Christian nationalists have growing political power — and believe they are waging a battle for the country's soul.

What is Christian nationalism? 
The ideology has no manifesto or single definition. But at its core is the belief that America was founded as a Christian nation and that our laws should be predicated on Christian values. While separation of church and state is thought by many Americans — Christian and non-Christian, religious and secular — to be a bedrock principle of the U.S., Christian nationalists reject the idea that this was the Founders' intention. The movement's most extreme believers adhere to dominionism: the belief that Christians are ordained by God to exercise dominion over all aspects of society. Americans who hold such views are a distinct minority. A Public Religion Research Institute (PRRI) survey last year found that 3 in 10 Americans qualify as Christian nationalism adherents (10 percent) or sympathizers (20 percent). But the political influence of this ideology is growing within the Republican Party and around its presidential nominee, Donald Trump. Christian nationalists "believe that this country was founded for Christians like them, generally natural-born citizens and white," said sociologist Andrew L. Whitehead, co-author of Taking America Back for God. 

Which lawmakers have ties to the ideology?
House Speaker Mike Johnson (R-La.) is "the embodiment of white Christian nationalism in a tailored suit," said Robert Jones, president of the PRRI. Johnson has called America a "biblical" republic and railed against "earnest advocates of atheism and sexual perversion." He also has strong connections to the New Apostolic Reformation, a group whose followers believe they are called by God to seize the reins of the federal government and the media. Since becoming speaker, Johnson has been close-lipped about Christian nationalism, but a number of congressional Republicans have not. Rep. Marjorie Taylor Greene (R-Ga.) has called herself a "proud Christian nationalist"; Rep. Paul Gosar (R-Ariz.) has vowed to "take back our country" from those "intent on making us a godless nation." At the state level, a growing number of legislators have ties to the National Association of Christian Lawmakers (NACL), formed in 2020 to promote "biblical" legislation. 

What do they want? 
The NACL, which has a crusader's shield as a logo and members in 31 state legislatures, has promoted state anti-abortion measures, bills to mandate that public buildings display "In God We Trust," and efforts to fight what founder Jason Rapert calls "radical LGBTQ indoctrination in our public schools." Rapert, a former Arkansas state senator, believes "Satan and his forces have put a target" on America, and that the nation is "struggling" because Christians "have failed to take authority." Russell Vought, a self-proclaimed Christian nationalist who headed the Office of Management and Budget under Trump and is planning for a second Trump administration, has suggested that only migrants who have accepted "Israel's God, laws, and understanding of history" should be allowed into the U.S. But he accuses critics of scaremongering about "Christian nationalism," saying the ideology is committed to "an institutional separation between church and state, but not the separation of Christianity from its influence on government and society." Making public-policy decisions that are influenced by Christianity, Vought says, can result in "beneficial outcomes" for "individuals of all faiths." 

When did this ideology emerge?
A belief in the primacy of Christianity goes back to the first European settlers who came to the U.S., and Christian nationalists have long been a voice in the mix among conservatives. But the ideology took a leap forward with the 2016 election of President Donald Trump. Many evangelicals voted for Trump in the belief that he would remake America as a Christian nation — support that was repaid in part by his nomination of three Supreme Court justices who helped topple Roe v. Wade. And Trump's us-against-them mentality rings true to some white Christians who feel threatened by demographic and religious shifts. White people will be a technical minority in the U.S. in about two decades, while church membership among U.S. adults is now below 50 percent, down from 70 percent in 2000. Trump, a thrice-married adulterer, may make an unlikely savior in the fight against the "Godless left," said journalist Tim Alberta, the son of an evangelical pastor. But "if you believe the barbarians are at the gate, you might just be willing to turn to a barbarian to do your fighting for you." The influence of Christian nationalism on some of Trump's most fervent supporters was clear during the U.S. Capitol insurrection of Jan. 6, 2021. 

How was that influence apparent? 
Many who stormed the Capitol prayed for victory in Jesus' name, waved flags reading "Jesus Is My Savior and Trump Is My President," and read biblical passages. While the event served as something of a coming-out party for Trump's Christian nationalist allies, who saw Satan's hand behind the "stealing" of the election, it also broadened the philosophy's reach. In the wake of Jan. 6, far-right militias and other extremist groups have increasingly embraced religiosity. Expert observers of Christian nationalism say the violent effort that day to overturn democracy is a marker of things to come. "When you are on God's side fighting Satan," said Julie Ingersoll, a professor of religious studies at the University of North Florida, "the niceties of democracy fall by the wayside." 

Trump's religious agenda 
Campaigning for the presidency in 2016, Donald Trump made a vow: If he were elected, "Christianity will have power." Now Christian nationalist allies are angling to make that power unprecedented in a second Trump term. Chief among them is Russell Vought, who served as budget director in the Trump administration. Vought, who's said America should be recognized as a Christian nation "where our rights and duties are understood to come from God," hopes to use his leverage to "elevate Christian nationalism as a focal point in a second Trump term," reported Politico, citing inside sources. He is advising Project 2025, the second-term blueprint being drawn up by conservative groups, whose manifesto states that "freedom is defined by God, not man." His own think tank, the Center for Renewing America, has drafted a document bullet-pointing "Christian nationalism" as a second-term priority. Meanwhile, Trump has echoed the Christian nationalist view that Christianity is under attack, sharing a video on social media that declared he was sent by God to be his "caretaker" on Earth. "I know what's happening," he told a Southern Baptist group in early June. "And I'll be with you side by side."

Louisiana has passed a "wild new law" that "obliterates separation of church and state," said Edith Olmsted in The New Republic. Last week, Republican Gov. Jeff Landry signed a bill requiring that a poster-size display of the Ten Commandments — in "large, easily readable font" — hang in every public classroom, from kindergartens to universities. "If you want to respect the rule of law, you've got to start from the original lawgiver, which was Moses," said Landry. He and other proponents claim the commandments aren't purely religious and are — as the law reads —"foundational documents of our state and national government." But posting moral rules from the Christian Bible is a "startlingly clear" violation of the Constitution, which prohibits any law "respecting an establishment of religion." The ACLU and other groups said they'd sue to block it. 

This law was designed to provoke a legal challenge, said Philip Elliott in Time. In 1980, the Supreme Court struck down a similar Kentucky law as unconstitutional, calling the commandments "undeniably a sacred text." But religious conservatives have been emboldened by the current court's sharp turn to the right, and hope the 6-3 conservative majority "may see things differently." Court conservatives recently backed a high school football coach who led public Christian prayer on the 50-yard line and ruled that Maine could not exclude religious schools from receiving state subsidies. The court should overturn the 1980 precedent, said Jeremiah Poff in the Washington Examiner. In our increasingly amoral age, the commandments' "moral guidance" is "needed more than ever." 

Donald Trump couldn't agree more, said Dan Ladden-Hall in The Daily Beast. The GOP's leader gave the Louisiana law an all-caps endorsement on Truth Social, saying he "LOVES" the idea of posting the commandments in schools and "many other places." The mind reels, said Rex Huppke in USA Today. Trump is a serial adulterer convicted of falsifying business records to hide a tryst with a porn star, and was found liable for $83 million for sexually assaulting and slandering writer E. Jean Carroll. He was fined $2 million for stealing from his own charity, often says "goddamn" at rallies, and recently sold Bibles to his cult following for $60 apiece. If Landry's posters go up in classrooms, they should read: "The Ten Commandments, Most of Which Donald Trump Has Violated."

Jon Hamm has spent decades processing his childhood grief, said Lacey Rose in The Hollywood Reporter. The actor was 2 years old when his parents divorced, and 10 when his mother died. To help with his pain, he was given a book to read. "You go, 'Jesus Christ, maybe a sit-down would've been a little more helpful?'" says Hamm, 53. "But it was St. Louis in the '80s. And the availability of support, it wasn't there. It was Cub Scouts or church or sports." After his father died a decade later, Hamm's half-sister pushed him into therapy. "I got put on Prozac and was pulled out of the spiral that I was in. I got my brain chemically altered and I was like, 'OK, this is clearly something that I needed.'" 

He's still in therapy — and still working on how to be happy. Last year, he married actress Anna Osceola. "I didn't look at marriage as a thing. My parents were not married long, so I don't have a model to look at and go, 'Oh, this is how one finds happiness.' When I proposed, I was terrified. I was like, 'What am I doing?'" He's not sure what exactly he found so terrifying. "I just remember feeling, 'This is really scary.' Then going, 'Well, it probably means it's worthwhile.'"