Myths and the Far Right: NSB vs the Pulpit

Episode Narrative

In the shadowy period between 1931 and 1945, Europe was a theater for competing ideologies and rising extremism, and nowhere was this more palpable than in the Netherlands. Here, a figure named Anton Mussert birthed the National Socialist Movement, known as the NSB. This movement sought to weave a tale, a “Greater Netherlands” myth that idealized a unified Germanic cultural and racial identity. It drew heavily from Germanic symbols and mythology, trying to legitimize a far-right ideology and galvanize political rallies. The NSB represented an echo of darker forces swirling throughout Europe.

As the 1930s unfolded, the NSB adopted styles reminiscent of Nazi Germany. Black-shirted paramilitary uniforms and grand public rallies were tactics directly lifted from Hitler's playbook. The intent was clear: creating a mythic aura around their cause, a cult-like devotion that would draw people in. It was a stunning contrast to the Catholic and Protestant institutions that held sway in the Netherlands. These sacred bodies found themselves poised against the NSB, defending their beliefs against this encroaching tide of nationalism.

The Catholic bishops promptly reacted, explicitly forbidding Catholics from joining the NSB, condemning its ideology as fundamentally incompatible with Christian teachings. The Reformed Church was equally committed. Synods issued dire warnings to their congregations about the spiritual and moral threat posed by the NSB. This was more than a theological disagreement; it was a two-sided ideological battle that would engulf communities.

Public spaces transformed into battlegrounds. Sidewalks that once flourished with everyday life became arenas for violent street fights and social boycotts. Cafés that served as gathering places for townsfolk turned into sites of cultural confrontation, where NSB supporters met fierce opposition from religious groups. Tension simmered like an overflowing pot, threatening to boil over into chaos.

To understand the NSB's rise, we must acknowledge its reliance on a selective reading of Dutch history, infusing it with pagan imagery and Germanic symbolism. This was an attempt to supplant traditional Christian narratives with a racialized mythology, one that sought to unify "Aryan" peoples under a fascist ideology. They painted a picture where a racially pure "Greater Netherlands" could stand tall, free from the shackles of religious diversity and historical complexity.

The landscape of Dutch society itself was not readily malleable. From 1914 to 1945, the Netherlands maintained a pillarized society, a mosaic where Catholic, Protestant, and secular groups lived in defined cultural spaces, called "pillars." Each group had its own institutions, schools, and newspapers, forming a bastion of unique identity and ideologies. This, however, also meant that the responses to the NSB were often fractured, with flourishing walls erected around each community.

In the quieter corners of the Netherlands, places like the Joles Jewish Hospital in Haarlem flourished, illustrating the deep connections that religious identity had with community cohesion during these turbulent interwar years. Yet, shadows gathered around this hospital as the Nazis would eventually close it during their reign, reflecting the ever-tightening grip of fascism and hate on the gentle threads of community life.

Dutch Protestant missionary movements during this era had already begun intertwining their religious views with ideas of cultural superiority linked to imperialism. They wielded maps and religious symbolism to reinforce a vision of supremacy that gradually began to seep into some nationalist and far-right ideologies.

Against this backdrop, the Dutch Reformed Church maintained a critical stance in shaping national identity. They often took a stand against extremist political movements, emphasizing a Calvinist nationalism that wholly rejected fascist myths. They engaged in theological debates that touched, quite poignant for the times, on modernism and fundamentalism, navigating the complex cultural currents swirling around the NSB.

It was in this human struggle that communities began framing resistance to the NSB not just as a political imperative but as a deep moral calling rooted in Christian humanitarian values. Schools operated by religious groups worked to instill these values in their students, reinforcing their anti-fascist messages and promoting interreligious understanding as a counter to the NSB’s exclusivity.

The NSB used symbols and narrative to conjure images of ancient racial destiny through pagan iconography. They appropriated runes and myths to provide a guise of legitimacy that resonated with supporters. However, the mainstream Dutch churches quickly denounced this as heretical, reflecting the solidarity of religious communities standing firm on moral grounds.

As the 1930s progressed, sermons and church bulletins became powerful tools for warning congregations about the spiritual dangers of fascism. The political struggle morphed into a battle for the nation’s soul. Leaders from all sectors called for a united front, pointing their congregants towards human dignity and their common faith in God as opposed to the darkness creeping in from the NSB.

The conflict between the NSB and religious communities escalated, engulfing not only ideologies but spilling out into the streets. Documented street fights became a grim testament to deep societal divisions, contrasting religion, nationalism, and fascism, a tapestry of conflict woven into the fabric of towns across the Netherlands.

As the church leadership's resolve stiffened, both the Catholic and Reformed churches took serious actions to distance themselves from the NSB. Public declarations and pastoral letters were written, cementing identities aligned against fascist ideology, and demonstrating a moral front that sought to mobilize resistance. The synods of the Reformed Church, too, drafted formal warnings and imposed disciplinary measures on congregants flirting with NSB sympathies.

Despite the pervasive atmosphere of fear and uncertainty, the NSB's efforts to intertwine myth and religion were met with staunch resistance. It formed part of a larger European trend where far-right movements sought to co-opt religious symbols. However, the Netherlands’ religious institutions stood tall against this wave, fortified by their collective history and teachings.

This struggle was never simple or neat. It encompassed a myriad of human experiences: of people in pews wrestling with their beliefs while wooden floors creaked under the weight of confrontations outside. The NSB's vision sought to mold a new national identity based solely on racial and mythical foundations, discarding centuries of Christian heritage and identity. In their quest for a homogenous society, they aimed to erase the vibrant pluralism that had defined Dutch life.

As the war progressed and darkness enveloped Europe, this collective effort against the NSB would echo into the future. Divisions deepened yet were also met with resistance that sought to uphold the dignity of humanity against forces that thrived on division and hatred.

What remains from this period? The legacy of resilience amidst darkness shapes how we reflect on choices and beliefs today. It serves as a reminder that in the deepest struggles, the human spirit may take flight, dwelling not in division, but in unity, compassion, and an unwavering commitment to human dignity. The stories of those who resisted, spoke out, and upheld their values are as vital today as they were then.

In contemplating these historical currents, we might ask ourselves what echoes we hear from the past. Are we vigilant against the ideologies that seek to divide, or do we stand resolutely for shared humanity, nurturing our collective narrative enriched by our diversity? Such questions grant us not only perspectives on our history but also guide our pathways forward.