In the world of nutrition, few words are more contentious than healthy. Experts and influencers alike are perpetually warring over whether fats are dangerous for the heart, whether carbs are good or bad for your waistline, and how much protein a person truly needs. But if identifying healthy food is not always straightforward, actually eating it is an even more monumental feat.

As a reporter covering food and nutrition, I know to limit my salt and sugar consumption. But I still struggle to do it. The short-term euphoria from snacking on Double Stuf Oreos is hard to forgo in favor of the long-term benefit of losing a few pounds. Surveys show that Americans want to eat healthier, but the fact that more than 70 percent of U.S. adults are overweight underscores just how many of us fail.

The challenge of improving the country’s diet was put on stark display late last month, when the FDA released its new guidelines for which foods can be labeled as healthy. The roughly 300-page rule—the government’s first update to its definition of healthy in three decades—lays out in granular detail what does and doesn’t count as healthy. The action could make it much easier to walk down a grocery-store aisle and pick products that are good for you based on the label alone: A cup of yogurt laced with lots of sugar can no longer be branded as “healthy.” Yet the FDA estimates that zero to 0.4 percent of people trying to follow the government’s dietary guidelines will use the new definition “to make meaningful, long-lasting food purchasing decisions.” In other words, virtually no one.

All of this is a bad omen for Donald Trump’s pick to lead the Department of Health and Human Services. As part of his agenda to “make America healthy again,” Robert F. Kennedy Jr. has pledged to improve the country’s eating habits by overthrowing a public-health establishment that he sees as ineffective. He has promised mass firings at the FDA, specifically calling out its food regulators. Indeed, for decades, the agency’s efforts to encourage better eating habits have largely focused on giving consumers more information about the foods they are eating. It hasn’t worked. If confirmed, Kennedy may face the same problem as many of his predecessors: It’s maddeningly hard to get Americans to eat healthier.

[Read: Everyone agrees Americans aren’t healthy]

Giving consumers more information about what they’re eating might seem like a no-brainer, but when these policies are tested in the real world, they often do not lead to healthier eating habits. Since 2018, chain restaurants have had to add calorie counts to their menus; however, researchers have consistently found that doing so doesn’t have a dramatic effect on what foods people eat. Even more stringent policies, such as a law in Chile that requires food companies to include warnings on unhealthy products, have had only a modest effect on improving a country’s health.

The estimate that up to 0.4 percent of people will change their habits as a consequence of the new guidelines was calculated based on previous academic research quantifying the impacts of food labeling, an FDA spokesperson told me. Still, in spite of the underwhelming prediction, the FDA doesn’t expect the new rule to be for naught. Even a tiny fraction of Americans adds up over time: The agency predicts that enough people will eat healthier to result in societal benefits worth $686 million over the next 20 years.

These modest effects underscore that health concerns aren’t the only priority consumers are weighing when they decide whether to purchase foods. “When people are making food choices,” Eric Finkelstein, a health economist at Duke University’s Global Health Institute, told me, “price and taste and convenience weigh much heavier than health.” When I asked experts about better ways to get Americans to eat healthier, some of them talked vaguely about targeting agribusiness and the subsidies it receives from the government, and others mentioned the idea of taxing unhealthy foods, such as soda. But nearly everyone I spoke with struggled to articulate anything close to a silver bullet for fixing America’s diet issues.

RFK Jr. seems to be caught in the same struggle. Most of his ideas for “making America healthy again” revolve around small subsets of foods that he believes, often without evidence, are causing America’s obesity problems. He has warned, for example, about the unproven risks of seed oils and has claimed that if certain food dyes were removed from the food supply, “we’d lose weight.” Kennedy has also called for cutting the subsidies doled out to corn farmers, who grow the crops that make the high-fructose corn syrup that’s laden in many unhealthy foods, and has advocated for getting processed foods out of school meals.

There’s a reason previous health secretaries haven’t opted for the kinds of dramatic measures that Kennedy is advocating for. Some of them would be entirely out of his control. As the head of the HHS, he couldn’t cut crop subsidies; Congress decides how much money goes to farmers. He also couldn’t ban ultra-processed foods in school lunches; that would fall to the secretary of agriculture. And although he could, hypothetically, work with the FDA to ban seed oils, it’s unlikely that he would be able to generate enough legitimate scientific evidence about their harms to prevail in an inevitable legal challenge.

The biggest flaw in Kennedy’s plan is the assumption that he can change people’s eating habits by telling them what is and isn’t healthy, and banning a select few controversial ingredients. Changing those habits will require the government to tackle the underlying reasons Americans are so awful at keeping up with healthy eating. Not everyone suffers from an inability to resist Double Stuf Oreos: A survey from the Cleveland Clinic found that 46 percent of Americans see the cost of healthy food as the biggest barrier to improving their diet, and 23 percent said they lack the time to cook healthy meals.

If Kennedy figures out how to actually get people like me to care enough about healthy eating to resist the indulgent foods that give them pleasure, or if he figures out a way to get cash-strapped families on public assistance to turn down cheap, ready-to-eat foods, he will have made significant inroads into actually making America healthy again. But getting there is going to require a lot more than a catchy slogan and some sound bites.

No president has ever attempted to do what Donald Trump now proposes to do—assemble a small team of former personal attorneys and install it at the highest levels of the Department of Justice. The president-elect first named lawyers who have represented him in recent years to the key positions of deputy attorney general, principal deputy attorney general, and solicitor general. Then, with the quick death of the Matt Gaetz nomination, he announced a new attorney-general nominee, Pam Bondi, who was a member of his legal defense team in the first impeachment. The Justice Department’s responsibilities have always been subject to competing expectations: that it would keep politics out of law enforcement but, like other departments, would loyally serve the president in the implementation of his governing program. The results have been uneven, and at times disastrous, as with Richard Nixon and the Watergate scandal. But when problems arose, they were relatively localized: the product of poor appointments, or the failure of particular presidents in particular situations to respect institutional values and norms. What the DOJ faces now is different in kind: a vision of White House control achieved through the appointments of individuals the president has chosen because they have worked for him and demonstrated their loyalty. The pressing question now is whether these lawyers may be, as the president-elect likely hopes, the “president’s lawyers” in more than one sense.

The DOJ’s special status as “independent” is not provided for in the Constitution, but is also not solely a product of “norms” established in the post-Watergate era, as many standard accounts would have it. The office of attorney general was created by the Judiciary Act of 1789, and this context is meaningful. The attorney general’s function, which involved rendering legal opinions and representing the United States before the Supreme Court, was perceived to be quasi-judicial. The Senate version of the bill even provided that the Court would appoint this officer. The final bill called for the attorney general to be a “meet [fit] person learned in the law.” This language points clearly in the direction of expected professionalism, and historians have noted that legal opinions the attorney general rendered to executive-branch agencies were expected to be “impartial and judicial.”

The department’s history is not one of limitless glory, in which all attorneys general appointed to the office were the most “meet” and “learned.” But the understanding was that this officer would perform up to some professional standard. Edward Bates, an attorney general in the Lincoln administration, famously stated, “The office I hold is not properly political, but strictly legal, and it is my duty, above all ministers of state, to uphold the law and resist all encroachments, from whatever quarter, of mere will and power.” (Emphasis in the original.)

[Read: Judge Cannon comes to Trump’s aid, again]

In 1870, the Department of Justice was established, and the attorney general became its leader. Following the Civil War, the government’s legal work grew in volume and complexity, and much of it was hired out to costly private counsel. Additionally, various departments across the government hired their own legal representation, which resulted in a lack of consistency in the country’s legal positions.

But there was another motivation: One scholar, Jed H. Shugerman of Fordham University, has noted that the use of outside counsel presented risks of “sycophancy, cronyism, and lawlessness.” Reform-minded critics believed that a government department would enhance professionalism and efficiency, and therefore provide for the separation of law from politics in federal law administration and enforcement. It would stand for expertise and independence of judgment.

But because the DOJ was an executive department like many others, charged with supporting the president’s policies and programs, tension persisted between professionalism and fidelity to the president’s policy agenda—between “too little” and “too much” politics—and it has persisted to this day. “Too little” politics, and the president was denied a legitimate instrument for the achievement of his policy goals; “too much” politics, and the impartiality of law enforcement would be compromised.

Striking the right balance was always a challenge. Senator Alan Cranston of California, who was active in the debates after Watergate, acknowledged, “Even our best attorneys general have never been free from suspicions that because they are political appointees of the president, they will be loyal to him over any other call of duty.” And presidents did not always go out of their way to make appointments likely to assuage these concerns. Dwight Eisenhower, Richard Nixon, and Ronald Reagan, for example, chose their attorneys general from the ranks of their campaign’s senior officials. John F. Kennedy nominated a former campaign manager—who was also his brother, was only 35 years of age, and had never practiced law.

So, the tale is not just about Watergate. That scandal, which implicated (and led to the imprisonment of) numerous senior lawyers in the Nixon administration, launched a cycle of concern about the dangers of federal law enforcement conscripted into a president’s personal and political (and, in Nixon’s case, also illegal) projects. The Nixon lawyers violated law in support of a crude scheme and cover-up to aid the president’s reelection effort. No plainer example of the contamination of law by politics might be imagined. But the “after action” analysis of what went wrong did not mark the advent of new norms, but instead another phase in the historic struggle to strike the balance between “two little” and “too much” politics.

The debate over this balance took a new direction when Sam Ervin, the former chair of the Senate Watergate committee, proposed legislation to turn the DOJ into an independent agency. Setting aside the constitutional question—whether the federal law-enforcement function could be entirely exempted from executive control—the proposal was found wanting on practical grounds. The president needed counsel of his own choice: The department legitimately owes the chief executive its principled fidelity to the achievement of the policy goals presumably mandated by the voters. Ervin held hearings on his proposal at which witnesses from both sides of the political divide testified against full DOJ independence from the president.

The testimony before Ervin’s committee included the warning that an independent department would further empower the White House counsel, a position appointed by the president without Senate confirmation. Presidents looking to exercise more control over the legal affairs of their administration than an independent DOJ might allow could rely on the White House counsel as the key source of legal advice, right there in the West Wing. This senior staff lawyer could quickly become the de facto, shadowy head of what one critic of the plan, the former counsel to President Kennedy, termed “a little department of Justice.” (Some of this came to pass anyway; the White House counsel would become highly influential in the president’s legal affairs in many administrations, and critics have argued that the office has encroached on the attorney general’s constitutional territory.) The American Bar Association came out against Ervin’s proposal.

Eventually, the Ervin plan failed, as did others like it. Soon, the question was how to adjust the balance between politics and nonpartisanship, between a commitment to the president’s governing program and independence in law-enforcement decisions. Congress passed a number of reforms designed to control the abuse of presidential power for improper political purposes, such as a 10-year term for the FBI director; restrictions on access to IRS records; the establishment of a special court to approve electronic law-enforcement surveillance; and the creation, in 1978, of the post of inspector general at agencies across the government, including at the DOJ. Additionally, in the years since Watergate, presidential administrations have routinely established policies restricting their staff’s communications with the Department of Justice in order to, as the version from the Biden White House puts it, “ensure that DOJ exercises its investigatory and prosecutorial functions free from the fact or appearance of improper political influence.”

But even with reforms, much will always depend on the quality of appointments to the DOJ’s top positions. Daniel J. Meador, a former assistant attorney general and respected legal scholar, concluded that “in the end it is the individual occupying the office that will determine, more than anything else, whether an ‘incompatible marriage’ [between politics and law enforcement] is consummated or prevented in the administration of federal justice.” The American Bar Association concurred, arguing that the confirmation process for an attorney general “should assume the same importance” as that for a nominee to the Supreme Court.

[David A. Graham: Trump’s DOJ was more dangerous than we knew]

Some post-Watergate presidents have chosen judges or lawyers with extensive department or law-enforcement experience to serve as attorney general; others have selected those with whom they’ve had a personal or political connection. A number of presidents appointed AGs from the senior ranks of their political campaign’s advisers, including their campaign managers.

But Trump has set himself apart from even these predecessors, viewing the Department of Justice in the most personal of terms as his own. He has not bought into the goal of a quasi-independent DOJ. He has openly questioned why he should not have complete control over the department. This is, he proclaims, his “absolute right.” He expects “loyalty” from his staff and appointments, the DOJ included, and the loyalty he apparently has in mind is the unhampered variety modeled by his personal counsel of many years, Roy Cohn. As Trump put it, Cohn “was vicious to others in his protection of me.” The loyalty owed to him, particularly from his lawyers, was what he understands to be “protection.” When his first attorney general, Jeff Sessions, previously co-chair of his 2016 presidential campaign, recused himself from all matters involving the campaign, including the investigation into Russian ties, Trump reportedly raged at him that his AG was supposed to protect him. The recusal, therefore, constituted an act of personal betrayal and not, as Sessions viewed it, a decision necessarily reached after consultation with senior DOJ officials.

Trump’s intent to nominate multiple members of his personal legal team—lawyers whose loyalty has been tested in attorney-client relationships of keenest importance to the client—indicates that he is looking to seal in the personal protection he was denied in his prior term. In recognizing the danger here, it is not necessary to minimize or dismiss the professional qualities and accomplishments of all the lawyers he has chosen. Some (Todd Blanche and Emil Bove) have criminal law-enforcement experience. The nominee for solicitor general (D. John Sauer) has had clerkships and other experiences shared by many leading appellate advocates. But, if confirmed, these lawyers would come to their positions on the basis of their close and recent service to the president-elect as his personal counsel. And these officials may be working under Pam Bondi, who also participated in the president’s personal legal defense in his first term. This would be a consequential shift in the understanding of where the line ought to lie between “too little” and “too much” distance between the DOJ and the White House.

Presidents anxious to have loyal support from lawyers close to them have put their hopes in the White House counsel rather than a politically vetted, personally loyal corps of DOJ officials, and placed those to whom they were close in that role. One former DOJ official, the late Justice Antonin Scalia, put the point in mild terms when he characterized White House counsels as sources of “permissive and congenial advice.”

The Trump nominations represent an incoming president’s choice to take a more direct route to that advice. There is a far higher risk that the president will expect from these government lawyers the loyalty a client believes is owed by personal counsel. White House counsels have no power other than the opportunity to advise on the law, and certainly none to initiate investigations or prosecutions. Attorneys general, and those supporting them at the most senior levels of the DOJ, have broad authority and discretion in law enforcement.

Reagan selected a personal attorney, William French Smith, as attorney general, and this choice drew attention—as well as very specific assurances from the nominee. Asked during his Senate confirmation process whether this history of professional service would compromise his impartiality, Smith began by minimizing the extent of his role as Reagan’s personal lawyer—evidently in the belief that it was best downplayed: “Actually, although I have been referred to as the president’s personal attorney, that relationship probably has been the least significant aspect of my relationship with him.” He then committed to a comprehensive recusal policy:

I would have to be very conscious of situations where it could appear that because of that relationship, a problem might be created. Certainly, if a situation arises involving the president or a member of his family or others in a sensitive situation, I would recuse myself from participating or handling any aspect which might develop out of that situation.

Recusals at the Department of Justice, considered in consultation with career ethics advisers, are not uncommon. The test, as Sessions stated in his own recusal, is a broad one, applicable to any matter in which an official’s “impartiality might reasonably be questioned.” Attorneys general have recused themselves when a former aide was involved in an inquiry, or an adult child was defense counsel to an officer of a firm under investigation, or the CEO of such a company had made a contribution to a political campaign the attorney general had run some two years before. In the case of Trump’s senior DOJ nominees, the recusal issues are plainly presented by their recent and extensive personal attorney-client relationship with the president-elect. Among those issues are these lawyers’ potential future involvement in plans Trump has announced for “de-politicizing” the department, and, relatedly, potentially advising on his interest in retribution directed against political enemies. In both cases, a source, if not the main source, of Trump’s concerns and plans is the criminal prosecutions in which these lawyers were his defense counsel. How recusal requirements play out for these lawyers remains to be determined—recusals are fact-specific—but numerous questions might develop about whether they can advise on changes to DOJ programs and policies that the president might be considering.

Another question for these nominees is their commitment, beyond appropriate recusals, to other tools and procedures in place at the department to protect against abuse of investigative and prosecutorial power. The risk of abuse is by no means conjectural. Even if Trump and his supporters could reasonably point to problems in the conduct of federal law enforcement, he has never stopped there, instead threatening retaliation in extreme terms against political adversaries. The president is not barred in any way from communicating his expectations directly and freely to DOJ officials about his retaliatory impulses or designs, and, as the Supreme Court recently held, he will be fully immunized from any legal consequences.

How, then, will these nominees manage the unique pressures they face—in which the president’s perception of their loyalty is grounded in service to him as personal counsel? At the least in the case of the solicitor general designate, John Sauer, the signs so far are not encouraging. On December 27, as personal counsel to President-elect Trump, he filed a brief with the Supreme Court in the pending TikTok case. The Court is preparing to decide whether Congress may constitutionally ban the platform’s domestic operations unless, by January 19, 2025, it arranges by divestments to end Chinese-government control. Sauer argues that the Court should take action to prevent the ban from going into effect, giving time for Trump to take office and resolve the issue through some unspecified form of negotiated settlement. The nominee’s personal representation of Trump in a case involving his second-term presidency is sufficiently troubling, but his brief also brims over with adulatory language about Trump’s personal skills and successes: his “consummate dealmaking expertise,” his “resoundingly successful social-media platform, Truth Social,” his “first Term … highlighted by a series of policy triumphs achieved through historical deals.”

[David A. Graham: Aileen Cannon is who critics feared she was]

This is the lawyer acting as a publicist, or perhaps just bending far in the direction of the personal client’s desire for plaudits—hardly the right posture for someone soon to come before the Senate for confirmation as the senior DOJ official to represent the United States in the federal courts. Even The Wall Street Journal, far from unfriendly to the new administration, flinched: “The SG isn’t supposed to be Mr. Trump’s personal attorney, and Mr. Sauer’s brief won’t help his credibility with the Justices if he is confirmed by the Senate. We trust the Justices will ignore this amicus sophistry.”

In the confirmation process, Sauer should be questioned about this choice of representation and what it suggests, or doesn’t, about his view of the solicitor general’s role. And all the nominees from the president’s personal legal team should be examined on their understanding of and commitment to other procedures and policies now in place at the DOJ to protect the appropriate degree of independence and impartiality. For example, what are these nominees’ view of the department’s Domestic Investigations and Operations Guide (DIOG), which applies to “sensitive investigative matters” such as those involving a political official or political party, or a political ally or adversary of the president? The guide’s stated purpose is to “ensure that all investigative and intelligence collection activities are conducted within Constitutional and statutory parameters and that civil liberties and privacy are protected.” Also, in the past, the DOJ has adopted, and formally communicated to Congress, the position that politically motivated prosecution decisions might violate federal obstruction-of-justice law. Underlying this view is the department’s embrace of the principle that “undue sensitivity to politics” is inconsistent with “fairness and justice” and that “partisan political considerations [should] play no role in … law enforcement decisions.” In the upcoming confirmation proceedings, senators should ask for the nominees’ perspective on these principles and their conscientious application.

The hope now should be for a serious confirmation process in which these fundamental institutional stakes, not purely partisan differences, should be front and center. All too often in recent years, the debate over institutional questions of this kind has become a referendum on Trump himself. This is not altogether avoidable: These are Trump’s nominees, reflecting Trump’s plans for the presidency and for the DOJ, and the parties are deeply divided on his politics and governing program. But if the debate is framed in the simplest terms—for or against Trump—the larger implications for the institution of the Department of Justice will recede into the background, if they are not lost entirely, and the prospect for responsible bipartisan deliberation will be lost. The public deserves better than that.

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Frosty pine trees rim the edge of an icy lake. Snow is falling; spa music plays in the background. A gray-haired man with a pleasant face stands beside the lake. He begins to undress. He is going swimming, he explains, to demonstrate his faith, and his opposition to science, to technology, to modernity. “I don’t need Facebook; I don’t need the internet; I don’t need anybody. I just need my heart,” he says. As he swims across the lake, seemingly unbothered by the cold, he continues: “I trust my immune system because I have complete trust and faith in its creator, in God. My immunity is part of the sovereignty of my being.”

This is Călin Georgescu, the man who shocked his countrymen when he won the first round of the Romanian presidential election on November 24, despite hardly registering in opinion polls and conducting his campaign almost entirely on TikTok, where the platform’s rules, ostensibly designed to limit or regulate political messages, appear not to have constrained him. On the contrary, he used the tactics that many social-media influencers deploy to appeal to the TikTok algorithm. Sometimes he added soft, melancholic piano music, imploring people to “vote with your souls.” Sometimes he used pop-up subtitles, harsh lighting, fluorescent colors, and electronic music, calling for a “national renaissance” and criticizing the secret forces that have allegedly sought to harm Romanians. “The order to destroy our jobs came from the outside,” he says in one video. In another, he speaks of “subliminal messages” and thought control, his voice accompanied by images of a hand holding puppet strings. In the months leading up to the election, these videos amassed more than 1 million views.

Elsewhere, this gentle-seeming New Age mystic has praised Ion Antonescu, the Romanian wartime dictator who conspired with Hitler and was sentenced to death for war crimes, including his role in the Romanian Holocaust. He has called both Antonescu and the prewar leader of the Iron Guard, a violent anti-Semitic movement, national heroes. He twice met with Alexander Dugin, the Russian fascist ideologue, who posted on X a (subsequently deleted) statement that “Romania will be part of Russia.” And at the same time, Georgescu praises the spiritual qualities of water. “We don’t know what water is,” he has said; “H₂O means nothing.” Also, “Water has a memory, and we destroy its soul through pollution,” and “Water is alive and sends us messages, but we don’t know how to listen to them.” He believes that carbonated drinks contain nanochips that “enter into you like a laptop.” His wife, Cristela, produces YouTube videos on healing, using terms such as lymphatic acidosis and calcium metabolism to make her points.

Both of them also promote “peace,” a vague goal that seems to mean that Romania, which borders Ukraine and Moldova, should stop helping Ukraine defend itself against Russian invaders. “War cannot be won by war,” Cristela Georgescu wrote on Instagram a few weeks before voting began. “War destroys not only physically, it destroys HEARTS.” Neither she nor her husband mentions the security threats to Romania that would grow exponentially following a Russian victory in Ukraine, nor the economic costs, refugee crisis, and political instability that would follow. It is noteworthy that although Călin Georgescu claimed to have spent no money on this campaign, the Romanian government says someone illegally paid TikTok users hundreds of thousands of dollars to promote Georgescu and that unknown outsiders coordinated the activity of tens of thousands of fake accounts, including some impersonating state institutions, that supported him. Hackers, suspected to be Russian, carried out more than 85,000 cyberattacks on Romanian election infrastructure as well. On December 6, in response to the Romanian government’s findings about “aggressive” Russian attacks and violations of Romanian electoral law, Romania’s Constitutional Court canceled the election and annulled the results of the first round.

Given this strange combination—Iron Guard nostalgia and Russian trolls plus the sort of wellness gibberish more commonly associated with Gwyneth Paltrow—who exactly are the Georgescus? How to classify them? Tempting though it is to describe them as “far right,” this old-fashioned terminology doesn’t quite capture whom or what they represent. The terms right-wing and left-wing come from the French Revolution, when the nobility, who sought to preserve the status quo, sat on the right side of the National Assembly, and the revolutionaries, who wanted democratic change, sat on the left. Those definitions began to fail us a decade ago, when a part of the right, in both Europe and North America, began advocating not caution and conservatism but the destruction of existing democratic institutions. In its new incarnation, the far right began to resemble the old far left. In some places, the two began to merge.

When I first wrote about the need for new political terminology, in 2017, I struggled to come up with better terms. But now the outlines of a popular political movement are becoming clearer, and this movement has no relation at all to the right or the left as we know them. The philosophers of the Enlightenment, whose belief in the possibility of law-based democratic states gave us both the American and French Revolutions, railed against what they called obscurantism: darkness, obfuscation, irrationality. But the prophets of what we might now call the New Obscurantism offer exactly those things: magical solutions, an aura of spirituality, superstition, and the cultivation of fear. Among their number are health quacks and influencers who have developed political ambitions; fans of the quasi-religious QAnon movement and its Pizzagate-esque spin-offs; and members of various political parties, all over Europe, that are pro-Russia and anti-vaccine and, in some cases, promoters of mystical nationalism as well. Strange overlaps are everywhere. Both the left-wing German politician Sahra Wagenknecht and the right-wing Alternative for Germany party promote vaccine and climate-change skepticism, blood-and-soil nationalism, and withdrawal of German support for Ukraine. All across Central Europe, a fascination with runes and folk magic aligns with both right-wing xenophobia and left-wing paganism. Spiritual leaders are becoming political, and political actors have veered into the occult. Tucker Carlson, the former Fox News host who has become an apologist for Russian aggression, has claimed that he was attacked by a demon that left “claw marks” on his body.

This New Obscurantism has now affected the highest levels of U.S. politics. Foreigners and Americans alike have been hard-pressed to explain the ideology represented by some of Donald Trump’s initial Cabinet nominations, and for good reason. Although Trump won reelection as a Republican, there was nothing traditionally “Republican” about proposing Tulsi Gabbard as director of national intelligence. Gabbard is a former progressive Democrat with lifelong ties to the Science of Identity Foundation, a Hare Krishna breakaway sect. Like Carlson, she is also an apologist for the brutal Russian dictator Vladimir Putin and for the recently deposed dictator of Syria, Bashar al‑Assad, both of whose fantastical lies she has sometimes repeated. Nor is there anything “conservative” about Kash Patel, Trump’s nominee for FBI director, who has suggested that he intends to target a long list of current and former government officials, including many who served in the first Trump administration. In keeping with the spirit of the New Obscurantists, Patel has also promoted Warrior Essentials, a business selling antidotes both to COVID and to COVID vaccines. But then, no one who took seriously the philosophy of Edmund Burke or William F. Buckley Jr. would put a conspiracy theorist like Robert F. Kennedy Jr.—another Putin apologist, former Democrat (indeed, from the most famous Democratic family in America), and enemy of vaccines, as well as fluoride—in charge of American health care. No “conservative” defender of traditional family values would propose, as ambassador to France, a convicted felon who sent a prostitute to seduce his sister’s husband in order to create a compromising tape—especially if that convicted felon happened to be the father of the president’s son-in-law.

[From the October 2024 issue: Kash Patel will do anything for Trump]

Rather than conservatism as conventionally understood, this crowd and its international counterparts represent the fusion of several trends that have been coalescing for some time. The hawkers of vitamin supplements and unproven COVID cures now mingle—not by accident—with open admirers of Putin’s Russia, especially those who mistakenly believe that Putin leads a “white Christian nation.” (In reality, Russia is multicultural, multiracial, and generally irreligious; its trolls promote vaccine skepticism as well as lies about Ukraine.) Fans of Hungarian Prime Minister Viktor Orbán—a small-time autocrat who has impoverished his country, now one of the poorest in Europe, while enriching his family and friends—make common cause with Americans who have broken the law, gone to jail, stolen from their own charities, or harassed women. And no wonder: In a world where conspiracy theories and nonsense cures are widely accepted, the evidence-based concepts of guilt and criminality vanish quickly too.

Among the followers of this new political movement are some of the least wealthy Americans. Among its backers are some of the most wealthy. George O’Neill Jr., a Rockefeller heir who is a board member of The American Conservative magazine, turned up at Mar-a-Lago after the election; O’Neill, who was a close contact of Maria Butina, the Russian agent deported in 2019, has promoted Gabbard since at least 2017, donating to her presidential campaign in 2020, as well as to Kennedy’s in 2024. Elon Musk, the billionaire inventor who has used his social-media platform, X, to give an algorithmic boost to stories he surely knows are false, has managed to carve out a government role for himself. Are O’Neill, Musk, and the cryptocurrency dealers who have flocked to Trump in this for the money? Or do they actually believe the conspiratorial and sometimes anti-American ideas they’re promulgating? Maybe one, maybe the other, possibly both. Whether their motivations are cynical or sincere matters less than their impact, not just in the U.S. but around the world. For better or for worse, America sets examples that others follow. Merely by announcing his intention to nominate Kennedy to his Cabinet, Trump has ensured that skepticism of childhood vaccines will spread around the world, possibly followed by the diseases themselves. And epidemics, as we’ve recently learned, tend to make people frightened, and more willing to embrace magical solutions.

Other civilizations have experienced moments like this one. As their empire began to decline in the 16th century, the Venetians began turning to magic and looking for fast ways to get rich. Mysticism and occultism spread rapidly in the dying days of the Russian empire. Peasant sects promoted exotic beliefs and practices, including anti-materialism, self-flagellation, and self-castration. Aristocrats in Moscow and St. Petersburg turned to theosophy, a mishmash of world religions whose Russian-born inventor, Helena Blavatsky, brought her Hindu-Buddhist-Christian-Neoplatonic creed to the United States. The same feverish, emotional atmosphere that produced these movements eventually propelled Rasputin, a peasant holy man who claimed that he had magical healing powers, into the imperial palace. After convincing Empress Alexandra that he could cure her son’s hemophilia, he eventually became a political adviser to the czar.

Rasputin’s influence produced, in turn, a kind of broader hysteria. By the time the First World War broke out, many Russians were convinced that dark forces—tyomnye sily—were secretly in control of the country. “They could be different things to different people—Jews, Germans, Freemasons, Alexandra, Rasputin, and the court camarilla,” writes Douglas Smith, one of Rasputin’s biographers. “But it was taken on faith that they were the true masters of Russia.” As one Russian theosophist put it, “Enemies really do exist who are poisoning Russia with negative emanations.”

Replace dark forces with the deep state, and how different is that story from ours? Like the Russians in 1917, we live in an era of rapid, sometimes unacknowledged, change: economic, political, demographic, educational, social, and, above all, informational. We, too, exist in a permanent cacophony, where conflicting messages, right and left, true and false, flash across our screens all the time. Traditional religions are in long-term decline. Trusted institutions seem to be failing. Techno-optimism has given way to techno-pessimism, a fear that technology now controls us in ways we can’t understand. And in the hands of the New Obscurantists—who actively promote fear of illness, fear of nuclear war, fear of death—dread and anxiety are powerful weapons.

[Autocracy in America: The end of democracy has already begun]

For Americans, the merging of pseudo-spirituality with politics represents a departure from some of our deepest principles: that logic and reason lead to good government; that fact-based debate leads to good policy; that governance prospers in sunlight; and that the political order inheres in rules and laws and processes, not mystical charisma. The supporters of the New Obscurantism have also broken with the ideals of America’s Founders, all of whom considered themselves to be men of the Enlightenment. Benjamin Franklin was not only a political thinker but a scientist and a brave advocate of smallpox inoculation. George Washington was fastidious about rejecting monarchy, restricting the power of the executive, and establishing the rule of law. Later American leaders—Lincoln, Roosevelt, King—quoted the Constitution and its authors to bolster their own arguments.

By contrast, this rising international elite is creating something very different: a society in which superstition defeats reason and logic, transparency vanishes, and the nefarious actions of political leaders are obscured behind a cloud of nonsense and distraction. There are no checks and balances in a world where only charisma matters, no rule of law in a world where emotion defeats reason—only a void that anyone with a shocking and compelling story can fill.

This article appears in the February 2025 print edition with the headline “The New Rasputins.”