A team of our researchers attended the Unite the Kingdom rally last weekend to investigate the rise of so–called “Christian nationalism”. 22/05/2026
“How many of our daughters have to be taken?…that’s the real cost of mass, open borders immigration…An invading army of men brought into this nation…raped and pillaged their way through it… a rape jihad”.
These were the words of Tommy Robinson (a.k.a. Stephen Yaxley–Lennon) at the Unite the Kingdom rally last Saturday. Tommy Robinson, a prominent far right and anti–Islam activist, recently announced his conversion to Christianity, contributing to growing discussions about the rise of so–called “Christian nationalism”.
In response to the increasing prominence of Christianity in our political debates, Theos is engaged upon a new stream of work exploring Christianity and ideas of nationhood in UK and across Europe. To try to gain more of an insight into how Christianity and nationalism intersect for those occupying political spaces like Unite the Kingdom, a team of Theos researchers decided to attend UTK for ourselves. We deliberately sought out attendees who were wearing or carrying Christian symbols or signs and spoke with them to try to understand how and why they had found themselves at such a controversial event.
Walking up to Parliament Square, our eyes met a sea of flags: Union and England flags, but also Israeli, Imperial (Pahlavi) Iranian, Welsh, Cornish, Irish and Scottish. There were a great many who fitted the usual media stereotypes: white, middle–aged men whose style and swagger felt football–hooligan coded; the baggy tracksuits and chain necklaces with flag–come–capes on backs were a common sight. Some had been drinking and the odd one at the fringes was making a bit of trouble. Speaking to some attendees, we found they had travelled (sometimes alone) from as far afield as Blackpool, Devon, Norfolk and Lancashire, as well as parts of Essex, East London and Kent. They were keen to interact and talk to us, many seemingly looking for kinship and visibility in a society which had often made them feel invisible and disposable. Coming to London was, for some, an act of civic agency: not democratic participation in the conventional sense, but a journey undertaken because other routes to being heard felt closed.
The variety of people listening was one of the biggest surprises. There were chairs dotted along one side of the square. Small groups of children of various ages scampered in and out of the crowds, often with flags tied around their shoulders. Volunteers in high–vis UTK jackets wandered around picking up discarded beer cans and meal–deal sandwich boxes. One couple we met explained that they’d come last year and that it was great community event for celebrating Britian. We were struck at how much of a calm, open and generally ordinary, retirement–age they were. We could easily imagine them sitting in the café at the local garden centre, having just wandered around the selection of gnomes and terracotta pots. At times, the rally felt almost like a festival. And whilst white men were the majority, there were also the “Pink Ladies”, anti–immigration activists focused on protecting on women and girls, and the odd person from an ethnic minority background, including one Black lady holding a sign with “Christ, Culture, Country” and a cross emblazoned on it, and who somehow still looked like she belonged.
Unifying these groups seemed to be a belief that the “the establishment” — whether that be the government and politicians or the media or indeed the established church — were not working for them and did not represent them: “They don’t listen to us, the media just say we’re a bunch of thugs”, was a common refrain. When a series of photographs were beamed on screen in a pantomime–esque “goodies” vs. “baddies” game, it was Keir Starmer’s face that was met with the biggest boos. “Keir Starmer is a w****r” was the crowd’s most popular chant. The only time this was hushed away, was during a minute’s silence for Rhiannon Whyte, a 27–year–old woman who was murdered by an asylum seeker in 2024. Asked who they thought could solve the country’s problems – including if Tommy Robinson himself should stand for office – their answer was rarely a clear endorsement of any party at all – although Restore Britain seemed popular. More often than not, we were met with a shrug and dismissal of the formal political sphere. It was politics just as much as politicians or political parties, that was to blame.
Scattered amongst this mass of red, white and blue were a number of large wooden crosses. One was being held up by a man in his mid–50s. His cross was noticeably larger than some of the others and had hinges on it so that it could be folded away more easily. “I made it myself,” he smiled. We discovered he’d been a Christian since he was 14 and had gone to a range of different Protestant churches in his life, from Pentecostal to mainstream Church of England. “This country cannot succeed as a nation if it does not have Jesus at its centre. We need to go back to that,” he explained. Asked about Tommy Robinson, he reflected carefully: “Clearly, he’s done some bad things, but something happened to him in solitary confinement and he became a Christian; there’s a rawness about him, you know? And beneath that rawness is an important message”. That message, for this particular man, was that we need to “go back” to Jesus. He was one of a number of Christians present who seemed serious and practising.
Like many of “the usual suspects” who condemned the “Islamisation” of Britain, often using vitriolic language in doing so, these Christians did often speak of wanting Britain to be Christian. But theirs was not a longing to return to England’s green (or rather, white) and pleasant land. Rather, it was a desire for re–Christianisation from below: revival, repentance, evangelisation. Even, as some put it, a new reformation.
These Christians’ opposition to Islam was real, that is certain. But their opposition was not simply defined by what Britain should be against but rather, however controversially, what they believed Britain should become. That was a New Jerusalem yes, but not one of conquest, crusade and the protection of the white man. Unlike many of the signs carried by some of their compatriots — “I see your jihad and I raise you a crusade” being the most striking example — their rhetoric was generally not coded with violent imagery, but instead characterised by talk of “softened hearts”, and minds opened to the “love and grace” at the centre of the Gospel message.
For one man in his 20s, holding a “Jesus is the way the truth and the life” flag in a St George cross style and wearing a selection of large rings and crucifix necklace, being confirmed as a Catholic at Easter had saved him from himself and given him fellowship and community. He said he was there because he wanted England to be built on Christianity. Another man who ran a right–wing, anti–immigration Instagram channel, explained to us he’d become a Christian in the last few months but really struggled to read the Bible. One of us showed him the Bible app we use on our phone, suggesting he try the short videos and search function to help him get started. He took out his phone, downloaded the app right in front of us and thanked us for the advice.
Some we spoke to who were wielding crosses were not practising Christians but nonetheless had a deep respect for Christianity. They wanted to engage with us and were pleased to see evangelisation at the rally, too. As one man we spoke to from Bedfordshire, who was holding a wooden cross he had picked up at the start of the march, explained: “I am not a God–fearing man, but I believe in the Lord. I don’t go to church, but my nan did. Jesus came first, not Muhammad. I believe we should be loving and our country should be centre on love, that’s why I’m here.” He repeatedly thanked us as Christians for being there, kept apologising for drinking, explaining he had a problem and said we were good people, shaking our hands.
And sincere Christian or not, all this felt completely at odds with Robinson’s call to arms for the battle over Britain and its identity; as did a lone “F**k Islam, Christ is King” sign. A stunt from three French anti–Islam activists, in which they removed burqas to calls of “take it off” from the crowds, was also met with a much more lukewarm reception than the viral media clips suggest – and seemed utterly at odds to the tone of many Christians we spoke to.
Beneath the flags and headlines of a “racist and xenophobic” march, then, we observed something much more complex than social media clickbait or political polarisation will allow. Whilst many of those present who were Christian or Christian–adjacent seemed to converge politically, and almost all were anti–Islam, their journey to the rally was not borne out of the same phenomenon.
For some, that journey began with Christianity, in a belief that Jesus was the way, the truth and the life. Calling for Britain to be a Christian nation was, for them, a natural extension of that. Some seemed uncomfortable with the extremity of language, some were handing out scripture, many had been Christians for a long time. They were not just nationalists reaching for Christian imagery, but Christians whose faith had led them to a distinct, and sometimes uncomfortable, kind of patriotism.
For others sporting Christian symbols, their walk to the march began with national concerns and ended up at Christianity; whether that was an actively developing faith, or simply a deep admiration for it. Their language was more militant; their theology was crude—sometimes almost totally absent — but their openness to us as Christians was striking.
Separate, perhaps, from both groups, was what we saw on the stage – that is, the public presentation of the far–right which, while more sanitised at points than might it have been, was nonetheless still strikingly provocative and at times, aggressive.
What we encountered resists easy generalisations or sweeping judgement. If anything, it highlights the importance of acknowledging the various and frequently complex ways in which faith, identity, and grievance are interwoven in such spaces. It might seem strange to say we found a far–right rally interesting, and there are certainly many millions of Britons who would have been uncomfortable and possibly even in danger there. But it is a worthwhile experience if you want to get to know our new political landscape, or at least one region of it, in its good, bad and sometimes ugly forms.
Theos is publishing research examining Christian nationalism in the UK and Europe. Full research findings and analysis for research countries (UK, France, Germany, Poland, Hungary and Romania) will be published over coming months. Sign up here to receive this research straight to your inbox upon its release.
