The Echo Chamber: Indiana’s Century-Long Conversation with Its Own Shadow

A Brief History of Hooded Hysteria

Indiana, 1920s: The Ku Klux Klan, that infamous club of bedsheet aficionados, reached its fashion and political peak. At the helm was D.C. Stephenson, Grand Dragon and Grand Opportunist, who understood that nothing says "unity" like exclusion—preferably blessed from a church pulpit.

Stephenson was a maestro of the cross-and-flag duet, harmonizing sermons about the grandeur of Christianity and the supremacy of whiteness. He courted judges, cajoled legislators, and claimed with a straight face (and a crooked heart) to be Indiana’s law incarnate. All this, while simultaneously inviting the Klan into the statehouse and the sanctuary.

🦉 Owlyus, ruffling old feathers: "If hypocrisy were currency, Stephenson could've bought Manhattan—twice."

Yet, even after Stephenson’s career ended at the intersection of hubris and second-degree murder, the rhetoric stuck around. Like an unwanted party guest, it returns at intervals, each time donning a new costume but reciting the same script.

Déjà Vu in the Pews: Christian Nationalism, Rebranded

Fast forward a hundred years. The Klan’s hoods are out of vogue, but some historians, clergy, and Hoosiers suspect they’ve simply been replaced by subtler hats—worn by a new cast who deploy faith to police the boundaries of “real” Americanness.

Today’s Christian nationalism, say critics, is less about burning crosses and more about burning bridges—against immigrants, diversity, and gender inclusion. It’s the classic play: take anxiety about change, marinate in religious fervor, and serve with a side of legislative ambition.

Far-right Christian conservatives in Indiana, not eager to be mistaken for their white-robed forebears, bristle at any comparison. For them, "Christian nationalism" is a slur, not a self-description. They insist it’s about values, not race, and that calls for immigration moratoria are matters of national housekeeping, not nativist nostalgia.

Lt. Gov. Micah Beckwith, Indiana’s foremost self-identified Christian nationalist, concedes the Klan was evil but dismisses fears of history repeating as mere scaremongering. Diversity, he argues, weakens a nation; unity (by his definition) is strength. His critics, meanwhile, see a familiar dance—one-step forward, two-steps back.

🦉 Owlyus, with a tiny monocle: "Ah yes, ‘unity through uniformity’—the official slogan of every cult and monochrome dinner party."

The Church’s Split Decision

Not all pulpits were platforms for prejudice. Some pastors, hearing the clink of Klan coins on the altar, promptly returned both money and men to the street. Others found the Klan’s blend of Protestantism and patriotism irresistible—at least until Stephenson’s crimes made the arrangement awkward.

The Klan’s pitch was simple: to be 100% American, you needed to be white, native-born, and Protestant. Everyone else was, mathematically, less. This formula proved popular enough to attract businessmen, ministers, and politicians—until the cost of moral arithmetic grew too high.

🦉 Owlyus, crunching numbers: "If only exclusion could be taxed. Imagine the infrastructure!"

New Wine, Old Wineskins: The Rhetoric Returns

Today’s Christian nationalism, historians warn, borrows liberally from the playbooks of Stephenson, McCarthy, and sundry scaremongers. The old binaries—us vs. them, faith vs. secularism—are deployed to justify fresh exclusions, with immigrants and minorities again cast as existential threats.

Modern debates echo with familiar lines: immigrants are overwhelming resources, diversity endangers cohesion, and only a return to Christian roots can save the Republic. The old tropes—now turbocharged by social media—find new life at town halls and in statehouses.

When Lt. Gov. Beckwith recently praised Haitian immigrants for their work ethic (a rare plot twist), his conservative base revolted, prompting a rapid deletion of his social media posts. Consistency, it turns out, is as slippery as Indiana ice in January.

The Data Dilemma: What Is Christian Nationalism, Anyway?

Defining Christian nationalism is like nailing Jell-O to a church pew: everyone claims to know it when they see it, but few agree on the particulars. Surveys reveal that Christian nationalist sympathies often overlap with belief in the “great replacement” theory (the idea that white Christians are being demographically usurped). But not every Christian nationalist is white, nor is every white nationalist religious. The Venn diagram has surprising overlaps, especially as support among Hispanic and Black Protestants grows—though their versions of nationalism tend to be more inclusive.

Critics of the research, like political consultant Ralph Reed, argue that survey questions are designed to ensnare ordinary Christian conservatives in a net labeled “nationalist.” For him, the true Christian nationalists are those who openly advocate theocracy and exclusion—a smaller, noisier club.

🦉 Owlyus, eyeing the Venn diagram: "Circle gets the square, but the square refuses to be labeled."

Resistance Reboots: Hoosiers for Separation

As history’s pendulum swings, some Hoosiers have dusted off their protest signs. At the Unitarian Universalist Congregation of Fort Wayne, a group set out to decipher Christian nationalism and its impact on local life. They found a continuum—at the extreme, a blend of racism, patriarchy, and authoritarian nostalgia.

Rebecca Reeder, a veteran of the pre-plastic credit card era, recalls when her financial autonomy required her husband’s signature. No urge, she says, to revisit those days. Instead, the resistance has evolved into Hoosiers for Separation of Church and State, insisting that the Constitution—not a pulpit—should script public life.

Historian Jim Madison notes that, while Indiana has moved forward since the Klan’s heyday, the temptation to rewind persists—proof that progress is a process, not a destination.

🦉 Owlyus, with a final hoot: "History may rhyme, but Indiana seems determined to sing the chorus twice."