2 weeks Ago By Ruchira Gupta
It all started with my Uber driver in New Hampshire. A middle-aged, friendly woman, chatty and full of opinions, who was more than willing to share them. It didn’t take long before we were deep into politics.
She was a single woman, raised Catholic, but now attended a big independent church. “Trump’s the chosen leader”, she told me. “You know, the man in the Bible.
” When I asked her where in the Bible Trump was mentioned, she shrugged: “You know, The Man Who Built the Wall”. It was so obvious to her: Trump as a kind of Biblical figure, a leader standing against a world teetering toward chaos. To her, the Democrats weren’t just a rival party; they were a cabal actively plotting America’s demise, apparently in cahoots with China.
The more I pressed, the more she shared. She explained that the Democrats, and celebrities like Oprah Winfrey and Mark Zuckerberg, were hoarding resources, food in hidden bunkers. These bunkers apparently stretched from New Hampshire to Hawaii, ready for an impending betrayal of the American people.
“While they’re hoarding,” she said, “the rest of us are paying the price. Food, gas, you name it..
. Because they want us weak”. Where did she hear all this? “My church”, she answered matter-of-factly, adding it was non-denominational.
“One of those big Evangelical ones.” It wasn’t just a Sunday stop for her, but a source of news, guidance and political identity. Later, as I drove through the heart of Pennsylvania, with mile after mile of mobile homes, remote homesteads, and eventually a mega-church, I understood the impact of churches like hers.
The landscape itself told the story: scattered homes, schools and hospitals miles away, with little to connect people other than these big, community-centric churches. They weren’t just places of worship, but local hubs, providing education, childcare, social services, and, yes, political beliefs. In communities where local infrastructure is thin and isolated, these churches take on a role that’s hard to overstate.
I stopped at a trucker’s diner outside Harrisburg and ended up in conversation with a farm worker, munching on his sandwich and unknowingly echoing almost the exact points my Uber driver made. Trump was “the man protecting America”, the Democrats were “corrupt elites”, and the wall was essential to keep out dangerous foreign criminals. When I asked where he’d heard this, he pointed to his church, describing it as a large, independent congregation that wasn’t “too big on the Pope or any of that” but was “definitely big on family values”.
Later in New York, a hotel worker shared the same views, down to the food hoarding conspiracies. When I asked, she explained that she attended a large Evangelical church upstate, where her pastor regularly talked about issues like immigration, abortion, and threats to national security, almost like a campaign speech. There was an eerie uniformity to what they said, almost as if they were reading from the same script.
These conversations underscored something essential the Democrats and Kamala Harris missed: connect with the local community. While Kamala Harris and the Democratic Party relied on the mainstream media and social platforms to convey messages, Trump’s campaign tapped directly into the vast, powerful influence of independent Evangelical mega-churches. These churches aren’t just religious institutions; they are the beating heart of many communities, providing services where even hospitals and schools could be few and far between.
Trump’s team embedded messages about the wall, food prices, family, and national security directly into sermons, community groups, and gatherings, creating a network of messaging that felt deeply personal, rooted in trust and shared faith. The idea that Trump was the protector of America wasn’t just something they believed; it was something they felt, reinforced each week from the pulpit and through community gatherings. Rising inflation and economic hardship were on the minds of voters, and Trump’s team knew it.
He cast himself as the candidate of the working class, the one who would lower prices, protect jobs, and bring back the America they felt was slipping away. It didn’t matter that Kamala Harris had a blueprint to solve rising costs by taxing the rich and protecting the middle class from price gouging. It didn’t matter he was a failed businessman who had declared bankruptcy six times.
His message came from people that the communities trusted. These people told them that Trump was good for the economy. Trump’s campaign presented the Democrats not as a mere opposing party but as existential threats, traitors, even agents of chaos.
Each churchgoer seemed to have the same fears: criminals swarming over the borders, corrupt politicians hoarding resources, and national security in jeopardy. These weren’t fringe ideas to them; they were the truth, spoken by their trusted pastors week after week, woven into sermons and treated as gospel. To these voters, there was no leader close to them, no figure of authority that they trusted, who communicated Kamala Harris’ messages about democratic values and institutional stability.
In the absence of a local trusted leader explaining Harris’ support for social justice, reproductive rights, and equity, they felt her concerns about fascism or authoritarianism as overblown, out-of-touch elite worries. They didn’t need political talking points; they needed assurance that someone was on their side. While, Harris’ unwavering stance on abortion did help mobilise a significant base of younger women, pastors in many of these churches presented abortion as an attack on family values and even on the country itself.
In some of these communities, men went so far as to follow their wives into the voting booth, ensuring no dissent from the traditional roles their churches endorsed for women. To compete in this environment, Democrats must rethink their strategy. They need to build an infrastructure that can connect with rural communities -- not just during election cycles but around the year, addressing economic and social concerns that are immediate and real.
Democrats should look into building progressive community centres, hospitals, child care, and schools closer to where communities are. Only then can they provide information that is trusted and reliable support that matters. Then and only then will their messages resonate.
In the end, Kamala Harris didn’t just lose due to her policies or identity. She lost because her message couldn’t penetrate the highly organised, deeply influential network of independent mega-churches that wove national issues into the daily lives of millions. Trump’s team localised his national campaign in these congregations, presenting him as the protector of their way of life.
Kamala Harris’ defeat is a reminder that political campaigns must go beyond policy proposals; they must be woven into the fabric of everyday life..
