The Cross and the Swastika

It always starts with good intentions.

A little stability. A little reassurance.

People want something to hold on to when the world feels like it’s cracking, and religion makes for a cozy security blanket.

Of course, when religion and state power shack up, faith almost always wakes up with fleas.

In 1933, Hitler promised to revive the “spirit of unity and cooperation.” That was the line he sold. What he really wanted was to build a war machine and justify mass murder. But to pull it off, he needed to drape his movement in the language of faith. He needed the Church’s blessing — or at least its polite silence.

So he wrapped himself in just enough Christian imagery to seem like a heaven-sent handyman, ready to patch up Germany’s woes.

And it worked.

Many Christians — Protestant and Catholic alike — raised their arms in salute. Some did it out of fear. Some out of blind devotion. Some because they believed pairing nationalism with Christianity might restore order and decency. And others — well, others already saw certain people as beyond God’s grace anyway.

Jews, communists, queer folks, dissidents.

Sometimes, I catch myself wondering: if I’d been there, would I have been the one climbing onto a soapbox, shouting, ‘Not in my name — and definitely not in my God’s name either’?

And then I remember that in November 1933, at the Berlin Sportpalast, the Deutsche Christen (German Christians) publicly demanded the removal of the Old Testament for being ‘too Jewish.’

Seems outrageous.

But thousands cheered.

If that many pastors and congregants could be swayed, would I really have been any different?

(I hope so. I really hope so.)

Because here’s the thing — those same impulses that made bowing easier than resisting are alive and thriving. Today, in the U.S., Christian nationalists insist that Jesus loves guns and closed borders more than neighbourly love. They claim the gospel is about power and purity rather than compassion and sacrifice. They reshape scripture to align with ideology, much like the Deutsche Christen did when they tried to strip Christianity of its Jewish roots.

History repeats. It just swaps out the flags and updates the slogans.

And that means the Church, once again, has a choice.

The Nazi Seduction of Christianity

Post–World War I Germany was like a country with the world’s worst hangover.

Humiliated, broke, and desperate to believe in its own redemption, people craved a story that would make them feel whole again. And religion — tradition — seemed like the perfect place to find a moral rationale for their anger.

On paper, Germany was thoroughly Christian: two-thirds Protestant, one-third Catholic, and 100 percent traumatized.

Into that vacuum slithered Hitler, a smooth-talking snake-oil salesman promising a cure.

Jews were the menace, he said. Communists, intellectuals, and anyone who threatened his vision of Aryan purity — they were the real problem. It was an intoxicating story for the swaths of everyday Germans who were struggling, offering both an enemy to blame and a leader to worship.

And the Church, faced with this bombastic new narrative, had to decide whether to resist or roll over.

A distressing number of Christians chose the latter.

They tied their faith to Hitler’s wagon in the name of “restoring traditional values.” Enter the Deutsche Christen, a movement of Protestants who believed that National Socialism and Christianity could — and should — be fused. They stripped away anything “too Jewish” from doctrine, rebranded Jesus as an Aryan warrior, and draped crosses in swastikas.

It wasn’t just a few radicals in fringe churches. This was mainstream.

In 1933, the Reich Church was formed — an attempt to consolidate Protestant congregations into one state-controlled megachurch. At one point, it was headed by Ludwig Müller, a Nazi sympathizer who saw no contradiction between the Sermon on the Mount and the Führer’s agenda.

It might sound like a cheap dystopian novel, but this was reality: pastors preaching that Hitler was divinely appointed and theologians rewriting scripture to fit Nazi ideology.

This wasn’t just Germany.

Faith has been hijacked for empire before — Rome absorbed Christianity, popes blessed wars, and American slaveholders preached obedience from the pulpit.

It’s an old trick. 1930s Germany just updated it for their time.

And if we’re not paying attention, we might not notice history repeating itself — until it’s too late.

Church Resistance and Complicity

Here’s the messy, wonderful, and terrifying thing about the Church: it’s made up of people. And people are complicated — equal parts courage and cowardice, conviction and compromise.

We’d all love to believe we would have been the ones smuggling Jewish families across borders, or reciting the Beatitudes to the SS.

But history suggests that most of us would have done what most Christians actually did — kept our heads down, nursed our private doubts, and hoped someone else would take the risk.

A few, however, did rise to the occasion.

The Confessing Church was the stubborn squeak in Hitler’s meticulously oiled machine, refusing to be a cog for the Reich. It stood against Nazi efforts to rewrite Christian doctrine, led by figures like Dietrich Bonhoeffer, Martin Niemöller, and Karl Barth.

Bonhoeffer struggled deeply with his decision to join a plot to assassinate Hitler — a choice that put him at odds with his theology of nonviolence. Niemöller, who would later write the famous “First they came for the Communists…” reflection, was thrown into a concentration camp. These men knew resistance wasn’t just costly — it was deadly.

Still, they did it anyway.

They fought back with sermons, underground theological training, and public declarations of faith that rejected the Reich Church’s distortions. The Bethel Confession (1933) and the Barmen Declaration (1934) explicitly renounced Nazi ideology in the name of true Christianity.

Barmen Declaration 2.0: Resisting Christian Nationalism

The Confessing Church stood against fascism in 1934 . It’s time to do it again.

Bri-anne SwanBri-anne Swan

Catholic opposition was more complicated. Individual priests and bishops, like the indomitable Bishop von Galen, spoke out against the Nazi euthanasia programs that targeted disabled people. But the Vatican itself made a Faustian bargain, signing the Reichskonkordat with Hitler in 1933 that ensured the Catholic Church’s institutional survival in exchange for political silence.

(Noteworthy: Only the second foreign policy treaty of Hitler’s government, this concordat remains in effect even to this day.)

And then there were those who didn’t just comply — they embraced the Reich wholeheartedly.

Some pastors declared Hitler to be God’s chosen leader, draped their sanctuaries in swastikas, and told their congregations that rounding up Jewish neighbours was merely “cleansing the nation.”

And here’s where we get brutally honest about which churches cozied up to evil.

In 1930s Germany, evangelische mostly meant Protestant, not really the same as modern “Evangelical.” But the strongest pro-Nazi fervour came from the most conservative expressions of Protestantism — the ones most invested in traditional values, social order, and theological obedience.

Yet silence and complicity are interdenominational diseases.

Mainline Protestants, Catholics, and theological moderates also let fear and cultural pressure keep them from speaking out. Too often, churches wait until the horror is undeniable before they start speaking out or apologizing — by which time the damage is done.

It’s profoundly uncomfortable to consider.

We want to believe faith makes people better. Sometimes it does. But in 1930s Germany, much of the Church chose nationalism, racial purity, and brute force over the radical love of Christ.

The question now is whether enough of today’s Church—particularly American evangelicals—will choose differently.

Christian Nationalism and Authoritarianism in the U.S.

If there’s one thing people in power love, it’s hijacking religion for political gain.

Combine that with a Church that sometimes forgets Jesus was never particularly chummy with politican leadership, and you’ve got the recipe for 21st-century Christian nationalism.

In the U.S., Christian nationalism is having a full-blown altar call. Preachers stand under towering flags, declaring God’s political endorsements. They skip the ‘love thy neighbour’ parts of scripture, replacing them with guns, obedience, and holy war.

It would be laughable if it weren’t so terrifying.

Because we’ve seen this playbook before.

In Nazi Germany, it was simple:

1. Find a scapegoat.
2. Merge Christianity with nationalist identity.
3. Declare obedience to the state a holy virtue.

Now, in America, Christian nationalist leaders are dusting off the script.

Some politicians label immigrants as “invaders.” Some religious leaders brand LGBTQ+ people as a threat to children. Some schools ban books for daring to address racism or sexual orientation.

This isn’t just talk — it’s legislation.

People’s rights are disappearing in real-time, entire groups are being demonized, and churches that refuse to play along are shoved aside as “woke” or “unpatriotic.”

And that’s when Christian nationalism rips off its mask.

Because at its core, this was never about Jesus. It was always about dominance.

The Nazis knew that. That’s why they tried to gut the Bible of anything Jewish.

From Paul Ratner of Think Big:

In the version of the Bible produced by the institute, the Old Testament was omitted and a thoroughly revised New Testament featured a whole new genealogy for Jesus, denying his Jewish roots. Jewish names and places were removed, while any Old Testament references were changed to negatively portray Jews. Jesus was depicted as a military-like Aryan hero who fought Jews while sounding like a Nazi.

Today, Christian nationalists cherry-pick scripture to justify cruelty, pushing policies that elevate a narrow, theocratic vision of America — one where only a select few get to dictate what “Christian” means.

Trump has even given a mandate to the newly formed White House Faith Office (replacing the White House Office of Faith-Based and Neighborhood Partnerships) to “eradicate anti-Christian bias.”

As if that is actually a thing in America.

Now, evangelicalism is not my tradition, and the United States is not my country. But the reach of American Christian nationalism does not stop at the U.S. border (which is not, as Trump would have the world believe, “artificially drawn”—whatever that means).

Christian nationalism seeps into political discourse, shapes international policies, and emboldens similar movements around the world.

What happens in the American Church doesn’t stay there. It ripples outward.

So now, the Church faces its age-old decision.

It can be a refuge for the oppressed. Or it can be a tool for the oppressors.

It failed that test in Nazi Germany. It failed it during American slavery and Jim Crow. In Canada, my own denomination is still reckoning with the Church’s role in the horrors of Residential Schools.

The question is whether enough American Christians will choose differently this time.

Because history isn’t just knocking — it’s pounding on the door.

And pretending not to hear it won’t make it go away.

Another side note: Just for fun, read this guide on flag etiquette from Flagwix.

From the site:

The American banner is a sacred symbol of America. All Americans are proud of their country and worship it….The American flag must always be larger or equal in size to the Christian flag. It must never be overshadowed by the Christian flag.

What Individuals Can Do

American friends: you don’t have to be a theologian or a historian to do something.

But you do have to pay attention.

Spot the Red Flags

• When politicians start talking about a “Christian nation” or anoint themselves as God’s chosen leaders, take note.
• When entire groups are branded as threats, subhuman, or enemies of the state and faith, wake up.
• When the Church starts preaching strength and purity over compassion and justice, don’t look away.

Support the Truth-Tellers

• Pastors who refuse to bow to nationalism are losing their pulpits.
• Churches that defy state edicts are losing funding.
• If you belong to a church that is fighting for justice, support it. If you don’t, find one that is and help keep the lights on.

Reclaim Christianity as a Faith, Not a Weapon

• Care about the people Jesus cared about. Jesus didn’t bless governments. He didn’t align himself with the powerful. While he certainly spent time with religious leadership, Jesus spent most of his ministry among the poor, the rejected, and the outcasts.
• Do the things that Jesus did. Over and over again we read of Jesus welcoming the foreigner. Feeding the hungry. He didn’t stand at the border with a “No Entry” sign.
• Stop apologizing for a faith that is actually about love, justice, and generosity. Take it back from those who have corrupted it.

Collaborate Across Divides

• Partner with interfaith allies, secular humanitarians, and justice-driven communities.
• This crisis is bigger than denominational lines. The work of resisting authoritarian Christianity belongs to everybody.

At the end of the day, Christianity can either be a lifeboat for those the Caesar wants to drown, or it can be the battering ram that smashes their last defences.

History has already shown us which choice kills.

Let’s pray that this time, the American Church chooses differently.

Faith as Resistance

Sooner or later, the Church has to decide what story it wants to tell about itself.

Right now, two competing narratives battle for centre stage.

One is the story of might and control — preachers in pulpits thundering about purity, obedience, and submission while waving flags and rewriting history. It’s the story that has fueled crusades, pogroms, slavery, and authoritarian regimes.

The other narrative is about those who said no.

The ones who opened their attics to refugees.

The ones who tore Nazi banners down from their sanctuaries.

The ones who refused to let faith be twisted into a weapon.

Bonhoeffer once wrote:

The ultimate test of a moral society is the kind of world that it leaves to its children.

That test is in front of the American Church right now.

Faith, at its best, has always been a rebellious, defiant act of love in a world bent on cruelty.

So lean into that.

Be absurdly hospitable, stubbornly vocal for justice, and utterly unwilling to let God’s name be used as a brand logo for empire.

Be the ones who choose the dangerous, countercultural path of Christ.

Because if history has taught us anything, it’s that there will always be people who weaponize Christianity for domination.

And there will always be those who refuse.

Be the ones who refuse. 🦢