From Whack-a-Mole to Witness: The Church’s Call Amid Chaos

This is a difficult time to be a pastor. I actually find myself longing for the good old days when it felt like we only had to deal with one crisis at a time. Of course, that was never real. There have always been a multiplicity of challenges, but it seemed acceptable to have some consensus on which one we should rally around at any given time. After the murder of George Floyd, it was clear that the church had an acute responsibility to proclaim the gospel through the prism of the call for action against racism. When Donald Trump's administration adopted the family separation policy, it was clear that the church needed to proclaim the gospel by siding with immigrants and proclaiming their humanity over against the dehumanizing practices of a corrupt nationalistic government. Even just a few months ago, it seemed that there was some consensus that we needed to define the gospel over against the growing cult of "Christian" Nationalism (I put "Christian" in scare-quotes because there is truly nothing "Christian" about Nationalism). 

The Zone is Flooded

But today, apparently, Steve Bannon's "flood the zone" tactic has been lamentably effective and tragically damaging to the church. The strategy of overwhelming public discourse with a constant stream of misleading, distracting, or sensational information—in order to confuse audiences, dominate media narratives, and make it harder for truth to break through—has made things especially difficult for pastors, theologians, and faith leaders. Every day brings something new from the White House—one day it’s legislation targeting trans people; the next, it’s a genocidal ideology aimed at autistic individuals. Then it’s a push for “efficiency” that undermines people’s livelihoods, an executive order threatening ministries like food distribution or homeless care, or yet another tyrannical proclamation of Trump’s lordship as king, pope, or something else entirely. 

It starts to feel like a huge game of whack-a-mole. Which issue do we need to go after next? It's exhausting and distressing. 

I confess that I am distressed. I am exhausted. I am tired of chasing whatever new crisis the powers and principalities try to create. The zone is flooded! 

I am constantly asking myself, "am I doing enough? Should I be louder?" I have always struggled, internally at least, with the existential balance between my global and local responsibilities. On the one hand, I feel the pull of solidarity—with the oppressed, with the vulnerable, with those whose lives are being actively endangered by policies and ideologies that seem to pass without much resistance. On the other hand, I am called to love and serve people right in front of me, some of whom support those very policies, often without malice, but out of fear, habit, or a different moral imagination. I want to be faithful to the witness of the church universal, to stand clearly for justice and truth—but I also want to be a faithful pastor to them, to not abandon them to the caricatures of political division. And so I walk this tightrope, constantly wondering: am I being pastoral, patient, discerning? Or am I simply afraid to speak clearly, afraid of losing people, afraid of being misunderstood? The line between courage and cowardice is not always obvious in the moment.

But what grounds me—that is to say, when I am actually feeling grounded—is a focus on the larger issue at hand, rather than each specific mole that pops up its head. 

Translating the Gospel

The proclamation of the church is and always has been a practice of translation. In his work, especially in The Continuing Conversion of the Church and Missional Church, Darrell Guder draws heavily on Lesslie Newbigin's insights about the gospel being "public truth" that must be translated into every cultural context in a way that is faithful to its original message but intelligible and transformative within the local setting. Guder argues that translation is not a matter of watering down the gospel, but of faithfully communicating it across cultural boundaries. This process involves deep contextual engagement, listening, and theological reflection—recognizing that the gospel always comes to us through a particular cultural lens, yet also transcends culture. Newbigin famously insisted that the gospel is always "enculturated" and must be "re-translated" anew in every context.

That is essentially what the church is doing when it finds itself unwittingly playing whack-a-mole with one issue after the next. We are translating the gospel of Jesus Christ into the context of one injustice after another. But perhaps what we forget is that the orienting principle is not each individual translation of the gospel, but on the thing that's to be translated—the gospel itself. The problem that arises when we lose focus on the bigger picture is that our individual translations become abstract and disconnected from a larger whole. We cease telling a larger coherent story about the God revealed in Jesus Christ, who created the world and insists on saving the world through the resurrection of the crucified Jesus and the inauguration of the dominion of love and grace in all the earth. We stop telling the story we're supposed to be "translating" and instead we just get hung up on the individual translations. 

In other words, when we focus too much on responding to each crisis in isolation, we risk losing sight of the gospel as a unified, living story. The gospel isn’t just a set of reactions to injustice—it’s the good news of God’s redemptive action in Christ, into which all our responses must be rooted. Translation only makes sense if we remember what we’re translating.

"The Year of Declarations"

By 1934, Germany was saturated with declarations. The Nazi regime issued statements almost daily—proclamations about racial purity, national destiny, and unwavering loyalty to the Führer. Even the church was expected to comply, and many did, forming the German Christian movement, which recast Jesus as a heroic Aryan and pledged allegiance to Hitler as a kind of messiah. Other church leaders issued their own responses—statements, protests, theological clarifications—but most of these were quickly lost in the noise, overwhelmed by the regime’s propaganda machine.

1934 came to be known as the year of declarations. But one declaration was different.

In May of that year, a group of pastors and theologians—including Karl Barth, Martin Niemöller, and others—gathered in the city of Barmen and drafted what would come to be known as the Barmen Theological Declaration. Unlike many other statements, Barmen wasn’t just a protest—it was a confession. It didn’t simply react to the political moment; it bore witness to a deeper, eternal reality. While the air was thick with competing declarations, Barmen cut through, not by volume but by clarity.

It proclaimed that Jesus Christ, and he alone, is the one Word of God—the sole authority for the church’s faith, life, and proclamation. In doing so, it directly opposed the Nazi attempt to make the church an instrument of the state. It rejected any other “lord,” even one who demanded absolute obedience and claimed divine sanction.

Other declarations had made similar points, but Barmen gathered them into a coherent theological stance, rooted not just in political resistance, but in a principled confession of Christ’s lordship. It helped birth the Confessing Church, a movement that refused to let the gospel be co-opted by empire.

And that is perhaps its most enduring lesson for us today. If we simply try to match the chaos of the world with equal intensity—playing whack-a-mole with every new crisis, fighting fire with fire—we will burn out, or worse, be swept away in the flood ourselves. The metaphors may be mixed, but the danger is real: when we lose our orientation, we lose ourselves. But if we stay rooted in the greater reality—the sovereignty of Jesus Christ over every false “lord,” every flag, every movement, and every moment—then we can respond not from panic, but from peace. The Barmen Declaration reminds us that the church does not need to shout over the noise; it needs to proclaim, clearly and faithfully, the Word that doesn’t change. In doing so, we may find a way through the flood without drowning in it.

Easier Said Than Done

This is all, of course, much easier said than done.

I hope it's clear that this is not something I have achieved. I confess that I feel the burn and I am struggling to stay afloat (there's the mixed metaphor again). It's hard to believe that we're barely over 100 days into this mess and I am already so tired. But I am convinced that the path forward for the church is not the path of "grit" and determination. It is not the path of making one declaration after another. It's not the path of whacking every mole. It is the path of reliance upon the God who raised Jesus from the dead. It is the path of waiting on God and abiding in God's grace. It is the path of a clear and singular focus on and proclamation of the Lordship of Christ who has sided with "the least of these" and who's imagination far exceeds the petty insularity of Nationalism and fear. The path of the church is the path of taking up the cross, not the sword, and following Christ into the concrete situations of oppression and persecution and there planting a sign that says "Christ is Lord" through word and deed.

When we have clarity and singularity, when we know the big picture (which is essentially love above ever other false choice), then we may find ourselves leaning not on our own understanding and resolve, but submitting to Christ in all our ways so that the crucified God can make our path straight.

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Key Theological Theses of the Barmen Declaration (1934)

1. Christ is the sole authority: The declaration asserts that Jesus Christ is the one Word of God, and the church’s authority is derived solely from him. This rejected any attempts to align the church with the ideology of the state or any human authority that claimed a competing sovereignty.

2. Rejection of the Führer principle: The declaration explicitly opposed the Führer principle promoted by the Nazi regime, which placed Hitler as the ultimate source of authority. It declared that only Jesus Christ has absolute authority over the church, thus denying the idolatrous elevation of any leader.

3. Confession of the church’s mission: The church’s mission is to proclaim the gospel of Jesus Christ, not to serve as an instrument of political power. It must stand independently of the state and reject any distortion of the gospel for political purposes.

4. Faithfulness to the gospel: The declaration emphasizes the church's responsibility to remain faithful to the gospel and to resist any effort to distort or compromise that message, whether by political powers or theological accommodation.

5. The unity of the church: It affirms the unity of the church in Christ—a unity that transcends political, national, or racial divisions. The church’s ultimate loyalty is to the Lordship of Jesus Christ, not to any earthly power or nation.