In the aftermath of the recent election—marked by an unexpected landslide victory for Donald Trump—political analysts and social commentators find themselves grappling with the deeper implications of a seismic political shift. Perhaps most startling is the swell of support for Trump among young voters, including a diverse cross-section of young people of color. This trend feels like a sharp break from the countercultural movements of the 1960s, which were defined by youth-driven pushes toward progressive, left-leaning ideals and often stood in direct opposition to the conservative establishment of the time.
This piece isn’t about drawing moral or ideological equivalencies between these movements. Instead, it’s about exploring their shared framework: both arise in moments of turbulence, cutting across traditional divides to confront what they perceive as oppressive power structures. Both channel a uniquely patriotic ethos and invoke Christianity or Jesus—not necessarily tied to conventional church practices—as symbols of their cause. This cultural DNA suggests that America’s identity as a “Christian country” runs deeper than religious observance. It reflects a kind of shared foundation—a lens that, despite these movements’ opposing stances, might help us better understand their deeper significance.
The 1960s was a time of upheaval, marked by young people rallying against the Vietnam War, racial inequality, and the rigid societal norms of their parents’ generation. This was the era of the counterculture: a left-leaning movement that sought to disrupt the status quo in the name of peace, love, and equality. Music became its lifeblood, with artists like Bob Dylan, The Beatles, and Jimi Hendrix creating soundtracks that not only captured the zeitgeist but also propelled it forward. Spirituality, too, wove through these anthems; references to Jesus or other religious imagery were common but often recast in ways that transcended traditional Christian dogma. Bands like The Grateful Dead created entire worlds within their music—explorations of community, spirituality, and transcendence that unified their followers.
But the 1960s also birthed a darker rebellion. Figures like Anton LaVey, who founded the Church of Satan in 1966, challenged the era’s spiritual experimentation from an entirely different angle. LaVey’s Satanism wasn’t about devil worship; it was a declaration of individualism and defiance against the moral constraints of organized religion. Even so, its provocations underscored the decade’s willingness to question, deconstruct, and redefine the structures of belief.
Today’s dynamics look vastly different, yet a strange echo remains. Many young people, disillusioned by the perceived failures of progressive governance and liberal ideology, are gravitating toward conservative values. For some, this is a rebellion against what they see as an oppressive, dogmatic liberal establishment—an ironic mirror of their grandparents’ rebellion against conservative authority decades earlier.
In this modern counterculture, spirituality takes a sharp turn. Some adherents, particularly those aligned with the QAnon movement, claim a literal belief in satanic forces, accusing elites of engaging in demonic rituals. For these believers, the battle against the “powers that be” isn’t just political or cultural—it’s spiritual. This framing transforms their rebellion into a cosmic war between good and evil, imbuing it with a kind of apocalyptic urgency.
Patriotism runs through both movements like an undercurrent—different in expression but deeply significant. In the 1960s, even as countercultural movements criticized the government and military, they carried a kind of idealistic patriotism. They wanted America to live up to its founding ideals of liberty and justice. The Grateful Dead’s playful use of American imagery, like Uncle Sam and red-white-and-blue motifs, reflected this duality: a rejection of America’s flaws but not of America itself. “Wave that flag, wave it high and wide.”
In contrast, today’s countercultural movements embrace overt patriotism. MAGA supporters wave flags with pride, champion nationalism, and celebrate a return to traditional values. For them, patriotism isn’t about critiquing America to make it better—it’s about defending a version of America they believe is under siege.
And then there’s Jesus. In the 1960s, Jesus was often reframed as a countercultural figure himself—a symbol of peace, love, and defiance against authority. The Grateful covered dozens of songs that referenced Jesus or God (Christian). Today, Jesus takes on a more traditional role: a figure of moral clarity and divine authority in a chaotic world. Despite these differences, the invocation of Christian imagery in both eras underscores how deeply it’s embedded in America’s cultural identity—organically resurfacing even when detached from organized religion. Remember, Mrs. Robinson, “Jesus loves you more than you will know.”
In every movement, public figures emerge as avatars of change. The 1960s saw John Lennon and Jane Fonda step into these roles, often reluctantly. Lennon evolved from an apolitical pop star to an outspoken peace advocate. At the same time, Fonda’s transformation from Hollywood darling to anti-war activist made her both a hero and a lightning rod for controversy. Similarly, today’s countercultural figures—like J.P. Sears and Russell Brand—use their platforms to challenge the status quo. Sears, in particular, has made the most noticeable shift over the past five years, and both became Christian very publicaly. Their shifts from mainstream entertainers to voices of dissent mirror a broader public discontent and the shifting tides of societal values.
I have never liked the expression “history repeats itself.” It probably comes from my time at the University of Georgia, where I was majoring in history in the early 90s, where it was said to be a layman’s attempt at sounding philosophical.” However, history does seem to breathe in cycles. Countercultures rise in response to the perceived overreach or stagnation of the establishment. In the 1960s, the establishment was conservative, rooted in Cold War fears and traditional values. The counterculture pushed back with a progressive vision of transformation. Today, the establishment is predominantly liberal, and the new counterculture—embodied by MAGA and similar movements—rebels against its dominance.
This cycle reveals something essential: countercultures aren’t inherently left or right. At their core, they are about challenging power and demanding accountability. Whether they’re fighting for civil rights or cultural preservation, countercultures hold up a mirror to society, asking it to live up to its ideals.
For all their differences, the counterculture of the 1960s and today’s MAGA movement share surprising common ground. Both are driven by a desire to redefine America’s identity and purpose. Both use spiritual and patriotic symbols to connect with broader audiences, whether the Grateful Dead’s playful Americana or MAGA’s flag-waving fervor.
The persistent invocation of Jesus in both eras speaks to something profound. Perhaps America is a “Christian country” after all—not in strict religious adherence but as a cultural reality. The enduring resonance of Jesus as a symbol of peace, love, and moral clarity suggests a shared thread in the American consciousness, even across ideological divides.
Ultimately, the counterculture of the 1960s and the MAGA movement reflect two sides of the same coin. Their methods and ideologies may differ, but their motivations—a search for freedom, justice, and identity—remain remarkably consistent. They are products of their time and proof of the enduring spirit of American rebellion.
I guess it is only fitting that they are also attached to the dollar, which is loaded with patriotic and spiritual messaging: “In God we trust.” I wonder if all three will be present the next time this proposed cycle, or swing in the popular pendulum, comes around in the 2090s.