The Bishop, the President, and the Sermon on the Mount

Why Christian Ethics Don’t Stop at the Doors of Power

This week, Episcopal Bishop Mariann Edgar Budde found herself under the eyes of public criticism for her sermon and direct address to newly inaugurated President Trump during the Inauguration Prayer Service held at the Washington Cathedral. As a preacher, I am always fascinated by public sermons like this and how the world reacts to them. Despite the criticism she knew she would draw, Bishop Budde did what preachers are supposed to do—she preached. And like the best prophetic voices of history, she preached to the powers. But in doing so, she ignited a firestorm of criticism, particularly from some Christians who believe that the injunctions from the Sermon on the Mount have no place in a conversation with a sitting president.

I find that fascinating.

Some have argued that her call for mercy and justice confuses the roles of the church and the state, as if these two entities have no moral or spiritual overlap. Others insisted that governments exist solely for enforcing laws, not showing compassion—suggesting that the Sermon on the Mount is for personal piety but not for public policy. And then, of course, there were the usual charges of "apostasy," because you know—she loves the gays a little too much.

Scandalous!

I find it wild how quickly some will declare the words of Jesus null and void when applied to the one holding power. I am always left feeling like I have landed in some Christian upside-down bizzarro world. But here’s the thing: The Christian-Judeo prophetic tradition has always unabashedly spoken truth to powers, and always in public. Nathan rebuked David. Elijah confronted Ahab. John the Baptist called out Herod. I could go on and on. And now, when a Christian leader publicly invokes the ethical demands of Jesus to a professing Christian president, suddenly it's out of order?

I don’t buy it.

The False Separation of Jesus and Leadership

Recently, I was talking with a friend about this, and he pointed out that the government isn’t the church and shouldn’t be expected to act like it. That’s fine. But Bishop Budde wasn’t preaching to "the government"—she was speaking to a governor, a man who has personally identified as Christian and claims a divine calling to his leadership position.

That matters.

If you’re going to invoke God in your governance, then you don’t get to conveniently sideline the ethical demands of Jesus when they get uncomfortable. Leaders who profess faith should expect their faith to be part of the public conversation, especially within the church. Bishop Budde’s address to President Trump wasn’t an appeal for a theocracy. It wasn’t a demand for a progressive social agenda. It was a pastoral moment, in a church, calling a Christian leader to consider mercy. That’s what preachers are supposed to do.

And this isn’t even a new debate. Throughout history, Christian thinkers have wrestled with the intersection of faith, power, and ethics. Dietrich Bonhoeffer, writing in the face of Nazi Germany, warned against a faith that accommodates itself to power while neglecting its moral obligations. He spoke of "cheap grace"—a Christianity that claims allegiance to Jesus without the costly demands of discipleship. Bonhoeffer understood that when faith becomes privatized, stripped of its prophetic voice, it ceases to be faith at all. He argued that real Christianity requires a willingness to confront injustice, even when it’s politically inconvenient.

Søren Kierkegaard, long before Bonhoeffer, took issue with what he saw in Christendom—the easy assumption that a nation could be "Christian" while its leaders and institutions failed to embody the radical call of Christ. He saw faith as deeply personal and never detached from action. For Kierkegaard, it was hypocritical to claim Christianity and then ignore its demands in real life. He famously said, "The Bible is very easy to understand. But we Christians are a bunch of scheming swindlers. We pretend to be unable to understand it because we know very well that the minute we understand, we are obliged to act accordingly."

That’s the issue at play here.

The idea that Christian ethics apply only to personal life and not to public leadership is a convenient fiction—a way to embrace the label of Christianity without its responsibilities. If the Sermon on the Mount only applies to private individuals and not to those in positions of power, then what exactly is it for? If we believe Jesus’ words about justice, mercy, and loving our neighbor, do they somehow stop being relevant the moment one is elected to office?

This is why Bishop Budde’s sermon matters. She wasn’t calling for a theocracy. She wasn’t demanding that the government become an extension of the church. She was doing what Christian leaders have always done: reminding those in power that they are accountable—not just to the people, not just to history, but to God. To remove moral accountability from leadership is not a separation of church and state—it’s a separation of faith from integrity.

And that’s a far greater danger.

Justice and Mercy Are Not Mutually Exclusive

A common critique of Bishop Budde’s sermon is that it confuses justice and mercy, treating them as if they could coexist in government when, supposedly, they serve separate purposes. Some argue that the role of government is purely justice—enforcing laws, and meting out consequences—while mercy belongs to the church and private individuals. The underlying assumption is that compassion has no place in leadership because it would make governance weak or inconsistent.

But this is a false dichotomy.

Justice and mercy are not competing values but complementary ones. Leaders must uphold justice, but justice without mercy becomes cruelty, while mercy without justice becomes passivity.

Jesus himself embodied this tension. Consider how he dealt with the woman caught in adultery (John 8). The law demanded her execution. The religious leaders, appointed to mete out God’s justice and eager to trap Jesus, forced the issue. If he let her go, he would appear lawless; if he condemned her, he would betray his message of grace. Instead, he held both justice and mercy in perfect balance—acknowledging the reality of her sin while refusing to let the legalists use justice as a weapon. “Let the one without sin cast the first stone,” he said. And when they walked away, he told her, “Neither do I condemn you. Go and sin no more.” Justice was not abandoned. Mercy was not cheap. Both were present, and both served the good of the person and the community.

The prophet Micah famously calls on God’s people to "do justice, love mercy, and walk humbly with your God" (Micah 6:8). Justice and mercy are not separate callings—they are two sides of the same ethical coin. Theologian N.T. Wright has written extensively on the justice of God as a restorative force, not just a punitive one. In Simply Christian, he argues that biblical justice is about setting things right, not merely punishing wrongdoers. The biblical model of justice seeks to restore individuals and communities, not merely to exact retribution.

That is not to say that leaders, especially within the government, will have to make tough decisions that do not always look merciful to onlookers. This is where the conversation about leadership becomes more complex. On the one hand, Christian leaders are expected to be just and merciful. On the other hand, empathy cannot be their highest value.

Leadership theorist and family systems expert Edwin Friedman took a counterintuitive approach to mercy and empathy in leadership. Unlike conventional wisdom, which holds that the best leaders are those who deeply empathize with their followers, Friedman warned that unchecked empathy can become a liability.

In his book A Failure of Nerve, Friedman describes how many leaders—especially in faith communities—become so enmeshed in the emotions of others that they lose their capacity to lead with clarity and strength. A leader who absorbs all the anxieties of their people becomes reactive rather than resolute, constantly swayed by emotional currents instead of making principled decisions. He called for leaders to be a "non-anxious presence"—calm, clear-headed, and decisive, not easily pulled into emotional turmoil.

That doesn’t mean leaders should be indifferent or cold. It means they must hold steady in the face of pressures that would pull them in a thousand different directions.

The challenge for Christian leaders—whether pastors or presidents—is to discern when to exercise mercy and when to stand firm in justice. A judge, for instance, cannot dismiss every case with a wave of compassion. But they also must recognize that justice is not about strict legalism; it is about serving the greater good.

And this is the kind of response I wanted to see from President Trump. Instead of calling her sermon boring and asking for an apology, he could have acknowledged her admonition while also acknowledging his duties as a leader.

Justice, Mercy, and the Role of Government

The question isn’t whether the government should abandon justice in favor of compassion, nor is it whether leaders should wield unchecked authority in the name of justice. The real question is how those in power will navigate the balance that Jesus himself modeled. Bishop Budde wasn’t necessarily suggesting that President Trump neglect his responsibility to enforce laws. She was simply asking him to consider the weight of those laws on human lives. Justice demands fairness, but fairness is not always the same as rigidity. The best leaders, whether in government, the church, or the marketplace, understand that the most effective exercise of justice is one tempered with wisdom, humility, and, yes, even mercy.

The issue isn’t whether the Sermon on the Mount applies to government—it’s whether Christian leaders are willing to let their faith inform their leadership. If justice and mercy are both biblical values, then Christians in leadership cannot dismiss one in favor of the other.

The goal is not to govern with pure sentimentality, nor with pure legalism, but with the kind of leadership that Jesus modeled—one that never compromised on justice but always left room for mercy.

One of the more frustrating arguments I’ve seen in all of this is the idea that Jesus’ words—especially the Sermon on the Mount—apply only to individuals and not to leaders. That the call to mercy, humility, and love for the stranger is fine for you but not for those who govern.

That’s a fascinating theological trick.

If a governor sits in church and hears a sermon, are we to believe that none of it applies to them? That Jesus’ words have no bearing on the decisions they make in office? That when Jesus speaks of loving our neighbor, caring for the least among us, and being peacemakers, those commands stop at the doors of the sanctuary?

If that’s the case, then what exactly is the point of a politician claiming faith at all?

When Bishop Budde stood in the pulpit and addressed the president, she wasn’t doing something radical. She was standing in the tradition of prophets who call leaders to higher ground. Whether or not the leader listens is another story—but the job of the preacher is to tell the truth.

And that’s exactly what she did.