Yesterday’s U.S. strike against Islamic State–linked militants operating in Nigeria, reportedly carried out with the approval and cooperation of the Nigerian government, landed with the kind of moral thud that foreign-policy decisions rarely avoid. President Trump framed the action in part as a response to violence that has included the targeting of Christians, a claim that immediately resonated with many believers who have watched Nigerian churches burn and congregations bury their dead.

That reaction is understandable. Christians are not wrong to care deeply about persecution, nor are they wrong to expect governments to take the protection of innocent life seriously. Evil that murders civilians, terrorizes villages, and uses religious ideology as a weapon should never be explained away or politely ignored. Yet the speed with which this strike was absorbed into a simplified moral narrative—they’re killing Christians, so we struck them—ought to give thoughtful Christians pause. Not because the concern is false, but because the framing risks misunderstanding both the nature of the conflict and the limits of power.

Nigeria’s crisis is not a single war with a single cause. It is a convergence of extremist ideology, criminal banditry, ethnic tension, land disputes, and chronic state weakness. In some regions, jihadist groups deliberately target Christians. In others, armed groups exploit religious identity as a tool rather than a motivation, terrorizing Muslims and Christians alike. The result is a landscape where real religious persecution exists alongside lawlessness that does not neatly fit into a theological box. Treating the whole picture as one-dimensional may feel morally satisfying, but it produces shallow policy and dangerous expectations.

This is where the use of force must be evaluated soberly rather than emotionally. A government is not morally barred from using military power to restrain violent actors. Scripture does not require states to be passive in the face of terror. If Nigerian authorities requested assistance, if intelligence was credible, and if care was taken to avoid civilian harm, then a targeted strike against ISIS-linked militants can be justified as an act of defense rather than aggression. Christians should not pretend otherwise. Sometimes force is the least bad option in a world already broken by sin.

But justification does not eliminate risk, and it certainly doesn’t absolve rhetoric. When military action is publicly framed in explicitly religious terms—especially by a foreign power—it can unintentionally harden the very divisions that terrorists exploit. Extremist groups thrive on narratives of cosmic war. They recruit by claiming that violence proves the West is engaged in a religious crusade. Even accurate claims about Christian suffering can be weaponized if presented without care. Prudence, not posturing, is the mark of moral seriousness.

At this point, the Christian mind must turn to the cross, not sentimentally, but honestly. Mark 15:24–41 presents a scene drenched in irony and misunderstanding. Jesus is crucified between criminals, His garments divided by lot in fulfillment of Psalm 22, while a sign above His head reads, “The King of the Jews.” It’s meant as mockery, yet it proclaims the truth more clearly than those who nailed it there understand. The passersby, the religious leaders, and even one of the thieves taunt Him with the same challenge: save yourself. Their assumption is that real power asserts itself, defends itself, and proves itself by escape.

But the gospel turns that logic upside down. Jesus doesn’t come down from the cross because He’s accomplishing something far greater than survival. He’s saving others precisely by refusing to save Himself. When darkness covers the land and He cries out, “My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me?” He is not expressing disbelief but bearing judgment. The innocent Son stands in the place of the guilty, enduring separation so that reconciliation might be possible. When He yields up His spirit, the veil of the temple is torn from top to bottom, announcing that access to God has been opened, not through force, but through sacrifice.

The most striking confession in the passage doesn’t come from a disciple or a priest, but from a Roman centurion—an agent of imperial power—who, witnessing how Jesus dies, declares, “Truly this man was the Son of God.” It is a moment that should haunt every Christian discussion of power. Rome had the weapons. Rome controlled the cross. And yet Rome did not recognize God until it saw a man refuse to wield power for Himself.

This does not mean governments should imitate the crucifixion as policy. Jesus is not a head of state, and redemption is not the task of the military. But it does mean Christians must resist the temptation to baptize force as if it were itself salvific. Military action can restrain evil, but it can’t heal the human heart. It can suppress violence, but it can’t create peace. Confusing those categories is how righteous causes become destructive ones.

If American involvement in Nigeria is to produce good rather than unintended harm, it must remain disciplined and restrained. The focus must stay on identifiable terrorist actors, not on sweeping narratives that blur the line between extremist violence and religious identity. Civilian protection must be the priority, not symbolic displays of resolve. Nigerian sovereignty must be respected, not undermined through messaging that reframes internal security as an external religious struggle. And accountability must be demanded, because corruption corrodes counterterrorism efforts faster than any enemy propaganda.

For Christians, the deeper reminder is this: our ultimate hope for Nigeria doesn’t rest in drones, alliances, or press statements. It rests in the same truth revealed at Calvary: that God conquers not by dominating, but by redeeming. Caring about persecuted believers is not optional. Scripture demands it. But caring rightly means refusing to trade truth for slogans or prudence for applause.

The cross stands as both comfort and correction. It assures us that God sees suffering and does not stand aloof from it. And it warns us that power, when untethered from humility and truth, can easily mistake itself for righteousness.

The Roman centurion didn’t confess Christ because Rome won that day. Rome already knew how to win. He confessed Christ because he saw something utterly different: power restrained, justice absorbed, and mercy offered at immeasurable cost.

That distinction still matters. Especially when nations speak of God while reaching for the sword.