HOUSTON — On a recent Sunday morning at Brentwood Baptist Church, James Talarico did something that would have been unusual for a Democratic candidate a generation ago: he climbed into the pulpit and preached.
"I want to speak to you this morning, not as a candidate, but as a fellow Christian," the Texas state representative told the congregation, framing his remarks as a conversation between fellow believers rather than a campaign stop. His grandfather, he recalled, was a Baptist preacher in South Texas, and the elder man used to tell him that Christianity is a simple religion.
Talarico's path to that pulpit is unusually layered. A former middle school teacher, he is now a student at Austin Presbyterian Theological Seminary and the Democratic nominee for the U.S. Senate. His sermon, however, was less about policy specifics than about the emotional state of a country in flux: "Sometimes we see the world most clearly through our tears. If your heart is breaking as you watch what's happening to our beloved country, it means you still have a heart," he said. "So blessed are you who weep."
What makes this election cycle stand out is not any single candidate but a pattern. It's rare for Democrats to make religion a centerpiece of their campaigns, and the party has typically been wary of inviting scrutiny over religious positioning. But this midterm, a number of candidates for Congress are doing just that — and at least a half-dozen of them are ordained clergy themselves, while others are still studying to become ministers.
The roster spans states where faith is not a niche cultural marker but a organizing feature of everyday life. Among those featured in NPR's reporting are a megachurch pastor in Dallas, a Methodist minister in Kansas, and two members of the clergy competing in Iowa. Significantly, all of these candidates are running in competitive races, where the argument over whether religious appeals move voters is not academic — it could decide outcomes.
On the campaign trail, these candidates have been reaching for biblical language to make the case for policies on health care, veterans, immigration and economic opportunity. The strategy is deliberate: they are trying to persuade voters in states and districts where religion remains an important part of public life, an electorate that has not necessarily moved with the broader national trend away from institutional religious identification.
The names receiving national attention include Frederick Haynes in Texas, Sarah Trone Garriott in Indiana, Talarico in the Senate race, and Lindsay James. Their backgrounds are varied — megachurch leadership, seminary training, state legislative experience, and long careers in ministry — but the political logic converges: a candidate who can speak credibly about faith is arguing not only to religious voters but to undecided voters who may not share those convictions but may not object to hearing them.
Republicans, meanwhile, have sharply criticized the new Democratic religious rhetoric, and they have reached for a pointed line of attack: some have labeled the clergy candidates PINOs, "Pastors In Name Only." The acronym plays on the long-running suspicion that politicians who invoke faith do so instrumentally — that the pulpit is simply a stop on the way to a campaign ad. One Republican critic framed it more bluntly, saying he had "never seen so much blasphemy from anyone running for offi[ce]."
That backlash is itself a signal of how unusual the strategy has become. In recent cycles, Democratic candidates seeking spiritual credibility frequently relied on either clergy endorsements, faith-based voter drives, or a religious left that favored progressive clergy such as those in the Black church tradition. Having ordained ministers and seminarians themselves as the standard-bearers is a distinctly different tactic — one that puts theology and personal biography at the center of the message rather than at the margins of a coalition operation.
Analysts and strategists have long noted the structural difficulty Democrats face when they lean into religion: the party's base includes secular and religiously unaffiliated voters, and an overtly faith-forward campaign can cost as much as it gains. The counter-argument among some strategists is that a tone-deaf or perfunctory religious appeal is worse than none at all, because it reads as a campaign attempting to borrow credibility it has not earned. Candidates like Talarico appear to be betting that the surest way to make the argument is to make it from inside the tradition.
For the candidates themselves, the payoff may extend beyond election day. Ministers-turned-candidates describe the political machinery of a congressional race — fundraising deadlines, canvassing schedules, negative advertising — as a jarring contrast with the slower, longer rhythms of congregational life. For their congregations, the choice to endorse or oppose such candidates has become its source of internal debate, with congregations weighing institutional neutrality against the temptation to reward or punish candidates for their views.
Whether it pays off is the open question hanging over these campaigns. The evidence remains mixed, and November will provide the verdict in the most competitive districts. But one thing already seems clear: in the 2026 midterms, faith is no longer something Democrats running for Congress are leaving to endorsements or subtle allusions. For a growing number of them, it is the argument.
(0)