A few hours later, the church hosted a more explicitly ideological gathering put on by For Liberty & Justice, the church’s political arm. The room still felt like a worship space at first—coffee cups, soft supermarket cookies, people hovering like they were deciding whether to stay for the next song.
The organization was founded in 2021 to promote candidates who may not attend the church but who are committed to a shared vision of religiously infused far-right politics; it has since helped usher more than a hundred candidates into office. Nate Schatzline, the founder of For Liberty & Justice, is the kind of guy you can’t really separate from the pitch: he has served both as a pastor at Mercy Culture and as one of the most conservative members of the Texas legislature. That evening, a crowd had gathered to hear from a handful of people running for office, including Ken Paxton, a U.S. Senate hopeful and the current Texas attorney general. A man running for agriculture commissioner handed out packets of wildflower seeds and flyers promising to “combat Chinese AgroTerrorism.”
Somewhere near the middle of it all, the vibe got oddly personal. A bald man who hoped to win a seat in the state legislature pitched me in quick succession on his hemp business, his cryptocurrency, and his ministry. Schatzline—stubbled, sleepy-eyed, early thirties—stepped up for an opening prayer. “God, tonight is not just about taking ground in government. Tonight is about taking ground for your kingdom,” he said to a room of bowed heads. Then, a little more fervently: “God, I pray right now that you are sending a wave of your spirit throughout our country, and that, God, it doesn’t matter how bad polls look. Father, you are going to bring awakening and spiritual revival to America this year.”
People not attuned to the evangelical world may have missed what’s changed, how quickly hyper-politicized churches like Mercy Culture have become a key wing of the MAGA coalition. Compared with the religious right of previous generations, this cohort of pastors, influencers, and self-described prophets offers up worship that’s more mystical—supernatural powers emphasized—and also more militaristic, with political rhetoric turned up. Many adopt a Christian-nationalist framework, arguing the United States was founded as a Christian nation and should be governed as such. And the legal pressure isn’t theoretical: the Johnson Amendment, a long-standing provision in the U.S. tax code, prohibits nonprofits, including churches, from endorsing or opposing political candidates.
In practice, houses of worship aligned with both political parties have long flirted with defying the rule. But after Trump was first elected, the defiance became more overt. Mercy Culture’s pastors hung a candidate’s banner behind the pulpit, endorsed politicians during Sunday services, said that people who vote for Democrats weren’t truly Christian, and described Kamala Harris as a demonic Jezebel taking the form of a snake encircling the White House. “Big whoop,” Schott said, responding to an investigation by Misryoum newsroom reported into whether his statements from the pulpit might undermine the church’s tax-exempt status. After the 2016 election, Trump told leaders at the National Prayer Breakfast that he would “totally destroy” the Johnson Amendment; last July, the I.R.S. announced that it was weakening the enforcement criteria.
That loosening has helped. Misryoum editorial desk noted how Mercy Culture’s orbit interprets the shift: last July’s enforcement weakening was widely read as permission for churches to endorse candidates to their congregations. For Liberty & Justice announced plans to expand to a dozen states, partnering with like-minded churches. But the February evening felt notably sombre—coffee and cookies there, sure, but also the sense that momentum wasn’t translating cleanly into results. The previous day, North Texas had been rocked by an upset in a special election for a state Senate seat. In a solidly red district, an underfunded Democrat defeated the Republican candidate, a Mercy Culture ally, by nearly fifteen points. It was seen as evidence voters were repudiating the current Republican agenda, even though the legislature wasn’t in session and the candidates would run again in November.
Even before that, the alarm was palpable in North Texas, arguably the heart of the state’s Christian-nationalist movement. “Last night, we got our butts kicked,” Tim O’Hare, a judge in Tarrant County, told the room at Mercy Culture, speaking about the February special election. “We got whipped.” He warned that if Tarrant County “falls into Democrat hands” in November, the consequences would spread—five years, ten years, blue momentum, Texas stays red… and he didn’t really let the thought settle before pushing forward again. Back in the story of why this movement can feel so unshakeable, there’s also the way it leans into controversy. Last year, Morris pleaded guilty to five counts of lewd and indecent acts with a child, and Schott’s pastoral lineage became something of a liability. But Schott visited Morris in prison in February and said that God has forgiven him, then kept stepping into public view anyway. In a meeting room, he paced the stage, spitting out incantations meant to protect lawmakers from malignant spiritual forces—Men in suits placed their hands on the walls to bless the building—and the scene alarmed Matthew D. Taylor, a religious-studies scholar and the author of “The Violent Take It by Force: The Christian Movement That Is Threatening Our Democracy.” Actually, Taylor’s point isn’t just about the language of spiritual warfare. It’s the position from which it’s delivered, the idea that spiritual warriors are no longer stuck at the fringe but invited into government’s inner sanctum.
If you listen closely, Taylor believes the blend—MAGA Christianity as a kind of cover—also helps justify the authoritarian turn in right-wing politics: if enemies are controlled by demonic forces, why respect how they voted? Meanwhile, on the ground, people at For Liberty & Justice weren’t talking like they were ready to moderate. “Conservative candidates simply need to run on a Christian conservative populist message,” Turcios told Misryoum. Moore rejected the idea of moderation, even if it meant losing elections. “We’re not compromising our principles. We’re not compromising our values. We’re certainly not going to compromise the Word of God,” he said. And then, almost abruptly, the logic became rain-and-blessings: “Scripture tells us that the blessings rain down on the just and the unjust… when Christians lead… everybody benefits.” After that, the room kept moving—someone refilling coffee, a shuffle near the seed packets, and the evening’s prayers lingering like incense, or maybe that’s just my head trying to make sense of it.
