Why Trump Hits Home

Reckoning with Christian Nationalism in my Korean American Family

By Jessica C. Kim

N

ot long before the 2024 election, my teen daughter leaned over from the passenger seat to share the latest TikTok parody of Trump, incredulous at how anyone could vote for him. I paused, knowing what I was about to say might change how she saw her grandparents. “You know, halmunee and halabuhjee voted for Trump the last two times, and they probably will again,” I blurted.

Her laughter stopped cold. She turned to me with her eyebrows drawing together, eyes narrowing in disbelief. The silence stretched between us like a fault line. I could feel the rupture, the quiet shattering of something—her perception of her grandparents, maybe, or just the safe bubble where family and politics didn’t collide.

I scrambled to say something that would soften the blow. “It’s complicated,” I started, but the words felt flimsy. “Politics are messy, and people have different reasons.” She was already tuning me out. I could see it in the way she slumped against the seat, staring out the window. All she heard was that her grandparents were Trump supporters.

A wave of unrest rolled over me. This wasn’t just about politics. And I knew I wasn’t alone. I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve heard people in my community ask the same question: How can my parents support Trump? I don’t get it! Their frustration had echoed mine.

This recurring question deserves deeper reflection. I needed to explore why Trump’s appeal hits so close to home for some Korean American Christians. I’m beginning to realize it has less to do with politics, and more to do with inherited histories, cultural pride, and a gospel that has been quietly entangled with nationalism for generations.

From Survival to Conservatism: The War That Never Ends

I grew up watching my dad scrape leftovers off our plates onto his own. "전쟁 동안 쌀을 구하기가 어려웠어 (During the war, rice was hard to come by)," he’d begin, launching into another well-worn story. My sister and I would groan. "Appa, the war is over!" But for him, the Korean War was never over. It was the backdrop of his entire life—the reason he studied and worked so hard to overcome the poverty of his youth, and why he viewed the world through a lens of survival and scarcity.

America’s intervention in the war is still something my parents feel indebted to, like a hero to whom they owe their very lives. A lasting alliance continues today with the U.S. military remaining a major presence on the peninsula. Even now, my parents see America as a steadfast guardian of South Korea’s sovereignty.

Their worldview is also shaped by fear. The specter of communism looms large, a survival instinct honed by war and reinforced by Cold War-era American conservatism. Reagan embodied the values they admired like strength, charisma, and a commitment to fighting communism. To them, these weren’t just American values anymore, they had also become Korean values. The Republican brand came to symbolize safety and stability, not only for America but for South Korea as well.

This fear would resurface whenever a headline from South Korea grabbed their attention. News about reunification talks with North Korea, U.S. troop withdrawals, or student protests would send my mom spiraling down YouTube rabbit holes, emerging hours later to declare that ppalgaengi (a derogatory word for communists that translates to “Red Commie”) were taking over. Her fears seemed caught in memories of a Korea that I wasn’t sure existed anymore, frozen in time like a relic in a museum.

Immigrants often carry the social and political norms of their home country at the time they left, even as that country evolves. Sociologists call this the “time-capsule effect.” For my parents, the world remains shaped by the Cold War, with communism, a looming threat; and conservatism, a protective shield.

When Faith Becomes Nation: The Gospel of Patriotism

I grew up hearing my dad talk up American missionaries like Horace Grant Underwood, who dedicated their lives to spreading the gospel in Korea. Half listening, I imagined them as blonde-haired blue-eyed heroes, virtuous enough to eat stinky kimchi, sent from kingdom headquarters to save us.

What I didn’t realize then was how Christianity became deeply intertwined with national identity in Korea. Some scholars credit this shift to a mix of Protestant missionary influence and Japan’s colonial occupation. During the Japanese occupation, Christianity was more than a religion; it was a resistance movement. Christianity was a means of reclaiming identity, and fighting for independence, democracy, and human rights. After Korea’s liberation in 1945, the country was split into communist North and anti-communist South. Most Korean Protestants fled south and found refuge under Syngman Rhee, a Methodist president they trusted. Over time, being a good Korean became synonymous with being a good Christian. When my parents immigrated to the U.S., they brought this fusion with them, equating faith with patriotism.

It’s also why Korean American churches can feel insular, held together by a shared sense of moral superiority. I couldn’t tell you when I first learned that being Korean was best, but it was conditioned into my bones. Church became the ultimate stage for showcasing this pride, superseding scripture defining pride as the biggest sin. Every Sunday, Korean immigrant families gathered dressed in their best with their most polished kids in tow. Worship was indeed present even if its focus was misplaced. Church was about proving something—being more Christian, more Korean, and more successful.

Some have noted the rise of Korean Christian nationalism. Between the 1960s and 1990s, South Korea’s Protestant community grew dramatically, fostering the belief that Korea was God’s chosen nation to lead global Christianity. Leaders like Joon Gon Kim of Campus Crusade declared Korea the new emerging Christian kingdom. Today, South Korea is one of the largest suppliers of missionaries worldwide.

This ideology didn’t stay in Korea. Some Korean American pastors echo similar beliefs, framing their churches as God’s instrument to restore America after its alleged moral decline. As my kids might say, it’s giving “MAGA vibes.” But it runs deeper than politics. It taps into a collective sense of being “chosen” that can feel both empowering and exclusionary. Unfortunately, if there’s one thing Koreans can agree on, it’s that we think we’re better.

But this isn’t just a first-gen issue. In our second-gen churches, we’ve sometimes cloaked our own nationalism in progressive language—still measuring success by dominance, still assuming theological superiority, still equating faithfulness with cultural pride. The temptation to be “set apart” can quietly become a theology of being above.

Christian Nationalism’s Emotional Grip

Christian nationalism goes beyond political alignment. It is the belief that the U.S. has a divine mandate to preserve a specifically Christian identity, often through laws, borders, and power. It replaces Jesus’ kingdom-without-borders with a nation-bound faith tied to military might and moral exceptionalism.

In the 2020 and 2024 elections, Trump tapped into this with chilling clarity. He positioned himself as a defender of Christian values, even as his actions seemed to contradict them. His messaging stirred something in a generation that believed God had once fought for them. And might again. Trump’s border rhetoric also resonates with many Korean Americans. The trauma of colonization and war fuels a deep fear of invasion. My parents’ desire to preserve Korean heritage overlaps with a belief in safeguarding national identity. When Trump speaks of protecting America from “illegals,” it sounds to some like safeguarding the home. Add to that the pride of having followed every rule to immigrate here legally, and it creates resentment toward those who didn’t. To their nervous system, it can feel like a matter of life and death.

A Gospel Big Enough for Generations

As I reflect on these complicated intersections of history, faith, politics, and identity, I’m struck by how they play out across generations within my family—in my parents, my daughter, and myself. Each of us carries perspectives shaped by the eras we’ve lived through. It’s not as simple as one generation being outdated and another enlightened.

My parents’ conservatism is grounded in values that have served them well like faith, family, hard work, and loyalty. My daughter’s views are rooted in justice, equity, and the hope for a better future. Both worldviews have something to teach me—my parents’ resilience and my daughter’s imagination. And somewhere in between, I find myself holding tension between tradition and change, longing for resolution.

This moment demands self-examination, not just of our parents but of ourselves. Jesus warned against pointing out the speck in another’s eye while ignoring the plank in our own (Matthew 7:3–5). Maybe this is an invitation to humility. To see where fear, pride, or nationalism have distorted the gospel in all of us.

But the gospel is clear. Jesus wasn’t the powerful savior people expected. He came in vulnerability, born into poverty, and fled with his family as a refugee to escape Herod’s violence (Matt 2). He healed the child of a Roman centurion, a foreign occupier (Luke 7). He shared water with a Samaritan woman, someone doubly excluded by gender and ethnicity (John 4). And he praised a foreigner as the Good Samaritan who crossed lines to help a wounded man (Luke 10). When he said, “I was a stranger and you welcomed me,” (Matt 25:35, ESV) he wasn’t being metaphorical.

I’ve learned that change rarely comes through arguments. My parents aren’t moved by stats. But stories, especially ones that echo their own, sometimes open something up. When I connect their immigrant struggles to those of others today, it sometimes softens them. Not always. But sometimes. What helps most is grounding our conversations in the life of Jesus—his humility, compassion, and refusal to chase power. When we remove Trump from the picture and just look at Jesus, the contrast is jarring. In the best way.

None of this is easy. And I don’t say any of it as if I’ve figured it out. There are still moments when I feel angry, self-righteous, or just exhausted. But I’m still learning that change, if it comes, usually starts with listening more than lecturing. And sitting through the discomfort instead of trying to fix it right away.

So where does that leave me? It means trying to approach my parents as people, not projects. People who’ve loved me the best they could, who’ve been shaped by forces I’m still trying to understand. It means asking myself hard questions, too, about where my own fears or pride distort the gospel. Maybe the hardest part is realizing the work of reconciliation doesn’t start with changing others, but by being changed ourselves. If anything good comes from these hard conversations, I hope it’s that my kids see the Jesus who still invites us, across generations and ideologies, to follow Him in love.

Photo by Bradyn Shock on Unsplash

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Jessica C. Kim is a Korean American social worker, educator, and church elder passionate about the intersection of faith, mental health, and community care. A longtime advocate for Asian American families, she seeks to bridge clinical insight, lived experience, and Gospel-centered hope. She holds degrees from Rutgers and Columbia, and recently completed a PhD in social welfare at the University of Pennsylvania, where her research focused on trauma-informed care for Korean Americans. Jess lives in South Jersey with her husband, their three kids, and one very enthusiastic labrador.

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