Trump’s Greenland Gambit Sends Shockwaves Through Europe and Congress

Paul Riverbank, 1/17/2026President Trump’s Greenland gambit underscores the risks when political theatrics collide with foreign policy, rattling allies and raising questions about U.S. leadership, intent, and the limits of presidential power on the global stage.

Long, for his part, tried dialing down the fallout once headlines hit Reykjavik. “There was nothing serious about that,” he conceded to an Arctic Today reporter. “If anyone took offense to it, then I apologize.” It was a clarification that, if anything, seemed to reinforce the cloud of unease. Over in Iceland’s parliament, MP Sigmar Guðmundsson didn’t mince words: “For a small country like Iceland, this is serious.” He was hardly alone—2,000 citizens signed a petition demanding their government refuse to accept Long’s appointment. It turns out, in a region already on edge, casual remarks by American officials are no longer dismissed as mere background noise.

What set the stage for this diplomatic awkwardness was not a mere slip of the tongue but the backdrop of President Trump’s open campaign to acquire Greenland—a self-governing territory technically under Denmark’s crown, but, as the president saw it, a prime candidate for American expansion. “We are going to do something on Greenland, whether they like it or not,” Trump told reporters in a burst of characteristic brio. “Because if we don’t do it, Russia or China will.” That kind of talk carried farther than intended, rattling not only Copenhagen but practically every European capital invested in Arctic security. Within days, Denmark made a show of military presence on Greenland, politely reiterating that any notions of joining the U.S. were, quite simply, a non-starter.

Inside the U.S. Congress, the reaction has been uncommonly united, if tinged with diplomatic restraint. Rep. Randy Fine, a Floridian whose style leans more toward the practical, floated the idea of closer ties—but quickly hedged: statehood only if Greenland genuinely wanted it. Meanwhile, as winter light slanted across Capitol Hill, Rep. Ruben Gallego made preparations for another kind of insurance: a congressional resolution to keep any use of force firmly in Congress’s court. “I’m going to keep it on the shelf as an option, should we ever need it,” he said, following a sit-down with Danish and Greenlandic counterparts that made clear American reassurances were not quite landing.

Pushback, though, did emerge from the other side of the aisle. Senator Thom Tillis, not known for grandstanding, shrugged at the prospect of an imminent war powers vote, saying it could pass easily “if an invasion was imminent,” but was otherwise premature. Senator Lisa Murkowski, a frequent Arctic traveler herself, struck a nuanced balance, stating her willingness to support congressional checks if executive impulses ran unchecked, a rare nod to the principle that not all levers of power should reside at One Pennsylvania Avenue.

Meanwhile, American pop culture proved unwilling to miss an opportunity for satire. On “The Daily Show,” the humor was biting—host Jordan Klepper quipped that a meeting in Washington between Danish and Greenland officials and U.S. leaders, including Vice President JD Vance and Secretary of State Marco Rubio, had Denmark’s foreign minister Lars Løkke Rasmussen sprinting to his car for a stress-relieving smoke. “One meeting with JD Vance and Marco Rubio will turn you into the Ben Affleck meme,” he joked, referencing that now-infamous paparazzi shot of Affleck gazing off in existential exhaustion.

But for Greenland’s leaders, there was little humor to be found. Foreign Minister Vivian Motzfeldt, addressing her country’s public broadcaster in a trembling voice, admitted the strain. “We are doing our utmost. But the last days… I am overwhelmed.” It wasn’t just diplomatic fatigue on display; it was genuine worry about slipping from agency to afterthought.

Behind closed doors in U.S. offices, Danish and Greenlandic delegations emerged from meetings with little to show for their efforts. “We didn’t manage to change the American position,” said Rasmussen. “It’s clear that the president has this wish of conquering over Greenland. We made it very, very clear that this is not in the interest of the Kingdom.” Their American hosts, for now, remain unmoved—even as European security officials recalibrate Arctic strategy.

For audiences outside Washington, the episode has proven more than just another chapter in political theater. To Icelanders and Danes, America’s shifting tone has felt less like statesmanship and more like unsettling improvisation, with humor sometimes serving as pain relief—sometimes, as a weapon of its own. In the streets of Reykjavik, resentment morphed into digital activism; in Copenhagen’s corridors, officials wondered aloud about the durability of transatlantic trust.

What began as a throwaway joke has evolved—almost overnight—into a serious test of American alliances and the authority of presidential power. The border between bravado and policy, never entirely clear, has blurred right before the world’s eyes. The question that lingers is both simple and profound: At what point does political showmanship end, and genuine consequence begin—and who is left cleaning up the mess when they collide?

It was supposed to be a throwaway line—a bit of Capitol Hill banter that evaporates before anyone writes it down. Yet when Billy Long, the ever-boisterous former Missouri congressman and President Trump’s new pick for ambassador to Iceland, wisecracked about serving as the "governor" of Greenland—“the 52nd state,” as he put it—he unexpectedly lit a match near a powder keg. Laughter echoed down the marble halls of Washington. But, as often happens, jokes do not travel well, especially not over the North Atlantic, where nerves lately have been fraying thin.Long, for his part, tried dialing down the fallout once headlines hit Reykjavik. “There was nothing serious about that,” he conceded to an Arctic Today reporter. “If anyone took offense to it, then I apologize.” It was a clarification that, if anything, seemed to reinforce the cloud of unease. Over in Iceland’s parliament, MP Sigmar Guðmundsson didn’t mince words: “For a small country like Iceland, this is serious.” He was hardly alone—2,000 citizens signed a petition demanding their government refuse to accept Long’s appointment. It turns out, in a region already on edge, casual remarks by American officials are no longer dismissed as mere background noise.What set the stage for this diplomatic awkwardness was not a mere slip of the tongue but the backdrop of President Trump’s open campaign to acquire Greenland—a self-governing territory technically under Denmark’s crown, but, as the president saw it, a prime candidate for American expansion. “We are going to do something on Greenland, whether they like it or not,” Trump told reporters in a burst of characteristic brio. “Because if we don’t do it, Russia or China will.” That kind of talk carried farther than intended, rattling not only Copenhagen but practically every European capital invested in Arctic security. Within days, Denmark made a show of military presence on Greenland, politely reiterating that any notions of joining the U.S. were, quite simply, a non-starter.Inside the U.S. Congress, the reaction has been uncommonly united, if tinged with diplomatic restraint. Rep. Randy Fine, a Floridian whose style leans more toward the practical, floated the idea of closer ties—but quickly hedged: statehood only if Greenland genuinely wanted it. Meanwhile, as winter light slanted across Capitol Hill, Rep. Ruben Gallego made preparations for another kind of insurance: a congressional resolution to keep any use of force firmly in Congress’s court. “I’m going to keep it on the shelf as an option, should we ever need it,” he said, following a sit-down with Danish and Greenlandic counterparts that made clear American reassurances were not quite landing.Pushback, though, did emerge from the other side of the aisle. Senator Thom Tillis, not known for grandstanding, shrugged at the prospect of an imminent war powers vote, saying it could pass easily “if an invasion was imminent,” but was otherwise premature. Senator Lisa Murkowski, a frequent Arctic traveler herself, struck a nuanced balance, stating her willingness to support congressional checks if executive impulses ran unchecked, a rare nod to the principle that not all levers of power should reside at One Pennsylvania Avenue.Meanwhile, American pop culture proved unwilling to miss an opportunity for satire. On “The Daily Show,” the humor was biting—host Jordan Klepper quipped that a meeting in Washington between Danish and Greenland officials and U.S. leaders, including Vice President JD Vance and Secretary of State Marco Rubio, had Denmark’s foreign minister Lars Løkke Rasmussen sprinting to his car for a stress-relieving smoke. “One meeting with JD Vance and Marco Rubio will turn you into the Ben Affleck meme,” he joked, referencing that now-infamous paparazzi shot of Affleck gazing off in existential exhaustion.But for Greenland’s leaders, there was little humor to be found. Foreign Minister Vivian Motzfeldt, addressing her country’s public broadcaster in a trembling voice, admitted the strain. “We are doing our utmost. But the last days… I am overwhelmed.” It wasn’t just diplomatic fatigue on display; it was genuine worry about slipping from agency to afterthought.Behind closed doors in U.S. offices, Danish and Greenlandic delegations emerged from meetings with little to show for their efforts. “We didn’t manage to change the American position,” said Rasmussen. “It’s clear that the president has this wish of conquering over Greenland. We made it very, very clear that this is not in the interest of the Kingdom.” Their American hosts, for now, remain unmoved—even as European security officials recalibrate Arctic strategy.For audiences outside Washington, the episode has proven more than just another chapter in political theater. To Icelanders and Danes, America’s shifting tone has felt less like statesmanship and more like unsettling improvisation, with humor sometimes serving as pain relief—sometimes, as a weapon of its own. In the streets of Reykjavik, resentment morphed into digital activism; in Copenhagen’s corridors, officials wondered aloud about the durability of transatlantic trust.What began as a throwaway joke has evolved—almost overnight—into a serious test of American alliances and the authority of presidential power. The border between bravado and policy, never entirely clear, has blurred right before the world’s eyes. The question that lingers is both simple and profound: At what point does political showmanship end, and genuine consequence begin—and who is left cleaning up the mess when they collide?