Opinion | IMAX-Like Churches, TikTok Gurus, Putin: Inside America's Murky 'Faith' Bazaars

November 2, 2021. Dallas. It was a cold and rainy day. They came with flags, folding chairs and unwavering faith. Mothers, mechanics, grandparents, teachers and farmers - thousands from across America - gathered under the water-laden sky, eyes fixed on Dealey Plaza, the spot where John F Kennedy was gunned down in 1963.

But this was not a memorial.

They had come with huge expectations. They were promised JFK was coming back - not as a ghost, but in the flesh, alongside his long-dead son. And somehow, Donald Trump was part of the plan, either guiding them or, as some claimed, secretly being JFK Jr himself, in disguise.

At the centre of it all stood Michael Protzman, a demolition contractor from Washington State turned doomsday prophet, live-streaming numerological riddles and divine revelations from his phone. To his thousands of online followers, he wasn't just a man. He was a messenger. They called him “Negative 48”, the online alias of Michael Protzman, who was a well-known QAnon influencer at the time.

When the prophecy failed, that is, when no Kennedy rose from the dead, the faithful didn't scatter. They recalibrated. Truth, after all, is flexible in the American spiritual marketplace.

Protzman died in 2023 after a bike crash. But his legacy lives on: a reminder that in the United States, belief isn't just a private act. It is a public theatre, political force and, increasingly, a viral spectacle.

The Land of Miracle Men

For decades, Western writers and journalists have romanticised India as the land of sadhus, yogis and miracle men, casting spiritual showmanship as divine mysticism. All the while, they overlooked their own backyard, where prophets, faith healers and self-styled messiahs quietly multiplied. The trend has become much more pronounced now. So, perhaps it is time to turn the lens.

To much of the world, America is the land of innovation and freedom. It's where the internet was born, where Hollywood scripts the planet's dreams, and where democracy - with all its flaws - still claims to lead the world. From AI labs to aircraft carriers, from Netflix dramas to billion-dollar tech empires, the United States oozes power and self-confidence.

'Encountering Jesus'

But behind that dazzling surface lies another America - one that fasts and prays for national repentance, that warns of apocalypse, that casts out demons on TikTok and tries to raise the dead in church basements. This is the America of Bethel Church in California, where worshippers post healings on social media and believe miracles are just one prayer away. Their vibrant website claims that worshippers "encounter Jesus" here and urges them to "experience God's presence at church this Sunday". It is the America of livestreamed prophecies, where faith doesn't just coexist with modern life - it often collides with it, in dramatic and deeply political ways.

And this other America isn't fringe, despite what established churches and denominations might like us to believe. It is growing, multiplying even faster in the Trumpian world.

It helps to start with the numbers. Over 60% of Americans still say religion is “very important” in their daily lives, compared to just 17% in Britain and 14% in France. The US has over 3 lakh churches, and its religious exports - like Pentecostalism, televangelism and the prosperity gospel - have found eager audiences as far afield as Brazil, Nigeria and El Salvador. In a country as saturated with spiritual options as the United States, one recent development has raised more than a few eyebrows - and prompted quiet soul-searching in church pews and academic circles alike.

Putin The Hero

A growing number of young Americans, especially white men disillusioned with what they see as the excesses of liberal culture, are turning to Russian Orthodoxy - specifically the Russian Orthodox Church Outside of Russia (ROCOR). Drawn by its traditional liturgy, mystical beauty and clear moral order, they are finding something deeply grounding in the incense-filled churches and centuries-old chants. To them, it is not just about ritual. It is about anchoring oneself in a faith that appears untouched by modern relativism.

This trend is spiritual but also carries cultural and, for some, political undertones. In their quest for roots, stability and something that feels timeless, these converts often speak of Orthodoxy as a refuge from what they perceive to be the confusion and moral ambiguity of contemporary America. Some admire Russian President Vladimir Putin for his perceived defence of Christian values - a view encouraged by certain Orthodox clergy who cast the Ukraine war not merely as a political conflict, but as a spiritual battle aimed at defending traditional civilisation from Western secularism.

Orthodoxy Is Not Just About Politics

A few even frame the war in theological terms, echoing the language used by Patriarch Kirill of Moscow, who has described the conflict as a metaphysical stand against what he called “sinful Western values”. While many lifelong Orthodox believers in America are uneasy with this framing, it resonates with converts seeking moral clarity in an era that often feels adrift.

For most of these new adherents, this turn to Orthodoxy is not about politics per se. It is about finding a place where beauty, discipline and tradition still matter. They speak of the ancient rituals not as nostalgia, but as nourishment - something rich and rooted, in a world that often feels hurried and hollow.

And so, in the great American spiritual bazaar, Russian Orthodoxy has claimed a quiet but growing corner.

Also, take, for instance, the rise of the New Apostolic Reformation (NAR) movement. Led by a loose network of 'charismatic' leaders and 'prophets', NAR aims to reclaim America for God through political and cultural dominion. Leaders like Dutch Sheets and Lance Wallnau gained massive followings, especially during Trump's first term, claiming they had “divine” visions about the president's destiny.

Wallnau famously called Trump "God's chaos candidate", comparing him to Cyrus, the Persian king who helped the Israelites in the Old Testament. The Catholic Times did a long piece after another NAR leader, Paula White-Cain, was appointed as a senior adviser to the newly created White House Faith Office.  

The World Of Pastor Greg Locke

Then there is Pastor Greg Locke of Tennessee, who has amassed a fervent social media following by mixing firebrand sermons with alleged political conspiracy theories. Locke claims that COVID-19 was a hoax, calls Democrats ‘demonic', and sees his ministry as a frontline in a cosmic battle. At his Global Vision Bible Church, people have burned Harry Potter books, cast out demons and declared that America is under spiritual siege.

Or consider Julie Green Ministries. Her YouTube prophecies regularly include messages she claims are from God, forecasting political events or divine punishment. Her channel has hundreds of thousands of views. Anyone watching her videos cannot miss her claims that she can 'command' a sick person's illnesses to be destroyed and cure the person. 

These leaders aren't on the fringes of faith - they are livestreamed on YouTube, hosted on Christian TV, followed by hundreds of thousands of people, and courted by politicians. In 2020 and beyond, many claimed God had ordained Trump's presidency and prophesied his return to power even after his electoral defeat. Some went so far as to encourage their followers to take action, playing a role - through fiery sermons and social media posts - in fuelling the anger that led to the storming of the US Capitol on January 6, 2021.

Faith vs Faith

Much to the agony of the established churches and ecstasy of new, fast multiplying faiths, social media has become both a pulpit and a stage in America. On TikTok, self-declared prophets warn of imminent collapse, offer prayers to cleanse timelines, or speak in tongues (it is a form of ecstatic prayer or speech in unintelligible sounds, believed by many Christians to be a spiritual language inspired by the Holy Spirit) to bring healing to followers. Clips of deliverance, where pastors shout at demons and followers convulse in spiritual ecstasy, routinely go viral.

Even doomsday has influencers now. Nostradamus-style YouTube channels push visions of global famine, nuclear war or rapture. Some are monetised. Many are consumed religiously by millions seeking not just entertainment but existential comfort in chaotic times.

This isn't just a revival. It's a remix of religion with, some might say, entertainment, politics and tech - an explosive cocktail that affects millions of minds and voting behaviours. Some even argue that the established, traditional faiths had become boring, and thus the new ones are getting popular because they are deeply connected to the average man.

Faith As Performance

There are megachurches with IMAX-style screens and fog machines. There are places like Lakewood Church in Houston, where Joel Osteen preaches positivity and wealth with a glowing smile to a stadium-sized congregation. Or Hillsong, whose celebrity-studded music and troubled leadership made headlines worldwide. Both offer worship as performance, where faith is branded, packaged and sold like a lifestyle.

America's faith bazaar isn't just about Christianity. There are psychedelic churches like the Church of the Sacred Mushroom. There are UFO cults reviving in new online forums. There are wellness gurus blending Eastern mysticism with Western productivity hacks.

And increasingly, these belief systems cross-pollinate. A follower may watch a Trump prophecy video, attend a yoga-mindfulness seminar and join a Facebook group on biblical homesteading - all in the same week. It's like going to a big mall with a plethora of options to choose from. This pluralism is what makes the American spiritual landscape so unique, and so bewildering. It is open-ended, endlessly adaptable and market-driven.

The Search For The Divine

In a country where religious affiliation and traditional church gatherings are declining, the hunger for meaning has only intensified. Many may be leaving churches, but they aren't leaving belief. They are remixing it. Rebranding it.

Whether through revivals or revelations, livestreams or TikToks, prophets or presidents, the American search for the divine continues. In the country's bubbling spiritual marketplace, belief isn't passive, but performative. It sings, it shouts, it heals, it livestreams. It predicts election outcomes, dances with divine wrath and courts eternal salvation in the comment section. This is faith with stage lighting and subscriber counts.

And yet, beneath the drama, there is something achingly human. A quiet fear. A cosmic question. A longing for permanence in a culture obsessed with the next update. Perhaps that's why young men are turning to incense and iconography, why TikTok prophets rise with each news cycle, and why preachers warn of an ever-nearing end. Because at some level, despite sermons and gospels, the American soul is still haunted by what English poet Andrew Marvell called “deserts of vast eternity”. Some, much like TS Eliot did ages ago, have started to wonder if they have “measured out their lives with coffee spoons.” 

(Syed Zubair Ahmed is a London-based senior Indian journalist with three decades of experience with the Western media)

Disclaimer: These are the personal opinions of the author and do not represent the views of NDTV