Among the roster of nominees to fill Donald Trump’s recently re-elected presidential cabinet is Pete Hegseth, whom Trump has chosen as his Secretary of Defence. Hegseth’s credentials for the position are not extensive: he is a U.S. Army veteran who attained the rank of major but has no significant political or leadership experience commensurate with overseeing one of the largest and most complex military organisations in history.
His nomination, however, was enthusiastically received by right-wing social media, where his tattoos are often featured. Among tributes to American patriotism—including images from the “don’t tread on me” flag, an American flag with an automatic weapon, and the phrase “we the people” on his forearm—are the so-called “Jerusalem Cross” and the Latin phrase Deus Vult (God wills it).
As scholars such as Stefan Vander Elst explore in The Knight, The Cross, and the Song (2017), these symbols hark back to the Crusades. To the discerning observer, they may signal a worldview that champions the idea of Christendom reclaiming the Holy Land or the West uniting under a common banner to wage a sacred war against the “East.”
For any follower of American politics, a nominee for Secretary of Defence bearing such tattoos is unlikely to surprise. American Republicans have increasingly embraced Christian Nationalism in response to growing diversity and progressivism, and Trump has adopted this mantle out of convenience rather than as the result of a spiritual awakening on the road from Mar-a-Lago.
While this may not be shocking, it is deeply unsettling within a broader context. These tattoos might be dismissed as superficial Crusader cosplay, but they rest less comfortably on a man who could command over three million military personnel while serving a political movement that does not view the Crusader model as mere symbolism. For many American Christian Nationalists, there is a belief in a genuine war between “us” and the rest of the world—a conflict rooted in history, religion, and values, with Israel occupying a prophetic position that signals the end of days.
There was a time when I might have laughed at such broad conspiracy thinking, but given the hundreds of thousands of social media accounts cheering this selection and echoing the sentiment that we are engaged in a battle of good versus evil, I find myself wondering about the real difference between the rebirth of Deus Vult online and another military power’s historical declaration of Gott mit uns (“God is with us”).
A brief scroll through Medieval heraldry online reveals a dizzying mix of religious bigotry, misogyny, transphobia, homophobia, and more—all cloaked under the facile pretences of “tradition” and a “return to the past.” The most visible representations of Greek and Roman antiquity online are rapidly becoming battlegrounds of coded imagery, half-understood phrases, and escalating political tensions.
When Trump was first elected in 2016, there was a concomitant rise in “alt-right” activity, much of which appropriated imagery from the ancient Mediterranean, particularly on Greece and Rome, and drew heavily on Medieval Christian and Crusader traditions. Initially, classicists and medievalists reacted against what they saw as the misappropriation of the past by hate groups. Over time, however, some scholars argued that these appropriations were not distortions but rather capitalisations on elements already embedded in these traditions. White supremacy and colonialism, they contended, were “a feature, not a bug,” of the Classical tradition.
This resurgence of hate-filled rhetoric has prompted reflection. Critics of the “feature, not a bug” argument caution against throwing the proverbial baby out with the bathwater. Yet, when grappling with cultural legacies that have persisted for two thousand years, it can be difficult to disentangle what should be preserved from what must be discarded. More importantly, we must avoid the trap of binary thinking. Cultures are not monolithic, nor do they offer simple prescriptions; they are layered tapestries, full of contradictions, holes, and patches.
Cultures are not monolithic, nor do they offer simple prescriptions; they are layered tapestries, full of contradictions, holes, and patches.
Any student of Greek poetry or religion quickly learns that no ancient god or concept is wholly good or evil. Hermes, for instance, is both the protector of thieves and the defender against them because he governs thresholds. Apollo brings both healing and plagues, as his domain encompasses health. Similarly, our inheritance from the past is neither purely virtuous nor entirely corrupt—it is a complex system of ideas, events, and beliefs that we must actively engage with in the present.
As scholars, teachers, and enthusiasts, what is our responsibility in helping others interpret the past? We are not merely guardians of texts and languages or discoverers of artefacts. We are also guides across times and cultures. It is insufficient to declare that certain groups are “using the past wrong” when they are drawing from strands that undeniably exist within it. Nor can we deny that a modern politician draped in Crusader propaganda is a legitimate heir of a history that includes men who waged violent campaigns under the banner of the cross.
Yet, it is equally true that a progressive and inclusive vision of the world has emerged from the same dialogues with the past that once justified sacking Jerusalem and Constantinople. Figures like Mary Wollstonecraft, W.E.B. Du Bois, and Judith Butler have drawn upon the Classical tradition to push humanity forward. While regressive approaches to the humanities proliferate in places like Elon Musk’s X and Ralston College, the real work of the humanities—articulating a better future—remains unfinished. Nothing human is ever perfect, but the desire to strive for goodness is uniquely so.
Any student of Greek poetry or religion quickly learns that no ancient god or concept is wholly good or evil.
Take Homer’s Iliad, for example. It is often misread as a celebration of manliness and the pursuit of eternal glory. Yet, Achilles’ quest for honour leads him to wish for his own people’s destruction, ultimately resulting in Patroclus’ death. Even Hektor’s death cannot satiate Achilles’ rage because it was not Hektor who killed the man he loved. The Iliad culminates in a poignant moment of shared humanity when Priam kisses the hands of his son’s killer, and the two men weep together over their mutual loss.
This is perhaps the most vital lesson antiquity has left us: recognising oneself in another is profoundly difficult. It often takes suffering and loss to see an enemy as fully human. These are the lessons we must champion as a counterweight to reimagined crusades. The past is vast and variable—we cannot simply cede this ground. Instead, we must retell and reframe its stories to recover the seeds of a better world for all of us.
Joel P. Christensen is a professor of classical and early Mediterranean studies at Brandeis University, where he also serves as Senior Associate Provost for Faculty Affairs. He published The Many-Minded Man: The “Odyssey”, Psychology, and the Therapy of Epic in 2020 and will release Storylife: On Epic, Narrative, and Living Things with Yale in 2025.
