One of the most challenging summers of my childhood involved a prolonged visit with my cousins. Both boys, slightly older than myself, made it their personal mission to torment me. I use the term “torment” loosely, as much of what I experienced was typical preteen boy behavior— “wet willies,” wedgies, and other assorted irritations. But one form of harassment stood out. My cousin would hold me down, pinning my arms back with his knees, and then take his knuckle and apply it repeatedly to the middle of my chest. The relentless pounding could only be ended by me uttering a single word—“Mercy!” That simple, universally understood word was a plea for relief, an acknowledgment of my cousin’s dominance, and, most importantly, a request for compassion. And to his credit, he always let me go once I said it.

It’s striking how ingrained this concept of mercy was among a group of roughhousing kids. There was an unspoken rule: when someone genuinely pleaded for mercy, it had to be granted. It wasn’t a matter of personal preference but a recognition of shared humanity, limits, and knowing that power wasn’t to be exercised without restraint. But in contemporary Christian Nationalism, mercy is not a given. Instead, it seems to be viewed as weakness, an obstacle to be overcome rather than a virtue to be embraced....