"If you're going to talk totalitarianism, don't leave the church out." — Christopher Hitchens

Christopher Hitchens had a way of speaking that made people uncomfortable — and that was precisely the point. He didn't just criticize religion; he dismantled its pretensions with surgical precision, exposing its authoritarian underbelly and its historical entanglement with power. And among the most enduring threads in his critique was this: fascism and religion, far from being enemies, are often bedfellows.

In his numerous debates, writings, and lectures — especially in God Is Not Great — Hitchens returned to a recurring thesis: religion is not merely compatible with fascism. It is often fascism's spiritual twin. They share the same architecture: submission to authority, sacralization of violence, reverence for the irrational, and a loathing of dissent.

Let's follow the thread — and the knots it ties.

The Supernatural Dictator and the Fascist Father

Start with the theological premise. Religion posits a cosmic dictator — an all-knowing, all-powerful being who demands obedience, punishes doubt, and is beyond appeal. As Hitchens put it:

"A celestial North Korea."

This is not hyperbole; it is structural diagnosis. Just like fascist regimes, religion insists on:

• Submission over autonomy;
• Revelation over reason;
• Ritual over inquiry;
• Punishment over dialogue.

In this model, the believer is a subject — created sick and commanded to be well — a phrase Hitchens used to describe Christianity's original sin doctrine. Sound familiar? It's not unlike the political propaganda of the fascist state: you are broken, the system will fix you — but only if you obey.

The Vatican and the Fascists: A Historical Romance

Hitchens didn't mince words. He stated plainly:

"Fascism is just another name for the extreme right-wing forces of the Roman Catholic Church."

Portugal under Salazar. Spain under Franco. Croatia under the Ustaše. Italy under Mussolini. Poland's clerical right. In each of these, the Catholic Church didn't merely coexist with fascist regimes — it conspired with them.

And the receipts are plenty:

• The Lateran Treaty (1929) between Mussolini and the Vatican, which gave the Church vast influence in exchange for political support;
• The Concordat with Nazi Germany (1933) — Hitler's first major international agreement — which gave the Church control over education while requiring the dissolution of Catholic political parties that could challenge Nazi rule;
• German churches celebrating Hitler's birthday, year after year, under banners of piety and patriotism.

This isn't accidental. It's what Hitchens saw as a mutual reinforcement pact: religion lends fascism a cloak of divine legitimacy; fascism ensures religion's institutional survival and monopoly on moral narratives.

But What About Atheist Regimes?

Ah yes — Stalin. Mao. North Korea. The go-to examples meant to counter Hitchens' thesis. But he didn't shy away from them either. Stalin, he noted, was trained as a seminarian, steeped in the language and techniques of orthodoxy. And far from abolishing religion's structure, he reproduced it in secular form: heresy trials, sacred texts, martyrs, and a deified leader.

"Totalitarianism doesn't need religion — it just needs the same psychological framework," Hitchens argued. "But it's no coincidence that that framework was trained into people by centuries of religious indoctrination."

Indeed, even in supposedly "atheist" regimes, the religious imagination endures. The Orthodox Church supported Stalin's war. Today, they canonize him in iconography. It's not atheism that abetted tyranny, Hitchens insisted — it was religion's residue, and its enduring institutions.

Putin and the Russian Orthodox Church: The Modern Concordat

Fast-forward to the 21st century. If you think this marriage between religion and fascism is a relic of the past, look east.

Putin has carefully crafted a nationalist-religious regime, positioning the Russian Orthodox Church as the guardian of traditional values and the ideological wing of his imperialism. Patriarch Kirill has described Russia's war in Ukraine as a "metaphysical battle", framing it as a crusade against Western moral decay.

And it doesn't stop there:

• Russian missiles are blessed by priests.
• Dissenters are branded as blasphemers.
• LGBTQ+ identities are demonized as heresies.
• The Church and the State speak with one voice — sanctifying violence in defense of "holy Russia."

If this isn't clerical fascism, what is?

Why the Knots Keep Tying

So why do religion and fascism find each other again and again?

Because they serve each other:

• Religion gives fascism metaphysical legitimacy — dressing coercion as destiny.
• Fascism gives religion political power — enforcing doctrine at gunpoint.

Both hate ambiguity. Both suppress dissent. Both exalt the tribe and fear the outsider. Both promise a utopia after submission.

And both — as Hitchens never tired of saying — treat the individual not as a citizen, but as a subject.

Final Thought: The Fight Isn't Over

Hitchens died in 2011, but his warnings are more relevant than ever. From Orbán's Hungary to Modi's India, from Bolsonaro's Brazil to Trump's evangelical America — the fusion of religion and authoritarianism is not retreating. It is evolving.

And until we sever the myth that religion is inherently moral, or that faith keeps tyranny in check, we will keep seeing these knots tied — tighter, darker, and deadlier.

"The sleep of reason produces monsters." Goya said it. Hitchens lived it.

And we should remember it.

The Gospel According to Strongmen: Bolsonaro and Trump

Today, we don't need to look to history books or Eastern autocrats to witness this unholy alliance. It's right here, in the so-called bastions of the West.

Jair Bolsonaro, Brazil's former president, rose to power with full-throated backing from evangelical churches. His campaign events looked like revivals; his policies, like scripture. He called himself "messiah," rejected secularism as leftist corruption, and made faith a weapon — against science, LGBTQ+ people, Indigenous communities, and anyone daring to resist his theocratic nationalism.

He didn't just appeal to evangelicals — he handed them power, embedding them in education, culture, and the judiciary. "God above all," he chanted, while the Amazon burned and COVID corpses piled high. Clerical fascism, tropical edition.

And then there's Donald Trump — the least Christian man to ever be canonized by the American right. White evangelicals treated him not as a flawed vessel but as a divine instrument. He delivered: anti-abortion judges, Christian prayer in public schools, attacks on trans rights, and endless dog whistles to Christian nationalists.

He posed with a Bible upside down. They applauded.

He said he was the "chosen one." They believed.

This isn't hypocrisy. This is theology weaponized by power — the modern expression of the same fascistic religion Hitchens warned us about. If fascism is the political arm of divine command theory, then Trumpism and Bolsonarismo are liturgies of control, not outliers.