I'm in downtown Warsaw in the middle of Europe's biggest far-right rally and it's messing with my mind.

The weird part isn't the souvenir stands selling anti-Muslim t-shirts or the angry young men wearing skull masks and chanting "faggots forbidden".

That's standard for an ultranationalist rally.

What's really jarring is the sight of priests standing behind them clutching rosaries.

Then there are the old ladies singing songs about bashing Marxists and the young families who've brought their babies out in prams to celebrate the parade.

Around 60,000 Poles marched in the streets of Warsaw in Europe's biggest far-right rally. Speakers called for a new crusade against Leftists, cultural Marxists and liberal ideology. ( Foreign Correspondent: Mikel Konate )

In Poland, ultranationalists aren't just obsessed with white civilisation and getting rid of foreigners.

They're also big on Catholic family values and determined to stamp out what they see as decadent Western liberalism.

"You know what Marxists and Lefties are afraid of?" far-right leader Robert Bakiewicz shouts to the crowd of 60,000.

"They are afraid of this," he says, holding up a crucifix and kissing it.

A new crusade

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Mr Bakiewicz is the former head of the National Radical Camp, a revival of a 1930s Polish fascist group inspired by the Catholic Spanish dictator Francisco Franco.

But he denies his followers are fascists, insisting they're just patriotic Catholics. His vision is of a new crusade against cultural Marxists.

"Listen, I am asking you to create a counter-offensive, to start a counter-revolution!" he shouts.

Draped in Polish flags bearing the white eagle, women pray on their knees during the nationalist rally. ( Foreign Correspondent: Mikel Konate )

"Only a real spiritual counter-revolution is able to defend our nation. Thank you once again and hail, great Poland!"

The crowd responds with chants of "Hail! Bravo, Robert!"

The occasion is the annual celebration of Poland's independence.

The far right organises a huge rally every year and while it has no official status, it's popular with priests and mainstream politicians.

A sea of Polish flags at a nationalist rally in downtown Warsaw. ( Foreign Correspondent: Mikel Konate )

In 2018, on the 100th anniversary of independence, it was addressed by Poland's right-wing president, Andrzej Duda.

Later, in his group's TV studio, I ask Robert Bakiewicz what Catholic values he would like enshrined in law.

"All Catholic values," he says.

"They are founded on what we can call the greatest and the most wonderful and beautiful civilisation that ever existed on Earth. I mean Latin civilisation."

Ultranationalists may be at the extreme end of Polish politics, but their desire to put conservative Catholic doctrine into law is shared by the Government.

A 'rainbow plague'

Polish nationalists burn a European Union flag at a rally. ( Foreign Correspondent: Mikel Konate )

Since the populist Law and Justice Party was elected in 2015, it has tried to make abortion even more restricted, cracked down on IVF, voted to make sex education a criminal offence and declared much of the country to be "LGBT-free zones".

The Archbishop of Karakow, Marek Jędraszewski, makes no apology for likening gay activists to the Soviets who occupied post-war Poland. ( Foreign Correspondent: Ron Ekkel )

The church leadership is right behind the moves. The Archbishop of Krakow, Marek Jędraszewski, says Poland is facing a "rainbow plague" of gay ideologues pushing for same-sex marriage and adoption rights.

He likens them to the much-hated Soviets who occupied Poland until 1989.

"This ideology is a threat like the Red plague," he says.

"It wants to make us support something that takes away our souls. It is a great danger. So we need to defend ourselves just like against any other plague."

And it's welcome news to many Polish families.

Poland is a full member of the EU and bound by rules legalising same-sex relations. But the church says Poland should follow God over Brussels. ( Foreign Correspondent: Ron Ekkel )

This was always a deeply religious country, even under communism, when the country was officially atheist.

When democracy came in 1989, a lot of unfamiliar Western liberal values came with it, like feminism and gay rights.

Conservative Catholics are now using their democratic votes to bring in laws they believe will protect their children.

Cheaper by the octet

Piotr Tolsdorf and his wife Malgosia have eight kids in a two-bedroom apartment. Like many devout couples, they are planning to have more. ( Foreign Correspondent: Ron Ekkel )

"I believe that we can remain a Catholic country, a bedrock of faith in Europe," says father of eight Piotr Tolsdorf.

"The family is: mother, father, children. All attempts to change it will destroy the family and the society."

The Tolsdorfs live in a two-bedroom apartment, their eight children sharing bunk beds in the larger room.

They're remarkably neat and cheerful and well behaved. It's almost not surprising when Mr Tolsdorf says they're planning to have more kids.

Mr Tolsdorf is supportive of the Polish government's push to institute Catholic values in law. ( Foreign Correspondent: Ron Ekkel )

But the Government helps with that too, paying an allowance of nearly $200 a month for every child after the first to encourage large families.

"We can afford some trips and holiday sightseeing," he says.

"Basic expenses, you know, eight pairs of shoes, eight jackets, eight school backpacks.

"It all costs money and it is a significant help for us and for many other families. This is very helpful and was missing earlier."

'They don't care who I'm sleeping with'

But many Poles cringe at the image of their country as a Handmaid's Tale in the making.

Marcin Nikrant is a 34-year-old construction manager in Lesniewo, a small town in northern Poland.

The townsfolk voted strongly for the Law and Justice Party last year.

Marcin Nikrant has been struggling through a legal process to leave the Catholic church and have himself removed from the parish register. ( Foreign Correspondent: Ron Ekkel )

But Mr Nikrant doesn't think the community is innately intolerant — they've elected him mayor three times despite him being openly gay.

"They're really interested in what I can do for them — if I'm helpful or not," he says.

"They really don't care about my private life. They don't care who I am sleeping with."

He feels the church has been deliberately stirring up homophobia with its talk of a "rainbow plague".

"The church should in no way allow hate speech against homosexual people and today it does," he says.

"This increases hatred spreading against homosexual people. The church should stay on the side of the weakest, those in need of help and support."

The Catholic church has denounced LGBT rights supporters, like those pictured here at a rally in Katowice, Poland, as a 'rainbow plague'. ( Reuters: Grzegorz Celejewski/Agencja Gazeta )

Of late, the church has been fighting claims it preys on the weakest.

Priests of prey

Last May, a crowd-funded documentary called Tell No One was released on YouTube after no cinema or television station would show it.

It soon became one of the most watched films in Polish history.

The documentary exposed a shocking history of priests sexually abusing children, and used hidden cameras to show now grown-up victims confronting their abusers.

Even more shocking were revelations that the church had moved paedophile priests to other parishes rather than reporting them.

I asked the Archbishop of Krakow why anyone should take seriously what the church said about morality when it had so fundamentally failed in its own moral obligations.

Polish nationalists equate Catholicism with white, Polish identity. The church and state are now working together closely to reshape society. ( Foreign Correspondent: Mikel Konate )

"It needs to be understood that the church didn't break any of its own laws or state laws by moving the priests who were guilty of these crimes to other parishes," he says.

"The accusations in this film are to some extent not true when it comes to the contemporary church.

"Unfortunately, it used to be like that in the 1980s. But it shouldn't be applied to the modern church's approach."

Evidence of covering up child rape isn't the only thing causing the church discomfort.

Many suggest it's been complicit in rolling back democracy, including the man credited with achieving it.

'The church needs to go back'

Most people under 40 have never heard of Lech Walesa. But for anyone over 50, he is one of the towering figures of 20th-century history.

Space to play or pause, M to mute, left and right arrows to seek, up and down arrows for volume. Watch Duration: 47 seconds 47 s Lech Walesa warns Poland's constitution is being broken ( Foreign Correspondent: Ron Ekkel )

In 1980, when he was a young electrician in the shipyard of Gdansk, he set up an independent trade union called Solidarity. The young, moustachioed amateur politician was soon a Cold War hero.

He asserted that workers had a right to collective bargaining and a right to strike.

The Soviet-run communist government declared martial law and threw Walesa in prison.

But the Catholic Church, led by the first Polish pope, John Paul II, stood behind him.

Walesa is carried on the shoulders of his Solidarity comrades during a strike at the Gdansk Lenin Shipyard in Poland, August 1980. ( Reuters )

It was a successful partnership that marked the beginning of the end of the Soviet empire.

By the end of the 1980s, Solidarity had overthrown the communists and Poland became a constitutional democracy.

Lech Walesa later became president.

These days, Walesa is as critical of the church as he is of the democratically elected Government.

Poland's Law and Justice party, led by Jaroslaw Kaczynski, was re-elected in October with almost 44 percent of the vote — the highest for any party since the return of democracy. ( Reuters: Slawomir Kaminski/Agencja Gazeta )

I met him in the shipyard at an EU-funded museum commemorating Solidarity's struggle.

At 76, he is considerably tubbier and grumpier but still determined to make a stand, always wearing Bono-style shaded sunglasses and a t-shirt emblazed with the word konstytycja (constitution).

"In Poland, I want to say that our constitution is being broken, the separation of powers is violated and we have to do something about it," he says.

He is outraged by the extent to which the Law and Justice Party has taken political control of independent institutions like the courts, giving itself the power to choose judges and sack any who rule against it.

And while he's a devout Catholic, he accuses the church leadership of complicity in return for power.

"The church needs to go back to its right place," he says.

"Many priests haven't returned to their religious field because they started to enjoy their political roles."

Catholic iconography, Polish flags and even Celtic crosses — the symbol adopted by white supremacists — were all on display at Poland's Independence Day rally. ( Foreign Correspondent: Mikel Konate )

Since our visit, coronavirus has stopped mass rallies and forced priests to hold services in empty churches, live streaming to any internet-savvy flock.

But this is a long-term struggle, the church determined to regain what it sees as its rightful place in Polish society.

"From the very beginning, the history of the Polish state and Polish nation were connected with the history of Christianity," Archbishop Jędraszewski says.

"Christianity, nation and state were so tightly connected, they were almost inseparable."

Watch Foreign Correspondent's 'A New Crusade' on YouTube and iview.