Trading Curiosity for Certainty

It was cool, breezy, and perfectly ordinary at last week’s farmer’s market. Then I noticed the shirt.

“I don’t debate. I tell you what is right.”

The guy wearing it was a white dude with a thick silver cross hanging from his neck like a police badge. Not as a symbol of surrender or a reminder of self-sacrificial love. A badge. A declaration. A warning even.

And I couldn’t help but think that this is the distilled theology of modern American conservative Christianity, where we have moved from faith seeking understanding to certainty seeking dominance.

There was a time—not perfect, but better—when Christians at least pretended to value curiosity, when apologetics meant offering a reasoned defense of the faith. Now, it’s all about owning your ideological opponents (read: the libs). When saying “I don’t know” wasn’t seen as weakness but humility.

Somewhere along the way, that died.

The Death of Curiosity

Historically, Christian apologetics had intellectual heavyweights (though I vehemently disagree with them on plenty)—people like Augustine of Hippo or Thomas Aquinas—who wrestled deeply with doubt, philosophy, and competing ideas. They engaged questions because questions mattered. They didn’t pretend the faith was fragile; they believed truth could withstand scrutiny.

But what we see today, particularly in Christian conservative subcultures, is nothing but posturing.

“I don’t debate,” they say arrogantly.

Debate requires listening. It requires entertaining the possibility—however small—that you might be wrong. It demands the humility to acknowledge limits, and humility is kryptonite to a theology that equates certainty with righteousness.

Gone are the days when we were forced, at least in academic settings, to argue the other side. I remember in college having to defend positions I didn’t hold. It was uncomfortable. It stretched me. It humanized my “opponents.” It made caricature harder and compassion easier.

Today, that kind of exercise would be dismissed as compromise and thus, weakness.

From Witness to Warlord

The shirt’s slogan isn’t just theological, however. Like most everything, it is also political.

Within Christian MAGA circles orbiting figures like Donald Trump, this posture has reached its peak expression. The goal isn’t persuasion. It’s proclamation and dominance. What their Orange Overlord calls “winning.” The cross becomes less a symbol of cruciform love and more a tribal marker.

But this mindset transcends MAGA. It’s baked into the broader conservative Christian ecosystem—podcasts, conferences, YouTube channels, pulpits. It’s the air many breathe. The assumption is simple: We already have the truth. Fully. Completely. Unquestionably.

Repentance, in this framework, no longer means changing your mind. It means doubling down on what you already believe to be true. And that is tragic. Because the irony is almost unbearable: the faith centered on a crucified rabbi who washed feet has been commandeered by people who refuse to even listen to someone who looks and acts different than them.

The historical Jesus didn’t silence questions. He asked them. A lot! He told stories that destabilized certainty. He upended religious gatekeepers who were absolutely convinced they knew what was right.

What we’re witnessing now is a christo-normative lens that is conservative, white, straight, and politically aligned (and so deeply convinced of its own moral clarity that debate feels unnecessary). Why dialogue when you can declare? Why learn when you can legislate? Why grow when you can control?

The silver cross glinted in the sun as the guy walked past booth after booth. And I couldn’t stop thinking about how strange it is to wear an instrument of execution while announcing intellectual infallibility.

“I don’t debate.”

That’s not strength. It’s the confession of someone terrified that if the conversation lasts long enough, the cracks might start to show.

And maybe the most faithful words a Christian could recover in this cultural moment are three simple ones:

“I don’t know.”

If you’re navigating faith after certainty, loving Jesus but not the empire, or trying to hold on to hope in a burning world, you’re not alone. I explore these themes weekly on the Heretic Happy Hour podcast.

You can also explore my books—including Heretic!, The Wisdom of Hobbits, and others—right here: https://quoir.com/authors/matthew-j-distefano/

Thanks for reading. Thanks for thinking. And thanks for refusing to settle for easy answers.