American exceptionalism, an Orthodox perspective

Almost since its inception, the USA (or, at least, its governing elites) has laboured under the misconception of ‘American exceptionalism’. The Puritan founding fathers regarded the 13 original colonies/states as the ‘New Israel’. Its people were a covenant community bearing a divine commission to model and export righteousness to the world. Its more recent, secular incarnation restated this in the language of ‘the indispensable nation’ and ‘the last best hope of earth’. But the theological freight was only displaced, not removed. The nation was still regarded as the ‘divine’ agent in the drama of history.

On 3 July at Mount Rushmore, Trump once again restated this view in his own uniquely crude way. adds its own inflections. He proclaimed America ‘the most successful, most accomplished, most exceptional nation ever to exist in human history’, giving it a status rooted not merely in constitutional ideals but in a specific cultural and civilizational heritage. For him, it is the fruit of a particular people (a ‘new breed of citizen’) and their tradition. His vision is simultaneously triumphalist, culturally ascriptive, and shot through with the grammar of chosenness.

Looked at from the perspective of Orthodox Christianity, this is no harmless patriotism, but rather a structure of thought that is profoundly dangerous.

In 1872, the Council of Constantinople formally condemned what it called phyletism or ethnophyletism, by which it meant ‘racial discrimination, ethnic feuds, hatreds and dissensions within the Church of Christ’, as ‘contrary to the teaching of the Gospel and the holy canons of our blessed fathers’. The specific occasion was the Bulgarian Exarchate’s attempt to organize the Church along ethnic rather than territorial and universal lines. But the theological principle at stake was far broader.

At root, phyletism is the confusion of the universal Body of Christ with a particular nation, ethnicity, or race (as the founding fathers did when they conflated America with the new Israel). It is the ‘tribalization’ of the faith, the subordination of the Church’s eschatological, transnational identity to goals of a people. What makes it a heresy, and not merely an administrative error, is that it places the nation in the position that belongs properly to the Church: as the bearer of chosenness, commission, and covenantal significance before God.

American exceptionalism – particularly in its closed, culturally specific form – is structurally identical to this error, transposed into a civil-religious register. When a nation claims that God has elected it, entrusted it with a unique mission, and is guiding its history towards a redemptive end, it is doing theologically what the 1872 Council condemned ecclesiologically: mistaking the particular for the universal, the contingent for the sacred, the ethnic for the eschatological.

Orthodoxy has recently had to confront this same temptation in an agonizingly direct way. The Russian Orthodox Church’s ideology of Russkii Mir (the ‘Russian World’ or ‘Russian peace’) claims that Russia, Ukraine, and Belarus form a sacred civilizational unity under God’s special protection and that the Russian state’s geopolitical expansion can therefore be theologically justified. In 2022, following Russia’s invasion of Ukraine, more than 1,300 Orthodox scholars and theologians around the world signed a declaration condemning this ideology as a heresy because it ‘confuses the Church with a political-civilizational project’, because it provides religious sanction for state violence, and because it violates the universal catholicity of Orthodoxy.

The declaration explicitly extended its condemnation to ‘all Orthodox ethno-phyletist ideologies akin to the false teaching of the “Russian World” in every age, nation and culture’. ‘[I]n every age, nation and culture’ is the critical phrase. The principle does not apply only to Russia. Sacred national exceptionalism is an equal-opportunity heresy: it is no more acceptable when it is American than when it is Russian, no less idolatrous when it is dressed in the Stars and Stripes than when it wears the double-headed eagle.

The deeper problem with American exceptionalism appropriates theological categories (chosenness, covenant, divine commission, redemptive mission) that have a specific and exclusive referent in the New Testament and the Patristic tradition: the Church, the Body of Christ.

St Paul writes in Galatians: ‘There is neither Jew nor Greek, there is neither slave nor free, there is neither male nor female; for you are all one in Christ Jesus.’ This is not merely an ethical aspiration. It is an ontological claim about the new community constituted by baptism and Eucharist, a community in which the ethnic, national, and civilizational distinctions of the old age are relativized – not abolished, but subordinated to a new, deeper identity. When an earthly nation annexes this language of election and mission, it commits a form of ecclesial usurpation: it claims for itself what belongs to the Body of Christ.

Fr Georges Florovsky, the great Russian émigré theologian, insisted throughout his work that no earthly culture or civilization, however distinguished, can bear ultimate meaning. Christianity does not endorse any particular civilization’s claim to finality or divine privilege. The Church is in every culture, but it is captive to none. To confuse the Christian mission with a specific civilizational expansion – whether Byzantine, Russian, or American – is to confuse the vessel with the wine it contains.

Orthodox eschatology adds a further dimension. The Kingdom of God, in Orthodox teaching, is not the political triumph of any earthly power. It is the transfiguration of all creation in union with the Holy Trinity, of which the Eucharist is the foretaste and the Church the provisional anticipation. History is not the progressive realization of any nation’s values. It is the synaxis of the world being drawn, through suffering and glory alike, towards its eternal end in God. This means that the eschatological pretensions embedded in American exceptionalism – the nation as history’s ‘decisive actor’, as the force bending the arc of history towards freedom – are, from an Orthodox perspective, a form of self-idolatry. Fr Alexander Schmemann called the Eucharist ‘the sacrament of the Kingdom’. No earthly empire, however powerful, however genuinely committed to genuine goods, can be more than a faint and passing sign of the Kingdom that is coming. To claim more is not patriotism: it is, in the precise theological sense of the word, presumption.

None of this means that love of country is sinful. The Orthodox tradition consistently distinguishes genuine love for one’s homeland, its people, its culture, and its history from the idolatrous inflation of national particularity into cosmic significance. An American Christian can properly grieve for America’s failures, celebrate its genuine goods, work for its justice, and pray for its people. What the tradition forbids is the theological move that transforms this legitimate love into a claim that God has uniquely elected this nation, that its enemies are therefore God’s enemies, and that its power and prosperity are signs of God’s favour.

As the USA celebrates 250 years of independence, an American Christian can certainly celebrate its greatness. The problem is that American exceptionalism, and particularly Trump’s take on it, implies not that ‘America is great’ but that ‘America is god’. The difference between those two statements is the difference between patriotism and idolatry; the Church, at its most faithful, has always known which side of that line is which.

Maxim for (autistic) Christian living (23)

Hopko’s 23rd maxim, ‘Live a day, even a part of a day, at a time’, asks us to stay with the present moment instead of being swallowed by the past or the future. This is important for autistic Orthodox Christians because autistic minds often run in loops (replaying old conversations, rehearsing future ones, catastrophizing) and can lose contact with the concrete now. To ‘live a day, or part of a day, at a time’ can mean shrinking the time horizon to something your nervous system can bear: the next ten minutes, the next task, this service, this meal, this short walk, this decade of the Jesus Prayer. You are not asked to stop caring about long‑term issues, but to let God meet you in the small, keepable portion in front of you instead of trying to carry all possible futures at once.

Because autistic anxiety and executive dysfunction make ‘just be present’ unrealistic as a bare command, this maxim usually needs concrete supports. These might include using written schedules or visual timers to define chunks of time; pairing brief, sensory‑grounding actions (e.g. touching an icon or making the sign of the cross) with a short prayer whenever your mind gallops ahead; agreeing with your priest or therapist on when to plan so that planning does not take over every moment. When you catch yourself time‑travelling in your head – replaying an awkward conversation from years ago, imagining every way a situation could go wrong – you can quietly name it (‘I’m not in today anymore’), commend the situation to Christ, and gently return to the next small, concrete thing.

Many autistic people also live with trauma, which can make the present feel unsafe and push you either into dissociation or constant future‑scanning. In that context, living ‘a part of a day at a time’ may be all you can do: one service, one commute, one phone call, one hour between alarms. This maxim then converges with Hopko’s later maxims about having a daily schedule, being faithful in little things, and getting help without shame: therapy, medication, and practical supports can make it more possible to inhabit the present instead of only reading about it in spiritual books. Lived this way, the 23rd maxim does not tell you to stop being an intense, forward‑thinking, detail‑tracking person; it invites your mind to stand with Christ now, in this manageable slice of time, where grace is actually given.

Maxim for (autistic) Christian living (22)

Hopko’s 22nd maxim, ‘Exercise regularly’, is about caring for your body as a temple of the Holy Spirit, not about becoming athletic, thin, or neurotypical. For autistic Christians, it is part of our prayerful stewardship of a nervous system that is often overloaded, under‑responsive, or both at once. Regular, gentle exercise can help regulate mood, sleep, sensory processing, and anxiety, making it easier to pray, attend services, and keep the other maxims. Exercise might include walking, stretching, swimming, cycling, dancing at home, or even structured stimming and movement breaks – anything that moves your body in a way that is safe, sustainable, and does not feed shame.

Because many autistic people struggle with motor coordination, pain, chronic fatigue, or bad experiences of school sports, ‘exercise regularly’ needs to be adapted, not weaponized. It can mean choosing simple predictable activities; breaking movement into small chunks across the day instead of one long session; using visual schedules or timers; and/or linking movement to existing routines (walking after meals, stretching before prayers, pacing while saying the Jesus Prayer). If public gyms or team sports are overwhelming, home‑based options, quiet outdoor routes, or one‑to‑one sessions may be more realistic. When executive function crashes, you can set the bar very low – five minutes or even just standing and stretching at fixed times – so that the maxim remains keepable rather than an additional source of guilt.

It is also important to disentangle this maxim from contemporary diet culture and from the pressure some autistic people feel to ‘fix’ their bodies to be more acceptable. The point is not self‑punishment or ‘looksmaxxing’, but collaborative care with God for the body he has given you, with its sensory profile, gait, and limits. You might explicitly offer your movement as prayer (‘Lord, receive this walk as thanks for my body’) or dedicate a short walk to interceding for someone. If you have significant health issues, disability, or injury, ‘exercise’ may simply mean whatever movement you can do safely under medical guidance; using aids or going slowly is not a failure. Lived this way, ‘Exercise regularly’ can become a gentle rhythm by which your autistic body is strengthened to bear joy, stress, and worship, rather than an athletic ideal you must somehow reach to please God.

Maxim for (autistic) Christian living (21)

Hopko’s 21st maxim, ‘Have a healthy, wholesome hobby’, could be tailor‑made for autistic Orthodox Christians. For many autistic people, hobbies/special interests are an important way of engaging with the world. A wholesome hobby is something that lets your mind and body ‘play’ in a way that is genuinely life‑giving: it does not enslave you, drag you into shame, or isolate you from God and neighbour, but gives you joy, rest, and focus. Almost any hobby can fit this maxim provided it is received as a gift and offered back to Christ.

Unfortunately, autistic special interests can too easily tip over into burnout, compulsion, or escapism. So, it is vital to stress the ‘healthy’ part of the maxim. This may mean adding gentle structures and limits rather than trying to suppress the interest itself. One possibility is to give your hobby a defined block of time on certain days. You could agree on reasonable time boundaries with your confessor or a trusted friend, and you should certainly watch for early warning signs that it is becoming an avoidance strategy (neglecting sleep, food, prayer, relationships) rather than genuine refreshment.

If possible, it can also help to integrate your hobby into your spiritual and communal life, for example by sharing it with a few safe people or consciously thanking God before and after hobby time so that it becomes an occasion of gratitude rather than isolation. Lived this way, Hopko’s maxim baptizes autistic intensity, encouraging you to enjoy your interests in a way that strengthens your mind, honours your neurology, and quietly glorifies God.

Maxim for (autistic) Christian living (20)

Hopko’s 20th maxim, ‘Maintain cleanliness and order in your home’, is about creating a small, liveable corner of God’s good creation, not about perfectionism or respectability. For autistic Orthodox Christians, ‘cleanliness and order’ must be read through the realities of sensory sensitivities and overload, executive dysfunction, fatigue, and special interests. A holy home is not necessarily a minimalist, Marie Kondo approved space; it is a place where you can realistically pray, rest, and work without being constantly ambushed by chaos, smells, or visual noise. Order might mean knowing where things are, having clear paths to move safely, and keeping some areas (for example, your bed, your prayer corner, the kitchen sink) reliably usable.

Because autistic people often struggle with getting started, ordering tasks, and overwhelm, this maxim might best be kept as a series of small, repeatable habits rather than a vague demand to ‘be tidier’. Perhaps choose one or two key tasks (washing dishes once a day, clearing one surface, taking rubbish out) and attach them to events you already do (after breakfast, after work, before evening prayers), using timers or checklists if helpful. Sensory needs can guide your priorities: if certain smells, textures, or piles make you shut down, then dealing with those triggers first is part of maintaining order for the sake of prayer and peace. When your energy is low, you can practise ‘two‑minute’ tidying, accepting that some clutter will remain; the maxim calls for basic, humane order, not scrupulous scrubbing of every corner.

Many autistic people feel shame about their living spaces, especially if they have been overwhelmed for a long time or live in shared housing where others do not understand their limits. In that context, this maxim should be heard together with Hopko’s later ones: be faithful in little things, have a daily schedule, be merciful with yourself, get help when you need it. ‘Maintaining cleanliness and order’ might include asking a friend, family member, or support worker to help you declutter properly, then setting up simple systems you can actually maintain using containers, labels, or colour‑coding. Or it might involve simply keeping your prayer corner tidy, even if other areas are still a work in progress. Lived this way, 20th‑maxim order is not a weapon against executive dysfunction, but a gradual, compassionate shaping of your environment so that your autistic nervous system and your heart both have room to breathe, to pray, and to welcome Christ.

Every age has its own fascism

Every age has its own Fascism, and we see the warning signs wherever the concentration of power denies citizens the possibility and the means of expressing and acting on their free will. There are many ways of reaching this point, not just through the terror of police intimidation, but by denying and distorting information, by undermining systems of justice, by paralysing the education system, and by spreading in a myriad subtle ways nostalgia for a world where order reigned, and where the security of the privileged few depends on the forced labour and the forced silence of the many.

Police intimidation, information control, judicial corruption, educational paralysis, and the cultivation of nostalgic order: One could be forgiven for thinking that the author of these words was thinking of Trump’s USA, or Putin’s Russia, or Netanyahu’s Israel, or Modi’s India. In fact, they were written by Primo Levi more than fifty years ago (in an article entitled ‘Un passato che credevamo non dovesse tornare più’ [A past we thought would never return] in Corriere della Serra, 8 May 1974).

The tragedy of autism

Some wise words from Claire Williams:

This lived life is peculiar, at odds with the world around us. Autistic lives appear in a different stream of humanity’s being-in-the-world, out of sync with the majority. This leads to situations where we feel that we are on the outside looking in, unsure of where or whether we will fit. In the worst instances of this we can be rejected body and soul by other people and by the church. This is the true tragedy of autism. (Peculiar Discipleship, p. 209)