The Regressive Evangelism of America, Part 1: Digital Witness

The Incels, the TradWives, and the Popular Digitalization of White Christian Nationalism

Since the rise of right-wing evangelical leaders such as Jerry Falwell, James Dobson, and Paul Weyrich in the 1970s, a vocal faction of American Christianity has been intent not merely on conserving an older America, but also on rolling back decades of social progress. In reaction to second-wave feminism, civil rights, and expanding social equality, the evangelical Christian Right built political power—methodically, strategically, and with a clear endgame.

At the core of this project is evangelism: converting as many people as possible to a particular strain of Christianity. The most prevalent theological frame is apocalyptic—an end-times showdown between good and evil in which believers join Jesus’s army and nonbelievers do not. Conversion and procreation are the two levers: grow the flock directly, or raise more Christians. Politics, then, becomes the machinery to shape the nation into a Christian state.

From the 1970s on, evangelical organizers built coalitions brick by brick. They tapped Catholic anti-abortion sentiment. They appealed to men who felt threatened by the feminist movement. They reassured white Americans anxious about integration that the “American Dream” was being stolen. The result wasn’t the humble, Beatitudes-centered Christianity many Americans grew up with; it was an “Americanized” Christ—muscular, militant, and married to prosperity gospel, national greatness, and an “ends justify the means” politics. That vision meshed neatly with the GOP’s modern, wealth-hoarding individualism.

Leadership, in this worldview, should be strong, male, and unbothered by flaws—because God can use “imperfect vessels” to accomplish divine ends. Over time, the enemies list morphed: communism and atheism gave way to “Islam,” then “socialism,” then “global elites,” then “woke.” The constant is the sense of cosmic battle—and America’s supposed duty to fight it.

While this culture grew in the South and the Bible Belt, crises widened its reach. In turbulent times—from 9/11 to COVID—many Americans reach for “simpler” traditions. Mega-ministries and media empires met the moment; the aesthetic of revivalism blended with celebrity. The effect has escaped geography: you can find it in pop culture, influencer trends, and the language of politics from school boards to the White House.

So, what are the goals of white Christian nationalism? Why is it so invested in foreign policy? How did it gain such traction in our politics? And what does it mean when an administration seats figures aligned—explicitly or implicitly—with incels, “tradwife” influencers, and white Christian nationalist rhetoric?

I believe much of today’s political fracture flows from the undue influence of this movement. Over a series of pieces, I’ll map how its most regressive instincts drag us backward—and how understanding its networks can help us unwind the damage.

From the hills of Appalachia to the hills of Hollywood, a path has been cleared for white Christian nationalism to claim a seat at every table—from your local schoolhouse to the West Wing.

Sidebar : I’m not anti-religion, nor anti-Christian. I’m a practicing Catholic who values faith, service, and community. Many evangelicals would not consider me “Christian.” I’m writing about a political project, not faith itself.

There’s too much to unpack in one go. So if you’ll indulge me, please follow me down the rabbit hole for our first of many journeys into the bizarre world of Far Right Radical Religion.

Let’s start with the digital ecosystem powering the movement.

The Players on the (Digital) Board

Evangelicals have always adapted to the latest communication tools. Radio birthed figures like S. Parkes Cadman and Bob Jones Sr. Television gave rise to televangelists like Billy Graham, Oral Roberts, and Pat Robertson. Now, digital platforms serve as their newest megaphones.

But Evangelicals’ coalitions often involve “imperfect vessels.” Jerry Falwell Jr. was caught in a sex scandal that would have ended most religious careers. Pat Robertson, a champion of abstinence, impregnated his wife before marriage. Trump, despite divorces, affairs, fraud, and his relationship with Jeffrey Epstein, became their chosen political figurehead. Evangelicals excuse such hypocrisy with theology: God works through flawed men.

And their coalition-building is pragmatic: align with whoever grows the ranks. That means cozying up to online extremists, influencers, and cultural trends—even when the alliances look contradictory on the surface.

Sidebar: if you haven’t already, I highly recommend you check out the podcast Sounds Like a Cult with Amanda Montell, author of Cultish and The Age of Magical Overthinking. She has three different episodes dedicated to these groups and trends that I’m discussing here, and teams up with some of my favorite podcasters to do it. Check these out if you are looking for additional discussion on them.

-The Cult of Incels with Henry Zebrowski & Ed Larson from Last Podcast on the Left

-The Cult of MAGA Wives with E. Jean Caroll

-The Cult of Purity Culture with Kelsey McKinney from Normal Gossip

Incels and Groypers: The Online Anti-Feminist Underbelly

Incels (short for “involuntary celibates”) emerged in the late 1990s, but their following exploded as forums and social media spread in the mid-2000s. At their core, Incels believe that women and modern feminism oppress men, and that violence or coercion against women is a justified means of “restoring order.” Their ideology mirrors Evangelical beliefs about patriarchal dominance: women belong in the home, under the authority of men, rather than being independent in public life.

Groypers, led by Nick Fuentes, represent the online rebrand of the declining alt-right. They are openly homophobic, antisemitic, sexist, racist, nativist, and fascist. But rather than marching with tiki torches, they spread their worldview through memes, trolling, and ironic humor. This strategy has helped them reach impressionable teens who might otherwise be skeptical of explicitly extremist rhetoric. Even high-ranking figures like Vice President JD Vance have reportedly been in group chats with Groypers, underscoring how porous the boundary has become between fringe online spaces and mainstream conservative politics.

Both groups weaponize meme culture to make their ideas more palatable. By using “relatable” jokes, absurdist humor, or familiar symbols like Pepe the Frog, they soften the sharp edges of misogyny, racism, and authoritarianism. A teenager might laugh at a meme without realizing that the joke is a gateway into a worldview built on exclusion and hate. Over time, these repeated exposures normalize bigotry.

Beyond misogyny, Incels and Groypers share another major obsession with Evangelical leaders: the birthrate. Figures like JD Vance and Elon Musk claim that falling birth rates are a greater threat to civilization than climate change. They frame this as a demographic crisis, often in coded terms meant to alarm white audiences. Evangelicals seize on this rhetoric because it dovetails perfectly with their anti-abortion crusades and obsession with reproduction as a religious duty.

For these groups, women are not autonomous individuals but vessels for birth. Sex is not mutual or pleasurable; it is a tool to reclaim “male dominance” and ensure the production of more “desirable” children to fill the ranks of their movement. This worldview explains Elon Musk’s pattern of having children with multiple women, and JD Vance’s insistence on boosting birth rates without offering maternity leave, maternal healthcare, or financial support for families.

It’s a chillingly utilitarian view: women as incubators for ideology. That overlap makes Incels and Groypers valuable allies for Evangelicals. They provide a recruitment pipeline for disaffected young men, often teenagers, who might not go to church but will spend hours scrolling through forums, TikTok, or Discord. From there, the leap into White Christian Nationalism feels smaller—and more inevitable.

TradWives: Girlbosses Need Not Apply

The backlash to modern feminism is nothing new. In the early 1970s, Phyllis Schlafly led her crusade against the Equal Rights Amendment and the growing acceptance of abortion that second-wave feminism had helped bring about. Schlafly’s message was simple but potent: women belonged in the home, men in the workplace. Her “STOP ERA” campaign (“Stop Taking Our Privileges”) framed equality as a threat to so-called traditional privileges like separate restrooms, “dependent wife” benefits, or exemption from the draft. She gave the Christian Far Right a poster woman who could strike down the single mother, the unmarried working woman, or anyone else daring to claim equal ground.

That model—submission, supplication, “traditional family values”—fit perfectly with the Evangelical vision of the ideal American home. While Schlafly may have been the loudest, she was far from the last. As the decades passed and feminism reshaped the workforce, Evangelical leaders searched for new cultural vehicles to keep their message alive.

By the 2000s and 2010s, that message seeped into the mainstream through micro-celebrities. The Duggars promoted the Quiverfull movement, preaching that Christian families should have as many children as possible to build an “army for God.” Jon and Kate Gosselin became a household name with Jon & Kate Plus 8, their megachurch roots quietly shaping the moralizing undertones of the show. Even as these families unraveled, they left behind the cultural footprint that large families and rigid gender roles were aspirational, even noble.

Then came the pandemic, and with it, the perfect breeding ground for TradWife culture online. On TikTok and Instagram, women began posting soft-aesthetic, nostalgic content about sourdough starters, sewing, and homemaking—seemingly harmless lifestyle tips for those stuck at home. But woven into that pastel palette was something darker. TradWife influencers frame domesticity not just as a choice, but as rebellion against modernity. They claim modesty is empowerment, submission is strength, and that feminism has left women unfulfilled and broken.

The danger is in how these ideas spread. A woman might come for a knitting tutorial or a cleaning hack and stay for subtle messaging about the supposed moral superiority of the 1950s household. TikTok’s algorithm does the rest, pulling users deeper into a rabbit hole where wholesome homemaking overlaps with anti-vax conspiracies, “traditional values,” and MAGA talking points.

Many women who once thought of themselves as liberals and feminists all of a sudden start to subscribe to the same views as the Make America Healthy Again movement after hearing cherry-picked facts and uncited studies on certain chemicals in their food. They can go in trying to be Betty Crocker and end up coming out as Bobby Kennedy Jr.

And then there are figures like Hannah Neeleman, better known as BallerinaFarm, who epitomizes the TradWife pipeline. Neeleman left a promising career as a professional ballerina to marry into wealth, raise eight children, and build a brand around farm life. Her pageant answer about empowerment—“holding that newborn baby in my arms…is the most empowering feeling I have ever felt”—was picked up and amplified across conservative media as proof of the “proper” role of women. While Neeleman herself might not be outwardly Christian Nationalist, her content serves as a gateway to other influencers who are. To Evangelical Christian Nationalists, she is the ideal: educated enough to be relatable, but devoted to domesticity and submission as the ultimate life goal.

This is the blueprint they want younger women to follow. In their world, empowerment comes not from independence, ambition, or equality, but from self-erasure in service to family and husband. And thanks to the reach of social media, TradWives provide that blueprint on a scale Schlafly could have only dreamed of.

Pop Christianity

Not all these “influencers” have nefarious intentions or set out to align with White Christian Nationalist ideology. But the lifestyle choices and rhetoric they promote extend the reach of Evangelical culture, often normalizing it in ways that slip under the radar.

This isn’t new. Since the 1980s and 1990s, mainstream TV has been sprinkled with religious sermons disguised as “family lessons.” I remember growing up on Boy Meets World—a coming-of-age sitcom with funny plots about dating and homework—that would suddenly pivot into long monologues about God’s plan and the meaning of life. The whiplash was real, and while I still watch those episodes fondly, it’s striking how these religious messages were woven into otherwise secular programming.

The 2000s brought purity culture front and center. Disney stars like the Jonas Brothers and Miley Cyrus famously wore purity rings, symbols borrowed from 1990s Evangelical youth groups and abstinence-only education programs. The rings were marketed as fashionable commitments to “saving yourself for marriage,” but they were also accountability tools designed to enforce Evangelical sexual norms in mainstream teen culture. What began as a church initiative evolved into a national phenomenon, blurring the line between faith and pop branding.

That same impulse shows up in apps like CovenantEyes, which Speaker Mike Johnson once bragged he used with his son to monitor each other’s internet habits. Whether in rings or apps, the message is the same: your private choices should be surveilled, and morality can be enforced as fashion or lifestyle.

The pipeline also ran through books and films. Left Behind and God’s Not Dead became evangelical blockbusters, preaching an us-versus-them worldview where Christians were persecuted heroes. At the same time, “family-friendly” brands like Chick-fil-A or TLC shows like 19 Kids and Counting framed rigid gender roles and Evangelical piety as wholesome Americana.

By the 2010s, megachurch culture had broken through into pop celebrity life. Hillsong courted stars like Justin Bieber and Selena Gomez, offering them a sleek, concert-like experience branded for Instagram. These churches blurred the line between worship service and entertainment event, turning faith into lifestyle marketing. For young fans, seeing celebrities attend these megachurches gave Evangelical Christianity a cultural cachet—it wasn’t just about sermons or pews, but about belonging to a glamorous community.

What ties all of this together is how Evangelical culture has become embedded in mainstream aesthetics, encompassing sitcoms, music, fashion, apps, movies, and celebrity culture. None of these are overt sermons, but each reinforces the idea that “traditional” values are cool, aspirational, or simply normal. That normalization is exactly what White Christian Nationalists want: a steady cultural creep that makes their ideology harder to distinguish from everyday life.

Why This Should Scare the Hell Out of You

White Christian Nationalists aren’t just preaching from pulpits anymore. They’re shaping memes, music, and lifestyle trends that reach millions of young people daily. Gen Z and Gen Alpha are already showing signs of conservative backlash, especially among young white men—Trump’s share among 18-24 year olds jumped from 31% in 2020 to 43% in 2024.

When you compare 2020 vs 2024:

• 18-24 Year olds

  • Trump - 31%, Biden - 65%

  • Trump - 43%, Harris - 54%

• 25-29 Year olds

  • Trump - 43%, Biden 54%

  • Trump - 45%, Harris - 53%

• White Women

  • Trump - 55%, Biden - 44%

  • Trump - 53%, Harris - 46%

• Protestants and other Christians

  • Trump - 60%, Biden - 39%

  • Trump - 63%, Harris - 36%

• White Protestants and other Christians

  • Trump - 72%, Biden- 27%

  • Trump - 72%, Harris - 26%

• White Evangelical Christians

  • Trump - 76%, Biden - 24%

  • Trump - 82%, Harris - 17%

Evangelical influence is how we end up with leaders like Trump being normalized in the White House. Their version of Christianity isn’t about service or humility—it’s about hierarchy, dominance, and exclusion.

Democrats don’t need to attack faith, but they must engage it differently: respecting diverse religions, amplifying the universal call to justice and service, and refusing to let the Far Right monopolize religious rhetoric.

While they try to continue to fight their manufactured culture wars, Democrats and the greater Left have to find ways to combat that and show that our best days are not behind us, but they are ahead of us. If Democrats do not actively find a way to better communicate their plans to improve the American way of life, we risk further regressing into the fictional, 1950s Leave It to Beaver, white landscape that these Christian Nationalists want.

TL;DR:

Evangelical Christian Nationalism isn’t confined to pulpits—it’s embedded in our culture, politics, and digital spaces. From Incels and Groypers recruiting young men through memes, to TradWives romanticizing submission on TikTok, to megachurches courting celebrities like Justin Bieber, the Far Right has built pipelines that normalize regressive values. This cultural creep is fueling a conservative backlash among Gen Z and Gen Alpha, with real political consequences. Democrats don’t need to attack faith, but they must reclaim the narrative—emphasizing justice, service, and inclusive values—before White Christian Nationalists succeed in dragging us back to a “Leave It to Beaver” America.

Stay tuned for Part 2, Country Before God: How White Christian Nationalists have forever married the Church and State through American Exceptionalism.

By the Ballot is an opinion series published on Substack. All views expressed are solely those of the author and should not be interpreted as reporting or objective journalism or attributed to any other individual or organization. I am not a journalist or reporter, nor do I claim to be one. This publication represents personal commentary, analysis, and opinion only.