America is confronting a rising tide of Christian nationalism, a political movement that imposes a narrow, exclusionary vision of Christian identity on the nation’s government, culture, and society as the term itself, Christian nationalism, has become a part of the nation’s vernacular. Christian nationalism, described in broad strokes as the belief that America is divinely ordained for Christian rule, has stormed from the fringes into the heart of American power, poised to reshape the nation. The movement is backed by a bevy of Christian nationalist advisors, appointees, and organizations who have placed Donald Trump at the helm.
Here we look at how, in the past month, a New Apostolic Reformation musician is capitalizing on concerts being cancelled in Canada, the new Christian nationalist church planted in Washington D.C. where Pete Hegseth worships, and how Christian nationalist David Barton is behind bills in 28 states advocating for the 10 Commandments to be posted in public school classrooms.
Sean Feucht’s Canadian Tour Collapses Amid Violence, Cancellations, and His Own Abandonment of Indigenous Hosts
Six Canadian cities cancelled Sean Feucht‘s concerts citing mainly safety concerns and his anti-LGBTQ+ stance. A protester hurled smoke bombs at his head during one performance that proceeded. And the controversial Christian nationalist musician garnered headlines relishing in portraying himself as a martyr persecuted for his faith.
At 41, Feucht represents the New Apostolic Reformation (NAR), a minority but powerful sect within charismatic Christianity that believes that Christians, led by a divinely ordained Trump, should establish dominion over politics, business and culture, fight demonic influences with spiritual warfare, and that success in these realms will bring about the end times and the second coming of Christ.
Feucht’s beliefs illustrate that threat. He calls the LGBTQ+ community “a cult bent on perverting and destroying the innocence of every child,” labels Black Lives Matter “shady” and “a fraud,” and posts that Pride Month represents “a demonic agenda seeking to destroy our culture and pervert our children.”
During COVID-19, he held mass gatherings at progressive activism sites, including the George Floyd memorial, violating health guidelines.
The public activism hides private financial questions. Former employees and volunteers with his organizations recommend that Feucht “be investigated for potential violations of: multiple forms of fraud, donation diversion, and embezzlement, among other financial improprieties.” Despite running non-profits as his apparent only job for over a decade, Feucht owns “a considerable portfolio of at least 10 real estate assets spanning multiple states in the multiple millions of dollars,” including ministry-owned “parsonages” worth millions in Washington D.C. and San Juan Capistrano, California.
Feucht has built political connections, recently claiming Defense Secretary Pete Hegseth invited him to conduct worship at the Pentagon. He also claims the Trump administration assigns “government-sanctioned intercessors” to every Cabinet member — essentially personal prayer warriors whose job is to spiritually guide government officials’ decisions through prayer and prophecy.
The Canadian cancellations started in Halifax, then spread through Charlottetown, Moncton, Quebec City, Gatineau, and Vaughan. Instead of examining why communities rejected his message, Feucht deployed victim rhetoric: “If I had shown up with purple hair and a dress, claiming to be a woman, the government wouldn’t have said a word. But to publicly profess deeply held Christian beliefs is to be labeled an extremist.”
Montreal became the peak confrontation. A Spanish-speaking church hosted Feucht despite official warnings and a lack of an event permit. Police entered while protesters gathered outside. During worship, a protester charged down the aisle and threw two purple smoke bombs at Feucht. “I saw a guy who is clearly not a church person run down the aisle, a big fat guy in white, really angry,” Feucht described. “He took the smoke bombs out of his pockets and lit them on the side, inside of the church during mid-worship song, and then chucked them right at my head.”
Within hours, Feucht posted: “Just like the book of Acts, what the activists tried to stop has now gone viral — IT BACKFIRED!!” The City of Montreal’s $2,500 fine against the church became another fundraising opportunity as Feucht promised to cover costs.
After six venues cancelled, Kawartha First Nations, an organization whose Indigenous identity is in question, offered to host an event. The organization prepared accommodations: a cleaned mobile home with amenities for female team members, plus a pop-up tent trailer for Feucht. His road manager had told hosts that “all they wanted was a place to lay their heads and a shower” after sleeping on the bus.
Feucht arrived after midnight, looked at the facilities, and left. At 12:03 AM — nine hours before the scheduled service — his Canadian director sent a cancellation email saying Feucht was “appalled with the sleeping conditions.” Steve Lesperance, Kawartha’s”deputy chief,” watched as 200 expected attendees learned their service was cancelled. “Even if the accommodations weren’t ideal, would Jesus walk away from His flock?” he asked. Lesperance called Feucht an “evil fraud.” About this cancellation, Feucht’s social media stayed silent. No persecution posts appeared. No fundraising appeals followed.
The contradictions tell the story. Smoke bombs at his concert became “spiritual warfare” and fundraising gold. A pop-up trailer became grounds for abandoning 200 faithful followers. Feucht preaches sacrifice while owning millions in real estate. He claims persecution while maintaining political connections to the Pentagon. His movement teaches that Christians should dominate society through divine authority, but apparently Feucht believes there’s an exemption from spreading God’s word if that means sleeping in a popup trailer.
The Pentagon’s New Prayer Warriors: How Christian Nationalists Planted a Church Blocks from the Capitol
The American flag hung upside down, a symbol of dire distress or danger, above Pastor Jared Longshore as he delivered his sermon on July 13. In the sweltering room just blocks from the U.S. Capitol, 120 worshippers packed into folding chairs listened intently. “We understand that worship is warfare,” the bearded pastor declared from behind the lectern. A pause. “We mean that.”
Children whispered excitedly when Secretary of Defense Pete Hegseth, a Christian nationalist, walked through the door. This was Christ Kirk D.C.’s inaugural service, and the defense secretary’s presence sent a clear message. By the time he left, supporters had mobbed him.
Behind this latest church plant stands Doug Wilson. The self-described Christian nationalist pastor operates from Moscow, Idaho, where he’s built something remarkable: an expanding network of institutions designed to challenge the separation of church and state. His Communion of Reformed Evangelical Churches now spans more than 130 congregations worldwide. And his followers? They’re making serious inroads into American political power.
Hegseth’s attendance was no accident. The defense secretary has praised Wilson’s books, one of which defends slavery as “God-ordained.” He moved his family to Tennessee specifically to enroll his children in schools associated with Wilson’s Christian education movement. He joined a local CREC church. In May, he had Wilson lead a prayer service at the Pentagon.
Even the venue tells a story. The Christ Kirk DC congregation meets in a building owned by the Conservative Partnership Institute — a far-right think tank with serious connections. Former Senator Jim DeMint leads it. So does Trump’s former Chief of Staff Mark Meadows. Partner organizations include the Center for Renewing America, created by Russell Vought, and America First Legal, co-founded by current White House Deputy Chief of Staff Stephen Miller.
Political symbols filled the worship space. Multiple American flags. Revolutionary-era banners like the “Don’t Tread on Me” flag. An “Appeal to Heaven” flag — which has become associated with Christian nationalism and the January 6 Capitol attack. Old newspaper clippings praising Ronald Reagan dotted the walls.
Nick Solheim sat among the worshippers. He heads American Moment, an organization founded with backing from then-Senator JD Vance. The group is listed among CPI’s partners.
Wilson’s rise reflects something bigger — a movement of Christian nationalists who reject democratic pluralism entirely. They want explicitly Christian governance instead. Unlike other evangelical leaders who supported Trump reluctantly, Wilson and his allies embrace him as divinely appointed – a disrupter chosen by God.
Over the years, Wilson has sparked serious controversies with anti-LGBTQ+ slurs and a book that downplayed the horrors of American slavery. These aren’t minor missteps — they reveal a worldview that many find deeply troubling.
Hegseth embodies this militant strain perfectly. His military tattoos tell the story: “Deus Vult” (God Wills It), a Crusader battle cry and a Jerusalem Cross. These symbols led to his removal from President Biden’s inauguration security detail in 2021. Officials cited concerns about extremism.
Pastor Longshore traveled from Wilson’s Idaho church to launch the DC congregation. He dismissed suggestions that the church was explicitly designed to influence politics. But he explained that the theology is clear. “We do believe that culture is religion externalized, always, whatever the religion. And politics is downstream from culture, and culture is downstream from worship.”
During his sermon, Longshore made bold claims. America has become a “fallen” or “lapsed” nation, he said. Why? Because it drifted from its Christian roots. He stressed that “Christendom” has “marked this land from its founding.”
Not everyone appreciated the message. Outside the building, two protesters jeered worshippers as they entered. One held a sign: “Christ Church Is not Welcome.” A protester who identified himself only as Jay spoke to reporters, saying that Christ Kirk espouses values that are “fundamentally un-American” and “un-Christian.”
Even inside the church, skepticism emerged. Nathan Krauss, a United Methodist member who works in the federal government, attended as part of his effort to understand Christian nationalism. Much of the service seemed inoffensive to him. But he questioned something crucial: the disconnect between Scripture and the movement’s political goals. “I just really want to know: is the creation of this church going to create more liberty for the oppressed or less liberty for the oppressed?” he wondered aloud.
Longshore relished the pushback. Wilson’s Idaho church faces regular protests too, he noted. As someone preparing for “spiritual warfare,” he welcomed the challenge. “What feels like crazy to you is actually normal stuff,” he told critics. Protest represents authentic American discourse outside “the secular bubble,” he argued.
The church has plans. It will evolve from a satellite service of Wilson’s Moscow congregation into an independent mission church. Local leadership will emerge. But with Christian nationalists now occupying key positions throughout the Trump administration, Christ Kirk D.C. represents something more significant than just another church plant. It’s a symbol. A movement that has successfully translated theological conviction into political power. And it’s operating just blocks from the Capitol.
David Barton: The Christian Nationalist Behind America’s Ten Commandments Takeover
Twenty-eight bills. Eighteen states. One source. Across America this year, nearly identical legislation requiring Ten Commandments displays in public school classrooms has surfaced with startling uniformity — the same language appearing word-for-word from Louisiana to Nebraska, a new investigation by The 74, an education news outlet, reports. The bills specify identical poster sizes, identical placement requirements, and even identical funding mechanisms.
The architect of this model legislation is David Barton, a 71-year-old Christian nationalist operating from Aledo, Texas — population 5,000. For four decades, Barton has methodically constructed what critics call a “bill mill,” designed to inject his brand of Christianity into American government.
The self-described historian has built a lucrative career propagating the myth that church-state separation is a lie used by nefarious forces to obscure America’s supposedly Christian origins. Barton, who considers homosexuality an “aberration,” is a frequent invited speaker at conferences hosted by Project 2025 supporter Turning Point USA, and has been an advisor to House Speaker and fellow Christian nationalist Mike Johnson. From his small-town base, he’s created an operation that cranks out model legislation with factory-like efficiency.
During an April hearing before the Texas House education committee, Barton’s influence became clear. There he stood, clutching a thick Bible with a dark brown cover worn smooth from years of handling. “This is actually printed by the official printer of Congress,” he announced, launching into a well-rehearsed performance.
One prop followed another. A second book, smaller but equally weathered. Then a third. A fourth. “The courts have pointed to the Ten Commandments as the reason we have all types of laws,” Barton testified, “So there’s a lot of history and tradition for that document.”
What didn’t lawmakers realize? Barton had delivered nearly identical testimony in Nebraska, Louisiana, and Arkansas. His words would echo in statehouses from coast to coast where 12 bills specify that displays must hang in “conspicuous” locations. Eleven demand they measure at least 11-by-14 inches. Twenty-five require the commandments to appear as a “poster or framed” display. This isn’t a coincidence — it’s the product of Project Blitz, Barton’s Christian “bill mill” operating through his organization, WallBuilders.
He founded WallBuilders in 1988, choosing a name referencing the Old Testament passage about rebuilding Jerusalem’s walls. The organization’s mission: “exert a direct and positive influence in government, education, and the family by educating the nation concerning the Godly foundation of our country.”
After graduating from Oral Roberts University in 1976, Barton returned home to teach at a small Christian school. Basketball coach, then principal. But he discovered his true calling: rewriting America’s understanding of its own founding.
His central claim flips constitutional law on its head. The First Amendment’s establishment clause, Barton argues, was never meant to separate church and state — not really. The founders only wanted to prevent “one Christian denomination” from dominating others. In his interpretation, the wall between government and religion was built to protect Christianity, not limit it.
Professional historians have spent decades debunking these theories, accusing him of cherry-picking quotes and mischaracterizing documents. His 2012 book about Thomas Jefferson contained so many errors that its Christian publisher pulled it from the shelves. “Basic truths just were not there,” they explained.
The academic criticism hasn’t slowed him down. Barton has turned scholarly debunking into fundraising gold, portraying himself as a persecuted truth-teller. WallBuilders reported $5.5 million in revenue in 2021.
Every November, Barton hosts a conference at a four-star resort outside Dallas. State legislators arrive with scholarships and discounted hotel rates. They leave with model legislation and talking points memorized. Indiana Representative J.D. Prescott attended one gathering, then returned home to introduce a Ten Commandments bill matching Barton’s template. “I learned a lot of it at a WallBuilders conference,” Prescott acknowledged.
The bills reveal sophisticated planning. Most specify that displays should be donated by private groups rather than purchased with taxpayer dollars — creating a closed loop where the same organizations that write requirements also supply the posters.
Today, Barton’s influence reaches the highest levels. House Speaker and Christian nationalist Mike Johnson credits Barton as a “profound influence on me, and my work, and my life and everything I do.” One day after Johnson’s election, Barton appeared on his podcast to discuss staffing decisions. “We have some tools at our disposal now we haven’t had in a long time,” he announced.
Both men envision America as an explicitly Christian nation. Johnson previously worked for Alliance Defending Freedom, an anti-LGBTQ+ legal group that challenges church-state separation. Barton built the intellectual framework justifying such challenges.
Three states have passed laws requiring the Ten Commandments in public schools: Louisiana, Arkansas, and Texas. All follow Barton’s template precisely. Federal courts have begun striking down the mandates, with the Fifth Circuit ruling Louisiana’s law “plainly unconstitutional.” But Barton remains confident, pointing to recent Supreme Court decisions that have weakened church-state barriers.
“The hostility is gone,” Barton testified in Nebraska. The court’s new standard focuses on whether religious displays reflect “longstanding practice” — exactly his argument for four decades.
The opposition has noticed. Constitutional attorney Andrew Seidel calls Barton “the granddaddy of Christian nationalist disinformation.” Parents have filed lawsuits alleging students will be “unconstitutionally coerced into religious observance.”
Texas Senator Mayes Middleton, who sponsored his state’s law, praised the coordination. “We just wanted uniformity in these displays,” he explained.
From a town of 5,000 people, a self-taught historian with no formal training has built something unprecedented: a factory for Christian nationalist legislation, operating with assembly-line efficiency.
