When Faith and Power Collide: A Warning From History

On July 4th, we celebrate liberty. But when nationalism and religion become inseparable, liberty isn't shared—it’s assigned.

Lately, I’ve been wrestling with a fear I can’t shake.

Not the kind of fear that hits all at once, like a car crash or a sudden diagnosis—but the slow, creeping kind. The kind that lingers in the background of conversations, media headlines, political rallies. The kind that gets louder when those in power speak with divine certainty about who “belongs” and who doesn’t.

I’ve been reading about Germany in the 1930s—not just Hitler, but the clergy who stood beside him. The pastors who believed they were doing what was best for their congregations and their country. The ones who wrapped their faith around a rising nationalist movement, thinking it would protect what they loved.

Most of them didn’t wake up one morning and decide to support fascism. They were misled by rhetoric that sounded familiar: restore the nation, protect the family, defend religion, punish the corrupt. And by the time they realized what they had enabled, it was too late to stop it.

That’s the part that haunts me.

Because I see the same playbook today. I see leaders claiming that Christianity belongs at the center of American government. I see “God and country” being fused into a single slogan—used not to inspire compassion, but to justify exclusion, cruelty, and control. I see policies that strip autonomy from women, from immigrants, from queer people, from anyone who doesn’t fit the mold of the “ideal citizen.” And I see it all cloaked in the language of righteousness.

This isn’t religion as a personal journey or moral compass—it’s religion as a weapon.
It’s faith twisted into a tool of state power.

And just like in Nazi Germany, the lines between patriotism and worship are being blurred on purpose. Because if they can convince you that their political enemies are also enemies of God, then they can silence dissent with holy conviction. They can make you believe that cruelty is moral. That violence is sacred. That those who question the plan are unfaithful.

The terrifying truth is that this kind of movement doesn’t need a majority—it only needs enough people to look away, or to justify it “for the greater good.”

When I say I’m afraid, I don’t mean I’ve lost hope. I believe in people. I believe in kindness. I believe in communities built not on fear, but on mutual care. But I also believe we have to name what’s happening before it consumes us.

Because if we don’t, we risk becoming like those well-meaning clergy—telling ourselves we’re protecting something sacred, while watching it be desecrated from within.

This isn’t just about politics. This is about truth.
And we are at a moment in history where telling the truth might be the most spiritual act of all.

So What Do We Do With This?

We speak up.

We stop tiptoeing around the truth and start calling this movement what it is: authoritarianism dressed in scripture. White supremacy wrapped in worship music. Policy that punishes the vulnerable while preaching about morality.

We use our voices—online, in person, in our communities. Not to shame, but to shine a light. We challenge posts that dehumanize others. We call out leaders who exploit religion to divide. We refuse to let “faith” be used as a shield for cruelty.

We show up.

When people are being targeted, we show up. At protests. At school board meetings. At vigils. Not just when it affects us directly, but when any group—immigrants, trans youth, Jewish families, Black communities—is being stripped of safety or dignity. Because silence, in moments like this, is complicity.

And if you are a person of faith, let your actions speak louder than your affiliation.

Don’t do it in the name of religion.
Do it in the name of love.

Then—then—your religion has purpose.

Because religion without compassion is just a club.
And history has shown us what happens when clubs get power and forget their humanity.

Stay curious. Stay human. And always, be kind.