of Liberty.

The Theology of Cruelty
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A theology of cruelty infects America today, both politically and culturally. It is embodied in the cruelty of the man in the White House, his cabinet, and many members of the Republican party who, out of cowardice and ambition, refuse to criticize him. It is also embodied in those who support him, seduced by the image of a 'strong leader' who will 'make America great again." In a different but equally pernicious way, 

The theology of cruelty projects evil entirely onto "the other": immigrants, outsiders, dissenters, and the vulnerable, thereby sanctifying scapegoating and dehumanization. It fuses religion with nationalism and authoritarianism, portraying the US and its leaders as divinely appointed, conflating patriotism with piety, and framing the defense of power as a spiritual duty. Implicitly, it envisions God as a sovereign ruler and punisher whose authority is enforced through fear, control, and retribution. Power is not seen as care or relational influence but as domination—justifying violence, coercion, and the suppression of vulnerability as marks of strength. Dissent is silenced by equating criticism of political or religious authority with rebellion against God, demanding obedience over conscience. Individuals who reject this theology and speak out against the president, his party, or the ideology they represent are labeled as enemies—traitors to God and country—rather than as conscientious objectors or truth-tellers. They are called "liberals" and "leftists." At its moral core, this theology promotes an image of the human being as inherently self-interested, concerned above all with personal success—defined by the accrual of wealth, often justified as the reward of "merit"—rather than the pursuit of the common good. Thus a cult of individualism, and an ethic of meritocracy, plays a prominent role in this theology. It is assumed that Jesus of Nazareth was about "meritocracy" not diversity, equity, and inclusion. This theology is the very opposite of the theology of Jesus, but in America it masks itself as Christian—thus wrapping Jesus in an American flag.

The "theology of cruelty" is not the faith of every American. Indeed, about half of the American public finds Trump and Trumpism morally reprehensible and spiritually spurious. But even they are complicit in the cruelty if they remain silent. going about their business in daily life as if nothing is happening because they have not yet directly suffered. They watch comedies on television; they avoid the news; they plan vacations; they act as if nothing is happening, unless their pocketbooks are affected. Part of this is a coping mechanism, and part of it is sheer self-centeredness.

Truth be told, even among many who support Trump, there is an inner tension—a dissonance—between the cruel theology they outwardly affirm and a theology of compassion, justice, and mercy that still resonates deep within them. They, too, know there is a difference between cruelty and compassion. But rather than confront this moral conflict, they suppress a theology of compassion by consuming only news and media that support Trump, and stoke resentment or hostility toward "liberals." They avoid voices that challenge their beliefs, especially those who speak of compassion. They allow noble - diversity, equity, and inclusion - to become objects of ridicule. Compassion is reframed as weakness, and concern for the vulnerable is dismissed as “woke,” “soft,” or “unpatriotic.” Many immerse themselves in communities—churches, online spaces, political groups—that reward cruelty with belonging and punish dissent with shame or exclusion. Over time, the voice of compassion grows quieter—not because it is wrong, but because it is inconvenient.

A Theology of Compassion

Still, the theology of compassion does not die. It remains—buried, bruised, whispering—still capable of waking them, still capable of rising. How will it rise? I offer three ways:

First, it will rise through moral imagination—the ability to see others not as enemies or threats, but as fellow human beings worthy of care. This begins when people allow themselves to feel again: to hear the cries of the vulnerable, to witness the pain of those scapegoated, to see the face of the other not as a category but as a neighbor. But this moral imagination must be practiced on all sides. Those who advocate for a theology of compassion must resist the temptation to demonize Trump and his supporters in return. To do so would mirror the very cruelty they oppose. Instead, they must hold space for the possibility of change, for the complexity within each person, and for the dignity that remains even in those who have aligned with damaging ideologies. Compassion calls us not only to defend the vulnerable but to see the humanity in those who have lost their way. Moral imagination is sparked by stories, relationships, art, and moments of raw honesty that bypass ideological filters and speak directly to the soul.

Second, it will rise through communities of resistance and healing—places where people practice compassion in action. These communities may be faith-based, activist, artistic, or simply humane. What they share is a refusal to conform to cruelty, and a commitment to truth-telling, solidarity, and mutual care. In these spaces, people rediscover that vulnerability is not weakness, that mercy is strength, and that justice and love belong together.

Third, it will rise through the courage of conscience—individuals who choose to break the silence. Some will walk away from churches that have traded Christ for Caesar. Others will speak uncomfortable truths at dinner tables or on social media. Some will offer sanctuary, others will organize, and many will simply live differently: refusing to laugh at the cruel joke, refusing to ignore the lie, refusing to worship the idol of power. These acts of conscience may seem small, but together they are the yeast in the dough—the beginning of something new. The theology of compassion will rise—not with spectacle, but with stubborn grace. Not with conquest, but with courage. It will rise because it is rooted in the deepest truth of what it means to be human, and because, despite everything, it is still the quiet echo of the gospel that refuses to be silenced.

Process Theology

An Alternative to the Theology of Cruelty
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​As America teeters on the edge—its social fabric fraying under the weight of cruelty parading as strength—a different theological vision begins to stir beneath the ashes. Open and relational theology, particularly in its process form, offers not just an alternative doctrine, but an alternative way of being: a vision of the divine not as a distant authoritarian or cosmic micromanager, but as a deeply present, co-suffering presence. In this view, God does not control the world from above but lures it forward from within—through persuasion, love, and the possibilities that arise in each unfolding moment. This kind of theology has the potential to rekindle compassion, not in abstract terms, but in lived experience.

It speaks first to the disillusioned—the ones burned by punitive religion, or who’ve walked away from churches that sanctify cruelty in the name of power. It resonates with activists and healers on the ground, those whose daily work is rooted in relational repair and nonviolent resistance. It offers a spiritual home to the seekers, the curious, and the spiritually homeless who still believe in love, but not in a God who excuses suffering. And it gives faith leaders a new framework for power—not dominance, but shared vulnerability and mutual transformation. In the language of process, every moment is a fresh becoming, a chance for creative response. And in a world desperately in need of tenderness, this theology insists: compassion is not weakness—it is the deepest force in the universe.
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A different vision of human well-being emerges as well—one that rejects the hollow fulfillment of greed, self-importance, and isolation. In its place is a vision of life rooted in interdependence, where we find our deepest joy not in dominating others, but in serving and belonging to something larger than ourselves. The good life, in this theology, is not about escaping suffering or securing privilege, but about participating in the healing and flourishing of the whole. It’s a call to be part of the common good—not out of guilt or duty, but because that’s where our truest humanity lives.