Barmen Declaration 2.0: Resisting Christian Nationalism

I don’t know if you’ve ever woken up in the middle of the night, heart pounding, certain you forgot to turn off the stove or send that urgent email, only to realize that, no, what’s actually happening is that democracy is on fire and the church is passing out marshmallows.

I have. It’s not my favourite way to wake up.

I tell myself I should stop reading the news before bed, that doom-scrolling is not a spiritual discipline. But then I see headlines that make my stomach drop, and, well, here we are.

The latest existential crisis keeping me up is at night is Christianity’s role in legitimizing what feels like a reversal of more than 50 years of social progress. Paula White, the prosperity gospel preacher who once declared that she, and I quote, “commands all satanic pregnancies to miscarry,” has now been given a shiny new faith-based agency by the U.S. government. Which means the fusion of state power and Christian nationalism isn’t just happening in sketchy Facebook comment sections or Focus on the Family’s annual potluck. It’s being institutionalized. It’s being given a budget.

Very truly I tell you, when the government starts funding a specific brand of Christianity (never mind prioritizing one belief system over others), it’s never about faith. It’s using religion as a political cudgel, making sure the “right kind” of Christians stay in power while everyone else gets forced out. Because once the state starts defining Christianity, it won’t stop at just empowering the “faithful.” It will decide who belongs and who doesn’t, which beliefs are acceptable and which ones are heretical. And history tells us exactly where that road leads.

And while I’m watching this unfold from Canada, it would be naïve to assume that the forces of Christian nationalism stop at the border. These ideas have a way of seeping into pulpits, policies, and public discourse far beyond the United States. The trends taking shape to the south are not just alarming for Americans — they are a warning sign for all of us who care about the integrity of the church and the well-being of those it is meant to serve.

We Have Seen This Before

In 1933, Adolf Hitler was appointed Chancellor of Germany. Within months, democracy was effectively dismantled. The Enabling Act gave him unchecked power, allowing him to rule by decree. The Nazis wasted no time cracking down on political opponents, Jewish people, and other marginalized groups (sound familiar?). At the same time, they set their sights on reshaping Germany’s institutions — including the church — to serve their ideology.

Many Protestant churches, caught up in a wave of nationalistic fervour, welcomed these changes. The Deutsche Christen (German Christian) movement emerged, blending Nazi ideology with Christianity, insisting that the faith needed to be “cleansed” of its Jewish roots and rewritten to support Aryan supremacy. Hitler, they claimed, was God’s appointed leader for Germany. Churches that embraced this message were rewarded with state support and influence. Those that resisted found themselves isolated, monitored, and eventually persecuted. The Reich Church, a state-controlled Protestant body, was created to bring Christianity fully under Nazi control.

It was in this climate that, in 1934, building on the Bethel Confession written by Dietrich Bonhoeffer the previous year, a group of German pastors and theologians — led by Karl Barth, Bonhoeffer, and others with a frustratingly stubborn commitment to Jesus — gathered in the city of Barmen and wrote a document saying, in essence, No. Absolutely not. Jesus is Lord, and that means Hitler is not. It was called the Barmen Declaration, and it rejected the way Hitler’s regime was co-opting Christianity to serve the state. These pastors, who had every reason to keep their heads down, insisted — against significant pressure — that Jesus Christ, not any Führer or flag, is the Word of God. And for this, many of them were threatened, imprisoned, or killed.

It’s easy, in hindsight, to admire their courage. People like to believe that they, too, would have stood up in 1934, drawn a theological line in the sand, and said, This far, and no further. But history has a funny way of repeating itself, and suddenly, we’re not looking back at a cautionary tale — we’re looking at a mirror.

Bishop Mariann Budde and the Cost of Speaking Up

At an inaugural prayer service on January 21st, 2025, Rt. Rev. Mariann Budde, bishop of the Episcopal Diocese of Washington, stood up in the pulpit and did that thing great preachers do — she told the truth. She spoke about the moral responsibility of leadership, about how contempt is like a fast-spreading mold.

And people listened. Her words rippled out, capturing international attention — especially when news outlets couldn’t resist juxtaposing her plea for mercy with Trump’s scowl and JD Vance’s smirk.

You’d think a sermon about mercy wouldn’t be too controversial. And yet, the president called her “nasty” and demanded an apology. His allies in the House of Representatives went so far as to introduce a resolution condemning her sermon as “political activism” with a “distorted message.” Because nothing says secure in your faith like trying to censure a bishop for quoting the Bible.

That should be alarming to everybody. A Christian leader preached a sermon, and certain members of Congress declared its theology distorted. That is not something that happens in a healthy democracy. That is something that happens when faith is being conscripted into the service of power.

This is why the church needs a Barmen Declaration 2.0. When the simple act of preaching mercy is met with congressional condemnation, the church cannot afford to be silent.

What Might a New Barmen Declaration Say?

If there were ever a time for the church to plant its feet and say, No. Absolutely not. Jesus is not a prop for empire, it’s now.

A new Barmen Declaration would need to be clear, sharp, and impossible to co-opt.

What might it say?

Jesus is not a mascot for nationalism
He didn’t wave flags, endorse candidates, or give sermons about making Judea great again.

The state does not get to dictate theology
Caesar can keep his taxes and zoning laws, but he doesn’t get to write the creed.

Any movement that claims Christianity while harming the vulnerable is, in fact, not Christian
If it kicks the poor, locks out the refugee, or turns a blind eye to suffering, it’s just empire with a cross stamped on top.

The church is supposed to resist evil, not claim a seat at the head of its table
Jesus overturned tables. He didn’t pull up a chair and ask for a bigger slice of the pie — no matter how delicious it looked.

And yet, here we are, watching so many churches cozy up to government like a golden retriever angling for scraps at the dinner table. Or maybe it’s the other way around?

Barmen 2.0 would have to be blunt — no hemming and hawing and no theological gymnastics. It would need to call things what they are. Jesus was not a fan of nationalism. The state doesn’t get to play theologian. It certainly shouldn’t be at the mercy of executive orders. And if your so-called Christianity tramples the vulnerable, then it’s time to pull out the Cotton Patch Gospel to be reminded of what’s at stake.

Who Should Write a New Barmen Declaration? (Hint: Not Me)

Look, I’m not the person to write this. I can wave my arms and yell about it, sure. But the actual writing? That needs to be done by people far smarter than I am — people with deep roots in liberation theology, decolonial theology, and the kind of faith that names bad theology for what it is —idolatry — while still believing repentance is possible and the gospel is worth fighting for.

I’m thinking of folks like Rev. Dr. William J. Barber II, Rev. Dr. Jacqui Lewis, Dr. Cornel West, and Rev. Dr. Randy Woodley — people who can pull apart empire theology with their bare hands and still have enough grace left to pray for the folks who built it. It should include Black, Asian, Indigenous, and LGBTQ+ faith leaders like Bishop Yvette Flunder, Dr. Kelly Brown Douglas, Sarah Augustine, and Bishop Megan Rohrer — those who have spent a lifetime resisting the way Christianity has been weaponized against them.

It should be written by pastors who have been grieving the church’s slow-motion surrender to nationalism but refuse to walk away. It should be a global, diverse, unruly chorus — the kind of people who wouldn’t be caught dead at an fundagelical prayer breakfast but would absolutely march together into the temple.

And then there’s the rest of us — pastors, preachers, and everyday disciples who feel caught up in this storm but know exactly where we stand. We may not be writing this declaration, but we are watching, listening, and ready to sign. We know that those with the most at stake should lead the way, but the cost of resistance should not solely rest on their shoulders. Straight, white, cisgender Christians need to use their privilege to stand up, speak out, and take the hits — while receiving direction from those who have been fighting this fight long before many even noticed there was a battle.

The Church Still Has a Choice

Plenty of Christians — on both sides of the border — are unsettled by what’s happening. They see Christian nationalism for what it is — a golden calf with an American flag draped across its flank. They see how the state is increasingly leveraging religion as a weapon of control. And yet, so many feel paralyzed.

But here’s the good news: The church has resisted before. And it can resist again.

The Barmen Declaration was always more than words on a page. It was an act of defiance. Now, nearly a century later, the time has come to write a new one — not just with ink, but with our voices, our refusal to stand idly by while the name of Jesus is used to justify actions that lead to death — spiritual and otherwise.

The church belongs to Jesus. And last I checked, Jesus wasn’t terribly interested in political power, military dominance, or state-backed faith initiatives. He was busy feeding people, healing the sick, and saying scandalous things about loving our enemies (and then actually doing it).

Maybe it’s time to try that again.

Maybe — just maybe — it’s time for another declaration. 🦢