China Launches Nationwide War on Christianity: Dozens of Pastors Arrested

Paul Riverbank, 11/21/2025China's crackdown on unregistered churches sparks arrests, international outrage, and deep questions on religious freedom.

But this wasn’t some isolated dust-up: police in Beihai made the first moves, but within days, detentions had stretched as far as Shanghai, Beijing, and the southern reaches of Guangdong. Pastor Ezra Jin Mingri, whose spiritual journey began on the heels of 1989’s bloody Tiananmen crackdown, was among those caught in the sweep. Jin’s conversion was forged in turmoil, and it propelled him to found the Zion Church by 2007—an institution that would grow rapidly, fueled by a restless hunger for spiritual community. For years, Beijing’s tightening grip on faith was a shadow on every gathering. But the pandemic, oddly enough, cracked open new opportunities. Locked doors led worshippers to find community in small apartments or online, sometimes in open defiance of official regulations. House churches sprouted where no steeples rose.

Membership swelled to around 5,000, reaching into dozens of cities, a testament to both resilience and the perils of standing apart. Yet with this growth came heightened official scrutiny. The authorities, intent on folding all faiths under a state-sanctioned umbrella, have for years demanded what they call "Sinicization"—a fusion of religious practice and Communist Party principles. For institutions like Zion, state registration means an order: blend your doctrine with state dogma, and allow surveillance at every turn. For Zion, and many like it, this is a bridge too far.

This past November, the line hardened. Leaders and staff were accused of “illegally using information networks.” In practical terms? Holding Bible studies or worship on Zoom without permission. But the charge also laid bare the reality: online churches are now as vulnerable as those with pews and pulpits.

Reminders of the crackdown’s personal cost aren’t hard to find. During one raid, a pastor was separated from her infant child. Congregants told me the scene unsettled even the most seasoned members; lawyers now warn that even essential medication isn’t guaranteed for those inside. For the detained, days blur and basic needs go unaddressed.

Though China’s constitution nominally permits religious freedom, the contrast between the letter of the law and life on the ground is stark. Every unregistered gathering is a calculated risk. There’s a grim familiarity here: in 2018, Pastor Wang Yi and Early Rain Covenant Church faced a similar fate. But the swiftness and scale of the action against Zion startled observers, hinting at a new willingness by Beijing to quash defiance quickly and forcefully.

The global reaction was swift and, at times, unusually unified. American senators from both parties condemned the crackdown. “No one should fear prison simply for living their faith,” Senator Chris Coons said. His Republican colleague, Ted Cruz, called this the broadest anti-Christian sweep in China since the Cultural Revolution, warning that “governments that fear faith ultimately fear their own people.” Elsewhere, church leaders around the world circulated an online petition, gathering hundreds of signatures in a matter of days. Their message to Beijing was as much plea as warning: “Religious freedom makes societies stronger, not weaker.”

Meanwhile, the families of those held walk a daily tightrope of uncertainty. Pastor Jin’s daughter, Grace, now based in the United States, traveled to Washington to speak out. She described the agony of not knowing if her father was safe, healthy, or even alive. “For those locked away,” she said, “not having answers may be the worst suffering.”

If you look past the headlines, the deeper question—who decides the boundaries of belief—hasn’t come close to resolution. The government frames its actions as safeguarding national unity. For millions, the answer is personal, rooted in ancestral faith and community. As the back-and-forth between Beijing and the global community intensifies, the fate of the Zion Church—and of countless other unofficial religious communities—remains uncertain. At stake is something larger than the fate of a single congregation: the ongoing struggle over conscience, loyalty, and the lines authoritarian power dares faith to cross.

A blast of cold air swept across China’s churches this autumn, and the chill had little to do with the weather. After years dodging watchful eyes, leaders of the sprawling Zion Church found themselves facing arrest. It began quietly one Tuesday; by sunset, 18 church leaders—men and women who’d shepherded unregistered congregations for years—were suddenly in custody.But this wasn’t some isolated dust-up: police in Beihai made the first moves, but within days, detentions had stretched as far as Shanghai, Beijing, and the southern reaches of Guangdong. Pastor Ezra Jin Mingri, whose spiritual journey began on the heels of 1989’s bloody Tiananmen crackdown, was among those caught in the sweep. Jin’s conversion was forged in turmoil, and it propelled him to found the Zion Church by 2007—an institution that would grow rapidly, fueled by a restless hunger for spiritual community. For years, Beijing’s tightening grip on faith was a shadow on every gathering. But the pandemic, oddly enough, cracked open new opportunities. Locked doors led worshippers to find community in small apartments or online, sometimes in open defiance of official regulations. House churches sprouted where no steeples rose.Membership swelled to around 5,000, reaching into dozens of cities, a testament to both resilience and the perils of standing apart. Yet with this growth came heightened official scrutiny. The authorities, intent on folding all faiths under a state-sanctioned umbrella, have for years demanded what they call "Sinicization"—a fusion of religious practice and Communist Party principles. For institutions like Zion, state registration means an order: blend your doctrine with state dogma, and allow surveillance at every turn. For Zion, and many like it, this is a bridge too far.This past November, the line hardened. Leaders and staff were accused of “illegally using information networks.” In practical terms? Holding Bible studies or worship on Zoom without permission. But the charge also laid bare the reality: online churches are now as vulnerable as those with pews and pulpits.Reminders of the crackdown’s personal cost aren’t hard to find. During one raid, a pastor was separated from her infant child. Congregants told me the scene unsettled even the most seasoned members; lawyers now warn that even essential medication isn’t guaranteed for those inside. For the detained, days blur and basic needs go unaddressed.Though China’s constitution nominally permits religious freedom, the contrast between the letter of the law and life on the ground is stark. Every unregistered gathering is a calculated risk. There’s a grim familiarity here: in 2018, Pastor Wang Yi and Early Rain Covenant Church faced a similar fate. But the swiftness and scale of the action against Zion startled observers, hinting at a new willingness by Beijing to quash defiance quickly and forcefully.The global reaction was swift and, at times, unusually unified. American senators from both parties condemned the crackdown. “No one should fear prison simply for living their faith,” Senator Chris Coons said. His Republican colleague, Ted Cruz, called this the broadest anti-Christian sweep in China since the Cultural Revolution, warning that “governments that fear faith ultimately fear their own people.” Elsewhere, church leaders around the world circulated an online petition, gathering hundreds of signatures in a matter of days. Their message to Beijing was as much plea as warning: “Religious freedom makes societies stronger, not weaker.”Meanwhile, the families of those held walk a daily tightrope of uncertainty. Pastor Jin’s daughter, Grace, now based in the United States, traveled to Washington to speak out. She described the agony of not knowing if her father was safe, healthy, or even alive. “For those locked away,” she said, “not having answers may be the worst suffering.”If you look past the headlines, the deeper question—who decides the boundaries of belief—hasn’t come close to resolution. The government frames its actions as safeguarding national unity. For millions, the answer is personal, rooted in ancestral faith and community. As the back-and-forth between Beijing and the global community intensifies, the fate of the Zion Church—and of countless other unofficial religious communities—remains uncertain. At stake is something larger than the fate of a single congregation: the ongoing struggle over conscience, loyalty, and the lines authoritarian power dares faith to cross.