At the beginning of the second Trump administration, a homemade yard sign appeared in my neighborhood. It quoted the German Protestant pastor Martin Niemöller’s “First They Came” poem. Promoting both empathy and political action, Niemöller’s poem has become rightly omnipresent as Trumpism and its Christofascist base are arguably the most successful fascist movement since Nazi Germany. Lesser known than the poem is Niemöller’s journey into the antifascist spirit that inspired it.
Niemöller’s gradual turn against Hitler began only after the church’s autonomy was threatened in the Nazis’ attempt to establish the Reich Church. Before 1934, he voted for the Nazis numerous times, led a Freikorps unit during the Weimar Republic, joyfully greeted Hitler’s rise, and even sent his autobiography to Nazi Minister of Propaganda Joseph Goebbels with a personal note that it was written in the “spirit of the Third Reich.” In his role in the Confessing Church, he was against Hitler, but kept the ultranationalism and antisemitism that led him to support the Nazis in the first place. His imprisonment wasn’t enough to shake off his fascist proclivities—he still volunteered for the war effort from Sachsenhausen concentration camp. It took the defeat of Germany and a direct confrontation with his own complicity after the war, for him to reject fascism.
An encouraging distinction from Niemöller’s journey and the larger German public: More Americans have responded with moral clarity and active resistance to our own Christofascistic irruption than we see in the German historical record. Over 10 years into the Make America Great Again movement capturing state, military, and federal powers, the contours of a Christian, antifascist politics are well established. Many Christians have fed the hungry; provided sanctuary; protested; protected students from federal agents by forming walking school buses; voted; and resisted Immigration and Customs Enforcement’s concentration camps at every turn.
But the question I keep coming back to is not what should we do, but how do we continue doing what we must? Antifascist actions do not sustain themselves, and even as the cult of Trump wanes and the midterms look deliciously bleak for the Republican Party, how can we sustain ourselves over the long haul to defeat this Christofascist movement?
Politics, like faith, requires a spirituality to sustain it—rhythms; joyful and lament-laden communal practices; and ways of seeing and being that provide structure, sustenance, and direction. These spiritual practices—such as communion, song, and prayer—root us in who we are and sustain us for life’s journey. Just as we must eat and breathe, so too must we engage in practices that invite us toward wholeness. Christian spirituality is about making us more fully ourselves as we are made into Christ’s image.
Politics, like faith, requires a spirituality to sustain it—rhythms; joyful and lament-laden communal practices; and ways of seeing and being that provide structure, sustenance, and direction.
Just as there is a Christian, antifascist politics, so too is there a Christian, antifascist spirituality. An antifascist spirituality is about maintaining our Christ-formed humanity as we resist inhuman actions and realities; it is about holding onto the hope for healing as we recognize the necessity of political conflict. Facing the horrors of Christofascism, an antifascist spirituality uses three questions to ground and guide us: Who is my enemy? What seemingly impossible visions of justice must we keep alive? How do we win?
Knowing the truth and naming our enemies
Lies and conspiracy theories—about elections, crime, race, and immigration—are load-bearing for fascism. The reactionary ecosystem of fascist lies aims to divide us from our neighbors and obscure responsibility for suffering. An increasingly monopolized U.S. media landscape beckons you to hate the immigrant, the incarcerated, the poor, the refugee, and the bombed. As liberation theologian Pedro Casaldáliga stated, spirituality begins with “a passion for reality” and “constant basic reference to actual conditions.”
Knowing the truth about the world and even about ourselves is important beyond the need to fact-check fascists. An antifascist spirituality beckons us to be ravenous for the truth, so we can critique the unjust systems and propaganda that empower fascism and imagine solutions that address these realities at the root. In this pursuit of truth, a distinctly antifascist spirituality asks: Who is my enemy? Who is murdering and deporting my neighbor? What institutions are working to suppress my vote? Why is my community starving? Christofascist lies obscure the answers to these questions, and knowing who is responsible for suffering and how they are carrying it out is continuous, holy work. Why? Because knowing the truth helps us to accurately direct our political actions and tell persuasive stories about just alternatives.
Custodians of hope for the impossible
Former Archbishop of Canterbury and theologian Rowan Williams has stated that churches can act as “trustees or custodians of the long-term questions.” As fascist waves break across the Americas and Europe, the second question an antifascist spirituality asks is: What seemingly impossible visions of justice must we keep alive? This question is the work of hope.
Not to be mistaken for a positive disposition, hope is a form of action charged with the promises of God. Theologian Robert McAfee Brown argued that a rightly attuned spirituality provides “liberation from the power of fate.” The world is not fated to be this way, and nothing is more unrealistic than believing that this world must remain.
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What visions of justice help us push back against such fatalism? Imagining the end of the American empire, ending the impunity enjoyed by corrupt politicians and executives, abolishing ICE and providing reparations to its victims, and equitably addressing climate devastation.
An antifascist spirituality holds onto big, uncompromising hopes even while it is pragmatic and patient in the work of “everyday antifascism.” In other words, rather than being sated with the morsels of justice offered by the comfortable or fascist collaborators, an antifascist hope strives for a full feast of justice for all. Within an antifascist hope, our hunger for justice’s full feast is synonymous with our hunger for God.
The responsibility to make justice real
Our desire for justice comes with the responsibility to make it a reality. Christofascism baptizes racial and gender violence, mocks empathy, and celebrates sadism. The Christofascist politics of love are dually cruel, sowing untold suffering and warping fascists into those who are incapable of living in beloved community. Many Christofascists can be, interpersonally, quite nice; fascists bake casseroles too. However, the problem that they support the fascist project cannot be solved interpersonally.
Hence, an antifascist spirituality asks: How do we win? Christ’s call to love our neighbors in the time of Christofascist violence means we cannot bypass the conflicts which are inherent within politics. It means organizing and building power, so that we might end the Christofascist project. As theologian Gustavo Gutiérrez understood, there is a “necessity of making love an effective force within history.” Effective love focuses on developing the bonds, strategies, and movements capable of accomplishing the justice we hope to see in the world. Love wins, but only if we organize for it.
The conditions of peace and forgiveness
The three core questions of an antifascist spirituality understand political conflict as necessary in the pursuit of justice. Yet humanity was not created for conflict, and neither was the Christian faith. An antifascist spirituality does not jettison the scriptural axioms for Christians to be peacemakers, reconcilers, or those who seek healing and forgiveness. The Christofascists who make up the violent heart of Trumpism are not irredeemable—no one is. However, our pursuit of forgiveness and peace depends upon Christofascism’s defeat.
Remembering the arc of Niemöller’s life is instructive, not for how to successfully resist fascism, but for the conditions that can nullify fascistic commitment. In his post-war grappling with the extent of the German church’s guilt, Niemöller wrote the following: “No, the Church has not been victorious, she has betrayed her Lord and Savior by saying again and again: I do not know this Man. She knew what was happening, but pretended that these victims did not concern her. How are we going to be able to hear the words of grace if we do not recognize our sin?” History reveals that deradicalization of fascists at scale is only possible after their political defeat.
Bringing the American Christofascist movement to a similar point of repentance doesn’t depend upon being dialogue partners with fascists or wringing our hands over polarization. The reality of our political situation means the Christian calling is to take away the Christofascists’ power and undo the politics of oppression that wound our body politic. The three questions that ground an antifascist spirituality are about providing us with the clarity, hope, and endurance to see this calling through. The healing can begin once the horrors stop.
Adam Joyce has written for Christian Century, ABC Religion & Ethics, as well as other publications. His forthcoming book, No More Pharaohs: Christianity, Racial Capitalism, and Socialism will be published with Cascade Books.
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