Democrat James Talarico, now locked in a tight Texas Senate race against Ken Paxton, delivered a 2023 church sermon declaring that "God is not a Christian" and warning that America stands near the brink of a "Christian theocracy."
The sermon, delivered at St. Andrews' Presbyterian Church and captured on video, shows the Texas state representative and Presbyterian seminarian systematically dismantling the idea that the United States is a Christian nation, language that may sit well with progressive churchgoers but lands differently in a state where millions of conservative Christians vote on faith-rooted values. The New York Post reported on the sermon and a string of related Talarico statements as the general election contest heats up.
Talarico currently holds a 1.2 percentage point edge over Paxton in the RealClearPolitics polling aggregate, a margin thin enough that every piece of the candidate's public record could matter in November.
The sermon's title alone, "God is not a Christian", set the tone. From the pulpit, Talarico told the congregation that God defies human labels entirely:
"God is so much bigger than our human categories. God is not a Presbyterian. God is not a Christian. God is not a noun at all. God is a verb. God is not a being. God is being self. God is love."
He then framed Jesus as a figure who stood against organized religion itself:
"That's why Jesus is against anything that gets in the way of that love between neighbors, including religion. That's why he's always breaking religious rules. That's why he says sinners will see the kingdom of heaven before religious people do."
Those claims will strike many traditional believers as a selective, politically convenient reading of Scripture, one that strips Christianity of its doctrinal content and repackages Jesus as a progressive activist. Talarico did not stop there. He turned directly to politics, calling Christian nationalism "a cancer on our religion" and "a sectarian movement based on mutual hate."
His sharpest language came when he described what he believes Christian nationalists have done to the faith:
"They've turned this humble rabbi into a gun-toting, gay-bashing, science-denying, money-loving, fear-mongering fascist. And it is incumbent upon all Christians to confront it and denounce it. Christian nationalism is on the rise."
That passage amounts to a broadside against a large swath of conservative Christians, voters who support the Second Amendment, hold traditional views on marriage, and take the Bible seriously. Talarico did not define where sincere religious conviction ends and "Christian nationalism" begins. He simply lumped gun ownership, skepticism of certain scientific claims, and opposition to same-sex marriage into a single caricature and pinned it on Jesus's name.
Talarico went further, warning the congregation that the country teeters on the edge of religious authoritarianism. "We are closer than we think to a Christian theocracy," he said, citing the Supreme Court's overturning of Roe v. Wade, a push to replace public schools in Texas with private Christian schools, and the January 6, 2021, storming of the U.S. Capitol as evidence.
He also argued that a genuinely Christian nation would guarantee that every child is "housed, fed, clothed, educated, and insured", a formulation that maps neatly onto a progressive government-spending agenda rather than any recognizable strand of Christian theology about charity, stewardship, or the role of the state.
Talarico then offered what he framed as the ultimate proof that America should never call itself Christian:
"If this was truly a Christian nation, we would never make it a Christian nation, because we know the table of fellowship is open to everybody, including our Buddhist, Hindu, Jewish, Muslim, Sikh, and atheist neighbors."
The logic is circular: a real Christian nation would refuse to be one. It is the kind of argument that sounds profound in a seminary lounge but falls apart under scrutiny. No serious conservative figure has proposed barring non-Christians from civic life. What many have proposed is that public policy should reflect the moral convictions of the electorate, convictions that, in Texas, are overwhelmingly shaped by the Christian tradition.
Talarico's record of provocative religious statements extends well beyond this sermon. In a 2021 podcast interview with Roberto Henderson-Espinoza, a self-described "TransQueer, Latinx" activist theologian, Talarico said, "I always think of myself as a Christian who hates Christianity." He added, "I always get drawn back into it." Talarico has also doubled down on transgender advocacy, calling Republican positions on the issue a "divide-and-conquer" strategy, a stance that aligns with the progressive theological circles he frequents.
The sermon and the podcast are not isolated incidents. Talarico has previously called God nonbinary, and NBC News reported that he described some of his own past statements as "cringey," saying he "missed the mark on some of those old statements." Which statements, exactly, he considers over the line remains unclear, and the walk-back raises a question Texas voters deserve an answer to: does Talarico still believe what he preached from the pulpit, or was the sermon itself one of the remarks he now regrets?
His spokesperson, JT Ennis, offered a defense that tried to reframe the controversy as an attack on Talarico's faith rather than a legitimate examination of his public words:
"James is a Christian seminarian who's dedicated his life to the teachings of Jesus Christ, fighting corruption when he sees it because there's nothing Christ-like about powerful people using scripture to justify hate and greed and score political points."
Ennis also took a shot at Talarico's opponent: "While billionaire-bought politicians like Ken Paxton attack James for his faith, he will continue encouraging Texans to come together by loving their neighbors as themselves." That framing conveniently sidesteps the substance. Nobody is attacking Talarico for having faith. The issue is what he said from a church pulpit, on video, and whether those views represent the people of Texas.
Talarico has already been forced to walk back provocative claims after media confrontations. The pattern is familiar: make a bold progressive statement, wait for it to surface, then soften it just enough to survive the news cycle.
The Texas Senate contest between Talarico and Paxton is shaping up as one of the most closely watched races of the cycle. RealClearPolitics data shows Talarico ahead by just 1.2 points, a margin well within the range where a single controversy can shift the outcome. Polling dynamics in the race have shown warning signs for both candidates, but Talarico's vulnerability is distinct: he is running in a deep-red state while carrying a record of statements that read like a progressive seminary thesis, not a Texas stump speech.
S1 compared Talarico to Pete Buttigieg, the former Transportation Secretary, noting both men share "sharp oratory skills and disdain for elements of religious conservatism." The comparison is telling. Buttigieg's brand of faith-inflected progressivism played well in Democratic primaries but never broke through with the broader electorate. Whether Talarico can sell a similar product in Texas, a state that last elected a Democrat to the Senate in 1988, remains an open question.
Paxton won his primary in commanding fashion, and the Republican base in Texas has shown no appetite for the kind of theological revisionism Talarico is offering. Meanwhile, even some fellow Democrats have declined to rally behind Talarico, exposing fractures within his own party over whether he is the right candidate for the state.
Talarico can call Christian nationalism a cancer. He can declare God is not a Christian. He can describe himself as a Christian who hates Christianity. Those are his words, delivered in public, on the record. Texas voters will decide whether a man who preaches against his own faith's foundations deserves to represent a state that still takes that faith seriously.
