BERLIN — When Johann Wadephul stood amid the rubble of Harasta, a devastated suburb of Damascus, in late October, the German foreign minister seemed genuinely shaken. The destruction stretched in every direction—buildings reduced to skeletal frames, infrastructure pulverized by fourteen years of civil war. "I have never personally witnessed such extensive devastation," he told reporters, his voice measured but grave. "It is difficult for people to live here with dignity."

Then came the statement that would ignite a political firestorm within his own Christian Democratic Union: "It is only very limitedly possible at present to return Syrians to their homeland, because much of the country's infrastructure has been destroyed."

For a party that had spent months calling for the swift deportation of Syrian refugees from Germany, the words landed like a theological rebuke. Here was their own foreign minister—a seasoned politician from the conservative wing, no less—suggesting that compassion might trump expedience. That perhaps the "Christian" in Christian Democratic Union meant something more than a historical artifact.

Within days, the backlash came swift and sharp from Wadephul's own party. Günter Krings, deputy leader of the CDU/CSU parliamentary bloc, dismissed the foreign minister's concerns as "entirely inappropriate." His retort carried the kind of hard-edged pragmatism that has increasingly defined the party's approach to immigration: "Who will rebuild the devastated country if not its own citizens?"

The exchange has crystallized a question that has simmered beneath the surface of German politics for years: Just how Christian is the Christian Democratic Union?

The Weight of a Name

Founded in the ruins of post-war Germany in 1945, the CDU emerged with an explicit mission: to unite Christians of all denominations in building a new democratic order. The party's founders, scarred by the Nazi catastrophe that had exploited religious and political divisions, believed that Catholic-Protestant unity was essential to preventing another authoritarian takeover.

For decades, that Christian identity provided a clear moral framework. The party championed what Germans call the soziale Marktwirtschaft—the social market economy—which balanced capitalist dynamism with an extensive welfare state. Human dignity, enshrined in the first article of Germany's Basic Law, stood as the foundational principle. Every person was created in God's image; every person deserved protection and respect.

But in an increasingly secular Germany—where church attendance has plummeted and only about 36 percent of the population remains affiliated with the Catholic or Protestant churches—that Christian foundation has grown more contested. Recent surveys show that while nearly 80 percent of CDU members still consider the party's Christian orientation important, 35 percent of Germans overall would prefer the "C" removed from the party's name entirely.

The tension came to a head during Chancellor Angela Merkel's decision to open Germany's borders to over a million refugees in 2015, many of them Syrian. Merkel, herself the daughter of a Lutheran pastor, framed the decision in unmistakably Christian terms: "We have so much," she said. "We have to share." But the backlash against that policy helped spawn the far-right Alternative for Germany (AfD), which has steadily siphoned conservative voters from the CDU.

Now, under Chancellor Friedrich Merz—who took office in May 2025 after the CDU's February election victory—the party has veered rightward on immigration. The message is clear: Germany has done its humanitarian duty. The Syrian civil war is over. It's time for refugees to return home.

Except Johann Wadephul went to Syria and saw otherwise.

A Minister's Moral Clarity

The foreign minister's visit to Damascus came at a pivotal moment. The Assad regime had fallen in December 2024, toppled by rebel forces after fourteen years of brutal civil war. The euphoria of liberation quickly gave way to harsh reality. Syria remained shattered—its infrastructure decimated, its economy collapsed, with 70 percent of the population living below the poverty line.

When Wadephul returned to Berlin and briefed the CDU parliamentary group, he reportedly compared Syria's devastation to Germany at the end of World War II. The comparison was pointed: It had taken Germany decades to rebuild with massive international support. How could Syrians be expected to return immediately to such conditions?

The reaction within the party ranged from discomfort to outright hostility. Interior Minister Alexander Dobrindt—from the CDU's Bavarian sister party, the Christian Social Union—had already been working on agreements to facilitate deportations. Martin Huber, the CSU's secretary general, emphasized that "the war in Syria is over" and that Germany had fulfilled its obligation by hosting millions of Syrians during the conflict. Now, he insisted, Syrians should rebuild their own country.

Chancellor Merz himself moved quickly to clarify the government's position. "I will say it again," he declared, "the war in Syria is over, and there are no longer reasons for asylum in Germany."

Yet Wadephul's words had struck a nerve precisely because they invoked the values the party claims to champion. The CDU's recently updated "values document"—a 70-page manifesto released in 2023—places the "inviolable dignity of human beings" at its core. It describes every person as "a being created by God" who "should live freely and self-determinedly."

How does one reconcile that theological commitment with the political imperative to deport people to a country where, as the foreign minister himself acknowledged, it is "difficult to live with dignity"?

The Stranger at the Gate

The tension cuts to the heart of Christian social teaching, which has for centuries emphasized hospitality to strangers as a fundamental moral duty. The biblical command to "welcome the stranger" appears repeatedly in both Old and New Testaments. Jesus himself was a refugee—his family fled to Egypt to escape Herod's persecution.

Christian ethicists have long argued that this isn't merely good advice but a divine imperative. "The call to welcome the stranger is deeply rooted in the Christian tradition," notes Luke Bretherton, a prominent Christian political theologian. He argues that involvement with refugees should be understood as "the hallowing of bare life"—recognizing the sacred dignity of those most vulnerable.

But modern political parties operate in a different register than theological seminaries. The CDU's challenge is that it must navigate between competing constituencies: faithful Christians who take these teachings seriously, secular conservatives who care more about order and economic concerns, and an increasingly anxious public worried about immigration's impact on German society.

The party has tried to square this circle by emphasizing "integration"—the idea that immigrants must adapt to German culture and values. It's a framework that allows the CDU to appear both welcoming and demanding, both Christian and conservative. But on the question of Syrian deportations, that middle ground has collapsed. Either the destroyed state of Syria matters, or it doesn't. Either human dignity requires considering whether people can actually live decent lives where they're sent, or political expediency trumps such concerns.

Wadephul, for his part, has attempted to walk back his initial statements without abandoning their core message. At a joint press conference in early November, he emphasized that "Syrians must rebuild their country themselves" while also noting that "of course they need our help in this regard." He insisted there was no disagreement with Chancellor Merz on the goal of return, only on the timeline and conditions.

But the damage—or perhaps the clarity—had been done. The debate had exposed the fault line between the party's Christian rhetoric and its conservative politics.

A European Dilemma

Germany is hardly alone in this struggle. Across Europe, Christian Democratic parties face similar tensions. The CDU's values document proudly proclaims that "the basis of Christian Democratic politics is the Christian understanding of the human being." Yet in practice, many European Christian Democratic parties have drifted toward harder-line positions on immigration, influenced by the rise of far-right populism and concerns about cultural integration.

The Catholic Church—whose social teaching forms one pillar of Christian Democratic thought—has consistently advocated for generous refugee policies. Pope Francis has made welcoming migrants a signature theme of his papacy. Yet even among Catholic and Protestant voters, support for restrictive immigration policies has grown.

The paradox is particularly acute in Germany, where the CDU has governed for most of the Federal Republic's history. The party helped build a prosperous, stable democracy grounded in Christian values—including solidarity, subsidiarity, and human dignity. But that very success has created a comfortable society now reluctant to share its benefits with newcomers, especially those from different cultural and religious backgrounds.

The Syria debate crystallizes this tension because it strips away the usual abstractions. These aren't theoretical refugees; they're real people who have already been living in Germany, many for nearly a decade. Their children attend German schools. They work German jobs. They've learned the language and, in many cases, built new lives.

And Syria, for all the optimism about Assad's fall, remains a humanitarian catastrophe. The UN estimates that 16.7 million people—70 percent of the population—need humanitarian assistance. Basic infrastructure barely functions. While over 1.4 million Syrians have returned since December 2024, many did so out of desperation rather than genuine choice, fleeing dire conditions in refugee camps in Lebanon and Turkey.

The Question of Witness

On a gray November afternoon in Berlin, I spoke with several CDU members about the Wadephul controversy. Their responses revealed the party's internal struggle.

"We can't take in the whole world," said one longtime member, a businessman from Bavaria who asked not to be named. "That's not being un-Christian. That's being realistic. We helped Syria during the war. Now they need to help themselves."

But a younger member, a lawyer from Hamburg, saw it differently. "If our Christian values mean anything, they mean we don't send people back to conditions where they can't survive with dignity. Otherwise, what's the point of having a 'C' in our name?"

Both spoke of the pressure they feel from voters anxious about immigration, housing costs, and cultural change. Both acknowledged the AfD's growing strength—the far-right party that has successfully positioned itself as the true defender of German interests against what it portrays as naive Christian universalism.

The AfD's rise has forced the CDU into difficult choices. Maintain traditional Christian Democratic positions on human dignity and refugee protection, and risk losing more voters to the populist right. Or shift rightward on immigration, and risk losing the party's moral core.

Wadephul's moment of honesty in Damascus represented an attempt to hold that center—to acknowledge both the practical challenges of return and the moral obligations that German Christians claim to take seriously. But in the current political climate, such nuanced positions come under attack from both sides.

Beyond the Rhetoric

As winter settles over Germany, the debate continues. The government is indeed pursuing agreements to facilitate deportations to Syria. But Wadephul has also emphasized Germany's readiness to support Syrian reconstruction, working with the new transitional government in Damascus. The foreign minister has called for creating "conditions that encourage more Syrians to return voluntarily," rather than forced deportations.

It's a position that tries to honor both political realities and moral principles. Whether it will satisfy either the party's conservative wing or its Christian conscience remains uncertain.

The question "How Christian is the CDU?" admits no simple answer. The party contains genuine believers who take their faith seriously, secular conservatives who view the "C" as cultural heritage rather than theological commitment, and pragmatists who see Christian language as useful rhetoric for centre-right politics.

What the Syria debate reveals is that these different understandings can coexist comfortably only when the stakes remain abstract. When a foreign minister returns from viewing devastation firsthand and asks his party to consider what its professed values actually require, the tensions become impossible to ignore.

Perhaps that's ultimately healthy for the party and for German democracy. A Christian Democratic Union that never grapples with what its Christianity demands might be more politically comfortable, but it would also be less honest. The Wadephul controversy, for all its discomfort, represents the sound of a party being forced to reckon with the weight of its own name.

In his briefing to the parliamentary group, Wadephul reportedly emphasized a simple principle: that human dignity isn't negotiable, even when politically convenient. It's a principle the CDU claims to hold dear. Now, in the face of ruined Syrian cities and anxious German voters, the party must decide what it's actually willing to do about it.

As Günter Krings asked—though he meant it rhetorically—who will rebuild Syria if not its own citizens? It's a question that could be answered in multiple ways. One answer emphasizes personal responsibility and national sovereignty. Another asks what kind of support and conditions make rebuilding actually possible. And a third wonders whether the question itself, in its stark either-or framing, represents a retreat from the Christian solidarity the party claims to champion.

For now, Germany's Christian Democrats remain divided—between the hard politics of deportation and the harder demands of the faith that gives their party its name. It's a tension that won't resolve itself with position papers or parliamentary maneuvers. It requires something more difficult: an honest reckoning with what it means to be Christian in the messy, complicated realm of democratic politics.

In the rubble of Harasta, Johann Wadephul glimpsed that question in its starkest form. Back in Berlin, his party is still searching for an answer that satisfies both conscience and constituents. Whether such an answer exists may determine not just the CDU's future, but the meaning of Christian democracy itself in 21st-century Europe.