A THEOLOGY OF NONVIOLENCE

Gospel Reflection: Matthew 5: 38-48

“Do not resist evil. Turn the other cheek. Walk two miles more. Give him your tunic. Love your enemies. Pray for your persecutors.”

These words in the Sermon on the Mount seem to be a central part of the Christian tradition. Forgiveness, love of enemy, non-violence: these define our Christian identity. “If we only love those who love us, what reward do we expect?” The martyrs were portrayed as joyfully singing to their death among the lions.

If these commands were personal injunctions, they may still be manageable. Difficult but manageable. To keep quiet in the face of insult; to give continuing service to one who does not appreciate it; to pray for those who wish my downfall or those who betrayed my trust – provide occasions to practice self-restraint, to accept personal idiosyncrasies, or to keep on caring for people we love no matter what the cost.

But it becomes more complicated when applied to social relations enmeshed in asymmetric and hegemonic power.

Today, the charges of “sedition” are hurled left and right against critics of this regime. For instance, does the showing of Bikoy videos constitute a conspiracy to sedition, creating hatred against the president and his family, stirring tumult among the people, and intending to topple the government “by force”? Is it seditious to report a crime?

We push the question further: Is inciting to “sedition” immoral? Is the rhetoric of force in the midst of violent tyranny un-Christian? Does Christian forgiveness and compassion mean passive submission to systemic evil?

On the one hand, there are Christians who profess “absolute pacifism” – unconditionally rejecting in all circumstances any form of physical force to achieve political, economic of social goals. Many Christians, mostly Duterte supporters, tell me: just pray for the President, do not sow hate and discord, preach the gospel of peace and forgiveness. As priests, that is what you are supposed to do, they remind me.

But we soon realize that non-violent pacifism has many faces.

Take the case of Mahatma Gandhi. Millions of Indians liberated themselves from British rule through “active non-violence” guided by satyagraha (which literally means ‘truth force’). It was a use of force, the force of truth. Gandhi’s march (March 12 – April 6, 1930) was not a passive submission to evil but militant protest which were seen as seditious by the Empire. It was an act of rebellion, a symbolic breaking of the Salt Law, a call to civil disobedience to bring down colonial power. There were no arms and bullets, of course. But it was seen as a war of defiance, a confrontation with evil, in the words of Gandhi, “a battle of right against might.” He was even imprisoned together with his 60,000 followers. He was seditious. During the march, after his morning prayer, with a lump of salt, Gandhi said: “With this, I am shaking the foundations of the British Empire.” And crumble it went. The rest is history.

The great Protestant preacher, Martin Luther King, Jr. learned from Mahatma Gandhi. He followed the same way of “truth force” (satyagraha) in the bus company boycott in Montgomery in 1955-1956 and subsequent campaigns. Rosa Parks, a black woman, refused to vacate her seat in the white person’s section of the bus. After this the preacher, Martin Luther King galvanized people’s consciousness toward the evil of racial discrimination. For this, he was imprisoned. This later led to large scale US demonstrations inspiring around 40,000 black bus drivers to boycott their work until black segregation ended. Martin Luther King was reacting not only to white supremacy but also to the “purist” and self-righteous stance of Christian’s absolute pacifism.

In the ideal world, one can trust in human goodness to forge peace or institute justice. But in the realpolitik of everyday living and asymmetric social power, strategic force and pressure – in whatever nonviolent form one can imagine – becomes necessary to free the oppressed, to incapacitate the abusive ruler, or to stop the dictator from killing more people.

Mahatma Gandhi and Martin Luther King are not alone. Pope Paul VI went even further; he recognized the moral sense of “revolutionary uprisings” in the context of “manifest, longstanding tyranny”.

“The injustice of certain situations cries out for God's attention. Lacking the bare necessities of life, whole nations are under the thumb of others; they cannot act on their own initiative; they cannot exercise personal responsibility… Everyone knows, however, that revolutionary uprisings—except where there is manifest, longstanding tyranny which would do great damage to fundamental personal rights and dangerous harm to the common good of the country—engender new injustices, introduce new inequities and bring new disasters” (Populorum Progressio, 30-31).

My point is simple: there is no universal theology of nonviolence (or a theology of violence) that floats free regardless of historical contexts and theological traditions. There is also no such theology of non-violence that is predetermined from the start. This is the reason for the Catholic Social Teachings’ acknowledgement of the use of violence in most difficult contexts, even as it strongly cautions the faithful against its painful long-term effects.

In short, a theology of non-violence is always a product of its context as individual or groups discern for an honest Christian response in their difficult circumstances.

New Testament studies show that Jesus did not tell his followers to use violence to promote the Kingdom. He did not succumb to the Zealot’s temptation. However, he did not also advise a retreat to Qumran among the Essenes. He asked his disciples to engage the real world.

Renunciation of force (or the use of it) as the prerequisite of the “following of Jesus” cannot be determined from the beginning or decided in a vacuum. It can only be honestly and painfully discerned in context. It is not an easy deductive enterprise. Like Jacob, it is always an act of “wrestling with God” in the process of asking what his name The journey of Dietrich Bonhoeffer – from being a pacifist, to helping plot Hitler’s assassination, to kneeling before his execution at the gallows – is well-known.

We stand on the shoulders of these great theologians before us. I seriously take the products of their own reflections on this matter. They keep me thinking. Their challenge strikes at the heart of the Philippine situation today.

In Jesus Before Christianity, Albert Nolan gives a helpful reminder:

“Jesus was not a pacifist in principle, he was a pacifist in practice, that is to say, in the concrete context of his time. We do not know what he would have done in other possible circumstances. But we can surmise that if there had been no other way of defending the poor and the oppressed and if there had been no danger of escalation of violence, his unlimited compassion might have overflowed temporarily into a violent indignation… However, even in such cases, violence would be a temporary measure with no other purpose than the prevention of some more serious violence. The kingdom of total liberation for all men cannot be established by violence. Faith alone can enable the kingdom to come” (Jesus Before Christianity, 111).

The great theologian Karl Rahner writes:

“The principle of absolute renunciation of force would not be a Christian principle. It would be a heresy which misunderstood the nature of man [sic], his sinfulness and his existence in the interplay of persons in the one space of material being. An order of freedom would be misunderstood, if it were taken to be an order of things in which force was considered reprehensible on principle. A fundamental and universal renunciation of physical force of all kinds is not merely impracticable. It is also immoral because it would mean self-destruction of the subject who is responsible to God.” (Theological Investigations Vol. 4, 399).

I am back to my first questions: Is inciting to sedition immoral? Is the rhetoric of force in the midst of violent tyranny un-Christian? Does Christian forgiveness and compassion mean passive submission to systemic evil?

Daniel Franklin E. Pilario, C.M.
St Vincent School of Theology - Adamson University
danielfranklinpilario@yahoo.com

02.20.2020