Recent

Ken Sehested

{This material was presented at the 11-13 December 2014 Christian Peace Circle retreat for leaders from various peace organizations in the US, held at Stony Point Center, Stony Point, N.Y.}

         The overall theme for this retreat is “Fear Not! The nonviolent war cry of the people of God.” The admonition to “fear not”—don’t be afraid, be still, take courage, be of good cheer—is a constant one throughout Scripture. It is always spoken in the context of danger and dread, typically against overwhelming odds, when things look like they couldn’t get any worse.

         The very first mention of God’s name in Scripture is uttered in the story in Exodus where the Hebrew people cry out because of the misery of their oppression. In the story of the calling of Moses, the text says “Then the Lord said, 'I have observed the misery of my people who are in Egypt; I have heard their cry on account of their taskmasters. Indeed, I know their sufferings. . . .' {Exodus 3:7} Shortly after that, Moses incredulously asks: “OK, so I’m supposed to go to Pharaoh and say “let my people go”? And just who exactly should I say is demanding this? Then the One whose name can never be spoken and never be tamed replies, “I am who I am,” or it can be translated “I will be who I will be.” [3:14. Karen Armstrong suggests it could also be rendered “Never mind who I am!”]

         A pattern is set with this narrative: The earth’s cries of distress mobilize the attention of Heaven. (If you miss this interpretive move, everything that follows will be off course.)

         When the escaping Hebrews were caught between the Red Sea ahead and Pharaoh’s army behind, Moses said to the people, "Do not be afraid, stand firm, and see the deliverance that the Lord will accomplish for you today; for the Egyptians whom you see today you shall never see again. {Exodus 20:20}

         In one of the great comfort texts in the Psalms is from chapter 46:  “though the earth should change, though the mountains shake in the heart of the sea; though its waters roar and foam, though the mountains tremble with its tumult. . . . [Though] the nations are in an uproar, the kingdoms totter; God’s voice is heard and the nations melt. . . . [For God] makes wars cease to the end of the earth; God breaks the bow, and shatters the spear; God burns the shields with fire.  "Be still, and know that I am God!”

         In repeated occasions in the Gospels, Jesus told his disciples, “Fear not.” One line from John puts it this way: “In the world you face persecution. But take courage [be of good cheer]; I have conquered the world!” {16:33}

         In John the Revelator’s fantastic, frightening vision he saw the Promised One, who said “Do not be afraid; I am the first and the last, and the living one. I was dead, and see, I am alive forever and ever; and I have the keys of Death and of Hades." {Revelation 1:17-18}

         Later in Revelation is one of the most visually riveting stories in all the Bible, about a dragon pursuing a woman about to give birth. “Then from his mouth the serpent poured water like a river after the woman, to sweep her away with the flood. But the earth came to the help of the woman; it opened its mouth and swallowed the river that the dragon had poured from his mouth. Then the dragon was angry with the woman, and went off to make war on the rest of her children, those who keep the commandments of God and hold the testimony of Jesus. {12:1-17} And the war goes on.

         The exhortation to fear not is anything but a recommendation to passivity or acquiescence in the presence of oppression. Many of you know Walter Wink’s pioneering exegetical work on Jesus’ teachings about turning the other cheek, going the second mile, and offering both your coat and your shirt. They are not recommendations to indifference or stoicism. They do not imply submission to injustice. Rather, they are forms of creative resistance to violation and abuse by means that do not further deepen the spiral of violence. In other words, the work of active, sometimes militant, nonviolent resistance. These, along with the rigorous and proactive work of building a culture of peace, rooted in justice and mediated in mercy, are the prerequisites for our participation in the promised Reign of God, in our quest for the Beloved Community. A new heaven; a new earth.

         Rabbi Yochanan said: The Holy One, blessed-be-He, declared: “I will not enter the heavenly Jerusalem until I enter the earthly Jerusalem." {Talmud, Taanit 5a}.

         I have three goals in mind for these days together.

         First, that when we leave we will each have a deeper understanding of the way spiritual formation and prophetic action are connected. Not connected with duck tape or super glue, not a cut-and-paste overlay on our political analyses, but actually grow one from the other as a singular dynamic process. Prayer and care. for shorthand: “Prayer” being all the ways we seek to enter into the mystery of God’s purposes, the assurance of Christ’s presence, and the prompting of the Holy Spirit’s agitation and animation. Prayer, in the largest sense of the word, is how we stay in touch with what Yoder calls “the grain of the universe.”

         “Care,” in the largest sense of the word and in a myriad of fashions and functions, involves our persistent and attentive presence in the world’s broken places. Prayer is what we do to be reminded of who we are, to Whom we belong and to Whose purposes we have been called. Any praying worth the name comes with its own built-in generator. The deeper we move into God, the more sensitive our antennae to the cries of the world will become. But moving into compassionate proximity to the world’s pain will knock you off your feet. (“Tribulation” is the biblical word.) To recover, you will need to deepen your prayer life, which will then steel you for further engagement and more tribulation . . . and on and on the cycle grows, to the point where the process is as integrated as breathing in and breathing out. Prayer and care.

         The second goal I have in mind is that we will leave having learned from each others' experiences. What are the concrete ways we can be the midwives to constituencies and congregations awakening to their true vocation in the ministry of reconciliation? How can we become effective pastors? The prophets are already out there; but they often feel isolated, alone and discouraged. Our job is to find them, nurture them, help find relevant resources and link them with others in a larger community of conviction. When that happens, imagination and power are not simply repackaged—they are created. How do we do that? What’s working. What’s not working? What might work?

         The third and final goal I have in mind is that we simply take this opportunity to relish each others' presence. There is a roomful of delight in the circle. Soak it in. Spend time catching up with those you haven’t seen in a while. Spend time getting to know those whose paths you haven’t crossed until now. The Hasidim have a saying: “In paradise we will all be judged according to the permitted pleasures we failed to enjoy.” Accept the luxury of the next 36 hours’ worth of simply enjoying each others' presence.

§ § §

         To accomplish these goals, the first thing we need to do is to mentally and emotionally unpack. I suspect every one in this room had to work at least one very long day in order to clear enough space to come here. There is a certain level of weariness that we often carry. No doubt there are things you just had to get done before coming here—but you didn’t make it. So you’ve already shifted those agenda items on to the already crowded to-do list for when you return home.

         There are so many tragedies unfolding in our cities, in our nation, in the larger world and to the earth itself. The recent accounting of US-sponsored torture programs is only the latest of a large and long list. Some of what weighs on us is large and public; but we also have relentless small and personal sorrows and concerns. One of the things we don’t do very well is dealing with our disconsolations—figuring out how to prevent our pain and sorrow and disappointment and anger from driving our work and ruining our rest.

         I’m going to play a recording of Roberta Flack and Donnie Hathaway’s rendition of the old hymn, “Come Ye Disconsolate.” Then the floor will be open. This is where our liturgy begins. You are invited to lay down your sorrow, to acknowledge your failures, to name the disasters, speaking them aloud if you are willing, silently if they are still too tender to mention. We’ll spend the time we have left in holding open space for saying what is tearing at our personal and communal seams. This will prepare us for our evening vespers to come; and we will be able to start afresh in the morning.

# # #

©Ken Sehested @ prayerandpolitiks.org

by Ken Sehested

Text: Proverbs 8
Sunday, 6 June 2004
Circle of Mercy Congregation

I think it was last Monday, or maybe Tuesday. Nancy was ready to start putting this Sunday’s service together, and she asked if I had decided on a text and theme.

“Wisdom,” I said. “Proverbs 8.”

“Wisdom?” she asked with a barely-disguised look of incredulity. “You got some, do you?” she replied. (Nancy is one of those people who can sound pleasant when she’s actually being sarcastic.)

“No,” I said, “but maybe if I do a sermon on the topic I’ll discover a little.”

Then I sat down to do some research, and the first insight I came across was this quote from the ancient Greek playwright Sophocles: “Much wisdom often goes with brevity of speech.”

So I immediately thought to myself: “Well, there’s my solution. We’ll read the text from Proverbs; then I’ll get up and quote Sophocles, and say “Here endeth the lesson,” and sit down.

There are times when the most appropriate Sunday sermon should go something like that. But I realized that if I actually played out this scenario, I might leave you thinking that I know something about wisdom.

There have been times when I thought I had some wisdom. But mostly when I was younger and had more hair. What’s that old line from the Bob Dylan song: “I was so much older then; I’m younger than that now.”

I’m so much younger now.

“But wait,” I say to myself. “Didn’t I just win an award for a sermon I did? Didn’t they fly me across the country, to preach it to their annual gathering. I know they scheduled me for 8:30 on a Saturday morning; but, hey, they actually gave me a cash prize for the thing. Must be worth something.”

But then my friend J.R., from Indiana, wrote to congratulate me. J.R. often puts the phrase “from that old Mennonite guy in Goshen” in the subject line of his e-mail notes. And he and Nancy must have gone through the same “advanced training in sarcasm” program, cause he said: “Winning a prize for preaching the Gospel must be a real exercise in Christian humility!” Then I had to confront the puzzling fact that it was a group of Baptists—Southern Baptists, in fact—who presented the award. Moreover, it was an award given by the Baptist History and Heritage Society. And we all know how interested Baptists are in history.

The group did look a little shell-shocked when I finished; but listening to sermons on history early on a Saturday morning can do that to anyone. But I am glad that I got my plaque and my check the day before.

So much for wisdom. I was so much older then. I’m younger than that now.

I probably feel less wise at this period in my life than at any other time. The times in which we live appear to me darker, less transparent, with fewer reasons for optimism than any I can recall.

This experience of feeling very unwise doesn’t mean I can’t still spot the presence of foolishness. Here are a few examples from just the past week or so:

•You may have missed the news that MTV declined to air advertisements for Super Size Me, a documentary about a man who eats nothing but McDonald's food for a month, because it was determined that the ads unjustly disparage fast food.

•In his recent speech outlining a 5-point plan for Iraq, President Bush promised to build the country a brand new prison system. (You have to keep in mind that 1 out of every 75 males in the U.S. were in prison last year. Our per capita prison population is greater than any country in the world, including those mean ol’ countries like China and, yes, Iraq under Saddam Hussein.)

• Speaking of Iraq, we just learned that yet another person on the CIA’s payroll will become the new Iraqi prime minister of the Iraqi government on June 30, which is promised full sovereignty even though it won’t have any say over the 130,000 U.S. troops occupying the country. (You have to keep in mind that Saddam Hussein once wrote that he originally came into power “on the coattails of the CIA.”)

•And speaking of American troops: This week the Asheville Citizen-Times editorialized about the need for a thorough public discussion on the need for a military draft, saying that our armed forces are simply overworked and tired. But instead of discussing how we can get a bigger army, shouldn’t we be discussing why the U.S. currently has military bases or related commitments in 131 countries around the world?

•And speaking of foreign military engagements: Former President Ronald Reagan died yesterday. A chorus of commentators praise his legacy, saying he was the one who “made America feel good about itself” again. I’m not sure “feeling good” about ourselves is the way to wisdom, particularly at the behest of one who engineered U.S. sponsorship of several bloody wars in Central America during his presidency, wars which resulted in the deaths of well over a half-million people, and who ran up national debt greater than the cumulative national debts of every previous American president.

Maybe we were all so much older then; and we’re younger than that now.

Tim and Amy’s friend, the Jesuit priest Daniel Berrigan, has a good line that describes the way I feel about the times in which we live. He said “It’s like pulling a piano across a plowed field.”

I should hasten to tell you, though, that the general lack-of-wisdom feeling I have is not the same thing as pessimism—or, even worse—cynicism. Cynicism may be the greatest temptation for people like ourselves, who’ve been captured at some point or other with dreams of lions and lambs living together in peace, of new heavens and new earths being born. These hopeful dreams won’t let us go even when we consciously try to shake them off. The prophet Zachariah has a great line about this experience. He talked about being a “prisoner of hope.” In fact, the reason we feel so terrible sometimes is precisely because hope won’t let go of us, even though things seem so desperate, so dark, even though we have so much evidence to support a pessimistic outlook.

There’s nothing the folk who are now seemingly in total control of events want more than for us to become cynical, to give up, to close our eyes and ears to anything but the most immediate and personal concerns. Cynical people are so much easier to control and manipulate. Don’t vote: it doesn’t really matter. Don’t get involved: nothing will change. Don’t take any risks: you’ll only get burned.

For what is cynicism, after all, but an extreme form of self-centeredness and narcissism. So, instead of facing reality, we substitute reality TV.

But there is neither wisdom nor hope in vicarious living.

As blue-collar philosopher Eric Hoffer once wrote: Wisdom bursts into our consciousness only when it sinks its teeth and nails into us.

I suspect I’m not alone in this room with my uneasy sense of being less-than-wise, of being not exactly up to the challenges we face, of feeling more than a little overwhelmed by the sometimes-despairing circumstances we encounter.

We all were so much older then; we’re younger than that now.

If wisdom has raised her voice, I must be going deaf; if she’s standing beside the gates, waving to get my attention, I must be preoccupied. If she’s calling out, I must need a hearing aid.

But wait a minute. Wait just one minute. I don’t for a second take back anything I’ve just said. But there’s more to be said.

Just last week a friend wrote to ask me if I’d be willing to write a couple sentences of endorsement for a new book he’s written, one that tells stories of hopeful engagement, stories that are often overlooked or undervalued. I put him off for a long time, fearing that I wouldn’t have anything very convincing to say. But I was finally embarrassed enough to at least sit down and peruse some of his chapters. And when I finished, I found myself typing out the following lines:

In recent days friends in Latin America, Africa and Asia—each of whom face more daily repression than I’ll know in a lifetime—have reminded me of a typically-American luxury. Not big cars, 401-K accounts or other gluttonous habits. But of despair, of a romantic penchant for hopelessness, our woeful nothing-can-be-done whining. It’s what a corrupt political process depends on more than anything else. This book is an antidote to such self-absorption.

And then during the research for this sermon my mind began going around the Circle that gathers here week after week. I began seeing each of your faces. I began thinking

•I think of Tom Burnet’s work of providing ecological stewardship of water resources;

•of Colleen and Amy and Greg Yost’s persistent devotion to raising children with counter-cultural values;

•of Mary Anne’s work in helping people invest their money according to their values.

•I think of Terri and Greg Clemons and Dale and Marc Mullinax and Missy’s passionate work helping students see the world in different ways;

•of Joyce’s collection of the nearly-forgotten  stories of African-American congregations;

•of Sara and Kathleen and Blan and Susan and Tim and Kiran and Tom Preston’s healing ministries, of mind and body, particularly with people who lack adequate access to health care.

•I think of Kim and Stan who, among many other things, bring music to a world reluctant to sing and who will soon be traveling again to Cuba and renewing the protest against our nation’s repressive policies;

•of our prophets-without-porfolio, Louis and Bud and Bill, who may have retired from full-time employment but hardy from active promotion of the things that make for peace;

•of Jim and Kaki, of Linda and Carol’s community-building labors on behalf nonprofit organizations devoted to the common good;

–I think of our students, of Anthony and Sophie and Caitlin, who find unique and creative ways to say no to the conforming habits of peer pressure, and yes to intellectual curiosity; of Rachel’s post-graduate determination to be true to her calling as a disciple of hope rather than simply a consumer of goods and services;

–of Robert and Jerene and Nancy’s pastoral presence with people in prison and in hospitals; of Mark Siler’s work giving shape to an incredibly hopeful cross-racial movement advocating for justice in Asheville;

–of Carolyn and Jean’s social advocacy for those living on the margins.

–I think of Will and Anna, of Leigh and Joy, of Jody and Isabel, of Sam and Bethany, who endure the daily pounding of self-doubt and fearfulness which always accompany the process of growing up.

–And who have I left out? Oh, yes, Chip . . . Chip, who lives with the self-consciousness of being the tallest person in nearly every crowd; Chip, who has the grave misfortune of being a truck driver in a room full of liberal arts graduates. Chip, who, like me, has the misfortune of being the ugliest one at the table when the family gathers for dinner. Chip, who alone is for me the embodiment of this text: “Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the earth.” Which reminds me of a button I have at home. It has this seemingly innocuous but actually revolutionary statement: “The meek are getting ready.” So get us ready, Chip. Teach us about inheriting the earth.

THIS IS WHERE I FIND WISDOM. And hope. And faith. And reason enough to keep going despite the frequent temptation to simply sleep in.

It is the wisdom of this Circle which raises its voice, which stands at the gate, which is more precious than choice gold or precious silver.

# # #

©Ken Sehested @ prayerandpolitiks.org

Ken Sehested

We must acknowledge the essential defect in the just war tradition, which is the assumption that violence can
somehow achieve justice. And we must with equal courage acknowledge the essential defect in pacifism,
which is the assumption that justice can somehow be achieved simply by opposing violence.
—Ivan J. Kauffman, “If War is Wrong, What is Right? The New Paradigm”[1]

            Ever since Pope Francis was selected to lead the Holy See three years ago, the Roman Catholic Curia watchers have had a field day with his many uncommon statements and actions. The most recent bustle had US presidential candidate Bernie Sanders speaking at a Vatican conference on economic inequality, just days after the issuance of Amoris Laetitia (“The Joy of Love”), a papal exhortation reframing the plight of divorced Catholics and “all those living in any ‘irregular situation.’”

            Almost lost in news coverage was the groundbreaking conference, “Nonviolence and Just Peace: Contributing to the Catholic Understanding of and Commitment to Nonviolence” (11-13 April), jointly co-sponsored by the Pontifical Council for Justice and Peace and Pax Christi International, the unofficial global Roman Catholic peace network. What’s at stake—with an unclear outcome—is the Church’s 1,700 year-old “just war” doctrine, traced back to St. Augustine in the 4th century and systematized by Thomas Aquinas in the 13th century. It outlines precise criteria as to when violence can be morally justified in opposing oppression.

            Opposition to just war thinking isn’t limited to the so-called “peace church” traditions, including the several bodies of Mennonite, Brethren and the Society of Friends (Quakers). There is a long, if thin, tradition of pacifism in Roman Catholic tradition (likewise within Protestantism), not all of which is limited to clerical exemption from military duty. What sets this particular conference apart was its urging the world’s largest unified-leadership religious body—within Vatican walls and with the assent of one Vatican agency—to “no longer use or teach ‘just war’ theory.”

            In his letter welcoming the 80 conferees from across the globe, Pope Francis expressed support for “revitalizing the tools of nonviolence,” particularly given the current global reality he aptly named “world war in installments.” However, he also referenced the church’s teaching of “the right to legitimate defence” should peaceful settlements fail.

Reactions in the Catholic press

It keeps the peace. In a dominating, intimidating sort of way.
—Boeing advertisement for its Apache Longbow attack helicopter

            Given the origins of just war theory in Catholic tradition, and its centrality to church social teaching, anxious reaction to the conference’s final document, “An Appeal to the Catholic Church to Re-Commit to the Centrality of Gospel Nonviolence” (hereafter, Appeal), was immediate. “[A]t the end of the day, in this vale of tears, it is hard to imagine the Catholic moral tradition could ever dispense with just war theory,” wrote Michael Sean Winters in The National Catholic Reporter. As with other similar commentaries,[2] Winters concludes pacifism “has little to offer in the way of protecting the innocent.”[3]

            This likely will be the most searing question posed to any with doubts about the sufficiency of just war doctrine. What about Syria? What about slavery? And, as always, what about Hitler? Then there is the popular view of Jesus’ command to love enemies as moral prompt but not for replication; that it is for personal interactions but not for geopolitical relations. Reinhold Niebuhr’s classic book, Moral Man and Immoral Society: A Study in Ethics and Politics, covers well this common assumption about the nature of things, known as “Christian realism.”[4]

            Its premise is that “people sleep peaceably in their beds at night only because rough men stand ready to do violence on their behalf.”[5] Is it any wonder that the growing body of literature attesting the effectiveness of nonviolent struggle still struggles to find a readership?[6]

            When the binary of pacifism versus just war is posed—the choice between suffering violence or afflicting it—the only thing that’s clear is that our language is impoverished, and we have a diminished vision of to Whom we belong as people of the Way of Jesus and to what we are called to do. The challenge before just war objectors is: Can we point to rival, realistic and spiritually-informed political strategies that are alternatives to policies that assume the need for political domination through superior fire-power?

Just peace

Praying for peace is a little like praying for a weedless garden.
—John Stoner

            The Appeal’s proposal “that the Catholic Church develop and consider shifting to a Just Peace approach based on Gospel nonviolence” is highly suggestive. It properly emphasizes the proactive over the reactive tense of peacemaking; understands that what Scripture speaks of as shalom is rooted in justice; and calls attention to concrete strategies to preempt war fever knowing that the origins of warfare must be addressed in their underlying and localized causes. And it calls to mind the evocative phrase by Glen Stassen on the need for “transforming initiatives”[7] in the work of reconciliation.

            The currency of “just peace” language in recent years is noteworthy, as is the phrase “building a culture of peace,” the latter suggested first by a group of Nobel Peace Prize laureates, then adopted by both the United Nations and the World Council of Churches, who established a parallel “decade,” beginning in 2001, for “overcoming violence.”[8]

            The dilemma with just peace thinking is that its frame of reference is tilted toward addressing the final blossoming of enmity in open warfare by means of national and international action. For instance, the truly groundbreaking book Just Peacemaking: Ten Practices for Abolishing War,[9] a rigorous, creative effort by twenty-three scholars and edited by Glen Stassen, locates the agencies for change primarily in national and international arenas, thus distancing the levers of influence from the majority of people who want to add the incremental weight of their convictions for a different future.[10] It reinforces the sense that this vital work is best left to elites. If we are to promote a holistic understanding of peacemaking to marshal communities at every level we need a comprehensive analysis of violence, beginning with the capacity for evil of the human tongue[11] all the way up the scale to international war.

            In addition, while the just peace analysis provides an impressive inventory of tactical options, it is less useful as a strategic document in the sense that it does not address (at least not to my satisfaction) the overarching purpose and underlying vision for why, as people of faith, we should expend energy and risk assets in the outrageously ambitious pursuit of an end to the entrenched habit of human malice.

            If we are to mobilize a sufficiently large movement to address the root causes of war, we need an animating vision powerful enough to inspire risky exposure to every arena of human injury, rooted in and attentive to local communities. And we need it said in such a way that nonviolence is understood as the distinguishing mark of the “new creation” (cf. 2 Corinthians 5:17) into which our faith is immersing us.

Just war legacy

Fair is foul, and foul is fair: Hover through the fog and filthy air.
—the Witches in Shakespeare’s “MacBeth,” Act 1, Scene 1

            In preparation for this article I wrote fifty people—pacifists and just warriors alike, academics-to-activists, who know something about the use of just war theory—asking if they could cite evidence of a potential war averted (or significantly altered) due to the constraints of just war criteria. More than half responded, and not a single one could name a case. What’s more surprising is the number who considered my question a novel one. If the just war matrix is to be an honest broker of policy decisions, surely there must be verifiable metrics.

            Careful thinkers that they are, a number who responded added qualifications to their conclusion: a negative is hard to prove; given the secrecy of deliberations prior to war, there may be still-classified examples of averted war; several affirmed that just war theory has significantly shaped internationally recognized documents like the United Nation’s “Universal Declaration of Human Rights” and the Geneva Conventions, war crime tribunals, not to mention military and police training protocols. And as recently as the 2003 invasion of Iraq, Pope John Paul II (among numerous other communion heads) expressly employed just war theory in condemning the attack.

            The U.S. Administration, of course, argued for intervention using the same criteria. The latter fact only underscores what many see as the de facto use of just war theory as makeup hiding the blemishes on the face of war’s countenance.

            To say that war is against the will of God but is also, on occasion, a tragic necessity, is either hypocritical (at best) or deceitful (at worst). It creates a zone of legitimacy for brutal behavior masquerading as service to the common good. It assumes that creation is like a bucolic mansion which, nonetheless, has an unfinished basement where ugly, abominable things may be carried out to preserve the habitable space above. It accepts the notion that there is a space in which the stake of Heaven has no claim and the terms of God’s Reign do not apply. In our distorted imaginations we assume God’s tenure needs a little nudge by means of human enforcement.

Beatific vision

For the world has grown full of peril. And in all lands, love is now mingled with grief. . . . The Quest stands upon the edge of a knife. Stay but a little, and it will fail, to the ruin of all. Yet hope remains while the Company is true.
— Galadriel, in J.R.R. Tolkien’s The Lord of the Rings

            My argument is not that just war theory be publicly displaced by principled nonviolence. My contention is simultaneously more daring and more modest. Namely, that the Church relinquish its world-governing assumption on the one hand while, on the other, focus attention on its distinctive charism.

            Our sights should be set on the two separate but intersecting realms in which we participate: an understanding that we do engage, without privileged voice, in the province of public reasoning while also attending our ekklesial reckoning.

            No one disputes that not even the most compassionate, courageous and intelligent people, institutions or movements can make things right. Hurts seem to forever find a home in our midst. And our commonwealth duty is to join with all other people of conscience in picking up the pieces, tending wounds, embracing the shell-shocked, drying tears, burying the dead, and devising appropriate walls to segregate harm’s effects. This is the work of public reasoning, a form of discernment which impels and guides public action for the purpose of the reduction of violence. People of faith bear no distinctive markings in such decisions.

            Our distinction comes by way of ekklesial reckoning, from the Greek word ekklesia, which the Apostle Paul used to indicate the early churches’ anatomy; and reckoning, a discernment of identity and orientation. Ekklesial reckoning involves continually being formed and fashioned in the insights and habits of God’s intention in Creation and promise of a new heaven and a new earth, of Heaven’s transforming initiative (“while we were still sinners Christ died for us,” Romans 5:8), an initiative which the Community of the Beloved imitates and enacts in the world. We do so without hubris, as if our calling warrants special favor from the Beloved; but simply because this is who we are (becoming), and this is what we believe God is doing in the world. So doing is not credit to some celestial savings account. This is how we breathe, for we are being steeped in the Breath of the Spirit.

“Fools” for Christ

You shall know the truth, and the truth will make you odd.
—alternate rendering of John 8:23, attributed to Flannery O’Connor

            The challenge we face as heralds against assumed realism was keenly cited by Countess Crawly (played by Maggie Smith) on “Downton Abby.” “Hope,” she insisted, “is a tease to keep us from accepting reality.”

            We are not sectarian in the popular sense of the word, separated from “worldliness” in the self-sanctifying attempt at moral purity. We are sectarians—“foolishness” was how Paul often characterized the Gospel announcement (cf. 1 Corinthians 1:18-30)—in that we believe another world is not only possible but is in fact on its way—present already in those with open rather than grasping hands—as an era beyond scorched time. We believe the future is more than a projection of the present or replay of the past. We are adventus people, formed by the beatific vision of a future beyond all currently available calculations, one that does not obliterate creatureliness but grows from its compost.

            Years ago I was invited by a denominational leader to speak at a national conference on peacemaking. In her letter of invitation, my friend Carole wrote, “We want you to speak to the question of ‘why should we work for peace when folk just need to get saved?’”

            Knowing her sense of humor, I kept reading to get the real topic. But that was it. Dumbfounded at first, it suddenly occurred to me how insightful her request really was. Other than the few go-to texts on peace and justice in Scripture, our congregations are largely unaware of how saturated all of the Bible is with God’s passion for reconciliation, for the right-relatedness of every part of creation, for shalom in all its rich and varied meanings.

            The unfortunate thing is that our communities are largely unaware of the fact that God is more taken with the agony of the earth than the ecstasy of heaven. As a Christian, if you don’t get the Incarnation, you’re largely clueless about everything else. The fact that the text of John 8:32 is inscribed in marble in the Central Intelligence Agency lobby is indication we have significant recovery work to do.

            Until we effectively communicate that the failure to love enemies is to hedge our bets on Jesus, we will lack the necessary leverage to inspire self-forgetful engagement with the world’s pain. Unless our constituency learns to deprivatize teaching about forgiveness and repentance (spirituality is always personal but never merely private), repurposing them to social realities, these notions are largely mute in a world weary of boorish piety. Not until our catechisms point to joy—rather than moral heroism or gritty endurance—as the center, the substance and the circumference of our secret power, will our mobilizing lead to something other than exhaustion.

           It does not surprise me that a way out of our philosophical sinkhole (otherwise known as the just war versus pacifism debate) would be pioneered by those from the tradition arguing most vigorously for moral assessment of conflictive aims. As the child of pietist-revivalist rearing, it was a Catholic author, years ago, who in a single sentence first alerted me to the demanding work of prayer hitched to the imperative work of justice. It was a personal parting of the water. If you know any of those who had a hand in the Vatican conference on Gospel nonviolence, write them to say thanks. And stay tuned for further developments.

# # #

[1] In Just Policing, Not War: An Alternative Response to World Violence, edited by Gerald Schlabach (Collegeville, Minnesota: Liturgical Press, 2007), a collection of essays done by participants in a 5-year dialogue of Roman Catholic and Mennonite theologians seeking common ground.

[2] See Daniel Petri, “Replace Just War Theory with Nonviolence—What About Syria and Genocide?”, Millennial; Gretchen R. Crowe, interview of Gerald F. Powers, “Powers: Catholic social doctrine is ‘just peace,’” Our Sunday Visitor, 20 April 2016; Damon Linker, “Will Pope Francis dump the just war doctrine?”, The Week, 19 April 2016.

[3] 25 April 2016.

[4] We often forget that just war theory shares a moral presupposition with pacifism, namely, that violence in defense of myself is not justified, but such in the defense of innocent neighbors is.

[5] The sentence is variously attributed to George Orwell, Winston Churchill, Rudyard Kipling and John Le Carré.

[6] See, for example, John Dear’s “The facts are in: Nonviolent resistance works,” a review of Erica Chenoweth and Maria J. Stephan’s Why Civil Resistance Works: The Strategic Logic of Nonviolent Conflict, National Catholic Reporter, 16 October 2012 . Watch this 12-minute video, “The Stunning Success of Nonviolent Resistance,” by Erica Chenoweth.

[7] Just Peacemaking: Transforming Initiatives for Justice and Peace (Louisville, Kentucky: Westminster/John Knox Press), 1992.

[8] For more background, see: “International Decade for a Culture of Peace and Nonviolence for the Children of the World” ; the “Decade to Overcome Violence” of the World Council of Churches (WCC) ; the United Church of Christ “Just Peace” resolution of 1985, with its reaffirmation in the 2015 General Synod ; and the 2013 “Statement on the Way of Just Peace” by the WCC

[9] Pilgrim Press, 1998. Note: this work and the previously cited book by Stassen share the same title but have different subtitles.

[10] A notable exception is the book’s final recommendation, urging “grassroots” activists to support governmental and nongovernmental initiatives.

[11] Among the most blistering texts in Scripture is the Epistle of James’ warning (3:5-8) of the devastation that can be caused by human speech. The same book (4:1-2) also makes explicit the economic roots (“cravings” in the New Revised Standard Version) of war.

©Ken Sehested @ prayerandpolitiks.org