Last December, part of the Iowa state capitol became a minor crime scene. For two weeks, the building had displayed seasonal dioramas, and one of them, alongside the Nativity scenes and menorahs, was particularly eye-catching: a six-foot-tall robed figure with the head of a ram believed to be the pagan god Baphomet. It was sponsored by the local Satanic Temple and placed quite inconspicuously in the basement, under the armpit of a side stairwell. But it didn’t take long before a pressure campaign was launched to remove it.
In Iowa, where conservatives have consolidated their political power, Republican leaders seemed inclined to act as if the Baphomet protest was no big deal — a symbolic protest, at most, in the state they lead . Iowa Republican Gov. Kim Reynolds said, “In a free society, the best response to objectionable speech is more speech,” but that only seemed to fan the flames. Jon Dunwell, an Iowa lawmaker and evangelical pastor, tweeted his support for Reynolds’ position, then saw his tweet rack up five million views and thousands of denunciations. “So I feel like I’m one of the most hated pastors in all of America right now,” Dunwell told me when we met Dec. 14 on the second floor of the capitol. “People told me: ‘Forget the Constitution, it’s a dead document.’ You are above all a Christian. »
Hours earlier, a thirty-five-year-old military veteran named Michael Cassidy, a runner-up in a 2022 Mississippi congressional primary, drove to Des Moines, located the pagan display and had destroyed. Then Cassidy went to the police. “There is a vein of Christian nationalism in my party,” Dunwell told me. This faction, he continued, was generally associated with the Trump movement and did not take the traditional political approach that Christian conservatives should try to elect people who would reflect their views and influence the government. “They literally believe that Christianity should be the supreme religion of the United States and everything should be judged based on that.”
Dunwell, who wore clear-rimmed glasses and a blue bow tie, is a compact, caffeinated man in his fifties. In some ways, the evangelical right he represented was having a banner year. In 2022, the Republican wave, which failed to materialize in most places, arrived in force in Iowa, delivering a supermajority in the state Senate. Reynolds quickly signed a “fetal heartbeat” bill, effectively limiting abortion to six weeks, as well as a sweeping school choice measure that had failed the previous year. But as the caucuses approached, something had changed.
In November, Reynolds announced his support for Florida Governor Ron DeSantis, joining previous pledges by the state Senate president and House majority leader. Two weeks later, evangelical leader Bob Vander Plaats, whose endorsement was so coveted that for months Politico breathlessly covered the “Vander Plaats primary,” said he was also for DeSantis. In most cases, these Republicans have tended to emphasize their personal disgust with Donald Trump. “I have never met a mother, father, grandfather or grandmother who wants their son or grandson to grow up to be like them,” Vander Plaats said. Steve Deace, an Iowa talk show host with a base among evangelicals, attacked Trump’s treatment as a theological figure, tweeting: “We already have a Messiah to place our hope in.” and our faith. »
But, when the Des Moines authority Register A poll released in mid-December showed that neither support had changed the dynamic: DeSantis was still at fifteen percent, and Trump was far ahead, virtually out of sight, at fifty percent. It was fourth and one; conservative leaders had given their big anti-Trump push. They had apparently been drunk.
While tweeting about the Baphomet statue, Dunwell, who also supported DeSantis, had cited Ephesians 6 – “The armor of God” – saying that hope was the breastplate of righteousness. “And the Christians come running back and say, ‘Don’t give me this weak, effeminate Christianity,'” Dunwell told me. “So I have to pull out a sword now and have some sort of muscular Christianity?” He began to speak more quickly. “It grieves my soul,” he said. “These Christians call me a baby boomer. They say my Christian generation is the reason America is the way it is, not because we were ineffective at transforming lives, but because we lacked the audacity to grab the sinner by the neck, to throw him to the ground and apply the laws of God. And that, for me, is scary. It’s a bit, it could be Taliban. Dunwell laughed darkly and added, “If I may use that word.” »
