On a sunny October Saturday three weeks before the election, about 100,000 Christians gathered on the National Mall in Washington D.C. to fast, pray, and atone for sin. 

Although the event, dubbed “A Million Women,” was billed as a religious gathering, political propaganda was on full display. Red MAGA hats mingled with Jesus banners and the Appeal to Heaven flag. Many attendees also waved large pink and blue #Dontmesswithourkids flags, a reference to the conspiracy theory that children are being encouraged in public schools to adopt transgender and LGBTQ identities. 

A man in the crowd named Daniel was there too, having traveled from a Pittsburgh suburb with members of his local church. He was standing across from the National Gallery of Art, when a tall Black man strode through the crowd in silent protest. His upright fist was raised in the Black Power salute, and a pink Harris/Walz cap was perched on his head. In his teeth, he held a red MAGA hat. 

“I think he’s a warlock,” Daniel said.

Taken aback, I asked Daniel if the man could simply be a fellow American whose opinion differed from his. 

“Oh no,” said Daniel. “This is a spiritual battle, it’s not just political.”

Daniel, who 100 Days is only identifying by his first name, is affiliated with the New Apostolic Reformation, one of the fastest-growing religious movements in the U.S. and abroad. The NAR is a loosely networked group of leaders and churches who see politics as a supernatural battle between the forces of good and evil. Engaging in this battle, known as strategic spiritual warfare, explains Daniel’s use of the word  “warlock” to describe a man who was obviously supporting Vice President Kamala Harris’ candidacy.

Weeks later, Donald Trump won the election. In the time since then, many reasons for his victory have been cited, including the ground he gained with young male Black and Latino voters and the continuing support of white women. 

But for NAR adherents like Daniel, these analyses don’t matter. It’s simple: Trump’s win fulfills prophecy.

From personal salvation to transforming the country

Daniel’s story provides a window into how religious belief in personal salvation can extend to transforming the nation.

Sexually abused by his stepbrother, Daniel also struggled in school. By his early 20s, he described himself as “lost,” turning to pornography and drugs to self-medicate. “I was confused and depressed,” he said, “I carried a lot of shame because of the abuse.” 

Then everything changed. “I met Jesus,” he said. Daniel believes that the love of Jesus and the support of his church saved his life. 

Finding healing in religion is a common experience for many. 

“A spiritual community is definitely a place of recovery,” said Kim Phinney, co-founder of the Rural Youth Catalyst Project. 

In particular, charismatic Protestant movements, including Pentecostalism have long included therapeutic elements, said Matthew Taylor, a senior scholar at the Institute for Islamic, Christian and Jewish Studies who comes from a charismatic evangelical background.

But both Phinney and Taylor added that trauma, like what Daniel experienced, can also make people susceptible to manipulation by leaders who claim they represent God’s will on earth. Such leaders become the source of truth for their followers. That, Phinney noted, can be dangerous. 

“[Religious leaders have] been appointed by God, and submitting and being part of that life in that space is to not question their authority,” said Phinney, who grew up in a strict evangelical household in rural Maine.

And Taylor said NAR events — notably apostle Lance Wallnau’s 2024 Courage Tour —  connects exorcising one’s personal demons with the idea that demons must be cast out of the government and its leaders as well. 

“You have been delivered of your personal demons. You’ve been delivered from these past experiences,” said Taylor. 

“Now go, take back the country.”

Belief in conspiracy-theories about supernatural evil forces hurting kids, like those heard on the National Mall October 12 adds another layer that further raises the stakes, said Taylor. 

Daniel’s arc of sinner-to-saved-to-redeemed was a common theme among attendees on that sunny October day on the National Mall. One woman, “Cynthia” from a nearby Virginia suburb told me that Jesus saved her from lesbianism. She said she was at the event “to listen for what God wants me to do with my life.”

Their stories were echoed in the prayers of NAR apostle Jenny Donnelly, who co-organized the event with fellow apostle, Lou Engle. 

As a praise brand thrummed from a white canopied stage, Donnelly urged the crowd to forgive the “parents, teachers, coaches, clergy who weren’t there for you. Maybe they abused you,” she said. Through the blood of Jesus, she explained, that trauma can be erased, and those who inflicted it upon you, forgiven. 

Many attendees stood hands outstretched, speaking in tongues and chanting prayers. Some had tears rolling down their cheeks. 

Another speaker, Katie Souza, connected personal trauma with larger threats to the nation. Trauma and bitterness “are big on-ramps for witchcraft,” she said, adding that “if we allow trauma to form a bitter iniquity in our hearts, these witches can use it to curse us, our families, and the nation.” 

And that, she claimed, allows these evil entities to “seize you, to seize our nation, to curse your body, to curse our children, to turn them into transgenders.” 

But not all conservative church leaders agree with NAR tactics. And some are speaking out to address what Rev. Ben Marsh calls “a crisis of truth.

One pastor’s response

Marsh is pastor of First Alliance Church in Winston-Salem, N.C.. His church is part of the Christian Missionary Alliance, an evangelical denomination with about 6.2 million members scattered across 88 countries. 

“We are conservative theologically, but politically purple,” he said. And for Marsh, that has meant pushing back on NAR-endorsed conspiracy theories, like that the U.S. government purposely sent Hurricane Helene to western North Carolina to keep voters in the Republican-leaning area from casting their ballots. 

Marsh has traveled to the region several times since then to deliver his church’s cash donations and help out on the ground with disaster relief efforts. And he’s actively debunked disinformation on social media, including rumors that the National Guard wasn’t deployed quickly enough during the initial phase of recovery. 

Two months after the hurricane, he said, rumors persist. “The latest is that the government has stashed thousands of dead hurricane victims further up in the mountains,” he said, adding that this disinformation plays into historical collective and individual trauma in these communities. 

“There’s places, not too far down the road from me that are underwater now, because of federal dam projects,” he said. 

The Fontana Dam in western North Carolina covers the submerged towns of Proctor and Judson; the Tennessee Valley Authority project, built to meet demand for aluminum during World War II, forced more than 1,300 families to relocate. 

“Those old wounds get passed down from generation to generation,” Marsh said. 

And personal trauma plays a role too. As a pastor, Marsh said he has seen people who struggle with addiction succumb to conspiracy theories and what he calls the “algorithmic brainwashing” of social media, spread by political and religious leaders with ulterior motives, including the NAR.

“Some people that get sucked into these movements, they’ve had substance use disorders, mental health disorders, family crises,” he said. Spending hours and hours a week engaging online in politics becomes a spiritual practice, he added. 

 “You’re substituting one addiction for another in a very unhealthy way,” he said. 

‘Going back to our neighbors’ to disrupt disinformation

Marsh is quick to point out that groups like the NAR and the disinformation they spread are decades in the making. 

In 2004, Marsh worked with the Weyrich Group, whose founder, Paul Weyrich, has been described as a founding father of the modern conservative movement. Weyrich coined the term “moral majority;” in 1980, he co-founded the Heritage Foundation, the group behind the controversial Project 2025 blueprint for overhauling the government.

Marsh watched for decades as media outlets adopted the talking points of conservative leaders like Weyrich. Over time, he said, “it filtered into the pastors and the preachers and others that were speaking about politics.” 

From there, he added, those talking points “filtered into our churches, and finally into the conversations people were having in the narthex.” 

It became clear to Marsh that leaders in the new religious right movement were interested in much more than religious practice. “I began to see just how much everything gets wrapped up into trying to manipulate the levers of power,” he said.  

The exponential rise of disinformation on social media in the last decade “just made things worse.”

But Marsh said he sees a way out, one he witnessed in the aftermath of the hurricane. 

A woman in western North Carolina told him that when digital communication infrastructure — including cell phones and the internet — collapsed after the hurricane blew through her town, the neighborhood decided to gather daily in person. “They talked about who has what needs, who has what resources,” said Marsh. 

“What are we going to do every day to help each other?” 

Whether it’s a town square, a bowling alley or a local church, Marsh believes building neighbor-to-neighbor relationships within local communities is key to overcoming the blitz of disinformation on social media and the bitterness it’s brought into public discourse. 

“We’ve got to remember we have neighbors, and we’ve got to go back to them now,” he said. “We have to go back to the dirty mess that is living with one another despite our differences.”