[[link removed]]

HOW A REACTIONARY PERUVIAN MOVEMENT WENT MULTINATIONAL  
[[link removed]]


 

Elle Hardy
January 20, 2026
The Nation
[[link removed]]


*
[[link removed]]
*
*
[[link removed]]

_ Parents’-rights crusaders seeking to impose their Christian
nationalist vision on the United States took their playbook from South
America. _

, Illustration by Melinda Beck

 

Last spring, the Mayday USA tour—a traveling road show of Christian
parents’-rights activists campaigning against gender and sexual
expression in children—brought its message to five American cities.
Each of its appearances, in highly visible public arenas such as Times
Square in New York City and Discovery Green in Houston, was something
between a political rally, a Christian tent revival, and a
college-football tailgate party. Music pulsated from the sound system,
hands were held aloft in praise, and speakers assured the crowd that
they were a righteous silent majority, fed up and ready to roar.
Invoking Jesus’s love, activist influencers and charismatic pastors
unleashed a barrage of alarmist rhetoric aiming to channel parental
anxiety into a broader Christian-supremacist project.

The choreography was amped-up and melodramatic, following a
conventional arc: collective prayers, tearful testimonies, calls to
protect children from unseen cultural forces. The point wasn’t just
to feel good, but to feel chosen—a persecuted vanguard with divine
backing. By the end of each event, the crowd was buzzing, swapping
Instagram handles and embraces, convinced that they weren’t simply
attending a rally but standing on the front lines of a holy war.

That is, until the fourth of the five rallies brought Mayday USA to
Seattle’s Cal Anderson Park. The choice of venue was not accidental:
The park, named for Washington’s first openly gay legislator, sits
in the heart of the city’s historic LGBTQ+ district. By nightfall,
the streets of Seattle were a battlefield, with fists flying and
police dragging away 23 protesters. With the eruption came the prize
every movement covets: national attention. Seattle’s Democratic
mayor, Bruce Harrell, condemned the violence, blaming anarchists for
“infiltrating” the counterprotest. But his sharpest words were
reserved for the Mayday USA rally itself, accusing its organizers of
trying to “provoke a reaction” in a city whose values they reject.
“Seattle is proud of our reputation as a welcoming, inclusive city
for LGBTQ+ communities,” Harrell said. “We stand with our trans
neighbors when they face bigotry and injustice.”

That was the spark that turned the clash into a cause célèbre on the
right. Deputy FBI Director Dan Bongino posted on X that his office
would “fully investigate allegations of targeted violence” against
what he termed “the Seattle concert.” Freedom of religion, he
added, “isn’t a suggestion.” The White House Faith Office
weighed in, condemning the “violent disruption” of the event and
declaring it an issue of upholding the attendees’ constitutional
rights.

For Mayday USA’s organizers, the national uproar was a gift from
heaven. Three days later, they staged a follow-up protest in front of
Harrell’s office. Dubbed the “Rattle in Seattle,” it drew 500
Christian and conservative demonstrators, protected by a heavy police
presence and a fence around City Hall. One pastor in a MAGA hat led
chants for the police and sneered, “If that makes me a fascist, sign
me up.”

The Rattle’s organizers were there to issue the Seattle
Proclamation, a defiant missive to the city and to their detractors.
“His Kingdom is coming,” they vowed, proclaiming Christ’s
dominion over the earth. “And we, His people, will stand brave in
this hour.” For a movement hungry for oxygen, a seemingly grassroots
gathering of concerned parents made for the perfect launching pad. But
that image masks the movement’s real origin story—one far murkier,
and far more revealing, than the spectacle on display.

Far-right fracas: MayDay USA’s anti-trans event in Seattle was
greeted by counterprotesters and devolved into violence.(Jenny
Donnelly’s official YouTube channel)

In 2023, a secretive network of ultra-wealthy Christian donors known
as Ziklag produced a strategy to return Donald Trump to the White
House. In a leaked nine-minute video for members that comes across
like the trailer for an apocalyptic film, a graphic is repeatedly
flashed with the central message: “Reclaim the Republic.”

Ziklag is named for the Old Testament town that was given to David by
a Philistine king before the hated Amalekites burned it and seized its
people. David’s daring defeat of the raiders and his rescue of the
women and children was the victory that paved his way to Israel’s
throne. Today’s Ziklag is an invitation-only club for ultra-wealthy
Christian donors, including Hobby Lobby’s Green family,
office-supply titans the Uihleins, and Jockey apparel’s Waller
family, among a membership that reportedly requires a net worth in the
tens of millions. It exists to pool money into projects aimed at
reshaping American culture and politics along explicitly conservative
Christian lines, even claiming credit for Amy Coney Barrett’s
appointment to the Supreme Court.

Ziklag was founded after Trump’s 2016 election by the Silicon Valley
entrepreneur Ken Eldred, who, in the lead-up to Trump’s first
electoral victory, backed an important meeting between American
evangelical leaders and Trump through a faith-based nonprofit called
United in Purpose. Eldred had amassed his substantial personal wealth
through a mail-order computer-accessories business in the 1970s and
’80s and then merged it into a software giant in the 1990s before
becoming deeply entrenched in conservative politics, including serving
on the finance committee for George W. Bush’s 2000 presidential
campaign. In the private sphere, he promotes what he calls “kingdom
entrepreneurship,” encouraging Christian businesspeople to bring
Christ into the workplace and spread the Gospel by starting for-profit
businesses. He believes that Christians must operate on a “triple
bottom line,” where economic, social, and spiritual capital are
pursued in tandem.

But after Trump’s election in 2016, Eldred’s political passions
were reignited. He wanted “wealthy Christian people to come
together,” according to a longtime collaborator. The Covid pandemic,
he said, was a “gift from God,” bringing about His advancing
kingdom through “a series of glorious victories, cleverly disguised
as disasters,” and ensuring that people returned to the Christian
faith.

The mission of Ziklag is no less ambitious: to remake American
politics in the service of an oligarch class convinced of its divine
right to rule. The secret video from its December 2023
“Trailblazers” cultural-engagement summit opens with a booming
declaration: “We are boldly pursuing the reclamation of America’s
founding as a Christian nation.” The presentation lays out a plan to
target “battleground states, where we need to refocus on
values-based voting,” distilled into three strategic pillars. The
first, “Checkmate,” would bankroll “election integrity”
groups; the second, “Steeplechase,” would mobilize faith leaders
and congregations; and the final one, “Watchtower,” would
prosecute a culture war around “parental rights” and opposition to
sexual and gender expression.

The matriarch: Once an aspiring fitness influencer, Jenny Donnelly has
become a leading figure in evangelical circles. (Jenny Donnelly’s
official YouTube channel)

For Watchtower and Steeplechase, Ziklag’s power brokers handpicked
Jenny Donnelly—the wife of a telegenic preacher in Portland, Oregon,
a mother of five, and a former multilevel marketer—as its public
face. We know little about how she emerged from relative obscurity to
become a leading figure in evangelical circles, other than that she
and her husband, Robert, launched the Collective Church and Tetelestai
Ministries, which oversees Her Voice MVMT as its political arm. A
cut-and-paste Christian mom, Donnelly had initially tried to make a
name for herself with at-home workout videos. Her sudden elevation as
the leader of this Christian social movement followed a script
that’s familiar in right-wing circles: The pandemic
lockdowns—especially church closures—galvanized Donnelly and many
around her, while the Black Lives Matter protests in Portland’s 2020
“Summer of Rage” pushed them fully into action.

Initially, Her Voice MVMT had no significant following. It was another
slick, one-click-checkout site pushing faith-based courses on living a
righteous life—a dime a dozen in the evangelical charismatic world.
Ziklag’s intervention changed that.

In the “Trailblazers” video, Ziklag outlined its blueprint to turn
the parents’-rights crusade into a full-blown political machine,
promising to “create a coalition” of like-minded groups,
“amplify their efforts,” and bankroll them to wage a culture war
more effectively. The wedge issue, it insisted, was government
“control over our kids,” with parents supposedly forced “to
remain silent while the transgender lobby attempts to take over.” At
the center of this crusade would be Her Voice MVMT, which Ziklag
promised would build “300,000 prayer hubs nationwide” by the end
of 2024. The prayer groups were designed to be weaponized as frontline
organizers, drilled with training materials from Charlie Kirk’s
Turning Point USA, fire-and-brimstone pastors, and the America First
policy stores. The plan was to rebrand conspiracy-theory-soaked
paranoia as grassroots moral revival—and to hardwire it directly
into electoral politics.

As promised, Donnelly exploded onto the national stage at the end of
2023 with a call for simultaneous prayer rallies in every state
capital in April 2024, followed by a million-woman
Christian-nationalist march on the National Mall that October, weeks
before the general election.

The Mayday USA tour emerged from a partnership between Her Voice and
Ross Johnston Ministries. Johnston, affiliated with conservative
organizations, is a millennial preacher with the energy of a Twitch
streamer and a conversion story tailor-made for his audience. Born via
artificial insemination and raised in Los Angeles by two lesbian
mothers, Johnston says he grew up with an “orphan spirit”—loved
but unmoored, “floating through life and searching for a destiny.”
In his telling, the Covid lockdowns and the loss of in-person contact
drew him to the church—and, in the process, helped him overcome a
nine-year porn addiction.

Like Donnelly, Johnston experienced the pandemic as a turning point
for a revival of religious liberty. Yet Donnelly offers something
more. As a relatable face for a prized political demographic, she
embodies both tradition and renewal: political sermons that blend
kitchen-table wisdom with the apocalyptic urgency of the charismatic
revival, a guardian of family and faith fronting an uncompromising
political campaign.

Many in Ziklag’s inner circle—including the pastors who elevated
her—hail from the neo-charismatic Pentecostal movement and its more
extreme edge, the New Apostolic Reformation. With an emphasis on the
Holy Spirit and its role as the conduit for a personal relationship
with God, it’s a strain of evangelicalism that has surged through
global Christianity in recent decades. It’s the religious current
running beneath MAGA, led by figures like Trump’s spiritual adviser,
Paula White-Cain, and defined by the physical intensity of faith: the
laying-on of hands for healing, ecstatic worship, and daily battles
with demonic forces.

The shutdowns struck at the core of the neo-charismatics’ spiritual
and economic models. Without the exuberant intimacy of their worship,
they couldn’t practice their faith as they understood it; nor could
they sustain the ministry circuits and event-based revenues that
underpin their institutions. For those like the Donnelly family,
pastors with real skin in the game, the threat was spiritual,
theological, financial—and existential.

But while Donnelly’s movement may look as all-American as a sawdust
tent revival, its playbook comes not from the likes of Phyllis
Schlafly or Sarah Palin. It comes from Peru.

THE AUTHORITARIAN: Peruvian opposition leader Keiko Fujimori benefits
from the country’s burgeoning evangelical movement._(Steffano
Palomino / AFP via Getty Images)_

In 2016, Christian Rosas—the son of a prominent Peruvian evangelical
congressman, a graduate of Jerry Falwell’s Liberty University, and
an adviser to perennial hard-right presidential candidate Keiko
Fujimori—emerged as the face of Con Mis Hijos No Te Metas
(“Don’t Mess With My Kids”), a slick, media-savvy campaign
claiming that gender education in schools was “homosexualizing”
children.

Several years of poor performance by Peruvian schoolchildren in
international tests had pushed education to the forefront of national
debate at just the time that liberal sexual and gender reforms to the
national curriculum were taking effect. For conservatives, the two
issues fused into a single flash point, bringing together a coalition
of faith-based groups that were mobilizing against a succession of
socially progressive presidents elected between 2011 and 2020.

Under the banner of Con Mis Hijos No Te Metas (CMHNTM), the coalition
framed educational reforms as a threat to children and forged powerful
alliances between evangelical and Catholic churches and sympathetic
politicians. Though it initially lost key court battles, the movement
succeeded in mainstreaming a rigid definition of gender in policy
debates, galvanizing popular opposition to women’s and LGBTQ+
rights.

Education Minister Jaime Saavedra, who had spearheaded the liberal
reforms, championed social tolerance and said he wanted “our boys to
internalize gender equality.” But in late 2016, Peru’s Congress,
then controlled by Fujimori’s right-wing Fuerza Popular party,
ousted him on dubious corruption charges—a move widely seen as
punishment for imperiling Fujimori-aligned business interests through
his reforms of higher education. Donnelly frequently points to this
moment as an example of the political power her movement could wield
in the United States.

In March 2017, CMHNTM staged its first national rally, which,
according to Rosas, took place simultaneously in all 25 of Peru’s
regions. “It was a vivid example that the church could unite despite
their doctrinal differences,” Rosas says, proud of the movement’s
ability to bring evangelicals and Catholics together at a time when
they are in strong competition for followers. “By doing so, we were
able to bluntly break the law.”

Rosas claimed that 2 million people turned out; opponents put the
figure at 68,000. The reasons for what followed are contested, but
soon after, the Education Ministry made concessions on the curriculum.
A year later, President Pedro Pablo Kuczynski was ousted on corruption
charges. Unlike Saavedra’s removal, his fall had broader causes, but
the conservative panic over his administration’s “gender agenda”
left him politically weakened and more vulnerable to attacks from the
right.

Rallies continued as Kuczynski’s former vice president, Martín
Vizcarra, took office, with the archconservative Fujimori and Fuerza
Popular intensifying their fight against gender- and sexual-education
reforms in Congress. After losing both a Supreme Court challenge and
the 2019 congressional elections, the protest movement returned to the
streets during the pandemic, seizing on discord and chaos and
ultimately helping to unseat Vizcarra on corruption charges.

Peruvian politics rarely captures global attention—but then George
Soros, an Antichrist figure to many on the populist right, took a
personal interest in the bitterly contested battle. Last year,
Soros’s Open Society Foundations announced the completion of a
global restructuring that, according to Rosas, would curtail its
philanthropy in Peru. The decision, which _The Nation_ could not
independently confirm, was credited in right-wing circles to the
influence of CMHNTM, with many hailing Rosas as the man who “drove
Soros out of Peru.” The claim supercharged Rosas’s profile among
hard-right Christian networks abroad, where activists saw Peru as a
model worth exporting. His movement quickly caught the attention of
people with the money, conviction, and ability to make its concerns a
central issue in American life.

Rosas instructed his new admirers in the United States that there are
particular “tricks to the success of the movement.” The first is
structural: It has no hierarchy and “does not exist formally,”
making it immune to tax audits and NGO regulations. (“We are a
ghost,” he says.) The second is strategic: There are no formal rules
beyond working within the branding and guidelines, which include
focusing on ideology rather than individuals and using “secular
wording” so that nonconservatives and non-Christians—especially
athletes and celebrities—feel comfortable aligning with the cause.

Harking back to his American education, Rosas leveraged transnational
networks like a televangelist, exporting his formula across the
region. His slogan and strategy traveled well: In Brazil, it fed into
Jair Bolsonaro’s culture-war politics; in Argentina, it dovetailed
with the rhetoric that would help propel Javier Milei to power. In the
United States, it appealed to Ziklag’s architects, who saw the
potential for a sequel on a bigger and more moneyed stage. Experts
believe they brokered the alliance between Rosas and Donnelly, who
describes “copy-pasting” his playbook. “What he said to us on
the Zoom,” she explained to her followers: “‘This is where
you’re headed, America, and you have an opportunity right now to
stop it before it gets worse.’”

Calling her new movement Don’t Mess With Our Kids (DMWOK) and even
using the same stark blue and pink colors that Rosas believed were
fundamental to his campaign’s everyday appeal, Donnelly hit the
road, holding rallies for suburban “mama bears” in swing-state
America. With her active role in the Christian right’s campaign for
Trump’s reelection, Donnelly’s transformation was complete. The
woman who had spent years trying to spearhead Christian movements with
little success was now pictured front and center in a group of
prominent evangelical leaders laying hands on Trump two weeks before
his reelection. 

THE BLUEPRINT: A leaked video from Ziklag outlines its plans for a
Christian nationalist “reclamation.”_(Ziklag)_

For Americans used to exporting ideas abroad, a movement imported from
a small southern neighbor may sound unusual—but it speaks to a much
deeper trend underway. For centuries, missionaries from Europe and
North America fanned out across Latin America, Asia, and Africa to
spread the Gospel and “civilize” the locals. Today, the traffic is
going the other way. In a phenomenon called “reverse evangelism,”
preachers and political operatives from the developing world are
coming to the US and Europe, determined to rekindle the faith of a
“post-Christian” West they believe has lost its way. The
legalization of same-sex marriage, along with broader gains for LGBTQ+
rights, is often held up as the clearest symptom of Western spiritual
decline and moral depravity.

The Peruvian movement is a prime example of how it all works. The
country’s gender politics have been shaped by a protracted and
bitter history going back to the presidency of Alberto Fujimori,
Keiko’s father, in the 1990s. The conservative strongman, who was
later imprisoned for human-rights abuses and corruption, oversaw
forced-sterilization campaigns that targeted poor, rural, and
Indigenous women. Those abuses turned sexual and reproductive rights
into a lasting political fault line—fought over in battles about
contraception, abortion, and, more recently, civil unions for same-sex
couples.

 
Fujimorismo, as his brand of populist authoritarianism came to be
known, was revived by Keiko, who mounted failed presidential bids in
2011, 2016, and 2021. After her last defeat, her party captured
control of Congress, making her the leader of the opposition. Among
her most reliable constituencies were conservatives and an ascendant
evangelical movement that has supplied the energy to push back against
advances in progressive social rights.

Although the neo-charismatic Pentecostal movement has been less
popular in Peru than in other Latin American nations such as Guatemala
and Brazil, where it now rivals Catholicism for followers,
charismaticism is gaining ground fast, politically as much as
spiritually. Approximately one in five Peruvians now identify as
Protestant, by and large evangelical Protestant, and the country’s
neo-Pentecostal leaders are increasingly plugged into a continental
network that pushes the same populist, punitive politics as MAGA in
the United States or Bolsonaro’s movement in Brazil.

Before Rosas could try his reverse evangelism in the US, CMHNTM had
learned to flip the script, casting “gender ideology” as foreign
wokeness foisted on unsuspecting nations. “Their enemy is framed in
the language of neo-imperialism, since they claim that gender ideology
was conceived abroad,” says Stéphanie Rousseau, a political
scientist at the Pontifical Catholic University of Peru. “National
sovereignty is in question.” The movement portrayed itself not
simply as protecting children but as defending the people and the
country. That inversion of the usual missionary narrative has made it
easy to transplant the campaign across borders, highlighting a broader
civilizational battle that is being waged.

As Rousseau notes, while sexuality and gender remain the movement’s
sharpest rallying points, it has proved adept at folding other issues
into the mix. Nowhere was that clearer than in Colombia in 2016, when
voters narrowly rejected a peace agreement between the government and
the leftist FARC insurgency. One of the factors that tipped the
balance: a coordinated push by conservative activists who claimed that
the deal’s provisions on equality smuggled “gender ideology”
into national law.

REACTIONARY RALLY: Peruvian evangelical sects took to the streets of
Lima to protest alleged “gender ideology” in schools._(Fotoholica
Press / LightRocket via Getty Images)_

The regional spread of Con Mis Hijos No Te Metas was no accident.
While the movement bills itself as a grassroots uprising, there have
long been suspicions that a web of dark money and influence has helped
to spread the movement across the Americas. And the political
dividends have been substantial: This now-multinational movement is an
engine of coordinated political—and spiritual—warfare. The goal is
not just to counter progressive policy but to target elected officials
for defeat, erode faith in democratic institutions, and replace ousted
bureaucrats with loyalists. From Rosas’s playbook, Donnelly borrowed
the idea of simultaneous rallies in every state, a tactic designed to
project ubiquity and inevitability. She overhauled her personal brand
to match: sleek Instagram-friendly visuals, stripped of overt
religious imagery, with a message broad enough to pull in people who
aren’t particularly interested in politics or religion, while
dog-whistling to those who are already engaged.

Donnelly initially partnered with controversial groups like Moms for
Liberty, whose explicitly right-wing image, combative gatherings, and
flair for controversy ended up clashing with DMWOK’s preferred style
as a softer, pastel-hued community of concerned mothers. DMWOK churns
out shareable memes and infographics for social media that bypass
traditional gatekeepers. Complex debates are distilled into
emotionally charged slogans about protecting children.

Another important part of the movement—one that Rosas proudly boasts
about—is that it sidesteps pastors and traditional church
hierarchies, cultivating the feel of a popular uprising against church
leaders. This “army,” as Rosas calls them, are “just leaving
their military base, meaning they’re just leaving the church to
express themselves publicly after many decades.” Elected and
appointed officials might be cast as the enemy, but they can just as
often become key allies: CMHNTM posted a message on X crediting Casey
DeSantis, the wife of Florida Governor Ron DeSantis, with launching
the #ConMisHijosNoTeMetas (#DontMessWithMyKids) movement in the United
States as a part of her mobilization of conservative mothers.
Rosas’s sister Dorcas Hernandez, who cofounded CMHNTM, runs a
company that connects Latin American business leaders and officials
with US tycoons and politicians.

For André Gagné, a professor of theological studies at Concordia
University, the Christian right’s long-term aim of merging the
political and the spiritual is evident in DMWOK, which sees itself as
fighting back against “an attack on what they view as the normal
family,” he says. “Since the days of Jerry Falwell and the Moral
Majority, the Christian right has framed everything as a defense of
the family.” Challenging traditional sex and gender norms
“disrupts what they view as the divine order of things—if you
attack the family, that leads to a breakdown of society.”

In Rosas and Donnelly’s message, Gagné hears an unmistakable
biblical register. “It’s rooted in Old Testament warfare
narratives,” he says: “‘We got the land—but now we’ve got to
take on the giants.’” It’s a battle cry that collapses the
distinction between politics and prophecy, turning the defense of the
family into a holy war. Meanwhile, it also ignores allegations that
have called Rosas’s own family values into question. In 2021, his
wife accused him of physical and psychological abuse—charges that he
waved off as merely “subjective” and “interpretive.”

Where the evangelical old guard was defined by gray-suited patriarchs
like Falwell, this new wave taps into a different current on the
religious right—a celebration of sisterhood, without the feminism.
With slogans like “If you silence a woman, her children become
vulnerable to the enemy,” Donnelly’s rise epitomizes a new kind of
militant maternalism, in which a growing cadre of ultraconservative
women marry soft-focus personal branding with hard-line reactionary
politics.

It was this uncontainable momentum that vaulted Jenny Donnelly past
veteran female prophets who had spent years grinding on the
charismatic circuit. She emerged fully formed: polished, camera-ready,
and perfectly suited to fill a vacancy—the religious right’s
answer to Glennon Doyle or Cheryl Strayed, reframing hard-right
politics through the approachable lens of a suburban mom with good
hair and an easy warmth. While traditional social media influencers
sell aspirational wealth, Donnelly sells something more attainable:
the fantasy that you, too, can be a culture warrior in yoga pants.

That’s how a reactionary movement born in Peru helped shape the
terms of the 2024 US presidential election. The politics of protecting
children cuts cleanly across party lines. Women with little prior
political engagement are drawn in by Donnelly’s PTA-mom framing,
only to find themselves in MAGA’s slipstream—suburban swing voters
nudged rightward by the soft power of relatability. Think of it as a
moral Tupperware party: deliberately decentralized, built on loose
online networks that can harden into communities without ever looking
like a formal political machine.

By last November, gender and education were no longer just talking
points—they had become defining wedge issues in American politics,
driving a manufactured moral panic over children that the religious
right has expertly deployed. Now it’s spread far beyond the
hard-liners protesting outside city halls to become a staple issue in
the mainstream media. In turn, it has helped to refocus a growing
number of American Christians, shifting support for Trump from
political calculation to spiritual conviction. In his first term,
Trump was King Cyrus, a flawed ruler who was not one of God’s people
but who served God’s plans—a biblical analogue that could be used
for political ends. In the second Trump administration, he is cast as
a divinely appointed leader in a cosmic battle. After all, only people
driven by demonic forces could object to protecting children.

_ELLE HARDY is a journalist and the author of Beyond Belief: How
Pentecostal Christianity Is Taking Over the World._

_Copyright c 2026 THE NATION. Reprinted with permission. May not be
reprinted without__ permission_
[[link removed]]_.
Distributed by__ PARS International Corp_
[[link removed]]_. _

_Founded by abolitionists in 1865, The Nation has long believed that
independent journalism has the capacity to bring about a more
democratic and equitable world. Our writers shift paradigms and open
minds. Our deep investigative reporting launches congressional
hearings, forces policy change, and shapes news cycles. Instigating
progress: It’s not only our legacy, it’s our continued commitment
to future generations of torchbearers._

_Please support progressive journalism.__ Get a digital
subscription_
[[link removed]]_
to The Nation for just $24.95!_

* Parents' Rights
[[link removed]]
* Christian right
[[link removed]]
* LGBTQ rights
[[link removed]]
* Culture
[[link removed]]
* Peru
[[link removed]]
* evangelical Christians
[[link removed]]
* Gender
[[link removed]]
* Education
[[link removed]]

*
[[link removed]]
*
*
[[link removed]]

 

 

 

INTERPRET THE WORLD AND CHANGE IT

 

 

Submit via web
[[link removed]]

Submit via email
Frequently asked questions
[[link removed]]
Manage subscription
[[link removed]]
Visit xxxxxx.org
[[link removed]]

Bluesky [[link removed]]

Facebook [[link removed]]

 




[link removed]

To unsubscribe, click the following link:
[link removed]