BATTLE GROUND, Wash. — Pastor David Lindner glanced over his piano at the congregants taking their seats. He knew there wouldn’t be many, but he told himself that was OK. Smaller was better for talking, and talking was what this town needed.
“Good evening, everybody,” Lindner said.
The animosity of national politics had contaminated his small city in the foothills of the Cascade Mountains. City Council meetings deteriorated from discussions of roundabouts, road repairs and pickleball courts to arguments about ICE, anti-fascism, prayer at public meetings and the definition of nuclear families.
Now, people were hurling accusations that Christian nationalists were taking over Main Street.
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All this, in a town called Battle Ground.
Lindner, 47, didn’t know what to think, and he didn’t know where everyone in his church stood. Many said they didn’t know what Christian nationalism meant. Lindner wasn’t sure he knew either. But he saw people — his community — fighting and felt called to do something about it.
Across the country, Christian nationalism has swept into mainstream Republican politics, seeking to center Christianity more firmly in civic life. But neighbors ultimately have to wrestle with what that means. Where does proudly practicing Christianity end and Christian nationalism begin? Do the Commandments become law? Do Christians impose their values on non-Christians? And when the backlash comes, who gets caught in it?
For 13 years, Lindner has been the pastor at SixEight, a church named for the Bible verse Micah 6:8, which asks people to act justly, love mercy and walk humbly.
He didn’t talk politics from the pulpit, but if asked, he told the truth. He was raised to support conservative candidates and voted twice for Donald Trump, with reservations. But he didn’t vote for any candidate in the last presidential election. As a part-time choir teacher and drama coach at the local high school, he comforted students who struggled to reconcile their sexuality with their love for Jesus. He told them, “We have no concept of how infinite God’s love is.”
Lindner’s church, located a block off the town’s main street, rented its parking lot to the suspected Christian nationalists. His church needed the money, but around town, people balked.
“As a Christian I want to encourage you to reconsider,” one person wrote on Facebook. “Taking their money is tacit approval of their actions, esp to a world hurt by Christians.”
On this Sunday night in August, Lindner turned to the Didache, a Christian document known to many as the Teaching of the Twelve Apostles, written almost 2,000 years ago.
“What stands out to you?” he asked the people seated at round tables instead of pews, a trick to make the room look less empty. “Anything that surprised you?”
His four children and the rest of the congregation stared back. His wife, Bekki, was the first to call out: “You talked about how we belong to one another.”
“Yeah, we’re not just attending a group meeting together,” he said. “We have a responsibility to one another.”
* * *
Divisive political arguments used to feel far away here, in the shadow of Mount St. Helens.
In a town of almost 24,000, about 85 percent of whom are white, diversity mainly meant a variety of Christians — Catholics, Baptists, Episcopalians, United Methodists, Old Apostolic Lutherans, Presbyterians, Quakers and Evangelicals. There were more than 20 churches. The nearest mosque was 12 miles away.
The town was united in a basic belief in Jesus. A local coffee shop sold a pink guided prayer journal titled “This Mama Prays.” A boutique sold cross necklaces and a sweatshirt that said “SAVED.”
But this year, something changed. People started claiming that a local company, Maddox Industrial Transformer, and anyone associated with the people running it, were Christian nationalists.
Those claims targeted the brothers who run Maddox, Camden and Mac Spiller; their pastor, C.R. Wiley; the town’s mayor, who works at the company; and several local businesses the brothers invested in, such as the farmer’s market, the bakery and the newspaper.
Camden Spiller said in an email to The Washington Sun that he does not identify as a Christian nationalist. Mac Spiller, Wiley and Mayor Eric Overholser did not respond to interview requests.
Now, across town, people were taking sides.
Over July Fourth weekend, thousands gathered near the Maddox headquarters as fireworks exploded across the Pacific Northwest sky.
Kids ate free hot dogs and played in the bounce house. They had their faces painted and decorated tricycles for a parade. Balloons were twisted into animals and swords. Betsy Ross mingled in the crowd.
But plenty of other people had started seeing any gesture from Maddox as nefarious.
So as soon as the Rev. Kate Lore, a retired ordained Unitarian Universalist minister, heard about the free event, sponsored by Maddox, she thought:
“It’s part of the Trojan horse.”
* * *
Lindner used to watch Sean Hannity every evening at 6 p.m. and Greta Van Susteren at 7 p.m. He listened to Rush Limbaugh in the car.
But then, Bekki noticed her husband starting to sound different.
“I was listening to these angry guys all day,” Lindner said. “She called me out on my negativity.”
“We were both just sick of it,” Bekki said.
Eventually, the church could barely afford his salary, and the couple needed health care through the Affordable Care Act. Lindner realized that some of his values, such as accessible health care and fully funded public education, didn’t align with the people he listened to for hours a day.
Then Bekki read “Becoming,” former first lady Michelle Obama’s memoir, and they started to describe themselves as more purple than red.
“We don’t really do any news at all anymore,” he said.
So as pundits discussed the rise of Christian nationalism across the country, the Lindners were tuned out.
They didn’t notice when then-Rep. Marjorie Taylor Greene said in a 2022 interview, “We should be Christian nationalists.”
They didn’t follow as laws were passed in Louisiana, Texas and Arkansas requiring that the Ten Commandments be displayed in public school classrooms.
They didn’t hear when House Speaker Mike Johnson called the separation of church and state a “misnomer” or when Sen. Josh Hawley (R-Missouri) said in 2024: “Some will say I am calling America a Christian nation. And so I am. And some will say that I am advocating Christian nationalism. And so I do.”
Or when Vice President JD Vance said in 2025: “The only thing that has truly served as an anchor of the United States of America is that we have been, and by the grace of God we always will be, a Christian nation.”
Only this year did that phrase — Christian nationalism — pop up in this small town, about 30 miles from deep-blue Portland. Lindner worried that Christianity as a whole could become collateral damage.
He understood why devout Christians would invest in their community. A verse in Jeremiah talks about seeking the peace and prosperity of the city you live in.
“Because when it flourishes,” he said, “you flourish.”
But how, he wondered, did the Bible support imposing religion on others? Was that happening here?
He had tried to embrace the uncomfortable when he joined what he viewed as an extremely liberal community on Facebook — a local chapter of Indivisible, a national progressive group. He wanted to learn why they were convinced and scared and angry.
At first, he lurked. Then:
“I’m the pastor of a small church in BG, and I know people may make assumptions about me based on that. It’s okay, I’m used to it.”
The reaction was swift.
“I’m a bit weary of christian ministers who take it upon themselves to tell people how to live their lives and how to fight the battle against christian supremacy.”
He had tried to bring people together in the broader Battle Ground Facebook group of more than 40,000. He was hosting a meeting, he wrote, for anyone who wanted to “build a hopeful future.”
“Then DON’T hold in a church.”
“ANTIFA outsiders trying to hijack Battle Ground city hall.”
“You may not be the best choice to lead this.”
Lindner wondered if that was true.
* * *
Over in a local park, Shila Clark, a local resident of over 20 years, pulled a few copies of a zine out of her bag.
This, she told the women sitting around the picnic table, was a guide on who was leading the Christian nationalist movement. The women leaned forward as Clark explained how all these people were connected and why they should care.
The brothers who run Maddox kept buying properties in town. Their pastor appeared on podcasts with a recognized Christian nationalist. The mayor worked for Maddox. To them, the web was clear.
She taught them their names: Camden Spiller, the CEO; Wiley, his pastor; and Doug Wilson, a pastor in Idaho who has made headlines for saying that America should become a Christian nation and that married women should lose the right to vote. (A representative for Wilson declined an interview request on his behalf.)
And Clark referenced a years-old speech Wiley gave where he said Presbyterians bring “the resources of a public theology that helps us to govern unbelievers.”
More recently, a host on Steve Bannon’s far-right podcast “War Room” called Wiley “one of the leading thinkers in Christian nationalism.” Wiley did not correct him.
The women at the park flipped through the zine.
“The brothers have snuck up on us,” said Shari Kotzen Shelton, a 64-year-old health care analyst.
That big party, Clark reminded them, the one with fireworks and a bounce house? Maddox sponsored it.
“My kid went to that Fourth of July party!” said Sheila Weitzel, a retiree who lives in the county. “There were free hot dogs and free stuff. They said it was great.”
Clark pushed back. At first, Clark said, she’d been happy to see Maddox invest in the community. But not anymore.
“They want to buy third spaces so they have control,” she said. “They’re like a cancer that is already spreading.”
As far as the accusations of Christian nationalism, Camden Spiller wrote in an email to The Washington Sun: “I’m not sure what that term means, but more often than not, it seems to be an ambiguous pejorative or scare-label used to marginalize people of faith as extremists. It’s not a label with which I identify.”
Spiller had already taken to the local newspaper in March to defend himself in a 2,000-word commentary explaining that his family simply wanted to invest in their hometown. His wife’s family is from Clark County, making their children the sixth generation to grow up here.
“As someone who is sincere about my Christian faith, I believe my faith calls me to use the gifts and opportunities God has given for His glory and our neighbors’ good,” his email to The Sun said. “If you’re trying to bring race into it, I’m proud of my Mexican and American heritage. If you’re trying to bring politics into it, my politics are centered on bringing local businesses and vibrancy to our Main Street in a way that elevates the quality of life for everyone in this community.”
Max Booth, Maddox’s vice president of real estate development, told the City Council last summer that the company had invested in 30 properties. In an email to The Sun, Booth said, “People are entitled to their opinion. My focus is on running a successful company, and doing my part to make my community an even better place to live, work, and raise a family.”
The crisscross of accusations had ensnared anyone associated with Maddox, including the couple running Al & Ernie’s Bakery Cafe.
A local farm had collaborated with them over the summer, providing strawberries for shortcake. But after the farm posted a photo of the pastries inside Al & Ernie’s, the comments quickly turned.
“Hey Bi-Zi farms, so are you telling all of us that you support Christian nationalism?” one person wrote. Hours later, the farm replied: “We can verify that we are not part of a Christian nationalism church or movement.”
On a recent Tuesday morning, as customers grabbed bagels, coffee and pastries, Joylyn Bowen, who runs Al & Ernie’s with her husband, was clear: “I’m not a nationalist.”
“They’re speaking about something they really don’t know anything about.”
Her family has lived in this town for four generations. Her grandfather is the namesake Ernie and her grandmother taught her how to make pie crusts.
The backs of the buzzers they hand out to people waiting for their lattes include references to Psalms, including 34:8: “Taste and see that the Lord is good.”
But, added her husband, Devin Bowen, “it’s not like we make you recite a Bible verse before you get your food.”
* * *
School hadn’t started yet, so Lindner had some free time.
He sat on the purple couch in his living room that August morning, below his family photos, the “It’s a Wonderful Life” sign and the cross. He couldn’t stop thinking about the arguments across town and his faith.
He opened his laptop, pulled up Chat GPT and asked it to tell him the specific biblical arguments Doug Wilson makes to support Christian nationalism.
“Talk to me about it,” he wrote, “ask me questions, challenge me.”
“Which biblical commands may government enforce against everyone,” ChatGPT asked, “and which belong only to disciples living by the Spirit?”
Easy, Lindner thought. So much about being a Christian is devoting yourself to Jesus’ teachings in quiet moments and in your thoughts, when no one is watching.
“You cannot be forced to love God with all your heart, mind, soul and strength,” he wrote. “That requires total surrender. And you cannot love your neighbor as yourself if you have not been empowered by the Spirit to do so.”
Yes, Lindner argued, some laws do align with the Ten Commandments: Thou shalt not murder. Thou shalt not steal.
But others, he thought, are clearly different: Thou shalt not covet. Thou shalt not have any other gods before God. Thou shalt not make yourself an idol. Thou shalt not take the Lord’s name in vain. Remember the Sabbath Day.
“Maybe our country and other liberal countries have moved further away from them than we would like,” he wrote. “But forcing a nonbeliever to stay married because adultery is illegal isn’t going to produce the good fruit of the Kingdom. It will produce resentment toward the Kingdom of God.”
He didn’t understand how forcing Christian ideals could ever work. It was the opposite of what he preached — God wants people to choose to open their hearts. He gave us free will.
* * *
The local Pride organizer had a coffee date with the wife of an accused Christian nationalist.
Jessica Cole had been inspired by one of Lindner’s group discussions and introduced herself to Andrea Booth, whose husband led Maddox’s real estate development. Now they were meeting up and she wasn’t sure where to sit. Outside where everyone could see them? In a corner?
Cole ordered a hibiscus lemonade. Booth got an Americano. They chose a shady spot by the grass.
Booth made it clear she was here as a resident, not a representative of Maddox. She worried whatever she said would be conflated with her husband’s company. Still, she wanted to know: “Where did we go wrong?”
“What was the turning point that all of a sudden everybody’s at each other? Because it didn’t used to be that way.”
Cole understood. People made assumptions about her, too. Most didn’t realize that she used to be very religious. She homeschooled her kids and read a handful of Doug Wilson’s books on parenting and marriage.
She didn’t adhere to Wilson’s worldview anymore, but she told Booth she was frustrated by some of the people who only recently became involved in town politics. In her view, they were grandstanding instead of looking for solutions.
“What is the definition of Christian nationalism?” Cole asked.
Booth shook her head. The avalanche of criticism, she said, had prompted her to ask her husband: “They’re saying we’re Christian nationalists. What is that?”
“We never use that term to identify ourselves,” she said.
For the first time, Cole said, their Pride event this year faced threats of outside agitators. Booth’s family had been yelled at and flipped off on their way to church.
This wasn’t the environment either of them wanted for their community. Booth looked out at Main Street, nestled into the hills, and said this view made her think of her childhood home in a small South Dakota town near Mount Rushmore.
Her family had small traditions here, like ending long bike rides at a local brewery for fries and a soda. Her kids called it happy hour.
“Lord willing, we want our kids to be here so we can be around our future grandchildren,” she said. “We want to provide this great community where they can bike ride and have sweet memories.”
Cole thought of when she crossed the street with her kid, who had the nonbinary flag sticking in their hat. A man drove by, she told Booth, rolled down his window and yelled “F- - - - t go home.”
“It’s hurtful,” Booth said, her eyes welling. “As a mom, I can’t imagine having anything yelled at my child.”
“All that is to say, my kids don’t want to stay here,” Cole said. She took a long pause. She thought about how the mayor did not issue a supportive proclamation for Pride month this summer and how that made her kids feel unsafe.
“So, hearing your story, I love your story for your family, and I wish that was the story for my family.”
“I hope it becomes your story,” Booth said.
They talked for hours. About local politics. About homeschooling. About the kind of town they hope Battle Ground can still be. Before leaving, Booth felt she needed to clarify something, especially in a charged environment where others see them on opposing sides.
“So,” Booth said, “I have to ask because I want to respect you. If I see you at a City Council meeting …”
Cole interrupted:
“You can say hi.”
* * *
They were starting the Book of Joshua, which begins with God telling Joshua that Moses is dead. Lindner stood before his small congregation and reminded them about the pressure Joshua must have felt to fill Moses’ shoes, to assume a new role.
The future is rarely clear, he told them, but that shouldn’t stop them from trying to lead.
“We’re all going to come across situations where we feel unsettled and out of place,” he said on an August Sunday. “We’re all going to have problems we’ve never had to solve before.”
Neighbors might keep turning on each other. The truth might blur. People might lose trust in each other, their local government, their pastor. There will be questions he can’t answer.
“You don’t have to see the whole story to be able to take the next step, right?” he told them. “You just can go one frame at a time.”
So on the first Thursday in September, Lindner convened a fledgling monthly effort to bring people together.
He’d thought through what he hoped to accomplish and had written it down. “We want to become a community that can have difficult conversations without turning each other into enemies.”
He’d made a bulleted list of rules: Listen to understand. Don’t interrupt. Be curious before being certain. Be honest without being cruel.
He’d written discussion questions. He wanted this to work, to get people to talk to each other.
He printed 10 copies of the rules, grabbed a stack of name tags and finally, he was ready.
First came a friend who had advertised the event, along with her husband. Then two others who were helping him coordinate the meetings.
Thirty minutes went by. Lindner told himself it was the first week of school. People were busy. Maybe they just didn’t want to come here. He decided to ask a local restaurant to host them next month. He kept waiting.
They sat inside his church for over an hour, but no one new walked through the door.
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