Jesus Isn’t An Alpha
It’s in the Code 189
Continuing our exploration of Josh Hawley’s book on masculinity, we arrive again at a central claim that underwrites the entire project: that there are specifically Christian, God-given virtues that men are called to cultivate, and that the recovery of these virtues is not only spiritually necessary, but socially urgent. Hawley suggests that if men would simply return to their proper roles—if they would reclaim these supposedly ancient and distinctly masculine traits—then something like a national restoration might follow. The implication is not subtle. Masculinity, rightly understood and rightly practiced, will save America.
That’s a bold promise. It’s also one that demands scrutiny.
Hawley identifies six roles that he says men are called to play in order to cultivate and express their masculine virtues. These roles function as archetypes—models meant to guide men into their proper identity and purpose. In the last installment, we began examining the fifth of these roles: the “priest.” According to Hawley, men are called to take up this priestly function, to embody it, to live it out in their homes, communities, and nation.
At first glance, this might sound like a deeply Christian idea. After all, “priest” is a thoroughly biblical category. It carries theological weight. It implies mediation between God and humanity, spiritual leadership, sacrifice, holiness. And in the New Testament, the language becomes even more charged, as Jesus himself is described as the “Great High Priest.” If one were going to construct a genuinely Christian account of priesthood—of what it means to embody this role—Jesus would seem like the obvious starting point.
And yet, as we’ll see, that’s precisely where Hawley does not go.
The Problem Beneath the Surface
Last time, I suggested that as we near the end of Hawley’s book, something becomes increasingly clear: there is actually nothing distinctly Christian about it. That might sound like an overstatement, especially given how frequently Hawley invokes the Bible, God, and the language of faith. The entire project is framed as a recovery of “biblical” masculinity. It presents itself as rooted in divine revelation, grounded in Scripture, aligned with Christian tradition.
But when you look closely—when you examine the substance rather than the rhetoric—what you find is strikingly thin.
Despite the claim that this is a book about God-given, Christian virtues… despite the insistence that these roles are drawn from Scripture… despite the framing of the whole project as a biblical vision of masculinity… there is nothing specifically Christian about the account that emerges. The language is there. The references are there. But the content itself is not meaningfully shaped by the central claims of Christianity.
And there’s a reason for that.
Somewhat ironically, the problem stems from a certain kind of biblicist approach—the claim that the Bible is inerrant, that everything in it is equally inspired, equally authoritative, equally “God’s Word.” On the surface, this sounds like a high view of Scripture. But in practice, it flattens the text. It removes any sense of hierarchy, context, or interpretive center.
If everything is equally authoritative, then anything can be used to justify everything.
So Hawley can construct an entire theory of masculinity based on marginal figures or sparsely mentioned narratives—like Adam, whom the Bible barely discusses in detail—and then build out a full framework of “Christian” manhood from that foundation. He can move from story to story, pulling out examples that fit his preferred vision, assembling a lineup of masculine archetypes… all without ever engaging the central figure of the Christian faith.
No reference to Jesus. No sustained engagement with the New Testament. No attempt to grapple with the life, teachings, or example of the one Christians claim most fully reveals the nature of God.
This omission becomes even more glaring in a chapter about priesthood; if there is one figure who defines priesthood in Christianity, it is Jesus.
The Empty God
If we evaluate the book as a work of Christian theology—as an attempt to articulate what God calls men to be—it is an abject failure. And yet, there’s another way to look at this failure: not a bug, but a feature.
The way Hawley uses—or perhaps more accurately, uses up—the Bible is not unique to him. It is characteristic of a broader pattern, especially within Christian nationalist and conservative Christian circles. The Bible becomes less a source of formation and more a repository of raw material. A place to find examples, images, and language that can be repurposed to support a pre-existing vision.
So why is it actually advantageous, from that perspective, that the theology isn’t really Christian?
Because it allows for a kind of theological flexibility that would otherwise be impossible. Hawley’s God—and the God of Christian nationalism more broadly—is, in effect, vacuous. Not in the sense that people don’t believe in God, but in the sense that the concept of “God” is left undefined in any specifically Christian way. It becomes an empty signifier, a conceptual container that can be filled with whatever content is most useful. You name “God,” and then you decide what that name refers to.
You find a story, a figure, an image in the Bible that resonates with your preferences—power, dominance, hierarchy, violence, control—and you elevate that as representative. You say: this is what God is like. And once you’ve done that, you can move seamlessly to the next step: this is what men are supposed to be like, because men are made in God’s image. It’s a closed loop.
God looks like what you value. Men are supposed to look like God. Therefore, men are supposed to look like what you value. And because the term “God” carries divine authority, the entire construction is shielded from critique. It’s no longer just a preference or a cultural ideal—it’s sanctified. It’s “biblical.” It’s “Christian.”
In that sense, the emptiness is precisely what makes it powerful.
The Marks of a “Priest”
So how does this dynamic play out in Hawley’s discussion of men as priests?
He introduces the idea in a section titled “The God-Bearer.” This, apparently, is what he takes priesthood to mean. Not through a clear definition—he never actually says, “a priest is…”—but through a series of examples and associations that gradually shape the concept.
His nominal biblical example is King David. That’s already a curious choice. David is not primarily known as a priestly figure. There are actual priests in the biblical narrative—figures whose roles and responsibilities are explicitly tied to priesthood—but Hawley bypasses them. Instead, he gestures toward David and then quickly moves on.
And where does he go next? Not deeper into Scripture. Not into the New Testament. Not to Jesus, the so-called Great High Priest. He goes to fiction. Specifically, to Gandalf from The Lord of the Rings.
This is not an exaggeration. Gandalf becomes the illustrative model of what it means to be a “god-bearer,” because he is described as a “servant of the Secret Fire.” And from that phrase, Hawley extracts his central idea: that men are meant to bear fire within them, to cultivate a kind of inner power capable of transformation. “That is the idea,” he writes. “Men are meant to bear fire within them, to forge the sort of character that has the power to transform. How would you like to be someone of whom this is true?”
It’s a compelling image. It’s also completely untethered from any clear biblical grounding. So now a “priest” is someone who “bears fire within them.” What does that mean, concretely? It’s never really explained. Where does this concept appear in Scripture? It doesn’t. How does it connect to the historical or theological understanding of priesthood in Christianity? It doesn’t.
But the imagery works rhetorically. It sounds powerful. It feels meaningful. And that’s enough to carry it forward.
And then, just when you think it couldn’t get more detached from its supposed biblical foundation, Hawley offers another example: his high school football coach.
This coach, we are told, embodies the virtues of priesthood. He is confident and commanding. He radiates strength. He inspires others. He can walk into a room and change the atmosphere. He has presence. He has authority. He has what we might call charisma.
And then comes the pitch: this could be you. There it is, distilled to its essence.
What makes a man a “priest”? Not mediation between God and humanity. Not sacrificial love. Not holiness or service or humility. But confidence. Strength. Swagger. The ability to command a room.
And because the framework has already been established—because “God” has been defined in such a way that these traits can be associated with the divine—this vision can be presented as not just desirable, but Christian.
Jesus Isn’t Alpha
Which brings us back to the most conspicuous absence in Hawley’s account: Jesus.
If you were genuinely trying to articulate a Christian vision of masculinity, it would be almost unavoidable. Jesus is, after all, the central figure of the faith. Christians believe he is not only fully human but fully divine. They believe he reveals the nature of God more clearly than any other figure. They organize their entire theology around his life, death, and resurrection. So if you want to know what “godly masculinity” looks like, Jesus would seem like the obvious place to look.
But Hawley doesn’t go there—and he’s not alone. Across the landscape of Christian nationalism and the broader manosphere, Jesus is strangely sidelined. He is invoked in general terms, affirmed in doctrinal statements, but rarely engaged as a concrete example of masculinity. And when he is discussed, it’s often in defensive terms—complaints that society has feminized him, softened him, turned him into something weak or passive. But they almost never actually use him as a model.
Why?
Because he doesn’t fit. He’s not “alpha” enough. Jesus teaches meekness. He blesses the poor, the humble, the merciful. He tells his followers to love their enemies, to turn the other cheek, to serve rather than dominate. He rejects wealth and status. He associates with the marginalized. He challenges entrenched power structures. He disrupts patriarchal norms. He refuses to conform to expectations of strength as control or authority as dominance. He doesn’t marry. He doesn’t have children. He doesn’t build a legacy in the conventional sense. And ultimately, he is executed by the state as a political threat.
This is not the profile of an “alpha male” in the contemporary sense. It’s not a model built on swagger, command, or dominance. It’s something else entirely—something that, if taken seriously, would call into question the entire framework Hawley is trying to construct. So Jesus is left out.
Not because he’s irrelevant, but because he’s inconvenient. If Christian nationalists and manosphere influencers actually centered Jesus in their account of masculinity—if they took seriously the idea that he reveals what it means to be fully human, fully aligned with God—they would have to abandon the alpha-male paradigm altogether. They would have to rethink strength. Rethink power. Rethink what it means to lead, to protect, to provide.
And that’s a much harder project.
Conclusion
Josh Hawley promises an account of Christian masculinity. He frames his project as a recovery of biblical truth, a return to God-given roles, a path toward personal and national renewal.
What he ultimately offers is something far less grounded.
Like many Christian patriarchs and manosphere figures, he takes a pre-existing vision of masculinity—one centered on strength, confidence, authority, and swagger—and then retrofits it with religious language. He baptizes it. He sanctifies it. He calls it “Christian.”
His “priest” is not a mediator or a servant, not a figure shaped by sacrifice or humility, but a man who commands presence and exerts influence. A man who can walk into a room and change the atmosphere. A man who embodies the traits Hawley already values.
And because his concept of God is effectively empty—because it lacks specific, defining content drawn from the core of the Christian tradition—he can make that move without resistance. God becomes whatever he needs God to be in order to justify the model he prefers.
The cost of that move is significant. It means abandoning the very figure who is supposed to define the faith. It means sidelining Jesus in favor of more convenient archetypes. It means constructing a vision of masculinity that may be culturally compelling, but is theologically unmoored. And it means that when Hawley and others use this vision to critique their opponents—to argue that certain ways of being are not just undesirable but ungodly—they are doing so on a foundation that cannot bear the weight they place on it.
Because in the end, the question is not whether a model of masculinity feels powerful or appealing. The question is whether it is actually Christian—and that’s precisely where this one falls apart.
In the next installment, we’ll see more clearly how this manufactured vision of “Christian” masculinity doesn’t just serve to define an ideal—it also functions as a weapon, aimed at those who don’t conform to it.
-Dan Miller